The woman is nodding. “Oh yes! She adored Goldie! He meant the world to her!”
“I know, she’s telling me that right now, my love. He’s right here, too. Goldie – a beautiful… retriever!”
Her subject’s face drops. “Oh no, no. Goldie was a cocker spaniel. Maybe it isn’t him at all? Perhaps this is somebody else’s dog?”
“Goldie has a retriever with him,” Lilac says quickly. Is it me or is there an ugly look in her eye? Maybe I’ve imagined it; it’s only fleeting and now the sympathy is back. “He has lots of doggy friends in spirit. He’s not alone there and he loves his squeaky toy. He’s a lovely little chap with his golden curly coat. Oh! He’s gone! What a shame. My guides are showing me another message. Is there anyone here called Sue?”
“Oh my God! Yes! Me!” Susie springs to her feet and instantly the spotlight swings to her, highlighting me at the same time. I shrink into my seat.
“Susie, sit down!” I hiss. “You have never gone by the name of Sue! Not in twenty-nine years!”
“But my name’s Susannah!” she hisses back. “It has to be me.” She waves her hand in the air, like a keen student wanting to attract the teacher’s attention. “Yes! I’m Sue! Here I am!”
“A Sue who has a grandfather called Billy?” Lilac continues. “Yes, it’s a Billy I have with me, and I’m getting the name Sue.”
“Your granddad Henry is alive and the other one was called Ron,” I say desperately to my star-struck friend, yanking her arm. “Sit down, Susie!”
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Cleo; this should be fun. She’s making it all up anyway,” grins Alex, giving me a nudge that makes me feel a bit like I’m leaning into a freezer cabinet. “Hey, here’s an idea! Why don’t you get up and give Lilac a hand?”
“Over your dead body,” I say, tugging Susie back down into her seat and sighing with relief when a big woman, who looks as though she’d be better suited to The Jeremy Kyle Show, declares that she’s called Sue and that Bethnal Billy was her granddad. As she does so, she looks about the room as though challenging any of us to say otherwise. She’s got bigger biceps than The Rock and looks like she chomps on paediatric nurses and Egyptologists for breakfast. Susie sits down hastily.
“Sorry, not me then!” she apologises. “Wrong Sue!”
Susie might be out of the spotlight but now it’s my turn to have all the attention – only mine isn’t from Lilac and her lighting team. If only. No, unfortunately for me it seems that all the other ghosts, who’ve given up trying to get Lilac’s attention, have spotted me talking to Alex.
“Hey! You can see us!” cries one. “Look! She can! She’s talking to him! This girl can see us even, if that fraud on the stage can’t!”
There’s a scene in The Lion King where the wildebeest stampede, and this is what happens right now, except that I’m not trampled by hooves but surrounded by ghosts, young and old, modern and in period costume, all trying to get me to listen to them. It’s like The Sixth Sense on steroids.
“Tell my husband I know he was cheating on me!”
“I need to let Sally know I love her!”
My ears are ringing and the room’s starting to spin. They’re crowding around me now, all frantic to speak. I feel drained, as though all my energy has been sucked away by some gigantic ghostly Dyson.
“Back off, you lot,” warns Alex. “She’s new to it!”
“But she can see us!” insists another. “Why should she only talk to you? That’s not fair.”
The room is starting to sway. I have to get out of here – and fast, before I faint.
“I’m going to get some air,” I tell Susie. “It’s too hot in here.”
“Hot? Cleo, are you coming down with something? It’s bloody freezing. Must be all the ghosts, ha ha!”
Do you see me laughing? Leaving her to listen to Lilac spinning a bigger work of fiction than even JK Rowling could come up with, I stumble over the toes of the people in my row, muttering my apologies as I bash into their shins, and shove my way through the doors into the foyer. But it’s hopeless: no sooner am I there than I’m surrounded again by countless individuals all imploring me to listen to their stories. In desperation I cover my ears with my hands and sink to my knees. I’m going mad, I have to be. It’s the only explanation. And if this doesn’t stop soon then I don’t know what I’m going to do. Beg my GP for more tablets? Then what? Kiss goodbye to my hard-earned career?
“Go away,” I plead. “Just go away!”
“Leave her alone, you lot! Go on, get lost!” Alex is by my side and squaring up to the others. “This isn’t fair and you know it! Go on! Sod off!”
There’s a blast of cold air, and suddenly the place is deserted except for a worried-looking usherette.
“Pounding headache,” I say weakly, rising to my feet and giving her a wobbly smile. “Sorry.”
“Are you all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
That isn’t even funny.
“I’m fine. It’s just very noisy and hot in there,” I say.
The usherette doesn’t look convinced, which is fair enough. I can’t even convince myself anymore. Somehow I manage to haul myself into the ladies, where I splash water onto my face and stare at the hollow-cheeked, wild-eyed woman in the mirror. Everything about her is a stranger, from the new clothes to the long hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders, to the illogical and quite frankly crazy way in which she’s behaving.
“I know I promised I wouldn’t follow you into the loo, but I wanted to check you were OK?”
It’s Alex. He’s standing near one of the other sinks, arms folded and looking at me through narrowed green eyes.
“Of course I’m not OK.” Tears sting my eyes and my throat is tight. “I’m going mad, I’m seeing things and unless I sort it out soon I’ll lose my job. No, Alex, I am not OK. I’m as far from OK as it’s possible to be.”
“Stupid question, sorry. I always was crap with crying girls.”
He’s next to me now and I’m taken aback to see him in the mirror.
“Hey. How come you have a reflection?”
“Duh! Because I’m not a vampire,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t Twilight you know. And, just for the record, I don’t glitter either – or watch you sleeping, or any of that creepy stuff.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “And no werewolves?”
He grins at me in the glass. “Now that would be telling! Seriously, Cleo, I’m sorry about what just happened but I did try to warn you that it might be the case. You’re like a beacon to them once they know you can see.”
“I can’t go on like this,” I say wearily. “It’s going to ruin everything. How can I work like this?”
“I can help you keep them away but I need you to do something for me in return. I think you already know what that is, don’t you?” His gaze searches for mine. “Don’t you?”
Our eyes meet in the glass and I nod slowly. If I want to keep my academic reputation and what little sanity I still possess, then I need to take control of this hallucination. It doesn’t really matter anymore whether this is my subconscious mind enjoying payback for all the years of hard work or, crazier still, it’s all for real. I just know that I have to find a way to get this to stop. If not then I can kiss any hope of a promotion and my normal life goodbye.
“All right, Alex,” I say slowly. “You win. Keep them away from me, make this stop and I’ll do my very best to help you. I’ll go and see your brother. I’ll find Rafe.”
Rafe, my Christmas stranger. My stomach cartwheels and I grip the sink tightly. If I was terrified before, it was nothing compared to the thought of seeing him again. Absolutely nothing.
Chapter 14
It’s one of those beautiful December mornings when frost ices the pavements and glitters from the railings and trees. The rooftops are white, spiders’ webs on the bushes have been turned into lace and, as I walk to work, my breath rises like clouds of the incense Susie loves to burn. D
espite all this, the winter sun has some warmth in it yet, and London shimmers in its rays. Even the rumble of the morning traffic and the wailing of a siren don’t detract from the scene. As I stride along the street and arrive at the museum I can’t help feeling optimistic.
After I’d got home last night, totally exhausted and feeling as though I’d been drinking heavily all evening rather than watching Lilac Delaney's atrocious acting, I’d staggered to bed where I’d slept heavily and without any dreams. Or at least, I’d slept until half five: Susie’s on a morning shift today. Although she thinks she’s as quiet as a mouse when she gets ready, it’s more like a whole mischief of mice clog-dancing around the place while playing thrash metal at top volume. Nonetheless, I’d felt oddly calm when I’d awoken, as though I’d weathered some huge storm and made it through to the harbour. Once the flat door had slammed, announcing Susie’s departure, I’d slipped out of bed, made a coffee and then fetched my big rucksack down from the top of the wardrobe.
The flat was warm, Susie’s cat Freddie was curled up on my bed and there was no sign of Alex or any other unworldly visitors anywhere – but I wasn’t fooled. This was just a lull, the space that he’d promised me, and I needed to take advantage of it if I was going to put an end to all this insanity. Yesterday I’d promised Alex that I’d go and see Rafe for him, and this was exactly what I was going to do today. I was in no doubt that Rafe would think I was crazy; he’d probably get his security guards to throw me off his property. I had to admit I was a bit vague about that part, but since Rafe Thorne was rock royalty these days, rather than a scruffy guy with a guitar slung across his back, he was bound to have security guards, wasn’t he? At any rate, at least I would have tried my best. Then Alex would push off to wherever he needed to go next (Alex was as hazy about this as I was about the security-guards issue) and life would go back to normal. Simples.
So earlier this morning I’d dusted off my rucksack, feeling a pang of nostalgia when I’d caught sight of the Cairo address on the luggage label still attached to the shoulder strap. Then I’d flung in all the bits and pieces I might need for a week or so away. My research and books had gone in first, followed by all the outlandish clothes I’d bought yesterday (proof of a bash on the head if there ever was one), and then my jeans, sweaters and wash kit. I’d shoved my purse and phone into the top and crammed my laptop into a separate shoulder bag. There. I was packed and good to go. All I had to do now was leave a note for Susie before phoning my father and telling him I was coming home for a few days.
Now that was going to be the hard bit. I never went home unless I really had to. Maybe I’d call him later, once I’d travelled to Buckinghamshire, located Rafe Thorne’s house and come up with a plan?
There are some things that can’t be put off, though. Handing in a job application I’ve slaved over is one thing; telling Professor Hamilton, the director of our department, that I need a few days off is another. I can’t say I’m looking forward to that at all. I’ve had a lot of time off lately, which really doesn’t look great, especially when I’m hoping he’s going to persuade the board to appoint me as his assistant. Thankfully the hours I’ve spent poring over my research have paid off, and I know I have exactly what it takes to do this job justice.
It’s early for visitors and it’s Sunday too, so the Wellby Museum is eerily still, as though holding its breath in anticipation for the busy day ahead. I nod at the security guard and cross the foyer – my boots ringing out on the floor, horribly loud against the quiet as I head towards my boss’s office. Still, at least there’s no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Alex has kept his word about making certain I’m left in peace, that’s for sure. I quite miss Aamon’s gap-toothed smile, though; at least he and his cat were always pleased to see me, whereas most days Professor Hamilton just looks irked.
“Ah, Dr Carpenter,” the Professor says when I enter his office, and with the same degree of enthusiasm that you might declare Ah, a bout of sickness and diarrhoea! “And what can I do for you so early on a blessed Sabbath?”
Professor Hamilton always appears as though he’s been digging for artefacts all night. Today his grey hair is sticking upwards in all directions, making him look permanently startled. A Bic is shoved behind his ear and his glasses balance on the end of his nose. As usual his office looks as though it’s been burgled. I have no idea how he operates like this, let alone produces some of the most groundbreaking research of the modern age; just looking at this chaos makes my inner neat freak start to sweat.
“Sorry to interrupt you,” I say apologetically, because I have interrupted him. Anyone who knocks on the door is interrupting; that’s just a given. “I needed to ask your permission for a few days’ leave.”
Professor Hamilton pushes his glasses up his nose and squints at me. I know he’s still a few millennia away so I add helpfully, “I’ve got a couple of family issues that I really need to go home for.”
He steeples his fingers under his chin and stares at me. “Are you sure this isn’t because of the incident?”
“The incident?” My brain is whirling. Surely he’s not about to mention the knickers episode?
The Professor clicks his tongue impatiently. “When you were knocked over? A few weeks ago? Are you quite certain that it’s not because of the accident that you need some time off?”
I cross my fingers behind my back because, indirectly, I suppose I do need time off as a result of the accident.
“No, no. It really is family stuff.”
“There isn’t anything else that’s been bothering you? Something else you’re worried about?”
For one awful moment I think he knows that I’ve been seeing ghosts and that my academic career is about to implode. Who would ever take me seriously again if they knew I’d spoken to our museum’s long-dead founder or played football with a pharaoh? I try to speak but my mouth feels like it’s full of sand from an Egyptian desert, and all I can do is stare at him.
“The Assistant Director’s job?” Professor Hamilton says eventually when I don’t reply. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you haven’t applied yet, Cleo – and I must say that I’m unpleasantly surprised, because it really is the next logical career move for you. You’re more than ready for it, if that’s what’s worrying you. Dr Welsh did mention that you weren’t feeling quite yourself last week and I do understand just how difficult the past few weeks must have been. Do you need extra time to put something together?”
He thinks I need to pull a sickie in order to finish the job application. How mortifying is this? I’m the girl who’s never missed a deadline in her life and I’m not about to start now. No way.
“Actually I have the application with me,” I tell him, patting my rucksack. “I just need to go to my office and pick up a couple of supporting documents. I really want the job, Paul, and I’m the right person for it. I know I am.”
He nods slowly. “I’m very glad to hear it. In that case, why not work from home for a day or two? Just make sure you drop that application off before you leave. I need it in soon.”
“I will. Thanks,” I say. But the Professor isn’t listening to me anymore: he’s preoccupied with his work again, ancient civilisations being far more interesting than present-day staff. I back out quietly and leave him in peace.
To my great relief my office is quiet today. My papers remain neatly stacked on my desk, the rubber-band ball is exactly where I left it and the telephone receiver is sitting snugly in the cradle. It isn’t until I breathe out slowly that I realise I’ve been holding my breath. Sunshine trickles through the blind and dust motes whirl and dance in the air, but apart from those everything is still. There are no cats, little boys or dead archaeologists in sight: everything is exactly as it should be.
I unpack and boot up my laptop, then pull up the supporting documentation for my application and send it to the printer. While that buzzes away to itself I take advantage of this little chunk of normality to gather up a couple of books to take
with me. To be honest my office looks and feels just as it always did before my unusual experiences started, and I start to wonder again if I’ve been imagining everything. This time, however, I’m not prepared to risk being proven wrong. I have far too much at stake. Putting all thoughts of the supernatural firmly to one side, I open my desk drawer and pull out the large dossier I’ve prepared to accompany the application.
Crikey. I must have been in a really bad way the last time I put this away. The front of it is all creased and the introductory pages are out of sequence too, which really isn’t like me. Annoyed with myself for being uncharacteristically slack, I try my best to smooth out the title sheet before rearranging the pages in their correct order. Once the printer has finished I gather up all the documents and clip them neatly together. Then I hoist my rucksack onto my back, return my laptop to its bag and shoulder that too, and make my way to the Professor’s office.
It’s locked. Unfortunately while I’ve been faffing about with my printing he’s wandered off, and I know from experience that locating him won’t be easy. The Wellby isn’t the biggest museum in London – it’s nowhere near as vast as the British Museum or the V&A – but there are all sorts of winding passageways connecting a jumble of buildings together, and countless spaces and nooks where treasures are stored. He could be anywhere. I decide to find Dawn instead and leave my application with her.
It’s ten to ten now and Dawn, who’s scheduled to work on Sunday this week, should be at her desk – but there’s no sign of her. Since Dawn is to timekeeping what Mr Spock is to emotional outpourings, she could roll in at any time between now and eleven, full of tales of car breakdowns, Tube strikes or forgotten packed lunches. She’s so good at creating works of fiction she should be working for one of the publishing houses, not a museum.
I try the Prof’s door again but there’s still no answer. Hmm. What to do? I could pop down to the lab and see if any of my colleagues are about. Alternatively I could leave my application with Dusty Dave, the museum’s librarian. The trouble is, some of my colleagues can be very vague at times and I daren’t run the risk that they might forget. Dave is likely to bury it under a pile of manuscripts, which is not what I need. My hands tighten on my file. I’ve an idea written inside that I feel sure will clinch the job: a fantastic exhibition which has actually been inspired by Aamon and, in a weird way, Alex. It would be an exhibition showing the real lives of some of our mummies, with all the interactive features and human dramas our visitors love. Seeing the past colliding with the present, or more accurately chasing a rubber-band ball around my office with Alex, has truly made me think of my subjects as real people. Obviously I’ve always known that they were once alive and as full of their own hopes, dreams and fears as the rest of us – that’s what makes my job so fascinating – but this has added a whole new dimension to my work.
Dead Romantic Page 12
