“That’s correct, yes.”
“So are we going to hear the results?”
“That’s the procedure.”
He’s beginning to put me in mind of a machine—an extension of the computer. He gazes at the screen for so long that I wonder if he has forgotten we’re on the air. I’m about to fill in with a comment when he says “I asked you whether you remembered anything you said to Kylie Goodchild.”
“You did.”
He brings his gaze to bear on me, if only to make clear that he didn’t expect me to speak. “The results were positive. In my judgment you were telling the truth.”
“Absolutely right. I’ll vouch for your machine.”
This earns me the same heavy look, but I need to enliven the show if he means to evaluate my answers one by one. Perhaps he understands that some variety is called for, because he says “The rest of the results…”
Has he found that he isn’t at home on the air? I’m sure I sense discomfort. I let the suspense build for a few moments, but we can’t have too much silence. “Go on,” I urge him. “Give us the rest.’”
“For the remainder of the questions,” he says and gazes at me without blinking, “the results were inconclusive.”
I’m aware of a flurry of movement somewhere at the limit of my vision. Christine hasn’t risen to her feet; she’s peering at me across the console, looking as bewildered as I feel. I must have glimpsed the jagged response of the graphs. My voice in the headphones sounds dislocated if not unfamiliar. “What do you mean?’”
“Did you ever see Kylie Goodchild after her school class visited this radio station? Did you know where she was before you found her and called the police? Do you know for certain how she met her death?”
“No. No.” I don’t know how often I’ve given this answer, but I can’t repeat it too frequently, since it’s the truth. I glare at the blurred jerking lines as I say even more angrily “No.”
Kessler gazes at me almost long enough to make me need to speak again. “I was reminding you exactly what questions you answered.”
“And I was asking you what does it mean, the results were inconclusive.”
“Not positive or negative enough to be susceptible to a definite interpretation.”
“In other words you’re saying you can’t read them.”
“No, I’m saying I can’t find you were telling the truth.”
“And you can’t say I was lying either, which I most certainly was not. Maybe you didn’t ask me the questions often enough. Do you want to let them have another chance?” Even if this sounds like an attack on his expertise, I’m more concerned with the impression he’s giving of me. “All right,” I say as his gaze remains wearily blank, “you did just ask them again. Did it make a difference?”
Kessler shakes his head, which seems almost to rob him of the energy to say “No.”
“Well then, let’s see if we can work out what must have gone wrong. Yes, wait a minute.” I’m addressing Christine too, since she has taken hold of her microphone “Maybe the questions were,” I tell Kessler. “I’m not just blaming you, I came up with some of the wording, but they aren’t as precise as they might have been, are they?”
As if he’s heard the objection before he says “What do you think was imprecise?”
“For a start, asking whether I saw Kylie Goodchild after her class were here. Sadly, I saw her when the police found her.” When Kessler only gazes at me I say “Same thing for the next question. I did know where she was before I found her. I knew she’d been here.”
He seems reluctant to offer me so much as an expression, and so I glance at Christine. I haven’t had time to read her face when she ducks towards the microphone. She parts her lips but turns to see what has distracted my attention. Paula’s door has flown open, and she’s striding across the newsroom.
She doesn’t stop until she reaches the control room. Her words to Christine don’t look by any means as muted as the window makes them. She gestures at my microphone, and as she shoves the studio door wide I play in the first item that comes to hand—the Moptimum advert again. “I want to involve the listeners,” she tells Kessler.
“I should think they are involved.”
It’s the closest to a joke I’ve heard him venture. Perhaps he doesn’t even mean it as one, though Paula seems to think he does. Rather more sharply she says “I’ve just had several of them insist on speaking to me. They think they should have the opportunity to talk to Graham while you have him rigged up, and I can’t see why anybody should have a problem.”
“I can’t take responsibility for the results.”
“No,” Paula says, “I’m responsible.”
I’m amused to see Kessler rebuked, and I say “I’ve already said I’ll take on all comers.”
‘Just remember you’re still representing Waves and Frugo. Give Mr Kessler some phones.” As Paula leaves the studio she says “I’ve told Christine to put anybody through that wants to talk.”
The Moptimum cleaner utters its vacuous laugh, and then my voice fills the headphones. “We’re changing format by special request. Anyone with a question can ring in after all. I’m still attached to your machine, aren’t I, Jeremy?”
“That’s what your manager wanted.”
While I wouldn’t have minded taking the credit for continuing the test, it’s time someone else held Paula responsible for a change. She’s just outside the control room, watching me and Christine if not Kessler. When a name and a location appear on my monitor I wish I’d thought to ask Christine to display the question too. “Mavis from Wilmslow,” I say. “What do you have for us, Mavis?”
“Are you wishing you hadn’t taken your test?”
“Not really, no. Sorry, Jeremy, do you still want me to say just yes or no? I’d better explain that Jeremy isn’t completely happy with carrying on.”
‘It will be closer to the real thing if you only give the standard answers.”
“Did you catch that, Mavis? Could you ask me again?”
“Do you wish you’d never taken the test?”
“No.” As the indistinct lines subside I say “I’m guessing Paula would like you to tell us the result, Jeremy.”
Beyond the windows Paula’s expression grows as artificially stiff as her hair. I could think she dislikes being read, in which case she shouldn’t have inflicted Jasper and now Kessler on me. “Inconclusive,” says Kessler.
It sounds less like an observation than a protest at the routine he’s being forced to perform. As Paula heads for her office Mavis says “I should think anyone would feel that way.”
“Well, thank you, Mavis,” I say, since she seems to be offering some form of encouragement. “Now here’s Benny from the city centre. What’s your question, Benny?”
“Everything comes if you wait long enough. I’ve got on your show at last, Mr Wubbleyou.”
Before he spoke I was afraid I’d recognised him—afraid of the kind of contribution he may plan to make. “Benny is the barman at the Dressing Room. He’s famous for his jokes, but none of those on here today, Benny, agreed?”
“I’ll bite my tongue.” Even this sounds too much like the threat of a quip until he says “Don’t you reckon tests like this are just a bit of a laugh?”
“No.” I wait for the graphs to finish wriggling, and then I say “Not this one. Not for me.”
“How’s that answer shaping up, Mr Keester, is it?”
“Kessler.” Either he has no time for jokes or doesn’t realise it was one. Just as tonelessly he says “Inconclusive.”
“He’s a man of few words, isn’t he, Mr Wubbleyou? Sounds like his catch phrase. None too keen on committing hisself, do you reckon?”
“I’m sure Jeremy’s doing his best.”
“I expect you’ve got to say that, eh? See you in the bar next time you need your usual. Just don’t go giving away any of your secrets in there. Never know who may be flapping their lugs.”
I could have d
one without most if not all of this. Once he rings off I say to Kessler “Don’t let Benny bother you. He just likes to have a laugh with people. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
“You don’t need to mean it to do it.”
“I’ve never known him to do any either.”
Kessler’s gaze remains so inexpressive that it suggests I’ve missed some point, but I haven’t time to wonder. Is Christine screening out callers who spoke to Paula about me? I can’t see why Mavis or Benny would have insisted. “Here’s Leona from my old home of Hulme,” I say and feel as if the headphones are extracting my voice. “Remember I have to answer either yes or no.”
“Is there anything you haven’t told the police?”
“Yes.” I’m tempted to leave it at that, trusting nobody to misunderstand, but perhaps there are listeners who might deliberately do so. “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I say. “We’d be here all summer.”
“You know good and well what I mean. Is there anything you haven’t told them about Kylie Goodchild they should know?”
“No.”
It sounds like an echo, but the graphs leap to my defence; the blurred lines jerk, at any rate. When gazing at Kessler fails to prompt him I say “Jeremy?”
In the pause before he speaks I’m convinced he’s about to deliver a verdict other than “Inconclusive.”
“You’re sure of that,” I say, though it sounds like a bad joke.
“It’s all I can say under the circumstances.”
“You’re saying he can’t prove he told the truth,” Leona interjects.
“Or otherwise.”
I would have said that, though with a good deal more conviction, if Kessler hadn’t been speedy for once. “So are you satisfied, Leona?”
“Not with either of you.”
I could imagine Kessler’s eyes are hiding rage, or am I finding my own anger in them? I can’t hear mine as I say “Now we have Patrick from Choriton. What can I tell you, Patrick?”
“Do you think you deserve to be tested like this?”
As far as I can see the answer’s yes, and that’s the one I give him. The graphs are readier with a response than Kessler, but when I raise my eyebrows high enough to make me blink he says “Inconclusive.”
I’ve finally grasped that it’s all he is prepared to say—that he won’t commit himself while he thinks the conditions aren’t ideal—but I’m not about to seem reluctant to answer any questions. No, I don’t know why Kylie Goodchild was interested in me. No, I don’t believe I know more about her than Frank Jasper. No, I don’t think being owned by Frugo will reduce the quality of Waves. Yes, Kylie’s parents had the right to employ Jasper, though I’m glad the caller didn’t ask if I think they were right to do so. I feel as if I’m trapped in a parody of Wilde Card; in fact, I feel like a fairground exhibit at whom all comers can lob questions in a bid to win, though I can’t imagine what the prize would be. At least the two o’clock news will release me soon, and meanwhile here’s Lester from Middleton. “You look like our final caller, Lester, so make it a good one.”
“Can I talk to the feller?”
“No,” I say—humorously, I hope—since Kessler has shaken his head. “Now you can’t tell us that was inconclusive, Jeremy.”
“I’m not here to take calls.”
“Was that all you wanted, Lester?”
“The machine’s still on, is it?”
“Yes.”
I’m about to ask whether that was his question—it would certainly provide a parodic end to the last two hours—when Lester demands “Can’t the feller say if that’s the truth?”
When Kessler barely even shakes his head I say “I’m sorry, he’s not prepared. I promise you I’m still attached, so take your shot.”
“Tell the feller to watch the machine.” Presumably he doesn’t mean me to repeat this, because he says “Here’s all we want to know. Did you kill Kylie?”
My vision seems to shudder. Perhaps it’s just a movement at its edge; Christine has jerked her head up, or the blurred lines have grown as spiky as my rage. Only Kessler seems monolithically unaffected. When I glance at Christine she looks apologetic, not to mention troubled. “It’s all right,” I mouth so fiercely that it tugs a scowl low on my forehead, and then I say “Do I know you?”
“I knew you’d never answer that,” Lester says in a tone like an embittered smirk.
“I certainly will, you’ve my word on that, but we’ve got time to talk. Is your name really Lester?”
“Fucking right it is. It’s not me that doesn’t tell the truth.”
I’m suddenly afraid that Paula will insist on taking him off the air before I can answer his question. “Please don’t say things like that, use words like that, I mean. I apologise if I mistook you for somebody else.” I’m still not entirely convinced he isn’t Wayne, but I mustn’t waste any more time on it. “Now please go ahead,” I say, “and ask me your question again.”
He’s silent while the studio clock ticks off several seconds. I stare at Paula’s door, but it doesn’t open. Kessler has fixed his gaze on the polygraph monitor, and Christine is visibly trying not to look worried for me. I’m about to prompt Lester afresh when he says “Did you kill Kylie?”
“No.” When the blurred lines jab at the air I repeat “No.”
“That’s what they call a double one at school, isn’t it?” I have the grotesque fancy that Lester means to discuss grammar with me until he adds “Let the feller say what the machine said.”
“Yes, tell everyone, Jeremy. Please just tell them exactly what you see for once.”
I succeed in leaving the last two words unspoken, and I hope he doesn’t sense them. I know Christine is gazing hard at me, but I don’t want to meet her eyes until I’ve heard from Kessler. He stares at the monitor and then lifts his stare to me. It contains no more emotion than his voice does. “Inconclusive,” he says as if the word weighs almost too much to utter.
28: Creating A Scene
Before Kessler has finished stripping me of wires and tubes Rick Till rushes into the studio. He might be desperate to help or simply urging me to leave. He peers at us both and rakes his scalp with a comb as though trying to enliven his brain. Eventually he asks me or Kessler “How did it go?”
“I’ll say it for you, shall I, Jeremy?” When Kessler carries on removing the pads from my fingertips—it seems to me that he’s taking more care with the equipment than he expended on me—I intone “Inconclusive.”
“Oh.” Till pockets the comb and rubs the ridges of his forehead so hard it’s audible. “I don’t suppose that’s bad, is it?”
“I’d say it wasn’t anything, or maybe that’s what it is.” Now that I’m off the air I scarcely know what I’m saying; I feel released from having to watch my words and not far from hysterical. As soon as Kessler unshackles my arm with a ripping of Velcro I lurch to my feet and hurry into the control room. I’m anxious to speak to Christine—to ask “What’s the news?”
She frowns and does her best to add a reassuring smile. “I don’t know if there’s any yet.”
“Not about me.” In fact that’s precisely my concern, and as Lofthouse warns us to expect more heat I say “What was Trevor reporting?”
“The same as last time.”
If he’d referred to me she would surely tell me. Perhaps my last two hours are already growing insignificant, or will do once whoever heard the show finds another target for their views. Christine’s about to start producing Rick Till Five, but I can’t wait to ask “What did you think of all that?”
She glances past me and gives a sharp nod. Kessler is struggling to let himself and his apparatus out of the studio, and I hasten to get rid of him. “Thank you,” he says in a tone he might address to somebody he’s never previously seen.
“No, thank you.”
I suspect my irony is lost on him, and I turn back to Christine, who says “I thought you were up to it, Graham. We’ll talk about it later, shall we?”
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If that’s a promise, it’s a dismissal too. I would leave her a token squeeze if it mightn’t look awkward or even contrived. I step into the newsroom, where Kessler isn’t to be seen; perhaps he has hurried away so as not to be questioned himself. I’m making to follow him when Paula appears from her room.
I assume I’m about to be summoned, but she doesn’t look directly at me. Fixing her gaze on a space more or less above my head, she calls “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”
A chorus of squeaking could almost suggest she has uncovered a nest of mice. It’s the sound of the pivots of some of the chairs as my colleagues turn to face her. Trevor has just left the news studio, and strides quickly to sit down. I stay where Paula caught me in the act of heading for the exit, and feel singled out even before she says “I don’t know how many of you have been listening to Graham.”
I don’t know either, since I’m confronted mainly by the backs of heads. I could imagine Kessler’s inexpressiveness has overtaken most of the staff. Paula’s gaze roves around the room—she reminds me of a teacher preparing to launch a question or demand an answer—and I suspect nobody wants to admit having heard me in case she asks their opinion. At last she says “As far as we’re concerned he did all he could for us.”
Not just the silence prompts me to speak. “You’re saying you’ve heard from Dominic or Meryl.”
“I haven’t yet. I’m speaking for Waves.” She obviously resents the implication that she has to be fed any words. “I’m saying every workplace needs to be built on loyalty,” she explains, if that’s an explanation. “I believe we’re entitled to expect it here.”
Trevor clears his throat. “Graham’s an example, do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you exactly what I mean,” Paula says and stares at me as though I asked. “Until we hear from upstairs I’d rather not have any speculations about how Graham’s show went, not in here and particularly not outside this room. I’m including you, Graham.”
Ghosts Know Page 17
