Voices From Beyond (A Ghost Finders Novel) Page 7

  JC looked at her steadily. “How long has this spying business been going on, Kim? How long have you been working exclusively for the Boss?”

  “A while,” said Kim, looking back at him as steadily. “Ever since she promised me she could find me a body. A proper physical form, so I could be human and alive, again. So you and I could be together, properly.”

  “She can do that?”

  “She says she knows someone who can.”

  “So you’re saying; you did this for me?”

  “For us!”

  JC smiled, tiredly. “Typical Boss. Using our own needs to control us . . .”

  “Of course,” said Kim. “That’s why she’s the Boss.”

  “But when did all this start?” said JC. “Exactly?”

  “When she summoned me to her office,” said Kim. “Against my will. She called me, and I had to go even though I fought her all the way. She had this old and very powerful device . . . There was nothing I could do.”

  “The rotten cow,” said JC; and his voice was very cold.

  “Hush, hush, sweetie,” Kim said quickly. “It’s all right; really it is! It doesn’t matter! Not if she can deliver on her promise, so we can be a man and a woman, together. You don’t know how hard it is for me, not to be able to hold you, touch you . . .”

  “I know,” said JC. “I feel the same way. You know I do. How . . . dangerous, is this? What she has you doing for her?”

  “Dangerous?” said Kim. “I’m dead, darling!”

  “I could still lose you,” said JC. “If something were to happen; if someone broke your contact with the world, and me.”

  “I could still lose you,” said Kim. “If one of your Ghost Finder cases went really wrong.”

  “I don’t think I could live without you,” said JC.

  “I couldn’t die without you,” said Kim. “JC . . . You mustn’t ask me questions I’m not allowed to answer. For both our sakes. We both have to do what we have to do.”

  JC looked suddenly about him, concerned that people were looking at him oddly. “Can any of these people see you, Kim?”

  “Of course not, sweetie,” said Kim. “I’d know. Unless I decide otherwise, only you can see me, JC. Only you.”

  “So,” said JC. “All of these people around us, right now . . .”

  “Think you’re taking to yourself; yes!” Kim said brightly.

  “Wonderful,” said JC.

  THREE

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  DEAD AIR

  Some places you know are going to be bad for you. Bad for everybody. Because there’s something in the air . . .

  JC mooched aimlessly around the car park, outside the sprawling old country house that was currently home to Radio Free Albion. Local radio, serving (parts of) South-West England. The setting was calm and peaceful, pleasantly bucolic. Wild woods surrounded the house and car park, providing a natural buffer between the house and the civilised world, very definitely including the main road beyond the woods that only existed to connect two far more important destinations. It was a warm and sunny afternoon. Perhaps a bit humid. Not a cloud to be seen anywhere in the perfect blue sky and not even a hint of a passing breeze. Although it did seem to JC that the scene was almost unnaturally quiet. Not a bird singing anywhere, in all the dark and shadowy woods. Not an insect buzzing, on the heavy summer air. Only the most muffled sounds of traffic passing by on the distant main road. The world seemed to be holding its breath, as though waiting for something important to happen.

  JC had been standing in Radio Free Albion’s car park for more than half an hour now, increasingly impatiently, ever since the taxi dropped him off from the railway station. But as yet, no-one had come out to ask who he was or what he was doing there. He could have walked up to the front door. Could have knocked loudly, or rung the bell, or marched right in and announced himself. He could have thrown handfuls of gravel at the downstairs windows, or given the handful of parked cars a good kicking, to see if any of them came equipped with a car alarm. But for some reason he couldn’t quite put a finger on, JC felt strangely reluctant to do any of these things. He preferred to wait until the rest of his team arrived. If only because there was safety in numbers; or at least, someone to hide behind.

  Interestingly enough, he’d had a lot of trouble at the railway station, finding a taxi driver willing to drive him to Murdock House. He couldn’t get anyone to say why; they pretended they already had a fare, or that they weren’t going in that direction. Some even locked themselves in their taxis and pretended they couldn’t hear him. Still, when in doubt, there’s always bribery and corruption. JC loudly proclaimed he was ready and willing to pay double the going rate; and one driver got out of his taxi and considered JC for a long moment, scowling deeply.

  “Triple fare,” he said finally. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it,” said JC. “May I ask why?”

  “Danger money,” said the driver.

  And that was the last thing he had to say, all the way to Murdock House. JC sat thoughtfully in the back, enjoying the marvellous scenery and wondering how he was going to justify the fare for this trip on his expenses. When they finally reached their destination, the taxi slammed to a halt, right at the entrance to the car park. And the driver sat there, stubbornly silent, while JC got out. He announced the fare, in an entirely unrepentant tone, and JC paid the man the exact amount. The driver looked directly at JC, for the first time.

  “No tip?”

  “You’ve got a nerve,” said JC.

  “Not enough to hang around here,” said the driver. “You want someone to take you back to the station, call another company.”

  He revved his engine hard, swung the taxi round in a sharp arc, and departed the car park at speed, in a spray of gravel.

  That had been the last sign of life in that car park, for some time. JC thrust both hands deep into his trouser pockets, glared at the old house, and sighed loudly. In a much put-upon way. Still no sign of the rest of his team. Melody had phoned him half an hour ago to say they were almost there . . . then nothing. JC could have called her; but he had his pride. He was, after all, team leader. Reluctantly, he gave the house his full attention again. If only because a large part of him didn’t want to.

  Most of Murdock House was crumbling old stone, pockmarked with the accumulated damage of time, weather, and many years of basic neglect. A series of protruding bay windows punctuated the length of the ground floor, with glass that needed cleaning, paintwork that needed redoing, and heavy curtains whose dull, ugly colours were an affront to civilisation. The windows on the upper floor were hidden behind closed wooden shutters—all cracks and gaps and peeling paint. The sloping, grey-tiled roof looked like a bunch of determined thieves had been at it, assuming there was a market for broken old tiles. JC was pretty sure he wouldn’t like to be anywhere on the top floor when it rained. But then, he didn’t think he’d feel particularly comfortable anywhere inside Murdock House. It should have had a cosy, comfortable air, the feel of a place much lived in and cared for. But it didn’t.

  There was definitely something . . . about the house. The blank bay windows of the ground floor seemed to regard JC with dark, accusing eyes. Warning him off; defying him to come inside and hunt for answers the house had no intention of providing. JC suddenly felt very cold and shivered, violently, as though someone had danced on his grave. He pushed his very dark sunglasses down to the end of his nose and looked over them at the house. And saw, for a moment, the house disappear; behind a blast of blazing light. So fierce and spiteful and overwhelming, he cried out in shock despite himself. He had to close his eyes, in self-defence. When he opened them and looked again, it was only a house. Nothing strange or unusual about it at all. He concentrated, with his glowing, altered eyes, trying to see through the facade Murdock House presented to the world. But the house remained stubbornly ordinary. JC pushed his sunglasses back into place with one finger. The day was warm; bu
t he still felt cold. Bone-deep, soul-deep, cold.

  No-one in the house seemed to have heard him cry out. No-one came out to investigate. He was alone in the car park, face-to-face with a mystery he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

  He deliberately turned his back on Murdock House and wandered over to the handful of parked cars, four of them, huddled together in one small corner of the car park. None of them new. Nothing especially distinctive about them, apart from the oldest. A powder blue Hillman Super Minx convertible, from the late sixties. Well preserved, apart from several dints and dings in the bodywork. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned, let alone waxed and polished, since the late sixties. The rear bumper sticker proclaimed: WARNING! I BRAKE FOR UFOS!

  JC glowered at the house again and wondered what the hell he was doing there. Catherine Latimer had phoned him that morning, and told him to go pay a visit to Radio Free Albion and sort it out. As a matter of urgency. No details; only directions. And then she put the phone down before he could ask any questions. After their recent encounter in Hyde Park, JC didn’t feel like pushing his luck. Now that he was here, though, he did wonder what it was he was supposed to be sorting out. Was this a haunting? Poltergeist activity? Nasty things crawling out of the woodwork? Apart from the somewhat disturbing ambience, it seemed a normal enough setting.

  The front door to Murdock House slammed open, and JC looked sharply round in time to see himself stagger out of the open door and into the car park. His other self’s white suit was tattered and torn, ripped apart and soaked in fresh blood. So fresh, it was still dripping. JC stood where he was, frozen in place, transfixed by the sight. Staring at himself, and the blood, and the awful wounds and injuries that produced it. The other man stumbled forward, out into the open. His sunglasses were missing; and his eyes were gone. Instead, there were two empty eye-sockets, with thick crimson trails running down his cheeks.

  The man who looked like JC stopped and almost fell. JC ran forward, sprinting across the gravel. His heart was pounding fast, his breathing ragged and harsh. He got there in time to catch the other man as the last of his strength ran out, and he collapsed. JC held on to him tightly, holding him up, supporting him. The weight of the body was very real in his arms. This was no ghost, no vision, and not any kind of hallucination.

  JC lowered his other self carefully to the ground, the gravel crunching loudly under their combined weight. He sat down hard, holding his other self cradled in his arms. He knew a dying man when he saw one. The other JC raised his ruined face. His mouth worked, and blood spilled out of it. He swallowed, with difficulty, and forced words out past his tortured breathing.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” he said hoarsely. “It’s me. Me, from the past. I remember this; from when I first arrived here.”

  “Are you saying . . . you’re me, from the future?” said JC. “What the hell happened here? What’s happened to you?”

  “It all went wrong,” said the future JC. “There was nothing I could do . . .”

  “What happened to your eyes?” said JC.

  “They took them back.”

  His voice faded away. JC held on to him tightly. “Tell me! What happened . . . What’s going to happen?”

  “You should have listened . . . You should have paid attention, to the warnings.” He coughed hard, spraying blood on the air. He grabbed a handful of JC’s jacket, pulled him close. “It’s all going to Hell.”

  “What is?” said JC.

  “Everything. We’re all going to die. The world’s going to die. And it’s all our fault . . .”

  “There must be something I can do!” JC said desperately.

  His future self’s blind head rolled back. “Kim . . . ?”

  The last of his breath went out of him, and he died. Right there, in his past self’s arms. JC sat there, on the ground, holding the body tightly. He didn’t cry. He didn’t feel right about crying for himself. He was still trying desperately to think of something, anything, he could do, when the dead man vanished. JC was left sitting alone, on the ground, cradling empty air. He looked slowly around him, but the car park was still empty, still quiet. As though nothing had happened. JC would have liked to deny it all; but the bloody handprint remained on the front of his white jacket, from where his future self’s dying hand had grabbed it. He touched the blood, carefully. It was still wet. JC scrambled to his feet, breathing harshly. Cold beads of sweat stood out on his face, his head swimming as his thoughts raced madly in all directions.

  There is no single, fixed future. Events to come are not carved in stone. There are multiple timelines, with all kinds of potential futures. Which one we end up in depends on the choices we make. Everyone knows that. What I saw . . . was only a possibility. Not fixed, or certain; not inevitable . . .

  But standing there, with his future self’s blood still wet on his fingertips, JC wasn’t sure he believed that.

  He heard a car engine approaching, and the sound of squealing tyres. He turned around quickly, to see a very familiar Land Rover finally arrive at Murdock House. It roared into the car park and slammed to a halt a few yards short of JC. It rocked back and forth for a moment, settling itself, then the engine shut down. There was a long, ominous pause, then both front doors flew open. Melody and Happy got out, deliberately not looking at each other. They both advanced on JC, each clearly determined to get their version in first. JC thought quietly to himself, When did I agree to become the referee in their relationship? But he had to admit; he found their familiar problems something of a relief, even comforting, after what he’d just been through.

  He surreptitiously wiped blood off his fingertips, against his hips; and if he looked a little more closely at Happy and Melody, to be sure they were exactly who they seemed to be, they were both too preoccupied with their own problems to notice.

  “Let’s drive down together!” Happy said viciously. “It’ll be fun! Never again . . .” He appealed to JC. “Sorry we’re late, boss; but it wasn’t my fault, honest! She didn’t trust the sat nav. I swear, we already drove past this entrance road twice!”

  “I can’t believe an actual adult could say, Are we there yet? so many times!”

  “You drove over a speed camera!” said Happy.

  “You set fire to the map!” said Melody.

  “It was an accident!”

  “Why? What were you intending to set fire to?”

  “Children, children,” JC said soothingly. “Please calm the fuck down, right now, or I swear to the spiritual provider of your choice that I will inject you both with an industrial-strength dose of Ritalin!”

  Happy smiled, briefly. “I already tried that. I think I’ve developed an immunity.”

  “I wish I thought you were joking,” said Melody.

  JC nodded solemnly to her. “At least this time you can be sure you’ve got all your equipment with you. Isn’t that nice? Doesn’t that make you feel so much better? Why don’t you go and unload it all and check that everything’s still working properly? You know you always enjoy that.”

  Melody was looking at the front of his jacket. “Is that blood, JC? Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said JC.

  “You’re not hurt,” said Happy, frowning. “But . . .”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

  Happy and Melody looked at each other.

  “Ah . . .” said Happy. “It’s going to be one of those cases, is it?”

  “I’ll go sort out my tech,” said Melody. “And my gun.”

  She marched away, to open up the back of the Land Rover and have a good rummage around. Happy stood uncertainly before JC, trying to decide what to say.

  “Don’t,” said JC. “Just . . . don’t.”

  “I’ve been there,” said Happy.

  “I will talk about it, later. But not now.”

  “All right.”

  “I am now going to change the subject,” said JC.

  “Go for it,” said Happy.
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  “There’s a reason why I don’t travel to cases with the two of you any more,” said JC. “It’s so I’m not trapped in a confined space with you and Melody waiting for my ears to start bleeding.”

  Happy couldn’t even be bothered to shrug. He looked at Murdock House and sniffed loudly. “What a dump. I’ve crapped more-impressive-looking things than that.”

  “Far too much information, Happy,” murmured JC. “Do you get any . . . feelings, from the house?”

  Happy looked the place over carefully, taking his time. “No,” he said finally. “Not a thing. Why? Am I supposed to be picking up something?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said JC.

  “All right. Can I ask instead, why are we here, JC?”

  “Didn’t you read the case file?” JC said innocently.

  “What bloody case file? There is no case file! Just a phone call from the Boss, at far too early an hour of the morning, instructing Mel and me to get our arses down to Murdock House and Radio Free Bloody Albion, and do something about it!”

  “Same here,” said JC.

  “You really don’t know why we’re here?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  Happy grinned. “So, essentially, we’ve gone ghost finding by accident . . . That’s kind of cool, in a weird and creeping-me-out sort of way.”

  “I think the Boss wanted us out of London for a while,” said JC. “And chose the first case that came to hand.”

  “Ah,” Happy said wisely. “Something’s come up at the Carnacki Institute HQ, hasn’t it? Something to do with the Flesh Undying and the main traitor?”

  “You are addressing your questions to entirely the wrong person,” said JC. “No-one tells me anything.”

  “Where’s Kim?” said Happy. “Didn’t she come down with you?”

  “She’s making her own way here,” JC said carefully. “She had a few things she needed to do, first.”

  “There are far too many secrets in this team,” said Happy.

  “Or not enough,” said JC.

  Melody came back to join them, followed by a huge, piled-up assortment of her technological toys, balanced precariously on a squat, motorised trolley that puttered noisily along behind her. Under its own power, and apparently without any need for instructions. It stuck close behind Melody, following her every movement like a faithful dog. Melody stopped before JC and Happy, and the trolley stopped with her. JC looked at the trolley and shook his head resignedly.