An Innocent Man

by Mark Z. Kammell

Stanford, coincidentally, took a great interest in quantum physics during the latter years of his confinement. Carl had, wisely, recognised that a key component of the success of his experiment would depend on the ability to relate the subject’s thought processes to a more generic form, and that pending insanity may somewhat skew the results. His attempts to create as normal a life as possible weren’t overly successful, but he did provide Gavin with virtually unlimited reading material, and consequently Gavin gained a deep knowledge of quantum physics – as much as was available at the time – which he would discuss with Carl deep into the night, expounding and destroying theories.

  I actually have the impression that Carl came to see himself as a surrogate father to the somewhat orphaned Gavin, despite the circumstances and the age difference of a mere few years; I do even think that the relationship may have become more complicated than that, if you follow my meaning, but I was scared of pushing too far. Gavin’s obsession was around the interconnectivity of the universe, or, more specifically, the relativity of time, space and thought. I think he believed that there was a way to access an alternate reality and thus escape, and who knows, maybe to an extent he succeeded, given some of the more wayward outcomes of Carl’s thought experiments and, more directly, his Bridge project, although of course I wasn’t to understand that then.

  Gavin’s father, Mr Martin Stanford, came in one day, old and shrivelled, his white hair visibly falling out of his head as he walked. He was hunched over as if he’d lost the ability to look at life without crumpling, his face was constantly red and he stuttered and stammered like an old man. He was maybe in his fifties, and although this was a little while ago now, it was clear that his son’s death had taken a huge toll on him. Even Carl, I think, recognised that, as he told his story, although his primary focus was on the strange story that his father told as he tried to stand, tried to demand to see his son. But your son’s not here, Carl had said, he hasn’t worked here for over two years. I’m sorry about what happened between you, but I’m afraid that I can’t help you.

  We were always so close, his father had talked in a cracked voice, broken like the rest of him. It made no sense when he called me. He told me it was you. (Carl had told me that this once proud man had tried to stare him down, using the last vestiges of pride and energy that were curled up behind his black thoughts. What must it do to a parent to have your child banish you.) Did Mr Stanford know this as he held out for a lifeline, when he talked about the constant dreams that he’d been having, his son crying out to him for help, when he woke up, drenched in sweat, his wife, initially tolerant, giving up eventually and pushing him into the spare room. That cruel or merciful act seemed to trigger something though; it was almost as if it created space for him, and when he woke up he could see Gavin there, as if the dream had been able to spill out into reality, maybe just for a few seconds, maybe longer. Carl’s ears had pricked up at this, and he had pushed the old man for more details. What did he say? Did he give you any details as to where he was? Did he say how he got there? How long do you think he remained there? Were you able to touch him at all, did he ever seem more than just a ghost? And then…. Did you ever try and cross over?

  What do you mean? asked Mr Stanford, cross over where? and Carl had wisely backed off. Martin Stanford mistook Carl’s questions as an attempt to help him, and left grateful, only to be struck and killed by a Number 43 bus on his way out. They never told Gavin, but he became increasingly sullen after that, and I think they had started relying on drugs to help.

  I digress again, my apologies. Carl was a useful man to know and he was happy to share some of the experimental outtakes of his research with my team, hence the thought recognition built into the VDE and hence Louise and I…. well, I think that may remain between us. Though Carl, of course, is as guilty as anyone as far as this are concerned. He may argue, if he had the guts to come and see me, that he can’t be held accountable for other people’s actions, but he knew what he was doing, and he can’t dissociate himself from the moral implications of science. There was one thing that Louise was right about, without doubt, though. Mark was up to something. I struggled to keep up with him as we walked quickly, purposefully, through the leafy back streets of the suburbia we inhabited, in towards the centre of town and its arch, demonic pretensions. He kept glancing back, as if he realised he was being followed, and darting in and out of the shadows that seemed to get darker the closer we got to the centre. The traffic lights were all red and stayed that way, the streets were almost deserted, there were no cars and just a few stray wandering souls that sometimes sidled up to Mark but were brushed away. I was careful to avoid getting close to them for fear of contact, as I continued to follow Mark from what seemed to be a safe distance, my mind clearing quickly in the cold night air. He walked through the quiet High Street and turned off just before the end, past some closed shop fronts and to the Inn Street Lodge, an old, redbrick building that I had been in a few times, because they served good beer and had a pool table.

  I would have assumed that it was closed at that time, but he got in easily enough, slipping through the door. I walked quietly up to it and looked through the glass panels, seeing Mark talking to a young girl in the reception area. As I looked through, she glanced suddenly in my direction and I gasped before realising that I was protected. The girl frowned for some reason and then turned back to Mark, smiling as she pointed somewhere, and he walked off in that direction. She looked back up, back at me, and it truly felt like she was staring at me for just a split second, before her gaze went back to wherever Mark had disappeared to. I stood outside staring for a while, the cold seeping through me as I wondered what to do next. I looked at her – young, good looking, short jet black hair, but so tired as she waited, anxiety painted on her face as if she were trying to come to a decision about something – something to do with Mark, no doubt, trying, I guessed, to decide whether to follow him or not. Suddenly she seemed to have made a decision and she turned swiftly, walking away quickly in the same direction that Mark had gone, and the reception was empty. Tentatively I pushed at the door, expecting it to be closed. It wasn’t, of course, and I found myself in the deserted lobby of the hotel, a corridor leading off from one side with a sign saying “Rooms 1-21”, and on the other side, double doors taking me towards the bar.

  I couldn’t help myself, and it was empty anyway, (a good thing really) although it did occur to me that there may be a lucrative side-line in Hotel ghost mythology that was waiting to be exploited. I imagine you’re thinking how pathetic, but think about it; people have made millions from being ghost hunters, ghost snatchers, ghost killers, or even just from running ghost tours. I saw a program on it once, it was honestly fascinating; it was a hotel in the States where the owners had dialled up some dodgy myth from the past, set up a couple of screens and a smoke machine, and their turnover went up tenfold. Yes, I know, that’s not the point, right, how shallow could I be, possibly the greatest invention that mankind has known (possibly, I said, I know there’s competition) and all I can think of is ghost tours. Well, the greatest ideas come from the humblest of beginnings and it did set me thinking that the one absolute pre-requisite for an VDE to be truly effective is secrecy. If it becomes known, and commercialised, and everyone knows you can buy an invisibility cloak (yes, I know it’s not one, I’m just using the word to make a point) from the local hardware shop, then whoops, who’s going to believe in ghosts anymore? And if that applies to ghosts then of course it also applies to all the top secret military plans that are funding this. And then if that’s the case, then where’s my pay off? Where’s my fame and money and rock star lifestyle, why, for Goodness sake, am I doing this? What use is The Good of Mankind if it doesn’t benefit me personally? What if there’s no one adding up all the figures, then what then? A small plaque and a lonely grave is one hell of a payoff. So why not Ghost Tours, there have been worse ideas. That, I’m afraid, is what I started thinking as I stood in the empty bar, eyeing the taps and
the bottles and, without too much hesitation, and after one hundred percent checking that there was no one around, helping myself to a large glass of Chivas. I sat at one of the sofas at the back, far enough from any of the doors to be able to throw the glass under the table or behind the curtains or somewhere quickly just to avoid suspicion. And this, by the way, is when I realised it’s not a good idea to hook yourself up to such sensitive equipment when you’ve had too much to drink. Granted, I was drinking again now, but this was different – it was a post-drunk-then-sobered-up-quickly-in-the-cold-night-air-then-just-taking-the-edge-off-a-little-bit kind of drink, which meant that it didn’t really count, and it certainly didn’t stop me from looking in the full-length mirror and, well, just noticing something. Just a kind of flicker in the place I was sitting. Where there should have been nothing, suddenly there was something, and suddenly it disappeared again. You know what I thought. In one word. Fuck. I didn’t hook it up properly when I left.

  Fuck. How