A Ghost in the Machine

by Caroline Graham

  The meal had not been a success. It soon became plain that Ashley was happy to be present but Judith was only there on sufferance. And she didn’t look at all pleased when Ashley urged Kate and Mallory to eat as much as they could from Trevelyan’s garden as it would only run to waste.

  Kate got rather fed up with this surliness – they were, after all, keeping an eye on the Parnells’ house and forwarding all their post – and by the time the caramelised pears had been dished up, was a touch on the surly side herself. She was sorry afterwards, wondering how pleasant and friendly she would be to people if Mallory was frighteningly ill and might never get better. So this morning she collected some of the loveliest and ripest fruit in the orchard and took it across just moments before their cab turned up.

  Ashley gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  Judith said of the apples, “What on earth are we supposed to do with those?” Then they got into the taxi and were driven away.

  It was lunchtime, and Roy and Karen were dining on fresh brown rolls and soup from a carton; spicy parsnip made in Covent Garden. Karen had never heard of Covent Garden so Roy explained about it. How there were cobbled streets and lots of stalls and shops and jugglers and fire-eaters. And a man and a woman covered in silver paint who never moved, not even to blink.

  “I’m thinking of doing my first stand-up in the Garden ’cause you can just start anywhere.”

  “Can I come, Roy? I’d clap all the time. And laugh.”

  “You don’t laugh now.”

  “I would then, though.”

  “OK. You can take the hat round.”

  Which brought them back to the subject of money. Money generally and, of course, the money. Roy had said that they had to be really careful but that didn’t mean they couldn’t treat themselves a little bit. For a start Karen had to have some clothes. The rubbish she wore you wouldn’t put on a scarecrow. And shoes.

  “They’re not good for your feet, them big heavy things.”

  “Everybody wears them.”

  “It’s OK sometimes. But we ought to get you some sneakers.”

  “Oohhh, Roy…sneakers…”

  “All right, don’t go mad.”

  Roy had spent a good hour sitting in the garden with a cup of tea before Karen woke that morning worrying about money. Just about able to add up single figures, anything else was beyond him. But he did know that after he’d given Ava his weekly rent he’d had about the same amount left. Would that be enough to keep two people? Then there was electricity and stuff. All right now, but what about when winter came?

  There was no way he could draw Karen’s child benefit. She couldn’t draw it either, even though it was for her and belonged to her. Only Ava was authorised to sign the book and cash the counterfoil. She had always done this in Causton, believing this way no one in Forbes Abbot would know her business. But the one thing Roy had to do to get all the financial support available to someone in his position was the one thing he couldn’t do. Because once the true facts about him and Karen and the house got fed into the DSS computers, all their security and happiness would vanish like smoke.

  There was a tugging at his arm. “Roy, Roy.”

  “Karen, Karen.”

  “Can I get my new things at Covent Garden?”

  “No. We’re going to Byrite.”

  “When? When, Roy?”

  “Today, if you like.”

  “Brilliant! Do they have fire-eaters? And silver people?”

  “No.”

  “Now we’re rich, couldn’t we go to Covent Garden just to look?”

  “I’ll take you one day. Don’t jump about like that – you’re making me giddy.”

  “Roy?”

  “Now what?”

  “Can I have a bicycle?”

  “No.”

  “Can I paint my room pink then?”

  Roy had already been to Byrite so knew what to expect, but Karen was devastated. Mouth open, she just stood and stared at the immense space, stretching up over their heads and miles into the distance. At the thousands of shelves crammed with everything you would ever want in the entire world your whole life long.

  “I thought it was a shop, Roy.”

  “It is a shop. Now you hold on to this trolly, right? And don’t let go. Lose you in this place I’ll never find you again.”

  Karen gripped the plastic handles tight. She had never seen so many people. As many as you could see if you watched a football match on television. Except here they were moving about all the time, which was much more frightening.

  They started to walk around. With two bus journeys to get back to Forbes Abbot, Roy had been very firm about how much they could carry. Strictly just Karen’s clothes and some paint. So it was unfortunate that the first aisle they travelled was bedding, because there was the most beautiful duvet cover telling the story of Cinderella. The fairy godmother’s wand waved real sparkle and the mice had satin tails. It had a matching lacy pillowcase and a little lamp with a silver shade scattered with more sparkle. Karen offered to carry the lamp.

  They had to go through food to get to the children’s clothes section, which meant more exceptional offers you couldn’t refuse. Though Roy drew the line at twelve cans of soup for the price of eight he couldn’t resist a gingerbread house or a big box of chocolates that looked like seashells.

  When they did finally get to the children’s clothes section Karen chose three T-shirts, a denim skirt, some jeans and the beloved sneakers, which had a red light that sparkled in the back. Also socks, underwear and a sunshine-yellow fleece. By then their trolly was loaded, yet everything altogether came to only thirty-eight pounds.

  Paying the cashier, Roy turned to Karen, proud of their double act, wanting to see her smile. She wasn’t there. She had been standing next to him, now she had gone. The shock stopped Roy’s breath in his throat. He could not move or speak.

  She had gone. Sick with fear and trembling all over, Roy abandoned his trolly and started running round the store. Terrible pictures took over his mind. Karen getting into a car with a man who’d been following them round. A desperate woman who couldn’t have kids snatching her arm, dragging her through a doorway. A couple into devil worship, young people, looking so friendly and harmless. They’d got a little girl just like Karen. Would she like to come and play?

  Roy stopped running. It was hopeless, the place was so big. He must tell someone and they would put out an announcement. And call the police. He would have to describe her. Thin, small for her age. Hair? No colour really.

  Roy leaned against a plaster archway, panting from his run. His heart banged painfully against his ribs. He thought he was better off without all this, sodding hell he was. Caring for somebody, letting them get to you, was absolute shite. A mug’s game. He’d coped all right till now without it. It hadn’t been great, but he’d survived. You could stick this love crap right up your—

  And then he saw her. Standing in front of a display of dolls. Relief crashed over him like a dam bursting, almost knocking him over. Then came anger. Putting him through this. Didn’t she know he was trying to look after her? The little…He forced himself to wait till this violence subsided, watching her every second. Then he took a deep breath, sauntered casually up and said, “I was wondering where you’d got to. Coming to help me with all the stuff?”

  “Oh, Roy.” She turned a radiant face towards him, seizing his hand. “Look, look! It’s Barbie.”

  So then they had to spend the next half-hour trying to decide which Barbie. Horse riding Barbie, film star Barbie, nurse or secretary Barbie, Barbie on holiday, concert pianist Barbie. Then there was all Barbie’s gear. For a doll she certainly knew how to stack it up.

  After Roy had paid again (for Barbie the Astronaut) they went into the cafeteria and had warm sausage rolls and chips and Coke. It was Saturday and very busy. Everywhere there were families and Roy proudly took his place among them. He listened to how the parents talked to the children. It mostly seemed to be na
gging. Look at the mess you’ve made. Stop kicking that chair. Leave her crisps alone—you’ve had yours. Put that purse down. Now look what you’ve done.

  “Karen, don’t spill that drink.”

  “I’m not.”

  “And finish your chips before they get cold.”

  “You finish your chips.”

  “Don’t be so cheeky.”

  “Don’t keep on at me then.”

  “I’m in charge here,” said Roy. Then, “What’s so funny?”

  The interior of the Church of the Near at Hand was appropriately dark on the Sunday following Ava’s death. The yews seemed denser than ever. Alive, like Rackham trees in a wild wood, they pressed together, holding back the sun’s rays. Inside, the lights had been switched on but were powered only by opaque sixty-watt bulbs, giving a pale, sickly glow.

  George was in a strange mood. Everyone commented on it. He wore a nicely brushed black suit and looked reliably sombre but was very much on the twitchy side. It was as if, one parishioner said, underneath the expression on his face there was a different expression struggling to get out.

  Mediumship was not on offer. They were here to commemorate the life of Ava Garret, now passed to spirit, though the reason and actual manner of this passing remained as yet unclear. Murmurings among the congregation had indicated an approval of this situation. Ava was so very far from being an ordinary person that it seemed only right and proper that her demise should be mysterious. The meeting opened with a rumbustious rendering of “Amazing Grace” as George took to the platform.

  “Welcome to you all. Cheerfulness breaks in, dear companions, even at a moment of great solemnity for I have just received a message from my Assyrian guide. It appears that our late friend and healer has already linked up with Zacharia, her elemental counterpart.” Scattered applause. “Absorbed into the great firmament of light and love and abiding in crystal caves the great halls of learning will now open unto them. Transfigured henceforth they will live for all time.” George paused for a moment, a thin black bird cocking its head, alert, waiting. “Hamarchis has also been asked to send blessings to you from the Great Designer of all that was and is and ever shall be.”

  Everyone sang: “Oh, great spirit. Earth, sun, sky and sea, You are inside and all around me…”

  George had asked earlier for a corporate eulogy, not trusting himself to handle the matter in person without breaking down. Grateful recipients of Ava’s consoling ministry stood up in turn to recollect their own specific condolence and generally praise her gifts. This took quite a long time. However, an observant listener might have noticed that only Ava’s psychic skills were praised. No comment was passed on her qualities as a human being, mainly because no one at the Church of the Near at Hand could stand the sight of her.

  As the final musical tribute: “Love is the reason for living,” came to an end, George Footscray, by now quite overcome with some indefinable emotion, pressed a handkerchief to his face, hurried from the platform and almost ran up the centre aisle, waving away concerned gestures and crying, “Tea…tea…”

  Although no specific appeal had been made for donations, in Ava’s memory a largish cardboard box covered with silver foil was prominent in the Doris Stokes suite among the sandwiches roulade and assorted cakes and pastries. A stuck-on label read: “Funeral Expenses” and most people put something through the slit in the lid. Doris slipped in ten pounds, though what Ernest would have said if he’d known didn’t bear thinking of. Really, she did it for Karen.

  Then she mingled and was not surprised to find the conversation generally leaning towards speculation and disappointment. There were a lot of “if only’s” and “I wonder who’s.” Ava’s amazing revelations regarding Dennis Brinkley’s death the previous Sunday, though uncomfortably received at the time, had subsequently generated an atmosphere of high drama. The newspaper headlines and radio interview fanned this excitable flame. The presence of television cameras on the big day had become a foregone conclusion. People definitely had something to look forward to. No one doubted Ava’s promise that the guilty would be described in such detail they would be caught bang to rights within the hour. Equally no one now put into words the thought – perhaps that’s why she died.

  Sharing a plate of marzipan doughnuts with Mrs. Gobbett, keeper of the keys and flower rota – each week all arrangements had to be dusted – Doris put her own lesser anxiety into words.

  “I didn’t like the look of George, early on.”

  “He thought the world of her. It’s only natural.”

  “Who d’you think’ll take Ava’s place?”

  “They’ll transfer somebody. Otherwise it’ll be down to him.”

  Both women pondered this idea in silence. George’s mediumship was erratic, to say the least. Sometimes he was fine. Others he could be so uninspired you could sit through the whole service without hearing from a living soul. And he could be irresponsible. Once he’d brought up and named a man who was on holiday at the time in Cromer and had been threatened with a solicitor’s letter.

  “Do you know what arrangements have been made, Alma? Regarding the funeral?”

  “They reckon her earthly shell’s still sub judice,” explained Mrs. Gobbett, “because of the police.”

  “It’s just – they cost so much money. What’s in that box won’t come anywhere near.”

  “She should’ve joined the SNU. We’d’ve looked after her.”

  “George said she wouldn’t pay the sub.”

  “Who’s sorry now?” asked Alma with regrettable satisfaction. “I saw little Karen this morning.”

  “What – in the village?”

  On hearing that was indeed the case Doris gathered up her things and hurried away. As she passed the gents’ in the vestibule she heard a strange choking sound followed by some bubbling chortles. These were muffled as if strained through a sort of gag or padding. Then a single squawking cackle broke free and was quickly stifled.

  Doris hesitated. Was someone ill in there? Were they telling funny stories? It seemed an inappropriate occasion. An inappropriate place too, come to that. Could they be having a fit? One thing was certain, someone else would have to deal with it. Doris had never been in a gents’ toilet in her life and had no intention of starting now.

  Roy was sanding the walls in Karen’s bedroom when there was a knock on the front door. Immediately frightened, he knew it must be them. All that they stood for, all they had put him through, flooded his mind. He had to grip the ladder not to fall. They might be different people now but they were still the social. The ones with the power to tear everything apart. Hatred bubbled into the fear, so strong it almost made him sick. All this took only a few seconds but it was long enough for Karen to open the door. He heard her talking to someone, then she called his name up the stairs.

  Roy struggled to pull himself together. He had done nothing wrong. Not only had he done nothing wrong he had done everything right. He was seventeen now, with a job where he turned up on time and behaved himself. In the present emergency he was looking after things the best way he knew how. And anyway, what could they do to him that they hadn’t done already? So when Roy finally braced himself and got downstairs it was a bit of a setback to find only Mrs. Crudge from the church.

  Doris was quite set back too. In fact, she didn’t realise at first that it was Roy. He certainly cleaned up well. But the house was a disappointment. She had been expecting something more exotic, Ava being so well travelled. Tiger-skin rugs and souvenirs from round the world. But everything was cheap and shoddy and dull. When Roy invited her into the lounge she couldn’t help noticing how the settee was stained and the recliner covered in cigarette burns.

  “Well, my loves.” Doris sat down, putting her handbag by her feet. “How are you coping?”

  “We’re cool,” said Roy. “We got all we want. Food – everything.”

  “Roy’s painting my room, Doris. Princess Pink. And I’ve got lots of new clothes. And a Barbie. She’s
an astronaut. She’s got a helmet and silver space suit and everything.” Karen paused for breath. “We went to Byrite. We had to come home in a taxi we had so many things.”

  Doris looked slowly across at Roy. He read that look and shrank as from a savage blow. He must have been blind or stupid or something but that aspect of it had never occurred to him. He’d have his hand off before he’d touch a child that way. Any child but most of all Karen.

  “I didn’t buy them,” he said quickly. “We found some money upstairs.”

  “I came before.” Doris spoke gently, directly to Karen. “When nobody answered I thought you’d gone away. Like, you were being looked after.”

  “I am being looked after.”

  “Hasn’t anybody been round from the council?”

  “Not yet,” said Roy. “Any minute now, eh?” He gave a strained laugh. You could see her mind working. See her – oh God – perhaps taking Karen with her when she left.

  “Do you know what’s happening regarding the funeral, Roy?” Doris felt a bit awkward asking in front of the child but someone had to get it sorted.

  “Nothing so far, Mrs. Crudge. You have to register the death first and I’m still waiting for the certificate from the hospital.”

  Doris glanced anxiously at Karen on the word “death” but she seemed not at all distressed. A bit unusual after such a short time, but then Ava had never been much of a mother. At least Roy seemed to know what to do and was trying to get on with it.

  “They had a collection after the service this morning. I expect George or someone’ll bring it round. But it won’t be nearly enough to cover the cost.”

  Roy gave a helpless shrug. He didn’t know what to say. Someone must pay for poor people to be buried – tramps, the homeless – otherwise there’d be bodies lying all over the place. Probably the bloody council again. One way or another he would get drawn back into the net. Be asked all sorts of questions to which he had no answers. They would take the rent book away, which meant his home as well. Then they would take Karen. Roy felt a swell of panic so strong he felt sure to drown. Now she was staring at him, old Mrs. Crudge. Giving him a real funny look, actually. Sending Karen away.