Ghost of a Chance Page 6

  JC liked to remind himself, now and again, of what was really important.

  He looked back at his team. Melody was busy with her equipment, doing things only she understood. Happy was sulking quietly on his metal seat. So, when in doubt, keep them busy and keep them occupied, and they won’t have time to be scared. It always worked for JC. He clapped his hands sharply to get their attention. The sound hardly echoed at all.

  “Talk to me, Melody,” he said cheerfully. “Tell me things of importance and interest.”

  “Getting definite readings now, of a single great intrusion from the Past,” said Melody. “Deep Past. And I do mean really Deep Past.”

  JC looked at her thoughtfully. “The same kind of entity we encountered in the car park?”

  “I said Deep Time, and I meant it,” said Melody. “We are talking ancient, maybe even primordial. So powerful it’s like a gravity well, without the well, a spiritual maelstrom . . . only pushing out, not in. Something so powerful it distorts and transforms its whole environment merely by being here. But I’m also getting a whole bunch of more recent readings, from what are quite definitely contemporary phenomena. People and events imprinted on Time, hauntings only days or weeks old. Ghosts, JC. Lots and lots of ghosts.”

  “A new energy source, reinvigorating lesser patterns,” JC said thoughtfully. “But what kind of energy source?”

  “I hate to say it,” said Melody, turning to look directly at JC for the first time, “but I think we have to consider the possibility of an other-dimensional intrusion. That something from a higher dimension has descended into our world and made itself at home here.”

  “That’s it,” said Happy, surging to his feet. “We are now officially way out of our depth. I think I’ll bolt for the exit now. Try and keep up.”

  “Stand still, man,” said JC. “Melody, can you track this intrusion down, pinpoint its location?”

  “Let’s not,” Happy said immediately. “Really really bad idea, people.”

  “I can point you in the right direction,” said Melody. “Go and find it with my blessing, give it a good kicking, then drag it back here so I can poke it with a stick.”

  “Love to,” said JC.

  “I have fallen among mad people,” said Happy. “Am I the only sane person here? We are not trained, equipped, or armed enough to deal with Great Beasts or Outer Monstrosities, or any of the Abominations! We are ghost finders, not god killers! Being in the same place as . . . whatever this thing is, is playing hell with my head. I can feel it, out there, waiting for us. Waiting for us to come to it, so it can do terrible things to us! Please, JC, trust me; we are not ready for this.”

  “Happy, you heard the Boss,” said JC, not unkindly. “There’s no-one else. Or at least, no-one else who can get here in time. We can’t let this spread, Happy. We have to stop it here.”

  “How?” said Happy. All the anger had gone out of him, leaving only fatigue and bitterness. “What can we do?”

  “What we always do,” said JC. “Hit hard, move fast, improvise wildly, and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat at the very last moment through superior gamesmanship and blatant cheating.”

  “Oh, that’s what we do, is it?” said Melody. “I’ve often wondered.”

  Happy turned his back on both of them, staring determinedly off into the distance. He would have liked to indulge in a sulk, but upset as he was, he still knew that JC was right. He had to do something. Because he was there. Because there wasn’t anybody else. Story of his life, such as it was.

  “Ghosts,” he said loudly. “I can sense ghosts everywhere. All kinds, too. But most of them are irrelevant. Old stone tapes, stirred up by the arrival of the Intruder. No connection to what’s really going on. There is a purpose to all this. An intelligent purpose, with a definite end in mind.”

  “It’s always the same with you,” Melody said cuttingly. “Every case we work, you always have to bring up the big picture, look for some sinister hidden intent, so you can fit it into your Grand Conspiracy of Absolutely Everything.”

  “She does have a point,” said JC.

  “The dead are at war with the living,” said Happy, spinning round to glare at JC and Melody. “Or some of them, anyway. Abhuman creatures are constantly trying to get to us, to force their way into our world from their strange outer dimensions, to eat us, or rule us, or replace us. It isn’t only me that thinks this, you know. Most of the big thinkers at the Carnacki Institute are convinced that something is happening, behind the walls of reality, beyond the fields we know. That certain Powers and Forces are working constantly to weaken the barriers between our worlds and the afterworlds, for reasons of their own.”

  “Have you stopped taking your antipsychotic medication again?” said JC.

  “It’s not only the Institute that believes this!” Happy insisted. “The Crowley Project are just as concerned.”

  “Those bastards,” said Melody, giving a recalcitrant computer a good slap, so it knew she was serious. “I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

  “The Project are undoubtedly a bunch of complete and utter evil bastards, with an unhealthy interest in world domination,” said JC. “But it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re any more clued in as to what’s really Going On than anyone else.” He stopped and considered the matter for a moment. “Do you suppose the Project know about Oxford Circus yet?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Happy. “They hear about everything, eventually. Word is, they have more field agents out in the world than we do.” It was his turn to look thoughtful as he considered possibilities. “Do you suppose . . . Could they be responsible for what’s happened here? Could this be some experiment of theirs, gone horribly wrong? And they’ve got the hell out of Dodge and left us to clean up their mess? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Maybe,” said JC. “And maybe not. Who knows anything, where the Crowley Project are concerned? Still, I have to wonder if we can expect interference on this mission from some of their field agents.”

  “Oh, this gets better all the time,” said Happy. “I can feel one of my funny turns coming on.”

  “The Boss would have warned us if there was any danger of confrontation,” said Melody. She stopped and looked up from her precious instruments, a new concern in her face. “Wouldn’t she?”

  “You know the Boss,” said JC. “She only ever tells us what she thinks we need to know. So we can concentrate our minds on the matter at hand. But . . . I’m pretty sure she would have told us if there’d been any indication the Crowley Project were involved in the creation of this particular mess. Because it could have a bearing on what we might have to do, to shut it down. So, no . . . I think we can rule out bumping into any Project agents down here, on the grounds that no-one with any working brain-cells would come down here, into the middle of all this, unless they absolutely had to.”

  “Good point,” said Happy. “Suddenly, I feel so much more secure. I may even do my happy dance.”

  “Please don’t,” said Melody. “Some things are an affront to nature.”

  “So, children, let us bend our talents to the matter at hand,” said JC. “All hauntings, no matter how extreme they may become, are the result of a single triggering event. Something specific happens to set everything else in motion. Identify, remove, or defuse that unfortunate beginning, disrupt the pattern, and the haunting will collapse. I don’t see why this mess should be any different, for all its apparent scale. So let’s find the starting point and shut it down; and then we can all go home.”

  “You make it sound so simple, and so easy,” said Happy. “And you know perfectly well it never is.”

  “Right,” said Melody. “Save the pep talk for new-comers. We know better.”

  “Remember when we trapped the Hammersmith Soul Thief in a mirror, last year, then smashed it?” JC said patiently. “That worked out fine, didn’t it? We never heard from him again.”

  “Well, yes,” said Happy. “But it still took me ages b
efore I could look into my mirror without expecting to see him standing behind me, peering over my shoulder, and smiling.”

  “But it worked,” JC said firmly. “Just like my brilliant gambit at the supermarket, this morning. We can do this, people.”

  Happy wouldn’t look at him. “I wish it was that simple, JC. I really do. But there’s something down here with us, and I don’t think we’ve ever met anything like it before. There are . . . Things, Powers, at work in the afterworlds. Some Good, some Bad, some so far beyond us we can’t even hope to understand their motivations and purposes. Sometimes they help us, sometimes they interfere, and sometimes they send us down to Hell with a nudge and a laugh. It isn’t the ghosts we have to fear; it’s the things that make ghosts.”

  “Happy, you really are a first-class gloomy bugger,” JC said affectionately. “You could gloom for the Olympics, and still take a Bronze in existential paranoia.”

  “Everyone has to be good at something,” said Happy, smiling a little in spite of himself. “But don’t change the subject . . .”

  “Happy, you can believe in whatever you want,” said JC, cutting him off with an upraised hand. “As long as it doesn’t get in the way of doing the job. We are not here to take part in some mystic war between Absolute Powers from the Outer Realms. We are here to solve a haunting and put everyone and everything to rest again. That’s what we do.”

  “I swear, you two argue like an old married couple,” said Melody. “And it’s interfering with some of my more sensitive instruments. Go take a walk around, check out the other platforms, look for clues or something, and leave me in peace to get on with my work. Stick your phones in your ears, and I’ll give you a yell when I have something definite to tell you.”

  JC looked at her carefully. “Are you sure, Melody?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Off you go. I can cope.”

  JC nodded. “We won’t be long.” He grinned at Happy. “Exploring time! We need to take a look at the other platforms, see if they all feel the same as this. You check out the rest of the southbound lines, and I’ll take the northbound. Keep in touch, and report back here in an hour, whether you’ve found anything or not.”

  Happy’s eyes got really big. “Are you kidding? Are you out of your mind? You want me to go wandering around this place on my own?”

  “Yes,” said JC. “What’s the matter? You want someone to hold your hand?”

  “Yes!” said Happy. “Preferably someone I know.”

  “Go,” JC said sternly. “Be a big brave ghost finder, and there’ll be honey for tea.”

  He waved one elegant hand around and strolled away, humming a merry tune. Happy made a really vile gesture at JC’s immaculate back, produced a bottle of pills from nowhere, and defiantly dry swallowed three of mother’s little helpers, one after the other. He looked at Melody, but she was making a point of giving all her attention to the equipment ranged before her. Happy sighed, and his shoulders slumped. He shuffled towards the exit arch, like a small boy on his way to school, knowing that the school bully was waiting.

  They thought he was scared all the time because he was a coward. The truth was, only he could see the world clearly enough to know how truly scary it was. He saw things and heard things, and every single one of them was real. Horribly real. If Humanity knew what they shared the world with, what walked their streets by day and snuggled up beside them at night; if they could see it all, just for a moment . . . they’d all go stark staring mad. Happy had learned long ago not to talk about it. People didn’t want to know. But he had no choice. If the Boss knew what he faced every day, she’d give him a medal. Or, if she was really feeling kind, a lobotomy. And maybe then he’d get some peace at last.

  Ghosts are the only ones who never have to feel scared. Because the worst thing in the world has already happened to them.

  It didn’t take JC long to decide that the whole of the Oxford Circus Tube Station was infected. Everywhere he looked, something looked disturbed, subtly alien. It was hard to judge distances in the unrelentingly fierce light. He walked down one platform for ages, without reaching its end. Eventually he had no choice but to turn around and go back; and there was the exit he’d come in by, waiting for him. Directions become treacherous and signs untrustworthy. The same archway took him to a dozen different places, including one painfully over-bright corridor that twisted and turned like a maze. The angles between floor and wall seemed subtly wrong, and his head ached trying to figure out why. And what shadows there were were very dark.

  He particularly didn’t like one tunnel-mouth, at the end of a certain platform. Its interior was too dark, too deep, as though it might go on forever. There was no sound, and not a trace of movement, but still he kept expecting something to come crashing out of the tunnel-mouth at any moment and sweep him helplessly away to somewhere unbearably awful. He made himself stare into the darkness until his breathing steadied and his hands stopped shaking, then he very deliberately turned his back on the tunnel-mouth and walked away, head held high.

  Everywhere he went, the tunnels and platforms were full of odd sounds and weird smells, and things glimpsed out of the corner of his eye that were never there when he turned to look at them directly. He kept thinking he caught glimpses of people, turning the corner ahead of him, or peering briefly out of open archways, but they were never there when he arrived. And though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, there was something subtly wrong about these people that disturbed him strangely on some deep unconscious level.

  As though there was something obscurely loathsome about them that he ought to know, ought to recognise. While he still had time.

  JC strode up and down the white-tiled corridors, investigated every platform, and made a point of peering into every single tunnel-mouth. The adrenaline was really buzzing now, and he was grinning widely. He was walking alone, into the face of danger and the heart of the unknown, and he couldn’t have been happier. On every case, he couldn’t wait for the overture to begin, for a chance to come face-to-face with something he’d never seen before. It was the only reason he stayed with the Institute. He couldn’t wait for the supernatural to start its act, reveal its hidden hand, for good or bad, so he could roll up his sleeves and get stuck in. Because once he was actually doing something, he’d be too busy to feel scared.

  For all his studiedly calm exterior, JC knew enough about his job to be sensibly cautious. But he also knew, or thought he knew, enough about the situations he faced every day . . . to be pretty sure of what needed doing to put things right. He knew things, had taught himself things, that the rest of his team never knew about, and that the Boss would almost certainly not approve of. JC believed in being prepared, and very heavily armed, at all times; and some of the things he carried in the inner pockets of his marvellous cream suit were officially banned by the Geneva Convention. (Supernatural and Weird Happenings Section.)

  He stopped abruptly, half-way down a platform, and looked around. He was almost certain he’d been there before; but everywhere he looked, things seemed subtly different. As though certain details were changing, in slow and sneaky ways, right before his eyes. Someone was playing tricks on him. He walked slowly forward, and the posters on the wall beside him stirred lazily, the details seeming to blur and shimmer, rearranging themselves before his eyes. An ad for the new James Bond movie was suddenly an old propaganda poster from World War II, when whole families huddled together deep in the Underground, sheltering from the bombs of the Blitz. A simple cartoon, backed up by a government admonition to keep your mouth shut in case of spies: Be Like Dad; Keep Mum. The cartoon father-figure turned its simple head and winked an eye at JC. Blood ran from its mouth.

  JC reached out to touch the poster, then pulled his hand back again. He had a sudden horrible intuition that it might plunge on into the poster, as though into a deep pool. He made himself walk on, as outwardly casual and unconcerned as ever. The next poster shouted the wares for some new overblown sci-fi epic. As JC watched,
the improbable starships, with their blazing energy beams stabbing across the starry night, faded slowly away, revealing instead a stark and brutal poster entitled: What You Should Do in the Case of Sonic Attack. It made scary reading. At the top was a date: 35 October, 2118.

  JC kept walking, increasing his pace slightly, glancing at the posters he passed. Scenes seemed to slip and slide, slyly re-creating themselves. Disturbing images clung to the wall, becoming strange windows into unsettling alien worlds and strange dimensions, all of them accompanied by unfamiliar text—the kind of writing you see in dreams, rich and meaningful, packed with a terrible significance and urgent warnings you can’t quite seem to grasp. JC walked faster and faster, wanting to see as much as possible while he could. He was fascinated. What would have unnerved and disturbed lesser men was meat and drink to him.

  And yet, at the same time, a small but very real voice insisted on being heard, informing him that the only reason he was so immersed in his work . . . was because he had nothing else in his life he cared about. He never allowed himself to think that out loud. Not even when he lay awake in his single bed, in the early hours of the morning when the dawn seems furthest away . . . when a man’s thoughts turn almost against his will to what he’s made of his life as opposed to what he meant to make of it. When he looks back at his past, and sees nothing to value, or into his future . . . and sees nothing but more of the same. JC had always been a loner, even before the Carnacki Institute found him; and if his work was all he had, it was more than most people had.

  He could never have a love in his life, only lovers. Ships that passed in the night and never called afterwards. Because JC could never even hint at what he really did for a living without scaring the other party away. So most of the women who passed through JC’s life said little, kept themselves to themselves, and left no trace behind. There hadn’t been anyone for months . . . but JC couldn’t seem to bring himself to care, much. You can still be lonely even when there’s someone else in the room if she’s not the right kind of someone.