Mean Spirit (15 page)

Part Three

XX

RAIN AND A PHONE CALL DROVE THE INHABITANT OF THE PINK
caravan indoors.

The phone call was from London. ‘It’s me,’ Jo said. ‘I’ve found out why he did it.’

The rain was from Ireland. Normally it would not have bothered him, for there was something energizing about rain billowing in over the sea. But it might not be terribly good for the little mobile phone and so he carried it back into the caravan, sitting on the edge of his bed-settee.

‘So’, he said, ‘there
was
a reason. Other than the humiliation of a creepy old man.’

He was looking down the field to the other caravans. Four there were, in all, in the field above St Bride’s Bay.

What have I told you about going near that creepy old man?

The three green ones would be uninhabited until Easter, when the owner of the pink one would be obliged to wear ladies’ clothing nearly all day for the benefit of small children who had no reason to suspect he was not of the female gender.

The false eyelashes could be a
soupçon
problematical, but generally one didn’t mind. Who could resist such warm acceptance? It was, after all, no more than a year since he’d heard, through the caravan window, a mother dragging a child away –
What have I told you about going near that creepy …?
Etcetera.

Last autumn, however, the very same woman:
Now, I’m sure if
you go and ask Cindy
very
nicely, you can be introduced to Kelvyn Kite.

Creepy old man to cosy celeb in a matter of months, through the magical power of television. Soon it would be the impromptu weekend matinées again, Cindy and Kelvyn at the top of the field recycling the old Bournemouth Pier routines for a handful of holidaymakers and Ifan Williams’s brood from the farm. A little tiring, but it had its compensations. And – who could say? – such was the transience of television that this time next year it could all be over. And the following year, back to …

‘Creepy!’ Jo said.
‘You’re
not creepy, for heaven’s sake. Certainly not compared with him.’

‘Kurt?’

‘Well … his obsession with this haunted castle, all that cheesy crap. It’s not
healthy,
is it? Anyway, that’s beside the point – well, not entirely, it partly explains why he wanted the money.’

‘Money?’

‘From the Lottery.’

‘He especially wanted to win the Lottery?’

‘He wanted to present the bloody
show,
Cindy! Kurt Campbell wanted your job. In fact, he virtually
had
the job. Look, after they dumped Alison, you – me too, come to that – we were supposed to be strictly temporary, right? Fill in for a few weeks until they appointed a new presenter and an innovative new producer.’

‘Yes, yes, girl, I know all that.’ Sad, it was. Even at twenty-eight, little Jo had no illusions about the expendability of her production talents in the eyes of the BBC hierarchy.
I’m only here as long as you are, Cindy; we were a lucky fluke.
Well, yes. Who wanted liver-spotted hands on their big-money balls?

‘But listen to this, Cindy … What you
didn’t
know and
I
didn’t know was that they’d been talking to Kurt Campbell for several weeks –
very
keen to get him for the show, and Kurt knew it, and he was just holding out for more money … I mean
much
more money – three, four times what they’re giving you. And with the ratings down and the whole deal looking iffy, they were scared enough to hand it over. Signatures were about to go on contracts. Like within the week.’

‘When was all this?’

‘Like I said, just about the time you came in as a temp. And the rest is history – you turn out to be this enormous and entirely unexpected hit, up go the ratings … and suddenly they realize that they no longer need to spend megabucks on greedy Mr Campbell. Suddenly, everybody’s happy. Especially the accountants.’

‘Except’, Cindy said, ‘for Mr Campbell.’

The rain came down on the caravan roof like the drums of war.

‘I’m told that Kurt Campbell’, Jo said, ‘was absolutely livid
beyond
livid. The job had been
his.
In the can. For an unbelievable fee. A couple of years and he could have bought a proper castle.
Two
castles …’

‘Who told you all this, Jo?’

‘Let’s just say someone in the know. Someone who saw Wednesday’s show and how close Kurt came to …’

‘What did he hope to get out of it? Kurt, I mean.’

‘I think he just wanted to shaft you, Cindy. Revenge, frustration. Mind you, he has got friends on the inside – maybe he thought there was still a chance, if you were out of the picture. And that if the stunt had worked, he’d have been a folk hero, like Jarvis Cocker the night he took the piss out of Michael Jackson. I don’t know … he’s obviously just extremely vindictive.’

‘Well,’ Cindy said, ‘it was good of you to tell me, but I think we should try and forget about Mr Campbell. More to the point, how is poor Mr Purviss?’

‘Oh,’ Jo said. ‘Yeah. That’s something I should have told you. We’ll have to mention it on the show. Be in all the papers, I suppose.’

Last month the podgy, fun-loving Mr Gerry Purviss, aged sixty-one, had won just over three million pounds on the Lottery and within a week had married a Miss Michele Murray, aged twenty-three. Mr Purviss was one of those Lottery winners who just
asked
for the Cindy treatment, indeed revelled in it.
It’ll all end in the cardiac unit!
Kelvyn had shrieked joyfully, to huge audience merriment, when Mr P and his large fiancée had appeared on the show.

Well, how was Kelvyn to know that Mr Purviss did indeed have what was considered at the time to be a relatively mild heart condition.

He had been in hospital for nearly a week.

‘Apparently’, Jo said, ‘he had another one in hospital. Died early this morning.’

‘Oh dear, dear, such an amiable man.’

‘That’s one very rich big blonde.’

‘So how am I supposed to react on the show?’

‘There’s going to be a meeting about it.’

Of course. This was the BBC. There would have to be a meeting.

‘I’d guess you should say nothing,’ Jo said. ‘It wasn’t a sick joke at the time, Mr Purviss himself had a good laugh, so …’

‘Poor man.’

‘Let’s face it, Cindy, bloody
stupid
man.’

‘Then again,’ Cindy said, ‘that was probably the very best week of his life. Not many of us get to go out on a
real
high.’

When young Jo was gone, he went to the window and watched the mist making white whorls over St Bride’s Bay, wishing Mr Purviss’s jovial soul the smoothest of passages.

There would be no comeback. They were flying high, Cindy and Kelvyn both. And higher still after the Kurt Campbell incident.

A true professional, they were saying Upstairs. It took an unflappable, seasoned operator to turn the tables so neatly on Campbell. Such an immaculate piece of double-bluff!

And didn’t those tabloids love him to death? Yesterday, on his return from London, Ifan Williams had come out to open the gate for him, brandishing the
Mirror.

CINDY’S TRANCE
OF THE SEVEN VEILS

But flash Kurt can’t con the Kite!

And the mobile phone had started to trill its little tune, the offers tinkling in:

An invitation to exercise his wit on the tricky Clive Anderson’s TV talkshow. (Easy.)

To chronicle his lifestyle in the
Sunday Times Magazine’s
‘Life in the Day of …’ feature. (If I must.)

To be a subject for the radio programme
In the Psychiatrist’s Chair.
(Well, why not?)

And an inquiry from a company interested in marketing cute little Kelvyn Kites to hang in car windows. (No, no, no, a million times no … surely there’s quite enough carnage on the roads.)

Meanwhile questions were being asked in the serious papers about Kurt Campbell’s previous shows: how genuine were they? How many hypnotic subjects ‘randomly selected’ from the audience were, in fact, plants?

This disturbed Cindy a little. He didn’t want to ruin anybody’s image – and Kurt Campbell, in his brash way, had done a great deal to awaken public interest in serious paranormal research. Perhaps, instead of avoiding the press, as he had been on this issue, he should make a meaningful statement to the effect that he believed entirely in the power of hypnosis and in the extraordinary abilities of Mr Kurt Campbell.

As for Kurt, his only public comment had been to the effect that it was impossible to make people do, under hypnosis, something very much against their will.

Cindy knew this popular claim to be less than true.

It all needed some pondering. He left the mobile phone in the caravan and wandered out in the rain until he could see the sea sloshing the rocks forty feet below. Another hour and he would have to be off to London again, for the rehearsal and the Saturday evening Lottery Show. A tiring schedule – the driving part, at least. But the spirit of Pembrokeshire always restored him and, when he was back here on Sunday, perhaps he would stagger up to Carn Ingli, the holy peak of the Preseli Mountains, where compass needles changed direction and unexpected insights were gained.

At that moment, beyond the open door of the caravan, the mobile phone started up again, like a distant ice-cream van.

‘Grayle? Little Grayle? Little Grayle Underhill, with the eye of Horus earrings? Well, well, well…’

‘Cindy, hi … uh, I didn’t expect to get through so easy.’

‘Why, because I am a big television star? A glittering celebrity with no time for his friends?’

‘Uh, no, I just …’

‘Are you all right, Grayle?’

Of course she was not all right; the radio waves were fairly crackling with an unexpected tension.

‘Well … good to hear your voice, lovely,’ Cindy said lightly. ‘So direct. So focused. So devoid of the omnipresent
hidden agenda.
A rare virtue, almost unknown at the BBC, where the truth lies buried under a thousand unintelligible memos.’

‘You’re saying you don’t have much time and you want me to be direct and upfront, right?’

Cindy laughed. ‘Grayle, I am alone in my humble caravan, my mystic’s cave. Kelvyn is in his case, recharging his batteries of bile. Outside the glorious St Bride’s Bay is serene to the horizon. We have for ever. How is Marcus?’

‘Recovering from three weeks’ heavy flu. He sends his, uh …’

‘Germs?’ said Cindy.

Grayle laughed nervously. ‘It’s about Marcus I called. I called for some advice. I’m using my cellphone in the yard. I told Marcus I needed some air, so if I start calling you Charlie or something you’ll know he just showed up.’

‘One moment. I shall settle myself on my bed-settee. There we are. Now. Tell me.’

‘OK. This is about a spiritualist medium. If a medium came to you and said she was like too scared to go into trance any more, on account of every time she did she was faced with this like heavy-duty, dark entity that crowded out all the rest of the, uh, spirits … what would your reaction be to that?’

‘My.’ Cindy blinked. ‘You do come up with them, don’t you, Grayle? This would be an experienced medium? One not easily fooled by the Great Cosmic Joker?’

‘Fifteen years, plus.’

‘And what does it want, this … entity?’

‘She doesn’t know.’

‘Didn’t she ask it?’

‘It doesn’t speak. She says it’s real distinct, more solid than anything she ever saw before and therefore scary as hell. But it’s like … mute.’

‘Well,’ Cindy said, ‘I accept that not all presences are chatty in the accepted sense. But with a medium, a sensitive, there is virtually always some form of communication – else where’s the point?’

‘It just exudes stuff. Smells. Cold. A suggestion of hostility, violence. Maybe sexual.’

‘Like an incubus?’

‘Well, you know, it has a clearly human identity. Like, it’s wearing a suit. Oh, Jesus, why am I telling you this stuff when I don’t even know if I believe the half of it?’

‘Because it bothers you. Why does it bother you, Grayle? Who is this woman?’

‘She came on to Marcus. It messed her up, this experience. She thinks she needs Marcus as a kind of spiritual father-figure. Like, she first came into his life years ago, when she was just a kid and he was a teacher at her school and looking for something to believe in, and he believed in her.’

‘And you don’t.’

‘It’s Persephone Callard, Cindy.’

Cindy was silent.

He watched the sea through the window.

‘Well,’
he said at last.

‘Your paths ever cross?’

‘To date, no. I have read of her exploits in the papers, of course, over the years. Indeed, I’ve found myself sympathizing, on more than one occasion. Considering common ground – misfits, outsiders … albeit, in her case, a somewhat privileged outsider …’

‘Gets nearly as much space as you nowadays, huh?’

‘Ha ha. So, am I to understand that this is where the elusive Miss Persephone Callard may now be found?’

‘Castle Farm, in the parish of St Mary’s. You recall the dairy building where Bobby Maiden stayed? He’ll be here too, presently.’

‘Bobby also? A little reunion, then.’

‘Kind of.’ Little Grayle was suddenly sounding
terribly
down. ‘Cindy, I figured … maybe if you were … like, if your schedule allowed …’

‘But Marcus doesn’t know of this?’

‘I thought if you just kind of turned up, that Marcus would be …’

‘Furious,’ Cindy said.

‘But secretly grateful. Long term.’

Cindy smiled. ‘And the troubled Miss Callard?’

‘What I was hoping is you would probably be able to establish one way or the other. If this was the real thing. You know what I’m saying?’

‘Yes, lovely, I think I sense the direction in which you are tentatively travelling. My problem is that I have, as you know, commitments in London …’

‘I’m sorry. I understand. It was stupid of me.’

‘… at least, until tomorrow evening. Would Sunday be soon enough? If I were just passing through, as it were. Staying at the Ram’s Head in St Mary’s, with my dear friend Amy Jenkins?’