“No problem, have a good one!”
And they were gone, leaving him looking at the empty tracks. When he reached the exit he paused, then asked a uniformed woman if there had ever been a major accident at the station.
“Oh, yeah, I think there was one about fifty years back,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
Dan made up a story about researching a documentary, and went home. When he arrived at his apartment, he checked his emails. He had kept one from his insurers offering post-trauma stress counseling. He set about making an appointment for the following week.
***
“How did he know where I was, though?” Dan asked.
He was at Scotland Yard, giving a formal statement on his abduction. The detective sitting opposite him sighed, shrugged.
“Chances are they were following you, Mister Fox,” he said. “After all, your picture is on your company's website and various social media. They could watch your place of work, follow you home, then stalk you until you were isolated enough to be grabbed.”
Dan nodded thoughtfully.
“So are they still shadowing me?”
The detective shook his head.
“Two of them were so badly hurt they won't be doing anything for a while,” he said. “And Korochenko has still to emerge. He's probably overseas.”
There was a pause, and then the officer leaned forward, lowered his voice.
“I don't suppose you can remember anything else?” he asked, gesturing to the statement on the desk between them. “Something substantial we can add to this?”
Dan leaned back, shook his head.
“I think it's clear enough,” he replied. “The guy was pissed at me, I had a lucky escape.”
The detective drew a laptop across the desk to him, turned it so that Dan could see the screen.
“We pulled the security camera footage from the road where the crash occurred,” he said. “It does look as if the driver lost control. But – well, take a look.”
Dan peered at the small screen, watched as low-grade, black and white footage played. The Russians' limousine sped by, emerging from under the camera. The vehicle slewed suddenly to one side, then careered into the field and out of shot. The officer stopped the video and took it back, frame by frame.
“There,” he said finally, pointing. “What do you think that is?”
There was a vertical blur in the middle of the fast lane. Dan tried hard not to see it as a slender, feminine shape, dark-haired, in jeans and tee-shirt.
“Glitch in the system?” Dan suggested, trying to sound puzzled.
“Watch this, though.”
The detective ran the video backwards, then forwards again. The figure appeared for a moment, then vanished.
“Maybe it's a ghost,” Dan said, with a grin. “Sorry, only joking.”
The detective looked at him for a moment before speaking.
“Officially, we don't believe in ghosts,” he said. “Unofficially, I think it probably is. But I've kept you too long, sir.”
The trauma counseling was later that same day. The counselor turned out to be a plump, maternal Indian woman with a disarming smile. She insisted he call her Savita and asked him how he was feeling.
“Physically, fine,” he said, then took a deep breath. “But I think I'm seeing ghosts.”
Savita made a note and then looked up.
“Any particular ghosts?”
They had a long, detailed conversation during which Dan skirted the whole Mephisto Club issue, focusing instead on Melinda and what had happened around the time she had appeared. Savita made more notes, asked some perceptive questions, and was interested by the detective's remarks.
“I'm neutral on ghosts,” she said when he had finished. “Except in the obvious sense, that I'm scared of them.”
“Surely as a scientist–” Dan began.
“A therapist,” she corrected him. “And one thing I've learned is this. We may like to think we are done with the dead, but they might not be done with us.”
“Yeah, profound stuff,” he sighed. “But in the meantime, what can I do?”
Savita put down her notepad and folded her hands.
“Time's up, Dan,” she said. “And if I were you, I'd do the right thing. If you need to ask what that is, you're probably engaged in doing the wrong thing right now.”
He took a taxi home, and as the driver wove through the traffic Dan wondered if he should simply drop the whole crazy business. Sure, he would lose the money he paid Steve, and look like an idiot. But there would be no comebacks from the Mephisto Club, the Secretary had made that clear.
I could quit, tell Nisbet to shove it, and go back to the States.
“Don't do that, Dan,” said Melinda.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. At the same moment, the taxi swerved sharply.
“Sorry, mate, but it was his fault,” said the driver. “Bloody weekend drivers.”
Dan stared at Melinda. She was so close he could make out freckles, slightly cracked lips, a cluster of tiny dark pores on the side of her nose. She was dressed more formally this time, in a two-piece suit about fifteen years out of date. Seeing him look her over, she smiled, ran a hand over the jacket collar.
“Yeah, post-mortem fashion choices really suck,” she said. “Wore this at our graduation. Remember?”
He did not, and she made her disappointed face. That he did remember.
“Melinda,” he whispered urgently. “I can't go on like this!”
“It's not for long, baby,” she soothed, reaching out for him.
He jerked his head back, remembered the driver, then grabbed her wrist. The fabric of the suit felt real.
“Don't be like that,” she said. “It won't be for long. All the angry ghosts, they can't really hurt you. But I can help, and that's what counts.”
Dan shook his head in despair.
“Why would ghosts be angry with me?” he demanded, struggling to keep his voice low. “What have I done to them?”
“It's what you're going to do, Dan,” she replied. “That's the problem. You're going to do something wonderful and terrible. If you survive. Listen, when you reach Soray–”
A shadow passed over Melinda and she stopped, looked past Dan in apparent dismay. He twisted around, peered out of the cab window, saw a child standing at a crossing, staring back at him. The child seemed normal enough. As the taxi pulled away from the lights, he turned to see Melinda had gone again.
Maybe she can't be here when there are other ghosts around, he mused. Or maybe I shouldn't be theorizing about how ghosts work, because that's crazy.
“Here you go, mate,” said the driver, pulling up opposite Dan's apartment block. “Nice place. Bachelor pad, is it?”
“Yeah,” Dan said, producing his credit card. “It's a nice place.”
“Talking to yourself,” the cabby added. “They say it's the first sign, you know.”
“Yeah,” Dan said, watching the taxi pull away until it was lost in the London traffic. “The first sign of madness.”
A bald-headed man whose fake-tanned features bore an expression like a clenched fist stared at Dan from a passing Mercedes. As Dan caught the man's eye, the man rolled up the tinted window. The car, like the taxi, was soon out of sight.
Don't get paranoid, Dan thought. This is a big city. People are just plain rude.
Chapter 7: Working Holiday
Work commitments and scheduling issues meant it was late June by the time Dan, Lisa, Chad, and Steve could set off for Soray. Chad, with Lisa as his only crew, had already sailed the Dulcibella to Plymouth, in Devon. This put the yacht several hours drive from London. They still had hundreds of miles to go when the rest of the team came aboard. Chad had driven Steve down and gotten to know the diver better. He was reassured by the Englishman's matter-of-fact attitude and his lack of curiosity. Dan was also pleased that Steve did not think much of Chad.
“Seriously,” Steve remarked. “What does a bright, pretty
girl like Lisa see in a spoiled twerp like that? Is it just the money, the teeth, the self-confidence?”
“One of life's mysteries,” Dan admitted. “But Chad is one of those Americans who make me wish I was Canadian.”
After they had stowed their gear, they left the harbor and anchored just off the coast of Devon. Chad had, albeit reluctantly, agreed to let Steve assess their diving abilities well in advance of their treasure hunt. Steve had suggested that they anchor near the wreck of a World War Two submarine that was popular with sports divers.
“So,” the expert said, “remind me, just how much do you guys know?”
“I did some scuba diving in Belize,” said Dan. “Nothing fancy, so I guess I'm just one step above a novice.”
Steve nodded. It turned out that Chad had snorkeled off Hawaii and the Canary Islands, but thought he could 'pick up all that stuff real fast'. Lisa, by contrast, had an actual sports diver rating and knew plenty of jargon. As often happened, she seemed apologetic about her knowledge.
“Don't run yourself down,” Steve told her, with a hint of admiration. “You can act as a dive buddy to these guys. And stop me making any mistakes. It's been a while since I trained anyone.”
“Dive buddy?” asked Chad. “Sounds kinda lame.”
Steve explained that nobody dives alone 'if they want to stay alive'. He pointed to the breathing apparatus in the corner of the cabin.
“You'll be breathing a gas mixture called Nitrox,” he said. “That's mostly nitrogen, but mixed with more oxygen than you'll find in regular air. If you go below about ten meters you risk nitrogen narcosis – getting 'narked', we call it. It is a lot like being drunk. Sufferers have been known to swim down instead of up, take off their gear – you name it. Hallucinations can happen in some cases. That's why you need a dive buddy, to check if you're still okay.”
Lisa nodded sagely.
“I've been narked a couple of times, and it's not very nice,” she explained. “You go all googly-eyed and silly.”
“Typical Saturday night for you, babe,” Chad could not resist adding.
“Right,” said Steve, clearly determined to move on. “First thing you need to know about a dry suit is–”
“It's dry, right?” put in Chad, looking around to see if Lisa appreciated his witticism.
Lisa rolled her eyes, jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.
“True,” said Steve, without any sign of irritation. “Wet suits are fine for warmer waters, but the North Atlantic, even in July, you need to keep the water out, or you could suffer from more than just a chill. So you've got a complicated suit, which I will explain in detail now.”
Details took time, and even Dan was growing impatient by the time Steve decided that he would take one of the other men down for a test dive. Chad naturally assumed he would go first. After the elaborate suiting up process, the two rolled backwards off the Dulcibella into the blue, clear water.
“And they were never seen again!” said Dan, striking a dramatic pose.
Lisa laughed, but nervously.
“I worry about him,” she said. “He's a silly bugger.”
“Understatement of the year,” Dan remarked, trying not to sound sour.
“Trustafarian,” Lisa said, looking towards the shore. “That's what you call people like him, isn't it? Never had to work for their money.”
“I guess,” Dan said. “I don't mean to sound bitter. I didn't have a hardscrabble life. My folks were both college professors, so going into art dealing was kind of a sideways move. It just pisses me off when people act like spoiled toddlers, I guess.”
Lisa looked around from where she stood at the steel rail.
“Nothing spoiled about Daniel Fox, of course.”
Dan looked at her in surprise. He had thought of Lisa as a friend, albeit not a close one, but there was a hint of sharpness in her voice.
“I've been lucky, I accept that,” he admitted. “But I work hard, you know that.”
She nodded, looked back out at the coast of Devon.
“What's this really about?” she asked. “Is it something to do with poor Tim Burdus dying like that? Because you've been acting weird ever since. Really weird.”
Dan felt a sudden urge to confide in Lisa, partly to make her like him more. He had always thought of her as fairly attractive, but now they were alone together she seemed far more than that. A tall, broad-shouldered blonde, she was not his usual type. But since Dan had come aboard the boat, she had suddenly seemed far more desirable. The fact that Lisa was wearing considerably less than her usual business outfit helped.
Because a jerk has got himself a nice girlfriend, he thought, amused at his own response. At least for now. And that sets the world out of balance, in a small way. So unfair!
Lisa looked at him again, and he felt certain that she knew exactly what he was thinking. He had, after all, just been gazing appreciatively at her shapely rear, which was only just concealed by tight denim shorts. He grinned, gestured at the diving gear.
“You gonna be my buddy, Lisa?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, looking him in the eye. “I'll be with you all the way. Buddy.”
Before Dan could think of anything to say, the others emerged from the water, Steve helping Chad to climb on board first. It was Dan's turn to suit up, and he was glad that they had an expert on board, as the dry suit was far more complex than anything he had used before. By the time he was done, the sun had vanished before typically British clouds, and the summer morning was considerably darker.
“Buoyancy is the key,” Steve explained, as he strapped on the elaborate kit. “It keeps you dry because it's airtight, like a spacesuit. So to rise or sink you don't just kick with your fins, you use this valve gizmo to pump air in, or this one to sink. Don't overdo it, and make sure you rise or sink slowly.”
“Gotcha,” Dan said. He said it a few more times, but finally they were ready. He sat on the stern of the yacht, and rolled backwards into the Atlantic with a deafening splash. Steve followed, and gestured Dan to follow him down. The plan was to go just ten meters below the surface, where they could look down on the wreck of the old U-boat. Chad had described this experience as 'totally cool'.
Swimming in the baggy dry suit was more difficult than in a streamlined wet suit. Steve had warned Dan about this, but he still felt clumsy and vulnerable to currents. After a couple of minutes, though, he got the hang controlling his buoyancy and was slowly following Steve down. The water was thick with particles, mostly plankton and organic debris, so visibility was limited to about ten yards. Dan stared down into a layer of foggy green. There was no sign of the wreck. They were ten meters down, but now Steve was signaling Dan to keep going.
You're the expert, thought Dan, giving the thumbs-up sign. But in the movies, this is when the shark appears.
The image of a sleek predator approaching unseen was now stuck in his mind. He tried to shake off the idea that he was being watched, followed, by something cold-blooded, deadly. The water grew darker, until Steve flicked on the torch fastened to one shoulder. Dan did likewise, but the beam of the flashlight did little to dispel the gloom. He still could not see anything below.
A shadow fell across him. At the same moment, he felt a wave of pressure, shoving him downward. Twisting in the water, Dan saw a vast shape cutting off what remained of the daylight. It was far larger than any shark could be, as big as a whale, if not bigger. But it was not a living thing. Dan saw rectangular fins protruding from the side of the object as it passed overhead. Then came a throbbing sound that penetrated his suit, and as the stern of the vessel appeared, he saw two propellers churning the water.
A U-boat. One of old Adolf's submarines still on patrol. Yeah, right.
Dan spun in the water again and tried to signal Steve, who was still heading steadily downward. Either he had not noticed the ghostly vessel, or it was visible only to Dan. Looking back up at the submarine, Dan could make out barnacles on the hull, what might be streaks of rust
, some stenciled lettering on the painted steel.
It must be a hallucination. Even though I can feel its wake, it's not real.
Steve tapped Dan sharply on the shoulder, which made him turn so the Englishman could look into his facemask. Apparently satisfied that Dan did not have nitrogen narcosis, Steve gestured that they should go back up. He added another signal, repeated it emphatically.
Slowly, Dan thought, giving an 'okay' sign. I get it.
Steve said nothing when they clambered back on board, only later asking Dan discreetly if he had had a moment of panic. Steve took the opportunity as they passed on the route to the tiny lavatory below deck.
“Yeah, I guess I did,” Dan replied, grateful for the expert's tact. “But I'll be okay, it's just been a while since I was in so deep.”
“Right,” Steve replied, and looked as if he wanted to ask another question. Instead he squeezed past, leaving Dan to rejoin Lisa and Chad on deck.
The next morning, having taken on supplies, they set sail for Soray. Chad was only moderately obnoxious until the evening, when he suggested over dinner that Steve and Dan might care to sleep on deck that night so 'Lisa and me can get some of that sweet loving'. Dan watched as Lisa grew red, while Steve stared, open-mouthed. Then the Englishman burst out laughing.
“A joke's a joke, fella,” said Dan, seeing Lisa's mortification, “but you may have just crossed a line.”
Chad looked outraged but it was three to one.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Sorry, babe.”
Lisa said nothing.
At first, Dan expected Melinda to appear at any moment. He imagined her in a jaunty sailor hat, giving a mock-salute. But as time passed, no ghost, or hallucination, appeared. Instead, Dan got into the routine aboard the boat, and despite Chad's arrogance he found himself enjoying the life afloat. It was only when they arrived at their destination that he was reminded just how strange his life had become.
***
Dan was awoken from a dreamless sleep by a throbbing vibration that ran through the hull of the Dulcibella. Its intensity rattled the utensils in the small galley. He was so startled that he sat up too quickly and hit his head on the bottom of Steve's bunk.
Dark Waters (Mephisto Club Series Book 1) Page 10
