Ways to See a Ghost (8 page)

Philip put his fingers to his forehead. On a large video screen at the side of the stage, his fingernails gleamed in close-up. Next to him, a young woman was visibly shaking, her hands clutching a photograph.

The screen showed Philip’s face. His eyes were tight shut. He was sweating, the collar of his shirt darkened and damp.

“Your brother is far away.” Philip’s voice sounded strained. “He’s travelled a great distance into the realm beyond… He must have had a very troubled life, to go so far, and so quickly.”

The young woman choked a sob, tears slipping from her eyes.

Further down the rows, Isis could see Cally leaning forwards in her seat, hands over her mouth.

Philip kept his fingers at his brow for a moment longer, then he dropped his hands, panting, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words trembling, “I couldn’t reach him.” He breathed deeply through his nose, and took a gentle hold of the young woman’s hands, looking directly into her eyes. The camera zoomed in on them. “He doesn’t want to turn, not yet,” Philip said quietly, “and I can’t force him.”

“
Owowoo…
” The young woman’s grief wailed out of her. Philip held her as she cried on his shoulder until an usher appeared from the wings, holding a box of tissues, and Philip carefully extracted himself from the girl’s arms, passing her across. The audience applauded uncertainly, some calling out sympathetic comments to the girl as she was helped away. Philip Syndal left the spotlight, walking with sharp steps to the back of the stage, where someone rushed out with a glass of water and a towel. He took them with angry movements, scrubbing at his neck with the towel while the video screen showed empty blue.

Worried murmurs threaded through the audience.

“Is he all right?”

“Well he can’t get them all, can he?”

“He must be feeling terrible.”

Isis was nudged, hard, by the woman in the next seat.

“A very clever deception, don’t you think?” Mandeville whispered through the woman’s mouth. “He’s very practised at this.”

Isis wanted to ignore him, but…

“How is that lying?” she hissed back. “He said he couldn’t reach her brother.”

The possessed woman made a gasping noise, which might have been laughter.

“He’s using the truth as a lie. He does that a lot. Of course, the girl’s dead brother isn’t here, I expect it was a random strike on the name he called out. But a young girl, with a suicide sibling… all that pent-up feeling, just effervescing inside her. Phil must have been quaking in his boots. Think how it would have looked if he’d got
those
details wrong! Not good for his performance, I think you’d agree. Whereas now…” The ghost flapped the woman’s hand, gesturing at the conversations continuing around them.

People were worrying about Philip, and whether the performance might end early. Isis couldn’t hear anyone doubting his ability.

“But he failed. Shouldn’t that prove he’s not a real clairvoyant?” she whispered.

The ghost/woman’s hand lifted awkwardly, slapping heavily onto Isis’s arm.

“It doesn’t prove anything of the sort.” The woman’s features pulled into a sharp frown. “Phil didn’t say he
couldn’t
contact the brother, only that the boy’s spirit
wouldn’t
speak to him.” Blue eyes sparkled icily. “Your mother could learn some tricks from him.”

Isis turned away, furious.

On stage, Philip Syndal had returned to the spotlight. His shoulders were drooping a little now, and he looked tired.

“I’d like to apologise for what just happened,” he said quietly. “Especially to Amy, who so bravely came up here. Sometimes journeys to the beyond are not…” he sighed, glancing briefly to the side of the stage “… straightforward. Sometimes those gone before us don’t want to be reached. They don’t want to come back to this world.” He lifted his head, pulling back his shoulders. “So I’m not sure it would be right to continue tonight. I feel it would be better to call an early end to this seance and, of course, I will refund anyone who feels unhappy about this. I will also be signing books afterwards in the foyer.”

“No!”

“Don’t”

The shouts came from all around. People were on their feet, calling up to him, begging him to continue. Philip smiled, but shook his head, taking off his microphone as if preparing to leave the stage. People stamped their feet, and a roar started to build in the theatre. Philip watched, not-quite astonished, and then raised his hands for quiet. The stamping and shouts sputtered out.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Your support really means so much to me. I couldn’t leave such a wonderful audience!” He attached the stage microphone back into his ear, as the audience erupted into cheers. Philip smiled into the applause, and when it had faded, he spoke again.

“This has been a difficult session, and so, to help me through the rest of the night, I’m going to call on the assistance of my spirit guide, who first helped me when I was only fifteen.”

The audience sighed, and there was some more clapping. Isis couldn’t see a spirit guide on the stage, of course. There were no spirits with Philip at all, it was just more of his performance.

The ghost/woman made a little noise, almost a whimper.
Isis turned, and saw Mandeville sitting stiffly inside the woman, her hands clamped on the armrests.

“Now you should pay attention,” he muttered through her mouth.

On stage, Philip Syndal brought his hands together. “All right, if anyone else has a loved one they’d like to contact?”

Arms shot up, and Philip peered out from the spotlight, deciding who to choose.

Isis sank back in her seat.

“He’s just another fraud!” she whispered.

“No, he isn’t,” said Mandeville quietly. “But he is a waste of his talent.” Isis looked at him, surprised, and Mandeville turned the woman’s head stiffly towards her. “He was never as good as you, my dear, but he had real psychic ability, once.”

She felt like he’d just turned everything upside down, she was struggling to follow things. “But… you just told me his show is done by tricks!” she said.

Mandeville nodded. “Now it is. But when he was your age, he was a bright fire.”

Isis stared back at Philip Syndal. Was he really psychic? If he was, why would he pretend not to be? Or was Mandeville playing tricks as well?

She turned to the ghost. “You said all real psychics go mad! He doesn’t seem mad at all.”

Mandeville smiled sadly with the woman’s mouth. “As I said, my dear, you should pay attention.”

Isis looked at Philip Syndal, but she couldn’t see anything. Then, at the back of the stage, she saw a flash in the deepest blue. Only for an eye-blink, the colour taking on the form of something huge, shapeless and billowing.

Were those wings beating?

She watched, carefully, and saw the blue shadow again. Moving from the stage, shifting every time she blinked, until it reached the top of the theatre curtains. It hung there, shimmering in and out of focus, barely visible.

Were they using a projector? Was this part of the show?

Isis craned her neck, staring up. The shadow faded and reappeared, like the flicker of leaves on a windy day. It started heading further upwards, and Isis followed it with her eyes, straining them, trying to focus on it.

Still there was no reaction in the theatre.

Deep violet, shadowy wings drooped from the ceiling, flaring out above the audience. Narrowing her eyes, Isis could see something gripping onto the gilded plasterwork.
Hands? Claws? There were definitely eyes, staring down at Philip Syndal.

He was at the far left of the stage, talking to an elderly woman called Mavis.

“Edith says George is fine, and he sends his love.” Philip smiled at the white-haired lady, squashed into her wheelchair. She was parked at the end of one of the rows, handbag on her lap.

“I’ll be seeing them soon, I shouldn’t wonder,” she said cheerfully.

Philip Syndal looked sideways at nothing, then chuckled.

“Edith says there’s no rush. Take your time and enjoy the grandchildren.”

The audience laughed. A few people called out, “Ah bless” and “Sweet”.

Philip thanked Mavis and walked back to centre stage, turning to the audience. He opened his hands.

“Now I think the time really has come to draw this seance to a close. Those departed friends who wished to speak have done so, and we are nearing the end of the night…” People groaned in the audience, and Philip shook his head, as if sorry to disappoint them. “There is just one last spirit I want to call on.” He paused. “Julian Chambers.”

There was a cry at the back of the theatre.

“Me! That’s me! Oh thank you! I’m here, I’ve been waiting! I need to speak to my Greta, I didn’t say the things I should have…”

Isis turned, astonished. The shouts were coming from one of the ghosts at the back of the theatre. A short, barely visible man, with straggly grey hair and wearing an old-fashioned corduroy jacket. He rushed forwards, heading to the stage, pushing through the oblivious crowd. People shuddered in their seats, shivering as he passed straight through them. An elderly lady was half-standing up, her hand raised.

“Here, Greta! I’m here!” the ghost shouted at her, waving his arms, almost jumping with delight. “Just wait another moment and I’ll be speaking to you again, after all these years!”

On stage, Philip Syndal was staring out into the theatre. He put his fingers to his forehead, slowly, and stayed in pose for a few moments. Then he dropped his hands, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. It seems this spirit isn’t with us tonight after all.”

“No! NO! I
am
here!” the ghost shrieked, wading
down the slope of the audience. The elderly woman sat back down again, clearly not sure if it had been a mistake, while the ghost looked torn between reaching out to her and continuing his rush to the front.

Next to Isis, Mandeville was observing the frantic spirit with a pitying yet scornful expression.

At the front of the theatre, Philip Syndal opened his hands. “So, I think we’ve come to the end of the show.”

“No! I’m HERE!” screamed the ghost, flinging himself towards the stage and Philip.

Isis saw a flutter of violet, high up on the ceiling. Shimmering wings pulled back, a grip loosened from the carved plaster. She heard a soundless sigh, like an inward rush of breath, and the something dropped in shifting blue. Straight down, straight for the audience below. A splash of colour landed on the stage. A swirl of violet poured upwards from the puddle, filled with eyes and open mouths, folding itself around Philip Syndal and the ghost right in front of him. The living man didn’t even notice, but the ghost’s pleading to speak with Greta was cut off with a cry.

There was another soundless sigh, like a breath being exhaled, and violet-blue barely visible wings flapped upwards. Philip Syndal was unharmed, unaffected, but the
ghost of Julian Chambers was carried away. His head and body were lost in the ooze, only his legs stuck out from the flickering nothing. They kicked weakly as the creature flew back into the air. When it reached the ceiling, it faded into the plaster and disappeared.

On stage, Philip Syndal smiled, then stepped out of the spotlight. It winked off, and in the same moment all the house lights came up.

Wild clapping poured around the theatre. People whistled and whooped, crying, “More! More!” Cally was on her feet, clapping madly. Everyone was cheering, except Isis. And the middle-aged woman next to her.

She was blinking into the light, rubbing her eyes and looking around.

“Has he started yet?” she asked.

Her eyes and her tired face were her own again. The ghost who’d been squatting inside her was gone.

I knew it was getting serious when Dad invited them on one of his chasing trips. I mean, he never did that before, not with any of his other girlfriends. I came into the kitchen and he was on his mobile, asking Cally.

I stopped dead in the doorway.

“Dad, you can’t!” I cried, but Dad just cut his hand in the air to shut me up, and when he put the phone down, he said, “That was really rude, Gray. Luckily Cally didn’t hear you.”

“You can’t bring them along!” I said.

Dad turned his frown up a notch.

“Why not? It’ll be fun. Anyway, Cally wants to see what I do, and I want to show her.”

“But it won’t be the same if
they
come.”

Dad opened a bag of bread that was on the worktop, and took out some slices.

“If you don’t like it, Gray, you can stay at home.” He went to the fridge and shoved things about until he found the butter and the cheese. “Or, I can rearrange it for one of the weekends you’re at your mum’s.”

“If that’s what you want!” I stamped into the living room, turning the telly on. It was some stupid bloke playing stupid golf, and I didn’t even turn over.

Dad followed me in a minute later, holding two plates. There was a cheese sandwich on each of them.

“Here’s your lunch.” He put my sandwich on the arm of the sofa. “Are you going to waste electricity watching that?”

I didn’t answer, just stared at the golf. Dad started eating his lunch.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he said, chewing. “Cally’s coming with me. You can join us, or not.”

Like I said, that’s how it is with Dad.

“Is Isis coming?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “Of course. You won’t be on your own or anything. She’ll be there to keep you company.”

Which just showed how much he knew.

Cally and Isis were late. We’d already set up the gear, and the camper was parked as out of sight as Dad could get it. Which wasn’t very, cos Dad’s calculations had got us to the middle of this big, flat, open field. There were a couple of straggly, half-dead trees, but mainly it was just wheat and the sky. Not even any hedges, just a barbed-wire fence running either side of the track we’d come along. We climbed through, so Dad could take readings out in the field, and it was like wading into a swishing, rustling sea.

We’d timed it to get there late, just before sunset, because the only thing to hide in was the dark, but Cally and Isis hadn’t turned up. Dad kept looking back down the bridleway, then checking his watch and peering at the low-down sun.

“If they don’t get here soon, they’ll struggle to find us.”

“Yeah, that’d be terrible,” I muttered, plonking our camp chairs on the grass next to the dusty track, and letting Dad’s fall over.

“Keep your attitude to yourself,” snapped Dad. That was when we heard wheels running on dirt, and I spotted their dirty orange car heading our way.

Dad ran to meet them, shouting directions about
where they should park. And when Cally had finished scraping her car up onto the grass, he didn’t even wait for her to get out. Just squashed his head in through the open driver’s window and started kissing her.

The passenger door whacked open and Isis shot out.

“Hi,” she said to me.

“Hi.”

We didn’t really speak apart from that. I mean, what was there to say?

Eventually Dad stopped snogging Cally, and helped get their stuff out. Not that they’d brought any proper gear. Isis had this thin, flowery sleeping bag, and Cally didn’t even have that, just a coat and a blanket.

“We don’t really do camping,” Cally said, smiling at Dad. “I thought we could all go in your camper van if it starts raining.”

“There are only two beds,” I said to her. “Dad took the others out so he could fit more boxes in. You’ll have to sleep on the floor or something.”

Dad glared at me over Cally’s shoulder.

“You and me can squeeze in together,” he said to her, and she giggled.

“Is it going to rain?” Isis asked me.

“I really hope not.”

Isis was holding two garden chairs, those cheap canvas fold-out ones you buy in garages. She clunked them along a bit further, then dropped them onto the grass.

“Are you going to light a fire?” she asked.

“You joking?” I said. “We might as well call the police ourselves, and ask them to come and arrest us.”

She looked at me blankly. Of course, she didn’t know about farmers or anything. How they hate people camping on their land. How they really hate UFO spotters like me and Dad. We’ve got chased off a few times – Land Rovers turning up at two in the morning, filled with shouting blokes and a gang of dogs running after.

Dad was showing Cally all the monitors, and the laptop and everything.

“I’m really confident about my predictions now. I’m getting much better results than the early days. I found a link to fractional fluctuations in the electromagnetic field, and developed an algorithm that can predict the levels in advance…” He yakked on, and Cally picked up one of the EM field monitors, turning it upside down to look at it.

“I think it’s wonderful, the work you’re doing,” she said. “Do you study patterns of ley lines too? I’m sure
everything’s connected with places where the earth’s energy is strong. The ancients knew that; Stonehenge isn’t that far away from here, is it?”

“About twenty-five miles, I think,” said Dad, taking the monitor off her, recalibrating it and putting it back in place. If I’d picked it up like that, he would’ve really shouted at me. “But you’re right, there are some very unique electromagnetic fluctuations in this part of the country. We hardly know anything about it really. Most scientists won’t touch this kind of work, because the government always cuts funding for any research that shows the truth about aliens.”

“It’s just the same with the spirit world,” said Cally. “All these so-called scientists, trying to discredit psychics. Phil says it’s because they’re frightened of what we know. Did you know he was investigated by one of the newspapers? They said he was conning people out of money, that he’s a charlatan. But actually, he never even charges for private readings. People just give him money, and he can’t help it if they want to give him thousands of pounds, can he?”

They carried on like that for ages, agreeing with each other, standing a bit too close together. When I couldn’t
take any more, I walked over to my camp chair and bundled my stuff into it. Then I picked the whole lot up and started heading off down the track.

“Hey, where are you going?” Dad called. I turned round, looking at him over the top of my gear.

“I’m going that way,” I said.

Dad glared, and put his arm around Cally. “Do what you want, Gray.”

“I
will,
” I said, and started walking again. Fast, kicking up the dust. I didn’t stop, even though I’d got this really awkward grip on the chair and one of the hinges was digging right into my hand.

Then I heard feet thumping after me, and I dropped the lot, ready to sort things out with Dad. But it wasn’t him, it was Isis. She was running after me with her garden chair and her rubbish sleeping bag, feet tripping on the pot-holey track.

“Can I come too?” she said.

I didn’t answer. She probably saw what I thought on my face.

“Don’t go too far, Isis!” Cally called out to her, waving. “Keep where we can see you.”

Me and Isis both looked back. Now Dad had his arms
around Cally’s waist, pulling her tight to him.

“I can’t stay with
them
, can I?” said Isis.

I sighed, then nodded. She had things worse than me, really. I could always get a break from them at Mum’s.

We walked along the track into the twilight, until we got far enough away. Then we put down our chairs and got settled in. The sun dropped behind the horizon, the wheat stilled, and the only sound was a plane roaring at the far end of the sky. There weren’t any swallows or sky larks, not even any bats darting. You never see anything flying over those big fields, because there’s no insects for them to eat. There’s this birdwatcher who writes in
Wildlife Monthly,
and he says those massive fields should be called green deserts, because there’s nothing living in them but wheat.

Anyway, me and Isis sat in our chairs, watching the world get darker and the stars get brighter. Me and Dad always used to talk through that time. Like, he’d ask me how things were going at school, or tell me about school when he was a kid. Talking about stuff was half the reason I went out with him, you know?

It wasn’t the same with Isis, and we sat in silence for ages, hours probably. I got in my sleeping bag, she got
in hers. I played some games on my DS, she watched the stars. I was actually nearly falling asleep when she said quietly:

“I’m sorry.”

I twisted round in my chair. She was looking at her hands.

“I’m sorry for laughing about your dad thinking it was aliens.” She fiddled her fingers together. “My mum’s weird too.”

“My dad’s not…” I stopped. Who was I kidding? “It’s all right.” I shrugged. “Mum laughs about it all the time.”

Isis looked up.

“Is your mum nice?” she asked.

I shrugged, then I smiled. “Yeah. She’s not bad.”

“Do you think she minds?” Isis nodded her head towards the camper van. Dad and Cally were lit greeny-white from all the monitor screens. They were both squeezed into one chair.

“About them two?” I nearly laughed. “I don’t think Mum even keeps track any more.”

Isis winced at that, turning away.

“But,” I said, “I think it’s different this time. With Cally. I think it’s serious.”

I wanted her to feel better, you know? Only Isis said, “Oh,” and I couldn’t tell if she thought it was good or bad. She moved in her chair, creaking it.

“Can your mum really see them?” I asked. “Ghosts, I mean.”

Isis creaked her chair again.

“I… don’t know. She says she can hear them.” She looked at me again, like she was studying me.

“Have you seen any UFOs?” she asked.

“Yeah, I have actually! It was amazing, and I filmed it. You can watch it on YouTube if you want.”

“Do you just tell people? Don’t they think you’re… mad or anything?”

I shrugged. “I filmed it, didn’t I? People can see for themselves.”

“Oh, yes. You have proof.” Isis went silent for a bit. “What if you didn’t, would you still tell?”

I shrugged again. “It depends who.”

“Would you tell me?”

I thought about her mum, and how Isis keeps herself to herself. How she’d said sorry for laughing at my dad.

“Maybe. Probably.”

Isis was quiet for a long time after that.

“
I
can see them,” she whispered, at last.

“You can see what?”

“Ghosts.” She looked down at her lap. “I see them all the time.”