The Last Days of Jack Sparks

by Jason Arnopp

  ‘Mimi,’ says the face. ‘Mimi, Mimi, Mimi.’

  Blood dribbles from Astral’s mouth to his chin to the carpet. Five words come out of him as one: ‘Can’tholditeveryoneout!’

  Lisa-Jane, Ellie, Pascal, Howie and I snap out of our stupors and run for the nearest doors. I never saw Howie move so fast. As we go, the Mimi face breaks into a staccato yell. ‘Mimi! Mimi! Mimi! Mimi!’

  Ellie and I duck through a door and end up in a corridor lined with framed gold discs, the others having taken a different route. I look back into the lounge through a fist-wide gap in the door. It’s a surreal sight: three men wrestling with a table, while a disembodied face hovers above them.

  Astral, Johann and Elisandro count to three, then scatter fast.

  ‘Mimi!’ The scream hurts my ears even at this distance. ‘Mimi!’

  When the trio abandon the table, it pivots up on to one leg and becomes a deranged spinning top. Gaining speed, it’s a diamond-shaped blur.

  I step aside as the three of them come barrelling through the door, one by one. They pile up against the opposite wall, a profane car wreck.

  I hurry to close the door behind them, in case the table decides to give chase.

  The last thing I see inside that room is the Mimi face, up by the ceiling. Silent now, but still grinning fiercely at me.

  I slam the door so hard that Big Coyote feels set to cave in on us.

  Elisandro grabs fistfuls of my shirt and hauls me around in a semicircle arc until I’m up against a wall.

  While he’s barking right in my face, trying to get a rise, I must look catatonic.

  I can’t hear a word he’s saying.

  I can’t feel a thing he’s doing.

  All I can think about is how Mimi behaves nothing like your typical thought form.

  I remember the question Ellie asked, back in Culver City. Are you really the Mimi we created, or are you a spirit passing by?

  Only I saw the smoke cloud in Hong Kong. Only I saw Maria Corvi in my hotel room and Tony Bonelli in Amoeba Music. When it’s just you seeing this stuff, doubt springs eternal.

  This time, there were eight of us. All seeing the same ghost, under brand-new conditions beyond the group’s control.

  Elisandro glowers and frowns, as a big smile splits my face open.

  It feels like my secret mission, the one so secret that only I know it exists, may be destined for success.

  Yes, I may finally have found evidence of the supernatural.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE SPOOKS LIST (Sparks’ Permanently Ongoing Overview of Kooky Shit)

  People claim to have witnessed supernatural phenomena for the following reasons:

  (1) They’re trying to deceive others

  (2) They’ve been deceived by others

  (3) They’ve deceived themselves (Guilt projection? Tumour?)

  (4) Group psychokinesis has produced crazy, inexplicable results (TBC)

  Having been denied the reaction he wants, Elisandro un-hands me as roughly as he grabbed me, his face twisted in disgust.

  I sag back against the corridor wall, spellbound by new possibilities.

  Finally, I know the Paranormals can’t be rigging the experiment. Not unless they’ve hired Steven fucking Spielberg.

  We’re way past the point where this can be pretence. The table knocked some of Astral’s teeth out. But more than that, everyone’s reactions just felt so right.

  All those reactions felt so right back in the church too, didn’t they? And on the boat in Hong Kong. You just didn’t want to accept it, because you were scared. Scared of the unknown, scared of looking stupid. You wanted to be the aloof, dry, above-it-all journo. The big celebrity atheist.

  I still believe the Paranormals made the YouTube video. It was their breadcrumb trail to get me to take part in a genuine experiment. And I still know full well that they’ve cut my comms. Did they delete my YouTube channel to destroy the evidence, knowing I’m on to them? These people are still not my colleagues and can’t be trusted.

  We all reconvene in Rod’s office. The Paranormals are so wired, they don’t even notice full-frontal Hustler pages on the walls. I’m sharing a constricted space with seven bug-eyed aliens from the Planet Freakout. I’m thrilled too, but am at pains not to show it. I want to know more, so much more. I have to be certain.

  We stop and listen every few minutes, just in case that table’s still on the move. No one acknowledges this fear, but it’s a fixture.

  Seven variations on ‘So do you believe us now, asshole?’ yank my mind back to the room. ‘Yeah, whatever, get over it,’ I tell them. ‘Something very unusual happened in there. Something’s definitely going on.’

  Hearing this, Elisandro makes mock prayer hands and whispers at the ceiling.

  ‘But could that have been a collective hallucination?’ I say.

  Astral studies two of his own teeth in the palm of his hand. The sleeve of his hockey shirt drips with blood, his tongue glistens red and his speech is all messed up. My heart fails to bleed.

  ‘Hell of a hallucination,’ he says, only it comes out as ‘Herruva harrucination’. I’ll spare you the rest of the phonetics. ‘Remember: the Harold Experiment never made Harold appear or speak. We’ve gone far beyond.’

  Yes, that’s good. Beyond is good.

  Ellie fusses around Astral. Having delved into her grab bag of potions, she dabs something inside his mouth that makes him wince. ‘Man,’ says Elisandro. ‘Could be stitches.’ Astral’s only reply is a groan.

  ‘Mimi could be a time traveller,’ begins Pascal, only to get talked over by Johann: ‘Maybe we really did make ourselves a psychokinetic entity. And a sparky son of a bitch at that.’

  A subdued Howie sits forward, elbows on knees. ‘I don’t mind saying it scared me,’ he tells the floor. ‘That got way out of hand real quick.’

  ‘Like I said, Mimi just didn’t like the change of location,’ Elisandro argues, unable to let go of his beef with me. ‘Maybe she’ll settle down.’

  The room seems unsure about this. ‘We should maybe put the experiment on hiatus,’ offers Pascal. Unusually persistent, he raises his hand to quell the protest. ‘Just until we know more about what we’re dealing with here.’

  ‘How will we know what we’re dealing with,’ I say, ‘unless we carry on?’

  Astral jerks his mouth away from a wet ball of cotton wool in Ellie’s hand. ‘Ow. For once, I agree with Jack. But let’s vote.’

  Elisandro jumps in. ‘Hands up if you think we should stop the biggest damn thing that ever happened to us.’

  ‘That’s right, mate,’ I say, purely to annoy him. ‘Keep it nice and neutral.’

  Still studying the carpet, Howie raises his hand. Encouraged, Pascal follows suit.

  If I have to, I’ll break each dissenter’s arm. I must see what happens next. Quite apart from my own private motive, this could actually now become a world-famous experiment.

  Maybe, given time, we’ll discover a way to capture Mimi on film.

  I crave cameras. Big-branded TV news cameras. CNN, FOX, ABC, NBC, CBS. I’m already planning clothes that will complement their onscreen logos.

  ‘Guess we don’t need the other side of the vote,’ says Elisandro. ‘You guys are outnumbered.’

  Howie yanks down his hand as if something burnt it. Pascal fiddles with his wallet chain, stealing nervous glances at people.

  ‘We carry on,’ I say, excited about the next step.

  ‘Not today we don’t,’ says Elisandro, leaping at the chance to contradict me, even when we broadly agree. ‘The big guy needs ER. I’ll drive.’

  When I break the news that the only way out is through the front doors, via the lounge, we all feign tough nonchalance.

  ‘So there’s no back exit?’ says Ellie, nonchalantly. ‘No problem.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ says Lisa-Jane, nonchalance itself as we all approach the lounge.

  ‘It should only move when we’re in session,’ s
ays Pascal, whose nonchalant facade is thinner than most, since he hangs back behind the rest of us.

  We find the table aping Battersea Power Station. Motionless, on its back, legs up. The Mimi face is nowhere to be seen. As much as its appearance has galvanised me, I dread the next encounter. Something about that thing, that creature, disturbs me no end.

  Without trying to make it look like we’re edging along the wall furthest from the table, we do exactly that. Single file, never letting the table out of our sight, and above all nonchalant, until we reach those front doors.

  The sun’s last hurrah bathes LA in a shocking pink. Those wonky, shiny grids now seem to demonstrate character. The insects’ hum feels life-affirming.

  I can’t wait to see Bex. Even if we are only friends now, I need her.

  Elisandro and Ellie lead Astral to their Honda Civic, while Howie limps off with Lisa-Jane. People have been taking turns to give Howie a ride, because the big bad neighbour allegedly slashed his tyres and he can’t afford new ones.

  We rev our engines. Then we nod and casually wave goodbye, as if we’re all going to see each other again.

  I grunt myself awake on the sofa.

  Across our room, a fully clothed Bex slams her suitcase lid in a bid to close it. The case flows over with stuff and she becomes more irate with each new attempt.

  I’ve woken from a dreamless sleep into a nightmare in which Bex is preparing to leave.

  My too-bright phone screen tells me it’s half one in the morning. I can’t have been asleep long. What the hell’s happened? I was dog tired again, so we had a leisurely drink, a Chinese and a sensible early night. Still awkward, but getting less so. And at times, there were signs that she still liked or even wanted me.

  I told Bex that the day’s Mimi session had been the same old woeful fakery. I said how I was looking forward to exposing the Paranormals in this book. I could tell she knew there’s something strange about me these days. She wanted me to spill, but the thought of having to explain my secret mission glued my lips together.

  Bex bangs the suitcase lid down again. My mouth, furred with dead Merlot, takes a while to log on. ‘What you doing?’

  No answer. But the fury in her eyes confirms she heard perfectly well.

  ‘Hey.’ I swing my feet off the sofa, down on to the soft rug. My near nakedness makes me feel all the less sure of myself. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  The hand-grenade smirk she tosses in reply reminds me of Maria Corvi in the church, looking back at me from the stained-glass window.

  I know something you don’t know, fucker.

  ‘Bex, why have you packed?’

  ‘I’m going to a different hotel, then back to Brighton, then you’ll never see me again.’ Face flushed, she abandons her struggle with the case. Then she nods at my laptop, which sits open on the desk. ‘That thing goes into screen-saver mode after a while.’

  I don’t know where she’s going with this, but my stomach seems to have worked it out before me.

  ‘And when it’s in screen-saver mode,’ she goes on, ‘you’ve set it to play a lovely little slideshow from your Pictures folder.’

  Porn! She’s seen porn. But Bex doesn’t hate porn, does she? No. Only the choky-slappy stuff, and I’m not even into that.

  ‘So there I am,’ she continues, ‘coming back to bed from the loo, half asleep, bit pissed, when I see a picture of a girl.’

  My blood temperature goes into freefall.

  ‘And oh my God, it’s only the same girl who fucked up my relationship with Lawrence. The exact same picture that was on her profile, too. And so I wonder to myself, “Hmm, why would Jack have that on his computer? Did she try it on with him too, or what?”’

  I’m trapped under ice.

  Having squeezed out some bile, Bex sets about closing her suitcase with a more level head. She spots the jeans poking out and shoves them back in.

  ‘You should put a password on that lappy,’ she says. ‘I looked around and found this Notepad file with – shock, horror – a draft of the same message this non-existent catfish bitch sent Lawrence.’

  I claw up at the ice, but my lungs have frozen solid. Can’t speak, can’t breathe. Can barely even see.

  ‘So I cried quite a lot and was sick,’ she adds, with a casual sing-song delivery. ‘Then I had a good old think.’ This is the worst part of all: the thought of Bex crying and heaving as a result of my insane deceit, while I slept peacefully on.

  There’s the sound of cloth ripping as she zips her case shut.

  ‘Didn’t take long to make my decision,’ she says. ‘Then you woke up, so you know the rest. Bye, Jack.’

  She sets the suitcase upright. In my current state of mind, the telescopic metal handle is a dynamite plunger. I don’t trust my legs to support me if I stand, so I just surrender, hands raised. ‘I’m so sorry. I fucked up badly, but don’t go.’

  Bex rolls her belongings towards the door. Realising that sorry won’t cut it, I switch tactics. Hammering on the ice, desperate for air. ‘But listen! He still arranged to meet her. This girl. Even if this girl didn’t exist, he was still up for it. And he shouldn’t have been, because you’re amazing. So you have to take that into account! He was still a cheating bastard.’

  Bex flips the safety lock on the door. ‘You think I’m going back to him? God, your brain is so binary. So fucking black and white.’

  She’s fresh out of script. All those lines she rehearsed while I slept, they’ve been said, and now her voice is lined with hurt. ‘I’m going home to a new life. You’re right, I don’t deserve a cheating bastard. And neither do I deserve a conniving, devious prick.’

  The door opens with that deep ratcheting sound and an airlock hiss.

  Bex doesn’t even glance at me as she leaves.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  By the time Elisandro calls, I’m a different man, chock-full of cocaine and the contents of the minibar. I’ve yelled out of the windows at guests having breakfast below and I’ve bombarded Bex’s mobile with calls and texts, which have been ignored.

  My voicemails and messages started off apologising. Then, as the coke took hold, warping my perspective and making sleep impossible, I told her she was crazy to ‘throw it all away’ over this. Finally, when I really peaked, she was branded terrible names for abandoning me when I need her.

  I am beyond stupid.

  In the dead of night, I came to regret touring the Paranormals’ social media profiles. At 2.51 a.m., Astral posted a photo of him and Bex in a hotel bar. She looked uncomfortable to be having her picture taken, and he looked triumphant, with one arm around the back of her seat. The post’s only words were ‘Good times. A’

  Spiralling out of control, I phoned Bex, then Astral. When neither answered, I texted them all manner of abuse.

  This must be why Elisandro’s calling: to pick yet another fight. Because today’s Mimi session isn’t until 1 p.m. By my reckoning, I should still have three uninterrupted hours of hedonism and self-loathing.

  ‘If you’re calling on Astral’s behalf,’ I snap at him, ‘you can suck it.’

  Straight away, his wavering voice rings alarm bells. ‘Something horrible has happened. Howie’s dead.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘Me and Ellie went to pick him up – we were gonna have breakfast . . .’

  I sit heavily beside a window, trying to comprehend this.

  Seven Hollywood Paranormals is just too many, says a shadow voice somewhere in my head, making the rest of me uncomfortable.

  ‘So his neighbour did it?’ I ask. ‘With the pump, the Bluetooth?’

  All I hear is traffic and Ellie sobbing. Then Elisandro pushes the words out. ‘Howie was decapitated.’

  Someone seems to have cut the strings that work my mouth.

  ‘We haven’t called 911 yet,’ Elisandro is saying. ‘I guess we’re in shock. Howie gave us a spare key a while back, so we went in to see why he wasn’t answering the door . . . and we found . . . Oh
God. It was like his head had been . . . like, ripped . . .’

  Back on my feet, disoriented, I work the coffee machine as if I really need more uppers. ‘Does everyone else know? In the group?’

  ‘Haven’t got hold of Pascal yet.’

  Something about Pascal’s name forms an ominous connection that I can’t quite grasp. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Melrose, not far. Want us to pick you up?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be outside. And please keep trying to reach Pascal.’

  The worried note in my voice infects his. ‘Okay . . . See you in ten.’

  I hurry into the shower. As hot water rocks me, all I can think about is Howie’s head disconnected from the rest of him.

  Not just disconnected.

  Ripped.

  When someone says, ‘Mr Sparks,’ I’m striding across the foyer with black coffee in a paper cup and a coke wrap in my wallet. The idiot’s idea of being ready for anything.

  Marc Howitz is standing outside his office door with his hands on his hips. ‘A word, please.’

  I suspect this word is probably going to be ‘séance’.

  ‘Maybe later,’ I say without breaking my stride.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouts, as I pile into the revolving door.

  I slide into the back of the Honda, wincing as another coffee spill torches the webbing between my thumb and forefinger.

  Into his phone, Elisandro says, ‘You got hold of Pascal yet, man?’

  Ellie, all streaked mascara, points at the phone and mouths Astral’s name.

  ‘Ask him where Bex is,’ I tell Elisandro, who waves a shut-up hand at me. ‘Okay,’ he tells Astral, winding up the call. ‘I’ll let you know if we find him first.’ Then he stares through the windscreen into the middle distance.

  ‘Fine, I’ll call Astral myself,’ I say, raising my phone to my ear.

  ‘Don’t,’ says Ellie. ‘He’s as upset as we are.’

  Needing to make sure Bex is okay, I speed-dial Astral. When he doesn’t pick up, I punch the back of Elisandro’s seat. He, in turn, punches the dashboard. ‘Jesus, Jack! Cool it or get out. Astral said he left the girl at her new hotel, okay?’