A Ghost in the Machine

by Caroline Graham

  Back in the present moment he smiled again, knowing himself to be in the happy position of being about to wrong-foot a whole roomful of people who didn’t like him. Any minute now Brinkley’s solicitor would be arriving. He had rung asking for an appointment the previous day and the hour was nigh. It would no doubt be something to do with the disposition of Dennis’s half of the business. Given their mutual antipathy Andrew did not expect to benefit in any way himself. He just hoped the benefactor would be easygoing and not the sort to yack on about the Protestant work ethic every five minutes. Should this be the case Andrew planned to say that actually he was only a sleeping partner and just came into the office from time to time to rally the troops. If he thought Gilda wouldn’t find out, and if she’d given him enough money to enjoy any sort of life, this would have always been his preferred modus operandi. But perhaps the new partner would be a man after his own heart. One for the ladies, prepared to cover up for Andrew’s lapses in return for similar favours. Pretty unlikely given that he would probably be a friend or relative of Dennis. Still, you never knew your luck.

  Gail Fuller rang through to say that Mr. Ormerod had arrived. Andrew strode into reception with a professional smile and outstretched hand. The solicitor looked more like a farmer: a stout man, dressed in cords and a multi-pocketed sleeveless jerkin over a tweed polo-necked jumper. He also wore a fly fishing hat. Andrew attempted to conceal his surprise and Mr. Ormerod murmured something about meeting a client directly afterwards at the cattle market. As Andrew led the way to his inner sanctum there was a tug on his sleeve.

  “A moment, Mr. Latham, if you please.”

  Andrew frowned. “What is it?”

  “It would perhaps be more relevant if I conducted our business here in the main office. Perhaps the lady in reception might also be present?”

  Andrew felt a chill of apprehension. He called Gail Fuller, then walked to the nearest desk, picked up a large, extremely heavy metal tape dispenser and crashed it down, making everyone jump.

  He said: “Take a break – for a change,” followed by, “This is Dennis’s solicitor – Mr. Ormerod.”

  A few murmurs of greeting but most people just looked bewildered. Andrew noticed Leo Fortune didn’t look bewildered, the shit-faced weasel.

  “I’m sure you must all have been concerned about the situation here. About your futures.” The tone was encouraging and kindly. Mr. Ormerod smiled at everyone and produced a long foolscap envelope from one of his pockets. “I know how much Mr. Brinkley valued both your work and the friendly and pleasant atmosphere that was constantly maintained here. Not always the case in a large office, I assure you.”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake get on with it, you maundering old windbag. Andrew swallowed sour liquid, longed to pee, tried to look as if none of this was anything to do with him. Unaware his hands were trembling.

  “Certainly in my experience,” continued the solicitor, removing a single crisp sheet of paper from his envelope, “this type of bequest is unique. Mr. Brinkley has left his share of the business known as Brinkley and Latham to ‘all of the staff currently employed in the said business at the time of my death.’” He paused as excited murmurs broke out. There was some nervous laughter and Jessica, the office junior, started to cry. Gail Fuller gave her a cuddle and said not to worry, it would be just like working in John Lewis. Andrew, white-faced, gulped down more acid. When the noise gentled somewhat Mr. Ormerod spoke over it.

  “This share to be divided pro rata and calculated according to the length of service of each individual represented. There is a request that Mr. Fortune – who, incidentally, inherits Mr. Brinkley’s car – should carry out the necessary computation. Are you prepared to do this, er…?” His glance wavered between the men present.

  “That’s me,” said Leo. “And yes, I am.”

  “Then I shall be hearing from you soon.” The solicitor beamed around the room again and departed, his leather top boots creaking at every step.

  Andrew put on his coat, picked up his empty briefcase and followed. No way, no way in the entire motherfucking world would he remain behind. Imagine – shut up in his glass booth pretending to be busy while being forced to listen to the babbling and braying outside of the suddenly solvent. Morons popping corks, hurling party favours about, trying on funny hats.

  There was silence as he passed through reception. Silence as he pulled the main door to. Then, running down the stairs, he heard ironical cheering break out. Crossing the market square he paused at the statue of Reuben Cozens and looked back. They were all crowding around the window, waving and laughing.

  At Rainbow Lodge things were proceeding apace. The local commercial station, Radio Foresight, based in Uxbridge, had picked up the news item on Ava’s revelations and wanted to interview her on their afternoon chat show. The producer contacted the Echo, who gave them George Footscray’s number. He in turn called on Ava, offering to set up the meeting and to go with her if she would like. Ava, though delighted by the speed of her rapid ascent to stardom, was not best pleased that it was still being handled by a nobody with bad breath and fallen arches. A few brisk, well-chosen words made it clear that she had already moved into another league entirely. George, who had been dreaming that his world too was about to open up and that he might be on the point of managing the next Mystic Meg, ground his unstable false teeth and sadly returned to his crack-brained mother and macramé chandeliers.

  The programme ran from 3:30 for an hour. Ava was asked to be there by 3:15. She drove to the outskirts of Uxbridge, then took a taxi to the studio but could have saved the money, for no one was waiting outside to greet her. In reception a slip of a girl wearing a pink plastic skirt no wider than a hair ribbon and a T-shirt reading “Let’s Do It” took her name and asked her to wait. Soon another slightly older girl turned up, this time in a halter top and floor-length black hobble skirt.

  “Hi – I’m Cambria DeLane? Corey’s assistant?”

  “Good after—”

  But the girl, taking pinched little steps, was already disappearing. Ava followed, wondering how someone whose duties included meeting important visitors was allowed to go around with rainbow-striped hair hoicked into a bunch on the top of her head and constrained by a leopard-print bow.

  Cambria opened the door of a narrow rectangular room with one glass wall through which you could see the studio. A youth with headphones, Jim by name, was sitting at a control panel and Ava was relieved to see he looked at least old enough to have left school. Another, even older, came forward to greet her. He wore shades, sprayed-on jeans and a baggy vest with “REM” printed on it. His skin and hair were fawn and both looked as if they could do with a good detox. He said: “Hello.”

  “Good after—”

  “Get us some tea, heart face.” As Cambria disappeared he enclosed Ava’s outstretched hand in both of his own, cradling and squeezing it with careful tenderness, as if it were a ripe peach. “I’m Corey Panting. We’re just so thrilled you’ve agreed to come on the show, Ms. Barret.”

  “Garret. And it’s Mrs.”

  “I’m so sorry.” He frowned and wondered what other misinformation lay in wait for him. The research department was staffed by barely paid, inattentive graduates. Lightly armed with degrees in media studies, they regarded local radio as merely a stepping stone. Their eyes were always on the next big thing, which frequently proved to be the dole queue.

  “I expect,” continued Corey Panting, “you’re familiar with the programme.”

  “No,” said Ava.

  “Ah.” This had never happened before. Even if the interviewee had never heard of Corey’s People they had not been rude enough to say so. “Well, briefly—”

  Cambria came in with the tea. It was not even in a real cup and Ava refused it. This was not at all what she had expected.

  Corey continued, “I introduce you. Fill in a bit of background, then start the interview—”

  “How on earth do you manage to see anything down here with
those sunglasses on?”

  “If you could just listen, please? We don’t have a lot of time.” What Corey occasionally did, if the interviewee appeared lively, articulate and intelligent was ask them to stay on for the rest of the programme, contribute to any discussions or phone-ins. Not this one. “So, if I can quickly recap on what we have on you?” He picked up his notes, rattled the information off at some speed, then asked if there were any serious errors.

  “Not errors as such but you have left out a recent and extremely important development in my career.”

  “What’s that, then?” He glanced at his watch.

  “Consultant on psychic matters to the Almeida Theatre.”

  “The Almeida?” Now his voice revealed genuine interest and respect. Corey loved the theatre. “How did that come about?”

  “The actress playing Madame Arcati in their new production of Blithe Spirit came to see me personally. And things developed from there.”

  “I see.” Somehow he found that hard to believe. Yet why lie about a thing so easily checkable? And the stuff last Sunday had apparently been witnessed by a hall full of people.

  Time to go in. Determined to appear unfazed, Ava strolled up to a round table on which stood two microphones, sat down and rearranged her paisley shawl.

  “Could you take your bag off the table, please?” Then, when she had, “And say a few words into the mike?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have worked in the business for many years. My voice—”

  “It’s purely technical, Ava. The engineer needs a sound level.”

  “Of course.” Ava squared up to the mike. “Testing. One, two. One two. Mary had—”

  “That’s fine.” Corey widened his eyes at the glass panel. The engineer, laughing, stuck up his thumb. And off they went.

  It was not an easy interview, which was surprising, for Corey had rarely come across anyone so utterly self-obsessed and with such a need to talk about themselves. The trouble was dragging her to the point at issue. He led her forcibly from glowing accounts of her participation in West End musicals only to be blitzed by a description of cabaret performances that would have turned Ute Lemper green with envy.

  “But what I’d really like to talk about,” said Corey, gamely butting in for the umpteenth time, “are your exceptional gifts as a medium. Especially, of course, that extraordinary incident last weekend at the spiritualist church at Forbes Abbot. I understand you were visited by the spirit of a man who told you he’d been murdered?”

  “That is correct,” replied Ava. “I saw and heard him very clearly. He gave me his name and described the scene of his death in great detail. The strange machines, the towering walls. The person who killed him was present but only as a shape surrounded by mist. Unfortunately, just as it was beginning to clear there was a disturbance in what is laughingly called the real world—a child crying—and the spirit of Mr. Brinkley vanished.”

  “Just like that?”

  “They like quiet. Human sounds put them off. I suppose it reminds them of what they’re missing.”

  “I can see that it would.” Fatally Corey glanced across at the control booth. Jim, his face completely covered with a white tea towel, was looming over the panel, arms wide, fingers hooked into claws.

  “But he will return.”

  “How…how can you…so sorry…excuse me…” Corey drank some water, carefully. “How can you be sure?”

  “Top mediums – and it’s no secret we can be counted on the fingers of one hand – have special powers of clairvoyance.”

  “Could you bring him up now then?”

  “This isn’t a game, Mr. Panting.”

  “It would be a first for radio. And I know our listeners would be absolutely thrilled to discover ‘whodunnit.’ Of course if you can’t—”

  “It is not a question of can’t. It is simply not possible to speak from the angelic octave at the drop of a hat. One has to vibrate in a much higher frequency, which needs intensive preparation. Also the person the spirit wishes to contact must be present. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to talk to you.”

  When Corey got his wind back he said, “I know there have been cases where mediums have helped the police considerably during a murder enquiry. Are you in touch with them at all?”

  “I expect to hear from them momentarily. Though we must remember that only half the story has so far been told.”

  “And we shall hear the conclusion, the unmasking, as it were, this coming Sunday?”

  “That is absolutely correct.”

  “At the Church of the Sleight of Hand?”

  “Near at Hand,” snapped Ava.

  “You’ll have a full house,” said Corey.

  And they did too, though not for quite the reasons he expected.

  Andrew Latham heard Corey’s People almost by default. When Gilda went out she always left the radio on, having heard, via the Neighbourhood Watch committee, that it was common knowledge this deterred burglars. It seemed to Andrew that if the knowledge was all that common any burglar worth his salt would be inclined to think, on hearing a radio play, that the householder was out.

  He spooned coffee into the cafetière and, waiting for the kettle to boil, studied Gilda’s wall calendar. It had a square for every day and August was nearly all scrawled over, which was great. Whenever his wife was out Andrew came home, and so far she hadn’t twigged. Right now Gilda would be at her art class. This meant another insipid watercolour Blu-Tacked to her study wall. God alone knew why she called it a study. The only serious academic effort made was an Open University Foundation Course a couple of years earlier. A month had been enough. After a warning from her oculist that further intensive study could seriously damage her eyes, pens, folders, set books and stacks of virgin paper were hurled into the dustbin.

  Andrew made the coffee and returned to the calendar. Tomorrow night: play reading at Causton. Friday a.m.: massage, Shoshona, though how the poor girl ever found her hands again was a miracle. Friday p.m.: hair, eyebrows, manicure. No expense spared to keep madame entertained, intellectually challenged and ravissante. Whereas poor monsieur…

  Andrew poured the coffee, hot and strong. He needed it. After leaving the office he’d gone into the Magpie and spent the last of this week’s allowance on several large glasses of red wine and a large dish of moules marinières. Eating at Bellissima would not have been an option. Gilda would want to know why the missing food and what he’d been doing at home in the middle of the day devouring it.

  She’d be back around five but that was all right. He’d explain that everyone had knocked off early for a bit of a do after hearing about their collective windfall. He wondered how she’d take the news. Torn two ways, was his guess. Hovering between delight at his discomfiture and annoyance at the sudden existence of a splinter group. He wouldn’t put it past her to try buying some of them out. One sale would tip the voting balance her way. It would certainly be worth her while. The business was thriving and already worth double Berryman’s original stake.

  Andrew was trying not to dwell on this unpleasant example of Sod’s law (to her that hath shall be given) when the Corey Panting interview began. He couldn’t not listen. The whole business was connected to Dennis, after all, as well as sounding really weird. Could this woman be genuine? Impossible. They were all fakes, necromancers. Be a funny old world if they weren’t. Pretty scary, too. Andrew’s spine felt suddenly tingly and cold. He shook his head and shoulders, shrugging off such a ridiculous notion. And laughed aloud, a cheery sound in the quiet kitchen. Then he drew a bentwood stool up to the worktop, took a deep swig of Lavazza’s Crema e Gusto and settled down to be entertained.

  Standing in the larder at Rainbow Lodge Karen was fretting about her tea. Nothing had changed since breakfast time. The same curling remnants of Kingsmill lay in the bread bin. And there was still a coating of peanut butter sticking to the otherwise empty jar. Karen scraped it on to a piece of bread, folded it over and crammed it into her mouth. D
ry and stale, it almost choked her. She swallowed some water, then filled the kettle, plugged it in and wandered into the lounge.

  “D’you want a drink, Ava?”

  Her mother was lying on an old put-u-up, feet draped over the arm, eyes closed. Pressing the palm of her hand to her forehead she gave an exquisite moan.

  “Are you all right?” Karen hated picking up her cue so promptly but years of habit were hard to break.

  “Just exhausted, darling. The press are so demanding.”

  “I expect they are.” Karen’s face and voice were expressionless. “Did you do any shopping while you were out?”

  “Shopping?”

  “Only Roy’ll want to eat when he comes in.”

  The terms of their lodger’s agreement supposedly covered his room, breakfast and supper. Fairly quickly his supper, which had started off in a quite hearty way with sausages or faggots or a little chicken curry in the microwave had dwindled, first to beans or an egg on toast and then to a piece of cake or a biscuit and a cup of tea. Ava calculated, rightly, that he would not complain. Where else would he find such comfortable accommodation so near London for seventy-odd pounds and no extras? And it was not as if he had fares to find. Roy travelled to and from Tesco each day on his moped.

  “How did you think the broadcast went?” asked Ava.

  “Brilliant,” said Karen, who had lost herself in a book and forgotten to switch on.

  “They’ve asked me back. Want me to do a regular ‘slot,’ as they call it. Not strictly mystical.” She laughed in a light, merry way. “I’ll be talking about the theatre generally, reviewing new plays, probably interviewing stars.”

  “In Uxbridge?” muttered Karen, now back in the kitchen and staring into the small, nearly empty freezer. There was a greyish-pink burger and a few frozen peas. Plus a tin of spaghetti in the cupboard under the sink. “But if I give that to Roy,” pondered Karen, “what’ll I have?” She went back to the lounge, hovering in the doorway.