Paul flashed white teeth. ‘That’s the spirit.’
Lydia walked home, craving the exercise and movement. It helped her to think and she needed to sort through the tangle of her mind. And to walk off the lust-hangover caused by Paul Fox. She had considered going straight to Fleet, wherever he was right at that moment, and jumping his beautiful bones. But it felt weird. She needed to make sure she had got Paul out of her head, first.
Besides, London was looking its best and Lydia wanted to enjoy it. The air was cool and crisp and the sky a pleasing bright blue. Plus, she was pretty sure that Paul Fox wasn’t trying to get her killed, and that was a welcome relief.
Her phone buzzed and she checked it while crossing the road, dodging a large group coming in the opposite direction. It was Emma. Lydia knew she had disappeared on her best mate. Again. Tom, Emma’s husband, had recently revealed an illness to Emma, and she had been upset and relieved in almost equal measure. Having decided that his weird behaviour and mood was down to some extra-marital activity, hearing that it was ulcerative colitis was an odd sort of blessing.
Lydia had backed off, reasoning that they needed some space and that Emma wouldn’t relish the reminder that she had tried to book Lydia to investigate her own husband. But she had given them enough time, now, and had to admit she was failing to integrate the areas of her life. As usual.
Lydia pressed to answer before she could chicken out. Emma might be upset with her, but she deserved it. And she never stayed pissed off for long. It was one of the many things Lydia loved about Emma.
‘We’ve worked out that dried fruit is a no-no,’ Emma said.
Lydia hazarded a guess. ‘Archie?’
‘Tom,’ Emma replied. ‘I’ve got good news, though. His last check-up went really well. Consultant reckons he’s on his way to remission.’
‘That is brilliant.’ Lydia was genuinely pleased for Emma’s husband, and the added bonus was that thinking about Tom’s bowels was a great remedy for the inappropriate Fox-lust. He had been diagnosed with the ulcerative colitis after a scary few months of tests, and made great improvements as soon as he was on the right medication. Not having the worry that he had the big ‘c’ and finally talking to Emma about it had helped a great deal, too. Lydia didn’t blame him for wanting to protect Emma and to deal with it on his own, but in her line of business she was always seeing relationships which had been eroded by a lack of trust and open communication. It was terrifying how quickly secrecy could poison a good thing.
‘How’s work?’ Emma was asking. ‘Have you got enough on? Or too much?’
Emma knew that was the state of the self-employed. Feast or famine. Lydia was either stressing about not having enough clients and running out of money, or all the jobs came in at once and she had to work twenty-four-seven until she felt like she was going to turn psychotic from lack of sleep. ‘It’s good,’ she said, not wanting to burden Emma with her problems.
There was the sound of heavy breathing and then a high-pitched voice said ‘lo!’.
‘Hi Maisie-Maise,’ Lydia said, realising that Emma’s youngest had wrested the phone.
There was a brief scuffle and then Emma came back on. ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to run.’
‘All okay?’
‘Yeah, just-’ Emma broke off as a full-blast Maisie-wail began in the background. ‘You know.’
‘No worries,’ Lydia said, but Emma had already gone.
She felt an ache in her chest as she slipped the phone back into her pocket. Paul had been told one story growing up and Lydia had been told another. They were raised to be wary of each other, more than that, to be enemies. But then there was Emma. She had been raised with a different story, again, one in which the magical Families of old London were a fairy story. A myth.
They were all still children, following the paths through the dark forest that they had been set down by their heritage, their parents, their birth, and that made Lydia grind her teeth. She wanted to go off-road.
Back at the flat, Lydia was just contemplating a nightcap to help her sleep when Faisal rang. ‘You said to call you if I spotted anything weird.’
‘I did,’ Lydia said, still eyeing the whisky bottle with longing. ‘What’s up?’
‘Driver was just telling me about an empty carriage on his train today. All day.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘People won’t get on one carriage of his train. Even when it’s packed. I’m looking at the footage from the last eight hours and people are like, repelled by it. The doors open and its empty inside and they just turn away and go to the next set of doors, even though there are loads of people cramming on.’
‘All day?’
‘Not a single person got into it. I’m watching the live feed, right, now, and it’s still happening. I mean, there aren’t as many people around at this time, so it’s less obvious, but… Nobody will get on it. I’m telling you.’
‘What line?’
‘Victoria.’
Lydia cursed Paul Fox, the world, and her own stupid curiosity. ‘I’m on my way.’
Faisal sent a text with times and stations for the train over the next hour and Lydia made her way to Kennington and got the Northern line to Warren Street. Changing there to the Victoria line, Lydia was on the correct platform for the designated train. There was a large group of revellers, talking in loud voices about a party that either had been or was about to be ‘lit’, and a few scattered singles and couples spread out along the platform. Lydia walked to the far end, ready to join the train at the furthermost carriage. She peered down in to the unfathomable blackness of the tunnel, remembering what it had felt like to walk down its disused counterparts, wondering what branching warren of tunnels and passages and ventilation shafts were hidden in the dark.
It was almost eleven o’clock when Lydia felt the familiar whoosh of warm air which heralded the arrival of a train, and then it appeared. Lydia caught the briefest glimpse of the driver, and then the passing carriages rolled past. Each one had passengers inside and Lydia wondered if she had the wrong train. Or whether Faisal had been mistaken. The train stopped and Lydia stepped up to the last carriage. The doors slid open, and Lydia stepped inside as the disembodied train voice told her to ‘mind the gap’.
Faisal had been wrong. The carriage wasn’t empty. A man was sitting in one of the middle seats, hands clasped loosely in his lap.
Chapter Eight
A second glance told Lydia something very important. The man was dead. She recognised the long brown hair which hung in knotty unwashed ropes, the strange hazel eyes which appeared yellow in the artificial light, and, perhaps most importantly, the way he was ever-so-slightly translucent.
He was staring at the window opposite but, as the train began to move, slowly turned his head to look in her direction. His expression was bleak. Lydia grabbed a pole as the train shook from side-to-side, gathering speed. She should sit down, show that she wasn’t a threat, but her legs had decided to temporarily stop working. Annoying.
‘Hello, again.’ Lydia pushed as much ‘relaxed cheer’ into her voice as she could manage.
The man flickered. It was a bit like the vibrating thing that Jason did when he was upset, but more violent. His image strobed in and out, giving Lydia an instant pain behind her eyes. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Lydia said quickly. ‘I want to help.’
He tilted his head very slightly. Listening, Lydia hoped.
‘It’s interesting that you can move around like this. Ghosts I’ve known before are usually anchored to one location.’
His mouth opened into a silent scream.
Idiot. She was a complete fool. Throwing around the ‘g’ word. But surely he had worked out by now that he was dead? She went on, scrabbling for something better to say, some words of comfort. ‘I’m so sorry this has happened to you. You must be very frightened and upset. I want to help. I’m on your side.’ The ghost was rising, now, his image flickering wildly, his mouth still gaping in an a
wful way. ‘Please don’t,’ Lydia heard herself say, her voice most definitely not ‘cheery’.
The ghost moved closer, a jerky, terrifying motion as the train sped up, shaking and screaming along the tracks. She tried again, babbling in fear. ‘You’re a Fox, right? What’s your name? I’m Lydia. Pleased to meet you.’ Hell Hawk. Her mind was racing, the panic rising in her chest. Please don’t walk into me again, please don’t walk into me again, please don’t.
The ghost disappeared and then reappeared at the far end of the carriage. Lydia felt a moment of utter relief. He was further away, not about to jump into her body, not about to attack her. Then he stepped through the back wall of the train and disappeared.
Lydia rode the train all the way to its final destination and then back again, torn between hope and fear. She told herself that she wanted the ghost to appear again, to give her another chance to make conversation, but she was lying.
After a few stops, the occasional person got into her carriage, but not too many. It was at the end, after all, and the platforms were quiet. Lydia fixed her gaze at her reflection in the window opposite and watched it flicker and shake with the movement and changing light of the underground. After a while, she felt a kind of trance-like state descend and found herself with stray and unhelpful thoughts about whether her reflection was how she would look as a ghost. Translucent and transitory.
The cool night air when she emerged from the depths of the earth was a welcome slap in the face, awakening from maudlin thoughts.
Back at The Fork, Lydia went straight upstairs.
‘Jason! I need you!’ Lydia fast-walked through the flat, calling for Jason to appear. He didn’t which either meant he was in the unknown place he went to when he disappeared, downstairs in the cafe watching the patrons enjoy their cooked breakfasts, or he was ignoring her. ‘Come on, please! Jason?’
Lydia hesitated in the doorway between her office and the small kitchen. If only there was a way to summon a spirit. Wasn’t there a symbol she could paint on the floor and a special candle to light? Some mumbled Latin phrases and a bucket of incense. Or was she thinking of demons?
A quick check of the cupboards didn’t yield anything remotely arcane. Not even a standard household candle. She flicked her lighter and yelled as loudly as she could. ‘Jason! Get your backside in here, now, or I won’t buy you any more stationery!’
The drop in temperature let Lydia know she had been successful even before she turned around and saw Jason standing next to the counter, looking aggrieved. ‘There’s no need to be bossy.’
‘Sorry,’ Lydia said, ‘it’s an emergency.’
‘Nobody is trying to kill you, for once, so I don’t think it counts.’
Lydia ignored this. ‘You know the ghost I found? Well, I met him again today. He was riding the underground.’
Jason stopped pouting. ‘He was on a train?’
‘Yep,’ Lydia said. ‘And not even close to where I found his body. Interesting, right?’
‘So, the rules don’t apply to everyone,’ Jason folded his arms. ‘I feel special.’
‘Or, he didn’t die where I found him. Maybe he died on the train and his body was moved after. Although that would be tricky to hide from CCTV.’
‘You know that makes no sense,’ Jason said. ‘Is it just me that’s stuck, then? That would be just my luck.’
‘It’s good not to jump to conclusions. I’m trying to keep an open mind and explore all possible scenarios. I’m trying to improve my cognitive whatnots.’
‘Cognitive whatnots?’
‘My reasoning skills. Whatever.’
‘Right.’ Jason picked up the kettle and filled it.
‘But if the man did die in the place I found him then you’re right. The rule which applies to you isn’t universal. Which means we’ve got an excellent chance of breaking it. It’s good news.’
Jason got two mugs down from a cupboard. ‘Did you manage to talk to him this time?’
‘Not really. Same as last time. I spoke, he did the silent scream thing and then ran away.’
‘Ran away?’
‘Through the back of the carriage.’
Without waiting for the kettle to boil or adding any tea or coffee to the mugs, Jason poured the water into the mugs. He was clearly distracted. ‘If we can work out how you died, then maybe you won’t be stuck here, anymore. You could come with me. Maybe you’d be able to talk to the ghost, spirit to spirit, and that could solve the case.’
‘Or, I could disappear into the light,’ Jason voiced his usual argument, but it didn’t have the usual conviction.
He was clearly wavering and Lydia pressed her advantage. ‘Freedom, Jason. You could help me on other cases, if you wanted. Join me in exciting hours watching unfaithful spouses meet in by-the-hour hotels. Or go wherever you like. You could attend university lectures or go to the cinema or visit the National Gallery.’
‘He sounds scared,’ Jason said. ‘This other ghost.’
‘He looked it,’ Lydia said. And he had looked angry, but she decided not to mention that.
‘All right,’ Jason handed a mug of cold water to Lydia. ‘You can take my case.’
‘Really? You’re sure?’
‘Nope,’ Jason said. ‘But I want to help this other guy. I have to try, at least. We might be the only two ghosts in London.’
‘I’ll keep you updated every step of the way,’ Lydia said.
‘Don’t,’ Jason said. ‘I’m going to try not to think about it. Just treat me like a client and come to me when you’ve got something. I trust you.’
‘Thank you,’ Lydia said, touched. She walked out of the kitchen, heading for her desk. Then turned back. ‘I won’t let you down and I won’t let anything bad happen. I promise.’
Jason smiled weakly. ‘You can’t promise that.’
Lydia opened her mouth to argue, but he carried on speaking.
‘But I know you’ll do your best.’ He raised a mug in salute.
She would do her best. She was going to solve the riddle of Jason’s death and free him up to leave the building. Then he would talk to the ghost on the train and solve the Fox case. Then she would get back to her normal, paying clients. And keep her business going. Simple.
Chapter Nine
When Lydia stepped into the house, she knew instantly that her mother wasn’t home. For starters, when she let herself through the front door, calling out ‘hello’ nobody appeared in the hall to greet her. Secondly, she could hear the rumble of male voices and taste feathers in the back of her throat. Uncle Charlie.
The door to the living room was ajar and Lydia pushed it open. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said. ‘Uncle Charlie.’
Charlie stood up and kissed her on each cheek. His hands covered her shoulders and his bulk dwarfed everything in the room. Her dad, always thin, looked like a stick next to his younger brother.
He blinked. A hesitation. Then, a small smile. ‘Hello, love.’
Lydia leaned down and kissed her father’s dry cheek. There was a rasp of stubble and the scent of ozone.
‘It’s good you’re here,’ Lydia lied. ‘I need to ask you something about The Fork.’
Henry frowned. ‘The cafe on Well Street? Didn’t we close that up?’
‘I’m staying there, Dad. In the flat above. And Charlie has opened the cafe, again.’ She looked at her uncle. ‘Isn’t that right? Angel is running the kitchen. It’s doing well, I think.’
‘That’s right,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s all good. Easy-breezy. What did you need to ask?’
‘Do we take bookings for private parties?’
Charlie frowned. ‘I don’t… That’s up to Angel. Did you have something in mind?’
‘No, nothing,’ Lydia said. ‘Someone just asked me, that’s all, and I didn’t know if we had a policy. Thought I should ask the owner and Angel was busy, anyway. It’s mobbed there today.’ Lydia knew she was talking too much. She took Henry’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Why did The Fork get shut
down, anyway?’ Lydia watched her father’s face carefully.
‘Ancient history,’ Charlie said loudly. ‘Who can even remember that far back?’ Lydia didn’t look at him, didn’t want to take her eyes off her father.
‘I know it was open in the eighties,’ Lydia said. ‘You used to rent it out for parties.’
A spark of something flared in her father’s eyes. ‘You look just like my little girl.’
Lydia willed herself not to glance at Charlie. She remained focused on her dad. ‘Did you used to handle the bookings back then?’
‘Yeah,’ Henry said. ‘We had lots of parties. The Fork in the road, choose your path, choose your own adventure. Choose your place… Very important to make the right choice.’ His fingers suddenly gripped Lydia’s hand, too-long nails digging into her flesh. ‘Did you do it, yet?’
‘Do what, Dad?’
But Henry’s eyes had already unfocused, his grip loosened. The flash of Henry Crow had been and gone. Lydia watched her dad watching the snooker for a few minutes and then said, ‘I’m desperate for a cuppa, haven’t had one yet, today,’ hoping that Charlie would offer to make it, leaving her alone with her dad.
‘Magic,’ Charlie said, making no move to get up and help. ‘You want a tea? Lydia’s putting the kettle on.’
Henry didn’t respond.
‘Right, then,’ Lydia went to the kitchen and made two teas. She waited for a few extra minutes, hoping to hear Charlie conveniently get up and go to the bathroom. Weren’t men of a certain age meant to pee every ten minutes? Uncle Charlie clearly had a bladder of steel and Lydia had no choice but to go back into the living room. ‘Drink up,’ she said, passing Charlie his mug.
Fine. She would do this in front of Charlie. Lydia took Henry’s hand, again, willing him to come back from wherever he was visiting, willing him to look into her eyes and see her. ‘Dad? Do you remember a wedding party at The Fork? Amy Silver’s wedding party.’
The Fox's Curse Page 6
