Ghosts Know

by Ramsey Campbell

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been looking so directly at Paula, who retorts “Will you, Graham?”

  “What sort of thing are we talking about?”

  “Demonstrating your innocence once and for all,” Meryl says.

  “On the air,” Dominic says, “of course.”

  I don’t know why that should be taken for granted. Before I can say at least this much Paula says “There’s a good deal riding on it, Graham.”

  “Well, if it’s for Waves…” I give them time to appreciate my loyalty, but I still have to say “I’d do it. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “We’ll arrange it,” Meryl says.

  “Let’s make it as soon as possible,” Paula says and stands up at once.

  I could imagine she’s eager to see the arrangements made immediately until she adds “Shall we break for lunch now? You’ve a lot still to deal with.”

  Since she isn’t looking at anybody in particular, I’m not sure if any of this is addressed to me. As I push myself away from the table I’m disconcerted by my sweaty handprints, which glisten until I rub them out with my sleeve. At least nobody else appears to have noticed them; in fact, Paula and the visitors seem happy to ignore me now that I’ve agreed to put on their choice of a show. Paula opens the door and turns to me. “Here’s the news,” she says, and I might assume she’s about to give me some or referring to me if she didn’t add “You’d better take over the phone-in. We don’t want anybody wondering about you, Graham.”

  26: Sitting The Test

  It’s Bite Your Tongue Day, but I won’t be doing that. I haven’t taken any sedatives or sprayed deodorant on my fingers, and there aren’t any tacks in my shoes. You’ve checked that, haven’t you, Jeremy? Introduce yourself to the listeners before I go on.”

  “I’m Jeremy Kessler, and I’m a polygraph examiner.”

  “The things I was mentioning are ways people try and cheat the test, but they aren’t going to fool the experts, are they?”

  “Nobody’s ever succeeded with me.”

  “Jeremy comes with the job now we’re owned by Frugo. Anyone who wants to join their team has to pass your test first, isn’t that right, Jeremy?”

  “There are more of us than me but yes, I think it’s right that your employer’s entitled to look into your character.”

  “Watch out, people. Pretty soon we’ll have no secrets where we work or anywhere else.” Perhaps I might have left this unsaid, to judge by Christine’s look through the studio window. “Nothing personal, Jeremy,” I try saying. “It’s my choice that we’re both here.”

  He gives such an unhurried nod I could fancy his large squarish head is descending into a doze. His eyelids are heavy enough, though this might be one way he puts his subjects at their ease—too much of it unless they’re careful. All his movements appear studied, and his head looks weighed down by a mass of greyish hair, samples of which lurk beneath the surface of his jowls and jutting chin. “Just for today,” I tell the listeners, “Wilde Card isn’t taking any calls, so all of you out there will have to bite your tongues until tomorrow. For one day only it’s all about me. I’m wired up to a polygraph, and it feels like nothing so much as being in hospital…”

  In fact I know very little about that—I’ve always been the healthy type—but I certainly feel like a patient in some kind of ward. Two rubber tubes are wrapped around my midriff to catch variations in my breath. I’m wearing a puffed-up cuff on my upper left arm to monitor my blood pressure, and two of my right fingertips are fitted with detector plates to measure any sweat. All these devices are wired to Kessler’s laptop, which sits on the console with the back of its screen towards me. Describing all this makes me feel oddly fragmented, as if both my voice and my sensations have become detached from me, even though I’m not wearing headphones. It’s some relief to ask Kessler “Do you want to explain anything?”

  “We’ve taken an hour to agree the test questions.” Even his voice is deliberate, and just a shade more amiable than neutral. “And we’ve got to know each other, would you say, Graham?”

  “So long as you know me that’s fine, but I don’t mind saying it’s mutual.”

  One thing I’m sure he doesn’t know. While the laptop is hiding its face from me, the screen is dimly reflected low down on the window beyond the corner of the console. I can make out vague stripes on the indistinct rectangle, and they aren’t entirely static. “Are you going to tell everyone about the test?” I prompt Kessler.

  “I’ll be asking some control questions and the ones you’ve chosen to answer.”

  “Just in case anybody isn’t clear, you mean the ones we chose together.” When he gives another ponderous nod I say “And how is all this going to work?”

  “The control questions let me measure your reactions to compare them with the rest.”

  “Which you’ll be asking because—” I don’t need him to explain. “In case,” I say, “there are any rumours that need killing off.”

  “What kind of rumours, Graham?”

  The blurred reflection of the top line jerks. I take it for the anger graph, though it puts me in mind of a disturbance in water. He knows the answer perfectly well, but perhaps he thinks the listeners should. “About Kylie Goodchild,” I inform anyone who should know. “Shall we get started? I’d like you to give us the results before we’re off the air.”

  “My name is Jeremy Kessler and I’m conducting a polygraph examination of Graham Wilde. Have we been on the air all the time, Graham?”

  “We still are.” When he raises his head less than an inch, as if the task requires some effort, I say “Sorry, was that my first mistake, my only one? Were you asking a control question?”

  “That’s correct, Graham.”

  ‘Just let me tell the listeners I’m only allowed to answer yes or no. Go ahead, Jeremy, ask me again.’”

  “Has everything we’ve said been broadcast?”

  “Yes.”

  All three indistinct lines give a discreet flutter, which I assume makes it clear that I’m speaking the truth, or are they hinting at my reservations? I wish Kessler hadn’t changed the wording of the question. “That’s to say,” I’m driven to add, “everything we’ve said since we came on the air. Do you mind if I just explain something else?”

  “No.”

  He might almost be demonstrating how to answer questions; his response is weighty enough for a rebuke. “We decided you’d run the test in here because it’s where I’m used to,” I tell the unseen audience. “And we didn’t want to record it beforehand in case anybody thought it had been edited.”

  I’m not implying either of us would tamper with the results. It was Paula’s idea to broadcast the test live, no doubt also to attract a bigger audience. “All right,” I say as Kessler gives me a slow blink, “ask me whatever you’ve got to ask.”

  His gaze sinks to the monitor. “Do you have a girlfriend, Graham?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m allowed to say so, aren’t I? I send Christine a wry hopeful smile, which she seems to find unnecessary. I’ve just glimpsed the blurred lines flexing themselves when Kessler says “Have you kept any secrets from her?”

  “Yes.”

  I give Christine another smile that tries to communicate a good deal— an apology, a reassurance that she knows exactly what I mean and that she’s learned all my secrets by now. Is this too much for the polygraph to sort out? The indistinct lines seem troubled, and when I glance back at Christine her face is as good as blank. “Did you ever see Kylie Goodchild,” Kessler says, “after her school class visited this radio station?”

  “No.”

  I hold Christine’s gaze until it softens or at least grows better than resigned. The lines jerk at the edge of my vision, but they do every time I tell the truth. “Do you remember anything you said to her?” says Kessler.

  “Still not a word.” I’d like to say that, and I hope the sense of it is conveyed by my solitary syllable. “No.”

  �
��Do you work at this radio station?”

  “Yes.”

  The dim lines stir—I’d describe the movement as an electronic shrug. I’m suppressing my resentment at the thought of Hannah Leatherhead when Kessler says “Did you ever see Kylie Goodchild after her school class visited this radio station?”

  “No.” I have to look away from him at once, to see what Christine makes of the repetition. She’s waiting to give me a frown that’s puzzled if not worse, and I feel as if I’ve kept another secret from her. “I’d better explain,” I tell Kessler. “It’s your standard method, isn’t it? You always ask the test questions more than once.”

  “We repeat them when it’s necessary.”

  Do I sense resentment? Perhaps he dislikes revealing the tricks of his trade, in which case I could easily be reminded of Frank Jasper. I hope nobody thinks I keep interrupting the test for any reason of my own, and so I say “Well, go ahead.”

  “Is your name Graham Wilde?”

  “No.”

  Kessler rests his gaze on the monitor before scrutinising me with no gain in his expression. “Sorry,” I say and try adding a laugh, which seems to tug at the tubes around my midriff. “Even you need an explanation this time, don’t you? It isn’t my whole name.”

  “You might have told me when we were getting acquainted.”

  “I might if I’d thought you’d bring it up, but I don’t mind admitting the rest of it’s my secret. Well, it isn’t any more. It’s Herbert, Graham Herbert Wilde, and maybe you can understand why I buried it”

  Does Kessler think I’m being too talkative again? This is my show, after all—still my show. His silence prompts me to ask “Did you want to say anything?”

  “It’s a family name.”

  “That’s right, my father’s. I’d rather not go further into it, if you don’t mind.”

  With as little expression as his face betrays Kessler says “My family.”

  “Good God, I’m sorry. Not that you’ve got it in your family, I mean.” I hope the laugh that overtakes me sounds remorseful; it’s hard to judge while my reaction feels fettered by the rubber tubes. “Please don’t be offended,” I say. “Ask me why I have a problem with it if you like.”

  “That isn’t the style of question I ask.”

  “Sorry again. I don’t suppose you’ve conducted a session like this in your entire career.” When his face doesn’t change it provokes me to add “I do have to entertain the listeners, you know. That’s part of why we’re here.”

  He has to be concealing some emotion, but I could fancy he’s as devoid of them as the computer. I can feel my anger rising to fill the vacuum. How might it affect the polygraph? I mustn’t clench my fists; my hands are outstretched on the fake leather arms of the chair. One of the reflected lines is performing a series of impatient jerks, which I attempt to soothe by saying “At least you can tell I’m not trying to hide anything. I can’t keep my mouth shut, you may think. I can’t unless you speak.”

  “Are you ready to continue?”

  “Yes.”

  I don’t know if I’ve driven him to put the question or even if it’s meant to monitor my response, and the doubt may be why the lines give quite a jig. Perhaps he’s establishing that we’ve returned to the test, because he says “Did we agree in advance what I was going to ask you?”

  “Yes.”

  This isn’t strictly true. We didn’t discuss the control questions:—this one, for instance. I could feel his method is as devious as Jasper’s. The idea enrages me, and I wish I’d clenched my fists as soon as he attached the plates to my fingertips; presumably that way it wouldn’t have skewed any of the readings on the monitor. I can’t tell if it’s my anger or the ambiguity of the question that troubles the indistinct lines, and I’m close to protesting when Kessler says “Did you know where Kylie Goodchild was before you found her and called the police?”

  “No.”

  The blurred lines twitch. They do at any of my answers, but I’ve started to wish they weren’t visible. Suppose my concern with the graphs affects them? Would trying to ignore them do so as well? I’m nowhere near deciding by the time Kessler says “Have you ever told a lie?”

  “Yes.” I let him open his mouth again before I add “But not today.”

  For some reason the graphs are unhappy with at least the second part of my answer. If I am, why shouldn’t they be? They’ve no business contradicting me, and I struggle not to close my fists. Kessler pauses for an inexpressive moment and says “Do you know for certain how Kylie Goodchild met her death?”

  The cuff seems to take a firmer grip on my upper arm while the tubes tighten around my midriff. I composed the question for the benefit of Wayne and anyone who shares whatever suspicions he was trying to express. I hope Christine understands this, though she seems to be attempting to outdo Kessler’s blank look. “No,” I declare while I hold her gaze.

  The ill-defined lines at the edge of my vision do their best to divert my attention. I can’t help feeling they represent how my voice has become separate from me. They subside as Christine risks a subdued though encouraging smile, and Kessler says “Do you ever wish you were somewhere else?”

  I’d suspect him of wry humour if it weren’t for the situation. Perhaps he has some, though there’s none in his eyes when I look. “Yes,” I tell him and hold up the hand that isn’t wired, isolating the answer before I add “But not now, in case anyone’s wondering.”

  Kessler matches my pause and says “Do you know for certain how Kylie Goodchild met her death?”

  The rubber cuff feels as though it’s holding me for interrogation, but I don’t mind giving him the answer. “No,” I say and only just refrain from sending Christine a wink.

  “Were you ever in a fight when you were a child?”

  How is this relevant? It isn’t, of course. It’s simply a control question Kessler might ask any of his subjects; it’s not unlike a Jasper trick. Mustn’t being attacked by my father count? I don’t want anyone to think I’ve a reason to procrastinate, and so I answer “Yes.”

  “Did you know where Kylie Goodchild was before you found her and called the police?”

  “No.”

  I raise my eyebrows to invite the next question, if indeed the test isn’t over. I’m about to ask whether that’s the case when Kessler says “Do you know for certain how Kylie Goodchild met her death?”

  It’s the most important question. I don’t mind answering it a third time if it helps to establish the truth. As I open my mouth I glimpse a convulsive movement from the corner of my eye. Surely it can’t be the scribbling that describes my voice or the emotions I’m supposed to feel. No, Christine is waving at me, and points at the spread fingers of her right hand before twirling a finger in the air. Somehow we’re five minutes away from the news. “No,” I say and nod at Christine. “Please don’t anybody think I’m asking for a break, but we’re going to have to take one.”

  “Graham’s saying his producer has given us the sign.” Kessler rests his heavy uncommunicative gaze on my face and says “Do you want the results of your test now?”

  For a distracted instant I mistake it for another control question. “Yes,” I say, of course. I mean it more than any other answer I’ve given him, and the graphs leap eagerly as well.

  27: Rating The Answers

  Kessler didn’t mean immediately. By the time Wilde Card is overtaken by the news he’s still tabulating his results. I don’t want anyone to think I’m anxious to leave the test behind, and so I stay tethered to the polygraph and tell the listeners I am. When Trevor Lofthouse gazes at me on his way to the next studio I have the absurd not entirely welcome notion that he’s about to include me in the news, but the first report isn’t even about Kylie Goodchild. Gangs that used to stay on their home turf are venturing into the city centre now; one lot took every bottle of Frugalky cocktails off the shelves of a Frugo Corner store in broad daylight and kicked the security guard senseless when he tried to make them
pay up. As I wonder if this item leads the news because it concerns our employers, Christine gestures at me to put my headphones on. “You kept that going well,” she says, adding a tentative smile.

  “You think I’ve still got it, whatever it is I’ve got.”

  “I didn’t know if it was a good idea to do this live, but now I’m sure it was.”

  Kessler has lifted his head, though not far. “Why’s that?” I’m keen to learn.

  “Because you made it into a show,” Christine says. “You kept the listeners guessing.”

  “I’d rather they knew I’ve nothing to hide.” Kessler’s head sinks with the weight of an untypical frown as I say “I was asking why you didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to stay in control.”

  “Trust me, I’m a professional.”

  “Do you feel like being more of one?”

  “I feel fine.” The blurred graph doesn’t seem to contradict me, but I don’t want her to think I’m incapable of a straightforward answer. “Yes,” I say and wait.

  “Only Megan has been getting calls from listeners who wanted to talk to you while you were wired up.”

  “Why not? I’ll take anybody on. I’d better ask the man in charge, though.” As Lofthouse tells us how much heat the air conditioning will have to fend off I say to Kessler “Some of our listeners want to call in while you’ve got me on the polygraph.”

  He gazes at the monitor until I have to break the silence with an ad for Moptimum, Frugo’s new all-purpose household cleaner. “You know that isn’t how it works,” he says. “I agree just a few questions with the subject beforehand.”

  “If the test’s over, why am I still hooked up?”

  “Because of the unusual circumstances,” Kessler says without raising his head or his eyes, “I was asked to keep you monitored till I’ve finished with you.”

  Presumably he means because we’re live. The ad comes to an end with the disconcerting sound of a mirthful vacuum cleaner, and I bring us back on the air. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to disappoint anyone who wants a word with me today. Jeremy’s the only one allowed to question me, and you’re done, aren’t you, Jeremy?”