Spirits from Beyond (20 page)

“I’m not cleaning this up!” Melody said immediately, glaring at the mess around her. “I do not do cleaning up!”

“It’s true,” said Happy. “She doesn’t. But since I really don’t want to go back upstairs yet, I’m prepared to do a little light tidying, as long as it doesn’t involve actual effort.”

“I want to go see the ghost,” said Melody, sticking out her lower lip. “Why can’t I go and see the ghost? I’ll be quiet.”

“Too many people at once might frighten her,” JC said firmly. “Besides, do you really want to leave Happy down here, on his own?”

Melody shot a quick look at Happy and said nothing. JC turned to Kim.

“Be a dear, Kim, and go take a proper look outside. Several quick circuits of the pub, then go flit around the fields. See if you can track down this mysterious local power source. But don’t go too far, or get too close to anything unnatural. I’m becoming increasingly convinced that with this much raw power around, there are dangers here for the dead as well as the living.”

“Anything for you, sweetie,” said Kim. And she strode determinedly back through the wall again. Brook shuddered quickly and headed for the stairs at the back of the bar. JC went with him.

“Lydia’s room is at the far end of the landing,” Brook said quietly. “Every now and again I unlock the door and take a quick look inside. Make sure she’s still there, and that she’s . . . all right. But I never go in.”

He started up the stairs, but JC stopped him with a sharp gesture. Brook started to say something, and JC gestured savagely for him to be quiet. JC stood very still at the bottom of the stairs, hidden in the shadows, and listened carefully. Because he wanted to know what Happy and Melody might say once they thought he wasn’t around. Because he needed to know how things really were with them.

There was a long pause, then . . .

“Just because I’m talking to you again, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re forgiven,” said Melody.

“I had sort of got that,” said Happy. “Even though I’m still not sure why you’re so mad at me.”

“You have got to be kidding,” said Melody. “Really? Why am I so mad at you? You went back on your pills, and you didn’t tell me!
Are you crazy?
”

“Sometimes,” said Happy. “Goes with the territory. We both do what we have to, to survive what the hidden world throws at us. You lean on your machines, I lean on my medications.”

“My machines aren’t killing me by inches!” snapped Melody.

“But I can’t live without my support mechanisms,” said Happy.

“Aren’t I enough for you?” said Melody.

“I hoped you would be,” said Happy. “God knows I wanted you to be everything I needed. You did try. I know that. But you can’t protect me from the pressures of the hidden world the way my pills can. Every day, it gets that little bit harder to keep the bad stuff outside my head. I’m fighting a war, Mel; and I’m losing.”

“Oh, Happy . . .” said Melody. And JC winced to hear the helplessness in her voice.

There was another long pause, and then . . .

“Isn’t there any special tech you could put together, to help me?” said Happy. He sounded very tired, and desperate. “Some machine that would shut down my ESP and make the world bearable?”

“I have done some research,” said Melody. She sounded tired, too. “The only thing I found that might work would just as likely destroy your mind. Lobotomise you. You wouldn’t be you any more.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Happy said gently. “I think . . . I’d find that a relief.”

Another long pause.

“Is there nothing else I can do for you?” said Melody.

“Yes,” said Happy. “Hold me, while I’m dying.”

SEVEN

DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

JC followed Brook up the stairs, sticking close behind the barman so he couldn’t slow down, or have second thoughts. Brook stepped out onto the landing, looked quickly around him into the gloom, took a deep breath, and turned on the lights. JC moved quickly off the top step and onto the landing beside the barman. After listening to Brook’s tales of terror about what the rooms got up to, JC was ready to see the landing with new eyes; but instead he was pleasantly surprised to find it looked like a landing. A long corridor stretching away to both sides, illuminated by reassuringly steady electric lights, with all the doors safely closed. Nothing moved anywhere, and everything seemed entirely still and quiet and peaceful.

JC looked at Brook. The barman was doing his best to look prepared and composed, but already a fresh sheen of sweat was appearing on his grey, haunted face. He looked like a man going to his own execution. He looked like a man . . . who had good reason to be scared. JC patted Brook on the shoulder, and gave the barman his best reassuring smile. Brook did not appear particularly convinced.

After looking up and down the corridor several times, Brook gathered up his nerve and led the way down the left-hand corridor. The only sound on the quiet of the landing was the steady tread of shoes on thinly carpeted floor-boards. JC kept a careful eye on every door they passed, braced for any one of them to suddenly swing open, so Something could jump out and drag them in . . . but the doors were only doors, and didn’t so much as stir as JC and Brook passed.

Until they came to the final door, at the very end of the corridor. It looked like all the other doors. Brook stood and looked at it for a long moment, and JC had enough sense not to hurry him. Brook leaned in close, almost but not quite pressing an ear up against the wood, and listened. Then he straightened up, took out his key ring, selected one, and unlocked the door. Another deep breath, and he threw the door open and stepped back, gesturing for JC to go in.

JC looked thoughtfully at Brook; but the barman stood his ground. The expression on the barman’s face made it very clear that he had no intention of going into the room. JC could go in if he wished . . . but on his own head be it. Brook would be staying on the landing. JC shrugged quickly, gave Brook another reassuring smile, and strode confidently in. On the grounds that there was nowhere he feared to tread. Because this, after all, was just another haunting; and JC knew what to do with ghosts.

* * *

Once inside the end room, JC immediately understood why Brook had first mistaken the haunted room for another Timeslip. The ghost girl hadn’t only brought herself back; she’d manifested her old surroundings as well. The room reeked of the 1970s. The decade that taste forgot, or at least gave up on. JC recognised the era immediately, from the terrible earth brown and faded yellow colours, the Laura Ashley wallpaper, and the big, chunky furniture. JC stood in front of the open doorway and looked around, taking his time. He could sense Brook hovering behind him, peering in from a safe distance. Daylight from some past Time poured in through the window, filling the room with a cheerful, midday glow. It all looked very real, very solid, for one dead girl’s memory.

Lydia was sitting in a chair by an empty fire-place; and JC knew her immediately for a ghost. She looked real enough, solid enough; but you only had to look at her to know she wasn’t alive. Lydia sat at her ease in an overstuffed chair, reading a copy of
Nova
magazine with a photo of a young Germaine Greer on the cover. She seemed completely absorbed in her reading, so JC cleared his throat politely. Lydia raised her head, looked around, then smiled easily at JC. She seemed a little surprised but not in any way disturbed or frightened, at finding a strange man in her room. As though she knew she had nothing to be scared of. She started to get up, and JC gestured quickly for her to remain seated.

Lydia looked to be seventeen, eighteen—a pleasant-looking girl. Average height, perhaps a little heavier than current fashions would allow, with a broad, pretty face and a great mop of curly black hair that tumbled down to her shoulders. She wore jeans and a blue-and-white blouse, and a pale blue bandana across her brow to hold her hair in place. She studied JC openly, reacting to his appearance quite normally, as though both of them were real.

“Hi!” said JC. “Sorry to intrude; I must have the wrong room. I’m JC Chance, visiting Bishop’s Fording.”

“That’s all right,” said the ghost girl. “I’m Lydia. My dad runs this place. Are you staying here long?”

“Just passing through,” said JC.

“Is my father looking after you all right?” said Lydia. “We don’t get many staying guests these days.”

“It’s been an interesting visit, so far,” said JC. “Lots to see and do.”

They both smiled and chatted easily together for a while. JC did his best to be kind and gentle with her and not say anything that might challenge her view of reality. She clearly didn’t know there was anything unnatural going on. She didn’t know she was dead. Didn’t remember hanging herself, in this very room. Didn’t know the father she talked about so easily had been dead for decades. She still thought she was another teenage girl, with everything to live for. Though JC did notice that she didn’t ask him some very obvious questions, like why was he wearing sunglasses indoors.

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend, Adrian,” Lydia said cheerfully. “Though . . . it does feel like I’ve been waiting for him for some time now . . . I hope he’ll be here soon.”

JC smiled and nodded. He didn’t see any point in telling her she’d already been waiting forty years.

Lydia frowned for the first time. “I hope nothing’s happened to Adrian . . .”

“I’m sure he’s not far off,” said JC. “Are you all right, here?”

“I suppose so,” said Lydia. “I’m comfortable, I’ve got everything I need . . . Though every now and again the door opens, and this old man looks in. He isn’t any bother, he never says anything; but he always looks so sad . . .”

“Do you recognise him?” JC said carefully.

“Oh no,” said Lydia. “He’s far too old to be anyone I’d know!” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, there is a good chance that he might be a ghost! This pub is famous for them, you know.”

“Yes,” said JC. “I know.”

“Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen one,” said Lydia, grinning.

“You’re not frightened of ghosts?” said JC.

“No,” said Lydia. “I don’t know why anyone would be. They’re just people, after all.”

“I’ve bothered you long enough,” said JC. “I’ll leave you alone now. Nice to meet you, Lydia.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Chance,” said Lydia. “You couldn’t do me a favour; could you? Take a look down the corridor and tell me if you see my Adrian coming?”

“Yes,” said JC. “I’ll take a look.”

He left the room and shut the door behind him. His last glimpse of Lydia was of her returning to the magazine she’d been reading for forty years. Out on the landing, Adrian Brook stood with his back to the door, his shoulders shaking as he fought to hold back tears.

* * *

After a while, they headed back down the landing, to the top of the stairs. It took JC a while to realise that there was something wrong with the light. The electric light bulbs were still burning steadily; but the nature of the light had changed. It had deepened, into an unpleasant orange-red glow, like sunlight that had soured and gone off. The sound of their footsteps had changed, too—softer, muffled, as though the floor-boards underfoot had gone rotten. The air on the landing smelled flat and dusty, like air in a room that’s been left shut up for too long. And, one by one, the doors ahead of them began to open, swinging slowly inwards; without making even the slightest sound. They hung back, invitingly, offering access to the rooms beyond, and all that they contained. Brook started to say something, and JC put a steadying hand on his arm.

“Don’t look into any of the rooms,” JC said quietly. “Look straight ahead and keep walking. There’s nothing in any of these rooms that you or I would want to see.”

They walked on down the landing. As they passed each door, it slammed loudly shut behind them, in a bad-tempered sort of way. JC kept his hand on Brook’s arm, squeezing it reassuringly now and again. He didn’t want the barman panicking, so close to the stairs. He had a very strong feeling that this would be a very bad place to show weakness. He remembered Brook’s telling how Space itself had become unhinged, here on the landing, stretching away forever . . . JC didn’t want to have to cope with that.

They’d almost made it to the top of the stairs when there was a sudden movement in the last room they passed; and JC shot a quick glance through the open doorway, in spite of himself. He caught a quick glimpse of something like a roomful of vegetation, stirring and rustling; and then he pulled his gaze away. They reached the top of the stairs, and JC allowed himself a small internal sigh of relief as he looked down the stairs and found them perfectly normal and unchanged. This time, he led the way down. Making a deliberately loud clatter on the steps so that Happy and Melody would hear him coming. Melody did still have her machine-pistol, after all, and a frequently stated willingness to shoot first and ask questions at the funeral.

* * *

As it turned out, the pair of them barely looked round as JC and Brook re-entered the bar. Happy and Melody were sitting perched on their high stools, at opposite ends of the bar-counter. Melody was bent over her lap-top, glaring at the screen and hitting the keyboard so hard the whole machine jumped under her pounding fingertips. Happy was sitting quietly, staring at nothing, or at least nothing any of the others could see. His face was empty, his mouth a flat line; he looked more thoughtful than anything. Brook hurried past JC and went behind the counter to pour himself another large measure of the good brandy. He seemed a little more settled, back in his own territory. But he still had to hold his brandy glass with both hands, to keep it steady. JC moved in beside Melody.

“All quiet upstairs,” he said cheerfully. “More or less. Though quite possibly, the quiet that comes before the storm. I met Lydia—charming young lady. Bit sad, of course, but reasonably composed for someone who killed herself forty years ago. Are you even listening to a word I’m saying, Melody? Or are you still sulking because you haven’t got all your proper equipment to play with?”

Melody growled under her breath and slapped at the lap-top, to make it clear how annoyed with the machine she was for not doing what it was supposed to do.

“Absolutely nothing useful to report, JC. This piece of shit is acting up like you wouldn’t believe. If I had my proper equipment, I could do you a full scan of this pub and the surroundings, and get you some proper answers. As it is, the scanners aren’t picking up anything, near or far, and I can’t get a single reading on the local power source, wherever or whatever it is.”

They both looked around, startled, interrupted by the rising sounds of the storm outside. The wind and the rain were growing steadily louder and more aggressive. The windows jumped and rattled in their frames as the wind slammed against them. The rain was really throwing it down now, pounding against the leaded glass of the windows; while outside the King’s Arms, the wind howled and shrieked and prowled around and around the inn, like some great beast trying to find a way in.

And maybe it was, thought JC.

“That storm is not natural,” said Happy.

They all looked at him until it became clear he had nothing more to say on the subject.

“I wish Kim would come back,” said JC. “I don’t like to think of her alone out there, in that storm.”

“You sent her outside,” said Melody.

“Yes, thank you, Melody,” said JC. “I am aware of that.”

“Kim is probably the only one of us who isn’t in any danger,” said Happy, in a calm and only slightly far-away voice. “The only one of us the storm can’t touch. I wonder if she could make an umbrella out of her ectoplasm . . . I think Kim has demonstrated that she is a girl who can look after herself . . .”

“Listen up, people!” Melody said loudly. “Got something . . . I’ve managed to access the latest weather reports, from the local television news . . . Apparently, this storm we’re experiencing is extraordinarily local. As in, it’s only raining over this pub and its surroundings. Nowhere else. In fact, outside of a very limited area, it is bone-dry, without even a breath of wind. Meteorologists are baffled.”

“Okay,” said JC. “That is . . . interesting. It’s almost as though Someone or Something has arranged this storm for us.”

He peered over Melody’s shoulder at the lap-top screen; where the local weather-man was gesturing silently at the animated weather map behind him. Melody worked on the sound, and the weather-man’s voice was suddenly there, trying hard to sound knowledgeable and, unfortunately, funny. And then he stopped abruptly, his professional smile falling away as he stared directly at JC and Melody. The weather map behind him disappeared, replaced by the same soured orange-red light JC had seen on the upper floor. The weather-man stepped forward until his face filled the screen. His eyes collapsed and ran away down his cheeks, in dark bloody streams. He grinned and grinned, until his cheeks cracked and split apart, showing the blood-smeared teeth underneath.