The Last Days of Jack Sparks (11 page)

By this point, I have absolutely no need to watch the video along with her. During the forty-eight hours since it returned to my life, it has burned itself on to my brain. I watched the thing countless times during my sixteen-hour flight to Hong Kong on Erubis Books’ dollar. I know Camera Boy’s every single move. Every breath he takes, every camera bump he makes, I’ve been watching him.

Even if I wasn’t able to hear the opening ‘Adramelech’, the ‘Mephistopheles’ that marks the midway point or the closing ‘Baphomet’ – not to mention Camera Boy’s whispered ‘
Oh God . . . this is it
’ of course – I would still know exactly which part of the video Chastain is watching at any given time. I can picture those supposedly spectral feet slowly turning to face the camera and I know exactly how long they take to do so. One day, I’ll interview whoever created that subtly clever special effect of the in-out-fading spook. Whether they want me to or not.

Sherilyn Chastain – is it too soon to call her Shezza? Probably – says nothing while watching the video. Her expression is unreadable, although a couple of those wrinkles on her forehead deepen once Camera Boy turns the corner and beholds the macabre tableau.

After the climactic ‘Baphomet’ is spoken, she says nothing. Just inhales, as if she’s forgotten to do so for, oh, forty seconds. Then, as I expected, she hits ‘Replay’.

I chain-smoke while she chain-watches, saving Zippo fuel by igniting each new cigarette with the tip of the last. Why did I resume this filthy habit? Oh yeah: Bex.

Chastain finally puts the iPad aside. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘That video’s bad news.’

I cough, screw half a cigarette against the ashtray and arch an eyebrow. ‘So you think it’s real.’
What a surprise
.

‘I can’t be certain,’ she notes, ‘and it wouldn’t be healthy for me to
be
certain, but at this moment in time . . . yeah, I do. Never saw anything quite like it.’

‘What makes you think it might be real?’ Even as I ask, I know the answer: she believes in this shit and/or it’s beneficial to her career for others to believe. Just like everyone else on this godless globe, she’s either lying or being lied to.

Chastain soothingly rubs the spot where her collarbones meet. ‘I get a bad feeling off it, Jack,’ she says, using my name for the first time instead of ‘mate’.

‘Can you be any more specific?’

She glances at the iPad by her side, disturbed. ‘I’ll need to study it some more.’

‘What about the three words spoken at the start, middle and end? Not the “Oh God . . .” stuff, but the “Adramelech”, the “Mephistopheles” . . .’

She gazes at me, then through me, then beyond me at who knows what, her mind ticking over.

‘What was that third one again?’ I get the impression she’s picking her words carefully.

‘Baphomet. What do you think they’re all about?’

Her focus returns to the balcony and she scribbles brief notes on a pad. ‘I’ll come back to you. But right off the bat – I’m advising you not to track down the makers of that video. Forget all about it.’

A mile away, the sea rolls in over the shore. Inevitable, unstoppable.

‘That video is central to the book,’ I tell her. ‘It’s the
spine
. Once I expose this one as a fake, everything less convincing collapses too.’

‘That’s important to you,’ she says gently, studying me again. ‘Pulling the curtain across to reveal all. You want your big
Wizard of Oz
moment. Why’s that, Toto? Why do you think that is?’

First Scooby-Doo, now Toto: what is it with women comparing me to fictional dogs? I actually laugh – no mean feat, given the extent of my jet lag. My brain drifts, then catches up on something she said earlier. ‘What’s wrong with being certain about things anyway?’

She pulls her legs up and crosses them beneath herself on the chair. She’s surprisingly limber, Ms Chastain, and not without sex appeal. ‘Ah,’ she says with troubling enthusiasm, as if settling down to tell an epic tale. ‘Ever heard of Robert Anton Wilson?’

‘Yeah. Big Satanist guy.’

‘No, Jack, he wasn’t. You’re thinking of Anton LaVey.’

‘And you’re running away from my question.’

She tuts. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Or maybe you’re right. Robert Anton Wilson, y’see, gifted multiple-model agnosticism to the world.’

I don’t know what multiple-model agnosticism is, but strongly suspect I’m not going to like it. Sure enough, Chastain outlines how Wilson proposed that it was unhealthy for anyone to cling to one belief system all their lives. According to him, we should be prepared to shift our beliefs and mindset at any time. Apparently, Wilson once described belief as ‘the death of intelligence’. I admit to Chastain that this makes me warm to him just a little, as that certainly applies to religion.

‘It applies to everything, including science,’ she says, enjoying my exasperation. ‘I’m paraphrasing Bob here: no model or map of the universe should be totally believed in or totally denied.’

‘Science,’ I tell her, ‘is rock solid, thanks. Flapping about, changing your belief system every five minutes? Wishy-washy. You have to believe in something, and it can only be science. Because science deals with tangible things that we can see and touch. As opposed to your . . .’ When I gesture dismissively at the knick-knacks that dominate Chastain’s apartment, I sense the birth of irritation in her.

‘The Higgs boson particle,’ she offers. ‘Can we see or touch that?’ When I’m forced to concede we can’t, she goes on: ‘Invisible to the human eye, right? And yet long, expensive investigation showed it was present. Quantum physics, as you must know, has posed vast questions about the role of consciousness in the universe. If we devoted as much effort to investigating the dead as we do to building the weapons that
make
them dead, we’d know a lot more about life after death.’

‘Dead is dead, Ms Chastain.’

‘You have no idea,’ she says, tugging off her shades. ‘And neither, as a multiple-model agnostic, do I.’ I light another cigarette; she lights more incense. ‘So that’s
something
we have in common, eh, Jack? Drink your tea, it’s getting cold.’

‘You do know science would dismiss your conception of “positive” and “negative” energy as utter bollocks, right?’

‘Oh, I adore science,’ she says, as if discussing a lovely old aunt with dementia. ‘But it’s just a generalisation of the laws of Greek grammar. The entire Enlightenment project was about rediscovering stuff the ancient Greeks knew. And because it’s coded so heavily on that Graeco-Roman knowledge, there’s whole gaps of things they didn’t have words for.’

‘There are always gaps,’ I say, ‘but when those gaps are filled, they’ll extend the pre-existing framework. They won’t suddenly serve up, I don’t know, ghouls and goblins from out of the clear blue sky.’

‘You have no way of knowing,’ she says, wrongly. ‘Science is science, philosophy is philosophy, and never the twain shall meet. Listen: science is really good at describing things in
pieces
.’

‘It’s really good at describing and connecting
everything
.’

‘Science is reductionism. You’re reducing things down. You can dissect a sheep all you fuckin’ like – it won’t let you make an actual sheep. You’re really good at comprehending the pieces, but you can’t see the whole picture.’

‘We have made an actual sheep,’ I say, wincing my way through a nicotine headache. ‘A clone of a sheep.’

‘Nah.’ A firm shake of her head. ‘Nah. That’s not making a sheep from scratch. Not an actual sheep. That’s literally replicating what was there, created by . . . whoever the creator was.’

‘There was no creator,’ I say, ‘besides a big bang and evolution.’

‘And yet
again
,’ she says, slapping both thighs simultaneously, a little red creeping up from her collar this time, ‘you have no way of knowing. There might be a God, there might not. Near-death experiences and end-of-life experiences point to some kind of afterlife. But you bloody atheists, you have to nail your colours to the mast . . . and we’re back to the age of certainty. You decide there’s no afterlife, because it doesn’t fit your current model. And you don’t realise you’re as mentally stagnant as a Jehovah’s Witness.’

‘We examine the evidence,’ I say, disliking the Jehovah’s Witness comparison a great deal. ‘And based on that, we—’

‘Just because it’s unfalsifiable,’ she interrupts, her frustration jagged, ‘doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It just means science can’t disprove it. It’s so arrogant to say that something science can’t disprove isn’t real. You guys think you know it all . . .’

‘No we don’t,’ I say, my own gall rising. ‘But neither are we about to set centuries of progress back by entertaining bullshit straight out of the Dark Ages.’

We spar this way until Chastain unleashes a wild shriek, throws her hands in the air and lets them flop limply by her sides. ‘Should be a hell of a book, this,’ she says, bringing Bex to mind. ‘You, flying around the planet, disbelieving everything. Still, I recently read a book about atheism written by a Christian. No reason why a non-believer shouldn’t tackle belief.’

‘Well, thanks for permission,’ I say, unable to keep the edge off it.

She laughs faintly, before the balcony falls silent and still. All the words we catapulted at each other now dead leaves piled around our ankles. The sea just keeps on coming, constant and clear. It’s fair to say Chastain isn’t quite the archaic witchy type I’d anticipated. Neither do I dislike her, exactly. She’s strong, no question, but flaky multiple models will never earn my respect.

‘So,’ says Sherilyn Chastain, eyeing me with amused contempt. ‘
Toto
. You coming to this job on Friday or what?’

I tell her I am.

Friday, incidentally, will be the day I see my first ghost.

Alistair Sparks: ‘There follows a 4 November 2014 email from Sherilyn Chastain to her sister Elizabeth Buckstable, a forensic scientist in New York City . . .’