Ghost of a Chance Read online

  “Even by your standards, that is a seriously ugly object. Are you sure this . . . thing, will do what it’s supposed to?”

  “Of course,” said Erik, bristling at the implied slight on his abilities. “The computer augments the cat’s natural psychic abilities, and together they can See and Hear whatever is going on for miles in every direction. They can even peek a short way into the Past and the Future. Theoretically. Ignore the spitting and the hissing and the occasional squalling; the cat’s head will do what I want, when I want it to. I plugged a wire directly into its little catty pleasure/pain centre, and a few volts can give it unbearable pain or incredible pleasure. I am its god. Though I still can’t get it to purr for me.” He leered at Natasha. “Think of it: absolute pleasure, at the touch of a button. I could perform a similar operation on you if you wanted. If you asked me nicely.”

  “And leave the button in your hands?” said Natasha. “I think not. Ask your cat what’s happening down in the tunnels.”

  Erik reached for the control panel, then had to snatch his hand back again as the cat head tried to bite it. He giggled happily, tried again, and made a few small adjustments. The blazing mechanisms jumped and danced, pieces of solid light interacting on many levels, moving irrevocably towards one terrible configuration. The cat head howled, a long, rising sound that continued long after lungs would have given out. And then the cat’s jaws snapped together, its whiskers twitched, and its eyes locked on to something only they could see. The cat head spoke, but there was nothing human in its harsh yowling voice.

  “Something new has come to Oxford Circus,” it said. “Or something very old. Something from the afterworlds has manifested in the tunnels, deep down in the dark. And it’s not alone, down there. Its mere presence is enough to stir up ghosts and demons and monsters. The darkness is alive. And it’s hungry.”

  Erik looked at Natasha. “See? I told you!”

  “Shut up. We already knew there was a powerful force loose in the station.”

  “Still, something from the afterworlds, made flesh and therefore vulnerable . . .” Erik rubbed his hands gleefully. “Now that’s a prize worth having.”

  “It’s cold, and it burns,” said the cat head. “It’s wild and fierce and free, and it will kill you.”

  “You wish,” said Erik absently, and turned off the cube. The cat’s head fell silent, but its unblinking eyes still burned with hate.

  “I’m hungry,” said Natasha.

  “Eat your chicken legs,” said Erik.

  “Hungry for ghosts,” said Natasha. “There’s nothing quite like them, nothing so . . . satisfying. I might even leave a few for you, this time.”

  “You know I don’t indulge,” Erik said primly. “Nasty habit, and dangerous to your mental health. If you ever had any.”

  “Prude,” said Natasha. “Scaredy-cat.”

  Erik sniffed loudly but wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I value the integrity of my mind far too much to risk contaminating it with inferior thoughts and memories.” He gave in to curiosity and looked almost defiantly at Natasha. “I simply do not see what you people get out of it. Don’t you ever get . . . confused, with other people’s memories and identities suddenly crashing about inside your head?”

  “Darling,” said Natasha, “that’s the good part. That’s the rush. That’s what makes them so very tasty.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “I know you are, but what am I?”

  And then they broke off and looked around sharply, as every ticket machine in the lobby suddenly spat up all the coins it had taken. Pound coins and assorted change jumped and clattered across the floor as they were ejected with force, bouncing and rolling everywhere, shining and shimmering in the over-bright light. Some of them rolled right up to Erik’s feet, and he reached down to grab a handful; but Natasha stopped him with a harsh command. One by one the machines ran out of money and fell silent. Coins lay scattered all over the floor. Natasha watched the ticket machines carefully for a while, to see if they’d do anything else, but they remained still and silent. She turned her back on them and the money with studied insolence and returned to the top of the escalator. Erik carefully packed his cat-head computer back into its pack, then casually scooped up a handy two-pound coin. Only to yell and throw it away again.

  “Hot!” he said. “Hot hot hot!”

  “Did it burn you?” said Natasha, not looking around.

  “Yes!”

  “Good.”

  Erik scowled. “Damned thing was hot enough to have been coughed up from Hell itself. What was that for?”

  “Someone is playing games with us,” said Natasha.

  “Could it be JC and his people?” said Erik, immediately forgetting the pain in his fingertips. “Could they know we’re here?”

  “No,” said Natasha. “I’d know . . . if they knew. I think this is something else . . .”

  She left the elevators, made her way back through the open ticket barriers, and strolled unhurriedly around the entrance lobby, frowning as she forced her telepathy into every psychic nook and cranny. Her gaze shot suddenly to one side, and she advanced remorselessly on one corner. And then she stopped as Erik hissed her name, and a ragged man appeared suddenly in the lobby with them. He shuffled slowly around, ignoring the coins on the floor as though they weren’t there, and perhaps for him they weren’t. He looked like one of the homeless, tall but stooped, a ragged man in ragged clothes, wrapped up in a long coat stained with damp and mould. He had long, matted hair and a filthy beard, and his eyes were dull, preoccupied with cold and hunger and memories that wouldn’t go away. He slowly made a full circle of the lobby, shuffling right past Natasha and Erik without even seeing them. Until, slowly, he seemed to become aware that he was not alone. His head came up, and his dull eyes fixed on Natasha. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see her, or even to care that much. He held out one filthy hand, mutely asking for money.

  “He’s not real,” said Erik. “He’s a ghost.”

  “Thank you, I had worked that out for myself,” said Natasha.

  “Is he aware?” said Erik, professionally interested. “Or is this only a stone tape, a psychic recording?”

  “Oh no,” said Natasha. “There’s still some of him here. I can pick up some of his thoughts, rattling around inside his head. He had a name once, and a family and a job; but he lost them all. He ended up on the streets, begging for small change, but he was never very good at it. He died here, in that corner, locked in overnight and overlooked by everyone. Would you like to know his name?”

  “No,” said Erik. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. This is a simple haunting, stirred up by our presence, or perhaps the workings of my little computer. He isn’t what we’re here for.”

  “Hush,” said Natasha. “I told you I was hungry.”

  She advanced slowly on the homeless ghost, which stood there, staring at her dully like an animal that had been beaten into submission. It wasn’t until she was right before him that he seemed to become aware of the danger he was in. He looked at Natasha with growing horror but couldn’t seem to move. Natasha licked her lips.

  “You don’t even know you’re dead, do you? How . . . delicious.”

  She locked his gaze with hers, reaching out with her mind, forcing him to see her clearly through sheer force of will. The ghost’s face twisted with horror, and he began to howl, a wordless scream of helpless dread. The cry of someone who knows no-one will come to save him. The ghost could see Natasha for what she was; and it terrified him. He drifted slowly backwards, not even moving his feet, and Natasha went after him. She stalked him all around the lobby, for the fun of it.

  Until, finally, she lunged forward and locked her mouth on his, blocking off his howl. Living lips clamped down on a dead mouth, and he hung helpless before her as she sucked him dry, eating up every last trace of energy and consciousness that remained to him, and savouring it all. Bit by bit he faded away, becoming increasingly insubstantial as th
ere was less and less of him, until not even a trace of the ghost remained. Natasha straightened up, licked her lips slowly, and laughed almost drunkenly. She looked sideways at Erik, backed up against the far wall, and sniggered at him.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, little man. You must learn to develop a taste for the good things in life. Ooh . . . I’m Daddy’s bad little girl . . . Such a little terror. Are you excited, Erik? Did that turn you on? It did, didn’t it? You’d love me to do that to you, wouldn’t you, Erik? And maybe one day, I will. But I guarantee you won’t like it one little bit.”

  FIVE

  THE HORROR SHOW

  “If we’re not alone down here,” said JC, “it’s got to be field agents from the Crowley Project. Has to be. There aren’t many people brave enough or crazy enough to go chasing after ghosts in the dark heart of a Code One Haunting unless they expected to get something out of it. Project agents would brave the fires of Hell itself to snatch away a single burning coal if they thought there was money or power or one-upmanship in it.”

  Typically, Melody didn’t want to believe it.

  “It could be commuters, travellers, left over from this morning,” she said. “Couldn’t it? Trapped down here and overlooked when the station was sealed off by our security people?”

  “No,” said JC as kindly as he could. “I read all the reports; security were very thorough. They checked every corridor, every platform, all the maintenance ducts and crawl spaces . . . They brought out the living and carried out the dead; no-one was left behind.”

  “What about the people trapped and carried off in the hell trains?” said Happy. “Some of them might have escaped.”

  “Those were downbound trains,” said JC. “All the way down. I don’t think we’ll be seeing any of those people again.”

  None of them said anything for a while after that. None of them liked to admit there were some things even trained Institute field agents couldn’t put right. One of Melody’s instrument panels began chiming urgently, and she leaned forward to check its monitor screen.

  “Hold everything,” she said. “Long-range sensors are picking up something interesting . . . Someone is using very powerful and very nasty technology not far from here. These readings are . . . Damn. I’m getting definite traces of biotech—cutting-edge science with fully integrated organic components. Cybernetics’ dark and unnatural cousin. Strictly illegal, banned in every civilised country and a few that aren’t.”

  “Are you sure?” said JC. “I don’t know anyone who’s actually encountered Frankenstein tech in the field before.”

  “I’m telling you!” said Melody. “It’s here . . . and it’s operating. My machines can hear it screaming. If these readings are right, it’s screaming all the time. JC, we have to do something about this!”

  “We will,” said JC. “Could this be Crowley Project tech?”

  “Has to be,” said Melody. “They’re the only bastards hard-hearted enough to use it.”

  “I want a gun,” Happy said immediately. “A really big gun. I want a fully functioning Death Star gun.”

  “Not even if Godzilla himself were to show up,” said JC.

  “Well, how about a big stick with a nail in it, to wave at them, then?”

  “Brace up, man,” said JC. “Odds are they’ll be eaten alive by whatever’s down here long before they can cause us any trouble.”

  “Strangely, I don’t find that at all comforting,” said Happy.

  “Whatever is going on down here,” said JC thoughtfully, “it must be really important, or the Project wouldn’t risk sending agents into a site already under the control of Institute agents.”

  “We have this site under control?” said Melody. “When did that happen, exactly? I must have missed it.”

  “Normally, the Institute and the Project go out of their way to avoid direct conflict,” JC said patiently. “Because retaliations have a way of escalating. Neither side wants all-out war. So whatever we have down here, it isn’t simply another haunting gone bad. Not even another Code One Haunting. This has got to be something really special.”

  “He’s getting enthusiastic,” Happy said darkly to Melody. “Never a good sign, when he starts getting enthusiastic.”

  JC looked at Happy thoughtfully.

  “Don’t look at me!” said Happy. “I was engaged for telepathy and light housecleaning. Nothing was ever said about hand-to-hand conflict with trained Project agents.”

  “It’s your telepathy I want,” said JC, giving Happy his best persuasive smile. “Nothing too difficult, or too dangerous. Reach out and see if you can get a sense of who they’ve sent down here. You can back off if you even think they know you’re listening in.”

  Happy sighed dramatically, but they all knew he was going to do it. He never could resist a challenge, especially if it involved being sneaky and underhanded. His face went blank, and his eyes became lost and far-away as he let his thoughts drift up and out, spreading silently and invisibly through the abandoned station. His mind was a cool, deep pool, calm and collected, entirely untroubled by all the pills he’d taken earlier. His hardened metabolism burned them up almost as fast as he could take them. His thoughts rose through the layers of stone and concrete and metal, slipping through the dark spaces, searching out the flaring lights of human thought. And then he winced abruptly, his hands curling unconsciously into fists at his sides.

  “Oh, that feels bad. Really bad. Melody was right. They’ve made a computer out of a cat’s brain. Its thoughts are like razor wire . . . It’s been forced to See things the living should never have to know about. It keeps going insane, but the tech drags it back . . . Poor thing. Poor thing . . . Hold it; I’m getting human presences now. Two of them, a man and a woman. Very strong presences; the woman has a mind like a perfumed steel trap, and the man . . . Damn . . . His emotions run so deep they’re almost primal. Ow! Ow, that hurt!”

  Happy clapped both hands to his head and shook it hard. When he looked at JC and Melody again, his eyes were back to normal.

  “The woman’s a trained telepath—kicked me right out of there the moment she detected me.” He cocked his head slightly, as though listening. “No . . . That’s it. Can’t pick up anything now; she’s got major psychic shields in place. And, unfortunately, now they know we know they’re there.”

  “I hate sentences like that,” said Melody. “You never know where they’re going to end up.”

  “This new female telepath,” said JC. “Could she be interfering with your mind, Happy? Stopping you from picking up what’s really going on here?”

  “No,” Happy said immediately. “I’d know. She’s good, but she’s not that good.”

  “Did you get any names?” said Melody. “Knowing who they sent would give us some idea of how important they think this haunting is. Can’t be Red McCoy; he’s banned from the British mainland till 2018. And the Animal only operates out of Paris these days.”

  “That still leaves Janus Scott, Meredith DeLancie, and Tetsuo Darque,” said JC. “All major players, all with previous experience of London hauntings, and all of them very much out of our league. Real A team people. And that’s only the usual suspects.”

  “If that was a real A team telepath, she’d have fried my brains on contact,” said Happy. “I told you; she’s good, but I’m better.”

  “Maybe all of the Project’s main players are busy somewhere else,” said Melody. “Like ours. And they sent the best they had available. Like us.”

  “We can but hope,” said JC. “I’ve never actually gone head to head with a Project field agent before, and I think I’d like to keep it that way. I mean, yes, I’ve had all the proper Institute training, for physical and psychic combat; but I’m really not a rough-and-tumble kind of guy.”

  “I’ve always been quite fond of a bit of rough-and-tumble,” Melody said demurely. “But I take your point. Project agents are trained killers and psychic assassins. I’m just tech support.”

  “
While I am a clinically depressed telepath and not at all a fighter,” said Happy. “I do not do confrontations. It’s in my contract.”

  “We don’t have contracts,” said JC.

  “Well, it would be in my contract if I had one,” said Happy. “God, we have got to get unionised. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually met a Project agent in the flesh.”

  “Few do and survive,” said JC. “They’re nothing like us. The Crowley Project are supposed to be nearly as old as the Carnacki Institute, though they have gone through hundreds of different names down the years. The Project have always been very vulnerable to the cult of personality, to the Great Leader who wants to put his or her stamp on everything, including the organisation’s name. Like a dog marking its territory.”

  “They’re bad people,” Happy said flatly. “There are lots of us in the Institute who believe the Project manipulate and even create hauntings, and bad places, for their own reasons. So they can take advantage of them. Sometimes what they’re after is obvious: Objects of Power, or Forces that can be captured and put to use. But sometimes . . . what they’re doing makes no sense at all, from the outside.”