Ways to See a Ghost (10 page)

A sound was creaking and crackling all around. The stems of the wheat were snapping, folding over as if a scythe were cutting through them, falling into widening patterns of circles.

Opening and shutting her mouth, Isis managed some gasps, and then eventually two words.

“I’m here,” she croaked, desperate for someone to hear her, to come over and check if she was all right.

But Gil and Cally were running across the field, chasing the waves of toppling wheat, while Gray stood filming, his face blue-lit from the camera screen. As Isis watched, the crop fell into silence. Gil ran to a stop, surrounded by the pattern of the crop circle, punching his arm in the air.

“Did you see that?” he shouted. “Did you see that? We’re going to blow things wide open! We got it all this time: the UFO and the crop circle it made! No one will say crop circles are hoaxes and aliens don’t exist, not after this!”

It must’ve been four in the morning by the time we got home, but it didn’t matter. Everyone just bundled inside, all talking at once.

“I’ll download the film,” I said, heading for Dad’s computer.

“Who wants a drink?” he asked.

“A cup of tea would be nice,” said Cally, going with Isis into the living room.

“I mean a proper drink!” Dad said, coming from the kitchen holding two cans of lager. “This calls for a celebration.”

He opened his beer, slurping it. “Is it loaded yet?” he asked me.

“Ready to go!”

We all crowded round the screen.

“Don’t you think the children should go to bed?” Cally asked.

Dad laughed. “It’s nearly morning anyway.” He play-punched me. “And it’s the holidays, so who cares?”

I leaned forwards, clicked the mouse, and the film I’d shot started playing on the screen. It looked really good, better than the last time, and I’d filmed right from the start.

“Look!” Dad paused the film, pointing at one of the lights I’d close-upped. “Do you see how it’s shifting into red? That’ll be the Doppler effect – they’re probably travelling faster than light.” He clicked the computer again, and the film played on.

“Faster than light?” said Cally.

Dad nodded. “This is some kind of travel system. Has to be.”

“That’s a
spaceship?
” said Cally. On screen, the lights were drawing lines, netting up the sky.

“It doesn’t have to look like the Starship Enterprise,” said Dad, taking a long drink from his can.

“But, could it be something else?” asked Isis.

Actually, when I said everyone was talking at once,
Isis wasn’t. But that was like her, you know? Especially when Dad was around, so I didn’t think much of it.

She’d got his attention now though.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a bit louder. I knew he was getting ready to argue. He argues a lot with people when he gets on to UFOs.

Isis sort of shrugged.

“Are you sure it’s a spaceship? It’s just I thought it didn’t… seem like that.”

I was going to ask what she meant, but I didn’t get a chance because Dad was straight in there.

“With more experience, you’ll understand. If we go through the other possibilities you’ll see they can all be ruled out. Firstly, the atmospheric conditions were completely wrong for a storm, and it definitely wasn’t lightning. The same applies for earthlights, because those only appear before earthquakes and we haven’t felt the ground shaking! Now, I know some people say crop circles can be caused by small tornados, but what we witnessed was not a tornado, plus it didn’t leave a simple pattern. And it definitely wasn’t hoaxers because we were right there watching…”

He went banging on like that for ages. Isis didn’t say
anything much, just hunched up as he went on, nodding sometimes, like she was getting told off.

“So, you see?” he finished eventually. “It has to be alien technology of some kind!”

I thought Isis would’ve given in then, because that’s what I usually do with Dad, but she really surprised me by saying, “It just didn’t seem like a spaceship to me.”

“Well, that’s just where you’re wrong…”

Dad would have given her another lecture, if Cally hadn’t rescued her.

“Gil.” She put her hand on his arm. “Maybe Isis means there are other aspects to what we saw.”

It looked for a moment like Dad was going to start on Cally then, but you could see him getting control of himself. It showed how much he liked her, you know? He didn’t tell her she was talking rubbish, he just asked, “What do you mean?”

Cally smiled. “Well, I know you have all your equipment, and of course things have to be scientifically examined. But there are other ways to test something; I myself sensed a great deal of spiritual energy out in that field. And, after all, aliens are far more enlightened than we are; they probably use spiritual forces in the way we use electricity…”

Then they really started on about aliens, spirits and all sorts of weird, completely ignoring me and Isis.

I went over to her. “Do you want something to eat?”

She nodded, and we both headed for the kitchen, leaving Dad and Cally. It was a good thing too, because they were starting to get all smoochy.

I made us some toast and peanut butter. We were both hungry, because it was gone five by then, and the last time I’d eaten was at dinner, which was yesterday!

Isis sat opposite me at the kitchen table. Chewing slowly, looking really tired, with these big purple circles under her eyes.

“What did you mean?” I asked her. “What you said to my dad.”

She stopped chewing. “It just didn’t look like a spaceship, that’s all.” And then she looked at her plate, like she was waiting for me to start on her as well.

“Because of all the lights flying around?” I asked. After all, Cally was right – nothing we saw looked much like the spaceships in films.

Isis lifted her eyes. “Did they look like lights to you?” she asked.

“Yeah, of course. I mean, they were all floating up
and stuff…” Then I stopped. I remembered who I was talking to, and what I’d seen for that second in the field, before the UFO turned up. “What did you see?” I asked.

“Birds,” whispered Isis. “Thousands of them. Millions. Flying out into the sky.”

I tried to believe her, but I’d only seen the rising lights, and the net across the sky, then the burning sphere. I mean, that was crazy enough, but it’d been like the time before.

“I didn’t see anything that looked like birds,” I said.

Isis shook her head. “I saw the lights, just like you filmed them, but the birds were there as well, at the same time.”

I just didn’t get it, I thought maybe she meant alien birds.

“What kind of birds were they?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, they were all the same though.”

“That doesn’t help much.”

She thought for a moment. “They lived in the marshes,” she said slowly. “There were lots of them for a long time, thousands and thousands of years. But then, not long ago, they started disappearing.”

“What, like going somewhere?” I thought she meant the aliens were flying away, but she shook her head.

“Dying. They all died,” she said, and she started
shivering, holding her arms tight around herself. “They kept on being killed, until none were left.” She made this coughy gulp, and wiped tears off her face.

“Like going extinct?” I asked, trying to puzzle what she was saying. “You mean the aliens went extinct? But I filmed them, and their spaceship.”

“Not
aliens
!” she snapped. “They were from here, from this planet.”

“How can you know that?” I snapped back. “There were only lights, I
filmed
lights.” It had been such a great night, and now it felt like she was trying to ruin it.

“Lots of people see lights,” she said. “If they go somewhere haunted. They think they’re just reflections in glass, or flickering light bulbs, but they’re not. People have even filmed them.”

I sucked in my breath, finally getting what she meant.

“You didn’t see aliens?” I asked, and she shook her head.

“You didn’t see a spaceship?”

She shook her head again.

“You filmed lights,” she said, “and your dad thinks it’s a UFO. But I saw the sky full of ghosts.”

“It’s not quite what I expected,” said Cally, looking around.

Why not?
The thought fizzed angrily in Isis’s mind, but she kept her mouth shut. They’d had a fight last night, and they were still barely speaking to each other.

Early morning sunshine dazzled through the glass roof of Wycombe’s main shopping mall, bouncing off the gleaming, tiled floor and glinting over the shopfronts with their logos and displays. The shop doors were all still closed; a woman in one of the windows was fiddling with the clothes on a mannequin. Angel helter-skeltered past, transparent in the bright light, unseen by anyone but Isis.

Cally put her bag down and stared at the tall, striped tent in front of them. Its door flaps were pulled open,
and a banner taped across the top read F
ORTUNE
T
ELLER.
Nearby, a young man with a shaved head and patchwork trousers was laying out some juggling clubs. A bit further off, an older man dressed in a black evening suit was carefully placing various items onto a small table. A top hat, a handkerchief, a deck of cards, a wand.

Isis heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie and the centre manager bustled over to them. She was smartly dressed and thin faced, with short, grey hair and bright pink lipstick.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, but not as if she cared.

Cally pointed at the banner.

“I’m not a fortune teller,” she said. “I’m a clairvoyant.”

The woman was already looking past them, at the juggler. “Isn’t it the same thing?” she said.

Cally shook her head. “I speak to the spirits, but they only communicate future events if they choose to.”

The woman’s gaze came back to Cally, eyes flicking up and down, measuring her. “Well, I’m sure no one will mind. And a fortune teller fits in much better with our circus theme.” She pointed one finger at Cally’s purple dress. It looked washed out, almost pink, in the bright sunshine.

“Is that your costume?”

Cally nodded. “It’s what I wear for performances.”

“It’s not very
gypsy
though.”

“That’s because she’s not,” said Isis.

The woman regarded Isis, then asked Cally, “Who’s this?”

“My daughter, Isis.”

The manager’s walkie-talkie crackled, and a voice garbled through about an obstruction in the bins area.

“I have to go,” said the manager. “But could you try and look a bit more… ethnic? Buy a tasselled shawl or something.” She glanced at Isis. “And we have very strict rules about young people loitering. Please remember that.”

Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked away.

“Don’t worry ’bout Mrs Parkes,” said the juggler, smiling at them. The studs in his bottom lip gleamed. “She’s like, high stress. But if you do all right, she’ll keep on with the bookings.”

Cally didn’t answer, just smiled back awkwardly and opened up her bag.

“I’m not sure I want to do this any more,” she said quietly.

“I never wanted to at all,” said Isis.

“Are you part of the act or something?” the juggler asked Isis.

Isis looked at her mum as she answered. “No, I’m just here for the humiliation.”

The young man grinned, and Cally folded her arms.

“I couldn’t leave you on your own, Isis.”

“Yes, you could!” snapped Isis. “Other people’s parents leave them at home. Gray’s dad does it all the time!”

Cally tutted. “So now you think Gil’s wonderful, do you?”

“At least he doesn’t treat Gray like a baby.”

Cally turned to the juggler. “Do you think I’m being overprotective?”

He held his hands up, shaking his head. “I ain’t involved in your stuff.”

Cally turned to Isis.

“Gil does his thing, I do mine. I thought you understood, that after what happened…”

“Angel died,” hissed Isis. “That’s ‘what happened’. But it was on a road, not in our flat. A car isn’t going to drive up the stairs and crash into the living room!”

Cally went very still. The juggler got suddenly busy, sorting through his gear.

“Why are you being like this?” Cally asked.

“Haven’t the
spirits
told you?” asked Isis, turning round
and stamping off, her footsteps echoing in the empty shopping centre. When she reached the entrance, where the glass roof gave way to sky, she stopped, wrapping her arms around herself. In front of her were two free-standing noticeboards, each one with a poster tacked onto it.

A security guard ambled by, followed a minute later by two early customers. An elderly lady, holding onto the arm of a middle-aged woman.

“Oh, that sounds fun,” said the old lady, pointing at the noticeboards.

“Yes, Mum,” said the younger woman, not even looking. “Now the first place we need to go is Debenhams, get you some vests.”

Isis thought about just carrying on. Walking all the way home, then on until she reached the railway station. She imagined getting on a train, and heading for…

Where would she go? The longing for her dad cut through her. In his last email he’d said he was in South Africa. The train wouldn’t get her there.

Next to the entrance was a bakery. One of the bakers brought a tray of pastries out from the back of the shop and started loading them into the glass-fronted display. A wisp of toddler-shaped steam drifted above the cakes, but the baker worked on, oblivious to the small ghost floating around him.

Isis heard footsteps behind her.

“Isis,” said Cally, “I need you to come back to the stall. Remember what the manager said about loitering.”

Isis didn’t move.

“I’m sorry you don’t want to be here,” said Cally, “but I have to earn money.”

Isis turned round. “You could get a job in a shop.”

“What’s wrong with you?” said Cally. “Why are you being so… difficult?”

“I’m not!” Isis snapped. Except that was a lie, because difficult was exactly how she felt.

Ever since that night, out in the field. It was like she’d been filled up with ants, biting and nipping her from the inside. Her skin was itchy, the way her arms moved felt wrong. She picked things up then dropped them, because her hands were suddenly wings, her fingers feathers. And every night she dreamed of flying, only to wake heavy and miserable in the morning. She was sure she’d lost something, something really important, and she couldn’t even remember what it was.

She felt cross with everyone and everything. Even Angel.

Cally narrowed her eyes, examining Isis.

“It’s since we went out that night with Gil and Gray, isn’t it?” she said.

Isis’s cheeks flashed hot.
Did she know somehow?

“I know you’re not very keen on me being with Gil…”

Isis shook her head, relieved, but also irritated. Did Cally ever think about
anything
else?

“It’s not about him,” Isis said, scornfully.

Cally winced.

“Then what is it, Isis? Can’t you tell me?”

But she couldn’t, that was the problem. Because she didn’t know what was wrong, because even to start
explaining would take her into places she couldn’t go. So she tried to smile, pointing at the Danish pastries in the bakery window. “I’m probably just hungry,” she said.

Cally frowned at her for another moment, then went into the bakery. She chose a cheap iced bun for Isis, and nothing for herself.

By 11.30 a.m., Isis was hungry again. She’d spent the morning sitting on a wooden bench with a book in her hand, as far away as Cally would allow her to be, next to a small shrubbery of plastic plants in the middle of the glass-covered atrium. Two weeks ago she could have read for the whole day, but now it was a strange torture. Her legs jittered, she shuffled and shifted on the bench. Her mind was even worse, leaping from each printed word to some random thought and then, inevitably, to the fluttering of wings.

“Restless?” A voice rasped next to her ear, a dusty whisper.

She shut her book with a snap, not moving her head but feeling the sudden chill down her side.

“Go away,” she said through almost-closed lips.

From the side of her vision, she saw the crossing of
tweed trouser legs, a shower of mould spores falling onto the polished floor.

“I am sure I will, eventually,” said Mandeville. “Even phantoms seem to fade in the end. In the meantime, I enjoy your modern world. Take this covered parade of shops. So vibrant and busy. I remember it was merely a market garden, in my day. Vegetables and so on, no doubt grown by surly and ignorant peasants.” He stopped speaking, but he didn’t leave.

Isis turned her head, trying to look like nothing was happening.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

Mandeville flicked his hand lazily in the air. “Company, my dear. Conversation.”

“I can’t talk,” Isis said through her closed teeth. “People might see.”

“Amiable silence then,” said Mandeville, resting one arm on the back of the bench. Where he touched it, the varnish began to crack, green fuzz growing out of the wood. “I see your mother is busy.”

Cally was in front of the fortune-teller’s tent, sitting on a metal, fold-out chair. A young-looking, dark-haired woman was seated opposite her. Isis couldn’t hear what
they were saying, but by the tilt of her head she knew Cally was ‘listening with her spirit ear’.

Mandeville glanced around the shopping centre. “I am afraid news has spread of your mother’s charlatan ways. She no longer attracts spirits to her performances.”

Isis slapped her book down on the bench, right through Mandeville.

“Manners, please,” he said.

“There’s a ghost over
there
,” hissed Isis, flicking her eyes towards a pale figure moving through the mall. A thin, faded woman with a pinched face, wearing a long drab dress of rough brown material, a piece of sack tied around her shoulders as a shawl. She was walking knee deep through the floor, bending to pick up things only she could see. As she reached the shoe shop she faded into the window, a moment later reappearing where she had started, repeating her walk and bending at all the same places as before.

“The potato picker?” said Mandeville. “She has no interest in seances. She’ll take no more notice of your mother than she would me, even if I were cavorting in front of her. I used to try and engage with her type, but I gave up long ago. They are frozen to their tasks, locked in
their patterns. Memories of a place, or perhaps echoes in time.”

Isis gave up trying to ignore him.

“Are there lots of types of ghost?” she whispered, despite herself.

Mandeville arched one of his eyebrows. “Have you observed nothing as a psychic?”

She shook her head, minutely. “I try to ignore any ghost I see. I don’t want them noticing me.”

Mandeville chuckled. “Oh, they notice. But to answer your question, I have categorised many forms of spirit, referenced their form and awareness. Apart from those like our bending lady, there are the phantoms who lurk in graveyards and crypts, chattering their last words. One can’t get any sense out of them either. Then we have the screaming-heads who melt out of walls. I
have
managed simple conversations with them, but they don’t have much to talk about. I suppose you wouldn’t, stuck in a wall. And of course there are the classics, such as white-clad ladies and headless horsemen. They can converse, but it’s all rather melodramatic. Curses and cruel fate, that sort of thing. Then—”

“What about birds?” said Isis, cutting him off.

He looked at her in surprise. “Are you asking if birds have ghosts?”

She nodded.

“Well they have spirits of course,” said Mandeville thoughtfully. “The after realm is filled with the flutter of life turning endlessly into death. But birds as ghosts? I wonder if they would even have the desire to? As I have said, ghosts are driven by their own tragedies. Only some of us join in the haunting.”

Mandeville pointed one of his fingers at an area of the shopping centre near the escalators. “Like your little ghostling.”

Mandeville’s withered finger was aimed in the direction of Angel, who was flitting amongst the to and fro of shoppers, near the bottom of the escalators. A toddler-shaped shadow, standing still with her arms out. Every time someone walked through her, shivering in the unexpected chill, Angel let out a shout of delighted, noiseless laughter.