by Gary Gibson
‘What are you doing?’ Susan asked, coming up beside Metka to look at it.
‘I’m checking for higher than expected levels of electromagnetic activity,’ Metka replied. Her phrasing sounded uncertain, in the manner of one speaking a language they were not yet entirely comfortable with. She held the device up so Susan could clearly see rows of numbers on its screen rising rapidly before finally peaking. ‘Quite a lot of EM activity, it seems.’
‘They’re installing a lot of equipment,’ Susan pointed out. ‘There’s wiring everywhere. It’s probably just that.’
Metka smiled, just very faintly. ‘The South Wing is still very much under construction. The only electronic equipment here is ours,’ she said, nodding at the tripod-mounted microphones.
‘Please don’t say it’s ghosts,’ said Susan, her voice flat.
Metka laughed good-naturedly. ‘Most likely you’re quite right.’ She pocketed the meter and Susan followed her back out into the corridor, seeing several more shotgun mikes wrapped up in bin bags and leaning against a wall. A similar bundle of long boom sticks sat next to it.
‘We have been placing equipment all around Halls for our study,’ Metka explained. ‘Listening devices, cameras, and various other pieces of equipment. If anyone sneezed, let alone whistled, we would know.’
‘I should get going,’ Susan said, feeling suddenly at a loss for anything else to say.
‘Of course,’ said Metka as Susan hurried away. ‘See you around.’
Susan pushed her hand into the pocket of her jeans and felt the bracelet still there, and wondered why she felt so much like a thief.
Monday July 6th 2020
She ran into Metka again on the way out of Wardenby’s one small Sainsbury’s on the following Monday morning, three days after their encounter in the South Wing. It was Susan’s turn to buy coffee and milk, plus the Hobnobs that appeared to form the primary component of Rajam’s diet. She had shoved the shopping bag into her backpack before heading for the taxi rank, her car still being in for repairs.
‘Susan!’
She turned around to see Metka get out of a battered Volkswagen Polo parked across from the post office. She waved to Susan before crossing the road to join her. ‘You are on your way to work?’
‘I am,’ said Susan. ‘You?’
‘I was going to get some breakfast first. Why don’t you join me?’
‘Well...’
‘There’s a café I like,’ said Metka. ‘They have very good toasted sandwiches. You will join me, yes?’ she enquired hopefully.
Susan guessed which café she meant. Her AirBnB came with free WiFi, but it was far from reliable, and the Karma Café at least had decent WiFi, even if there was barely room for half a dozen people to squeeze onto its tiny stools.
‘Perhaps you’re in a hurry,’ said Metka, seeing her hesitation.
‘No, not at all,’ she replied. In truth, until they could figure out the problem with their experiment, there wasn’t very much for her or Rajam to do.
‘Good.’ Metka beamed at her.
The Karma Café turned out to be empty at that time of the morning, apart from the owner, a slightly Goth-looking woman in her forties who, at that moment, was standing behind the counter with her iPad propped against a coffee jar. Susan ordered a black coffee with no sugar and felt obscurely pleased when Metka did the same. They both ordered toasted sandwiches.
‘So,’ said Metka, sipping her coffee when it arrived on the rickety table between them, ‘how is your work going, if I may ask?’
Susan wondered how much she could say without seeming rude, then remembered the conversation with Professor Bernard and his revelation that Christian Ashford was all too forthcoming with the details of their work. ‘You know we had to sign NDA’s,’ she began cautiously.
Metka nodded. ‘We had to do the same.’
Susan looked at her in surprise. ‘You did?’
‘Mr Ashford said he wants to keep his affairs private. He doesn’t want press to know we’re at Ashford Hall. He believes it would bring negative publicity.’
Susan laughed hollowly and wondered what Andrew would make of that. ‘Well then, he’s shite at keeping secrets, let me tell you.’
‘This is true,’ Metka agreed. ‘Unfortunately for him, one of the builders recognised Maxim and asked him if he was a ghost hunter. He had no choice but to say yes.’
‘That sounds like a stroke of bad luck.’
‘Not really,’ said Metka. ‘Besides, I don’t believe in secrets. And Maxim has been on television talking about the supernatural, so it would hardly be surprising when someone recognises him.’
So much for NDAs, thought Susan. Their toasted sandwiches arrived, and the café-owner gave the both of them a curious look through kohl-rimmed eyes before retreating back behind her iPad.
Metka took a bite of her sandwich and grunted with pleasure. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ said Susan, lowering her voice slightly, ‘but there’s good reasons for us wanting to keep our work a secret. It’s... kind of on the fringes.’
‘Blue-sky research, yes?’ asked Metka, crunching her way through her meal. ‘The kind of thing for which it’s hard to get funding unless you have a private billionaire investor.’
All of which was quite correct. ‘I heard from Rajam – he’s our research assistant – that Ashford hired you because our security staff keep quitting.’
‘Rajam. I remember.’ Metka nodded and drank her coffee. ‘We’re Ashford’s final strategy before he brings in an exorcist.’
Susan felt her mouth slide open. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The official story,’ said Metka, ‘were the press to learn of our presence in Wardenby, is that we’re there to disprove the existence of previously reported supernatural manifestations. But if we did discover evidence of manifestations, Ashford’s intention is to employ an exorcist from California.’
‘And Ashford told you this himself?’
‘I heard it from Maxim, who heard it in turn from Ashford.’
‘Should you really be telling me this?’ asked Susan. ‘If Ashford told you all this in confidence...’
‘You’re working in Ashford Hall,’ Metka pointed out. ‘You heard something where there was no one.’
‘Well, yes,’ Susan stammered, ‘but –’
‘It’s evidence, regardless of what you think it is evidence for,’ Metka continued. ‘We cannot do our study without knowledge of activities elsewhere in Ashford Hall. If people like yourself see or hear something, we need to know. Secrecy would make the collection of data near to impossible. I’m telling you all this so that you understand.’
Susan looked at her with a troubled expression. In fairness, everything Metka said made perfect sense. ‘So... does that mean you believe in ghosts yourself?’
Metka picked up one of the remaining crusts from her toasted sandwich and chewed on it thoughtfully, and Susan suddenly realised she had hardly touched her own. She picked it up and bit into it.
‘I believe in that for which there is evidence,’ said Metka. ‘My background is in engineering.’ She smiled at the look on Susan’s face. ‘You’re surprised.’
‘How on Earth does an engineer wind up hunting ghosts?’
‘The same way Doctor Andrew Wrigley ended up involved with your own experiment,’ Metka explained. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but my understanding is that Wrigley has his own project he wishes to fund with Mr Ashford’s help. But in order to get that funding, he must first project-manage your experiments.’
‘No, you’re quite right,’ Susan told her. ‘So does that mean you’re here for more than just helping Professor Bernard?’
‘Don’t get me wrong – paranormal investigation is a great interest of mine, and I wished for a long time to work with Professor Bernard,’ said Metka. ‘But my training is in satellite communications systems. That requires an understanding of physics, although to be honest I’m not sure I really understood the details of your work any more th
an Maxim did.’
Susan shook her head. ‘I wonder why the man even bothered having us sign NDA’s.’
‘I think he doesn’t mind talk between groups that work for him,’ Metka pointed out. ‘People outside of Ashford Hall are presumably another matter.’
It occurred to Susan that if Metka’s speciality was satellite communications systems, then it was entirely possible it would tie into her own research into new communications technologies. In that case, there could indeed be some value in getting to know Metka. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘tell me what you do know about my work.’
‘Something to do with boosting radio signals so can cross space without taking any time to do it?’ Metka’s mouth crinkled up in an embarrassed grin.
‘That’s pretty much the gist of it.’
‘But instantaneous communications?’ Metka chuckled quietly. ‘How is such a thing even possible?’
‘If you’ve studied physics, then you’ve surely heard of spooky action at a distance.’
‘I know it means particles that can talk to each other no matter how far apart they are,’ Metka agreed.
‘Exactly,’ said Susan. ‘You start with a pair of entangled particles. Whatever changes you make to one are reflected in the other instantaneously, no matter if they’re sitting right next to each other or separated by light-years. Einstein didn’t like the idea because it implied faster-than-light communication.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘For complicated reasons, no, not really.’
‘Then... How does one particle know what happens to the other?’
‘Nobody knows,’ Susan replied. ‘It’s probably down to some hidden variable we’ve not yet detected, but which in turn accounts for the detectable data. There are theories, of course.’
‘Ah.’ Metka leaned back with her coffee clutched in both hands. ‘You’re testing a theory at Ashford Hall?’
‘More like a variation on someone else’s theory,’ she said. ‘Someone came up with the idea that instead of information being carried across the intervening space between a particle and its twin, perhaps instead the first particle transmits its information backwards in time, to the point at which the two particles first became entangled. Then that information, because it’s now contained within both particles, is carried forward in time until it’s finally detected at its destination in the same moment that it’s sent. That would overcome Einstein’s objections.’
‘This sounds like time travel,’ said Metka, looking impressed. ‘Surely such a thing is impossible?’
‘No more impossible than two particles that can seemingly exchange information from one end of the universe to the other without the apparent passage of time,’ said Susan. ‘And yet they clearly do.’
‘My God,’ said Metka, looking delighted. ‘You’re building a time machine.’
‘It is not a time machine,’ Susan insisted, putting up both hands. She glanced over at the café-owner, who was trying very hard not to look like she was listening in to their conversation. ‘It’s just a communications device,’ she continued, lowering her voice. ‘Imagine you could control a rover on Mars with instantaneous two-way communication, instead of having to wait at least fifteen minutes for a radio signal to get there and another fifteen for a response to come back. You could drive it around the surface of Mars in real-time, with no delay.’ And indeed part of the reason for Ashford’s investment in her work lay in his hope of selling qubit transceivers to both the military as well as the civilian satellite industries.
‘’Ere,’ said the café-owner, clearing her throat. ‘Apologies if I’m interrupting, but you’re from up at the Halls, right?’
Susan glanced at Metka, then nodded. ‘We are. Why?’
The woman seemed to take this as an invitation to join them. ‘My husband’s mate’s been working on the refurbishment,’ she said, coming to stand by their table. She nodded at Metka. ‘You’re here about the ghost, right? You’re working with the bloke from the telly.’
‘The ghost?’ asked Susan. It suddenly occurred to her despite the presence of Professor Bernard and his colleagues, she had no idea of the nature of Ashford Hall’s apparitions.
‘You know something about it?’ Metka asked the café-owner.
A look of conspiratorial delight sped across the woman’s face. ‘I used to go up there when I was young, me and my mates.’ She shook her head. ‘Not anymore,’ she said, before adding, in a loud stage whisper: ‘I’m a touch psychic, you see.’
Susan opened her mouth to say something about that, but Metka shot her a silent warning and she closed her mouth again.
‘You’ve seen it?’ Metka asked her. ‘The ghost?’
‘Well, no.’ The woman’s face fell slightly. ‘But I’ve heard it, back about the time that Ashford bloke was still dealing pills.’
‘What?’ Susan stared at the woman. ‘Dealing pills...?’
Metka’s attention remained fixed on the other woman. ‘Christian Ashford, yes?’ she asked, and the woman nodded. ‘I read his autobiography. He’s come a very long way from being such a troublemaker when he was a young man.’
Susan looked from one to the other in utter stupefaction. ‘I had no idea about this. Are you serious?’
‘Well, I knew ’im back then,’ said the café-owner. ‘Posh bloke, old money, you know? His mum and dad died and left him a huge wad, but he couldn’t get it until he was twenty-one.’
‘And that’s why he dealt pills?’ asked Susan.
‘He liked the rich life,’ the woman agreed. ‘Mostly hash, really – the pills were more of a sideline. Girls liked him because he flashed his money around. Then of course he had that run-in with the law before he got his act together and buggered off to the States.’
‘I knew about the investing in Silicon Valley bit,’ said Susan, ‘but all this is news to me. I –’
‘For God’s sake, Samantha,’ said a voice from over beside the café entrance. Susan turned to see a man in a dark suit standing there. Despite his words, he was smiling. ‘Stop bothering the poor ladies with gossip.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything of the kind,’ Samantha said indignantly.
The man shook his head at Susan and Metka. ‘She tells everybody the same story about how Christian Ashford used to go riding around Wardenby on a motorbike scaring old ladies.’ He leaned over the counter and hit a button on the till machine that made its cash drawer open. He dropped a couple of pound coins inside it, then grabbed a pair of plastic-wrapped sandwiches from a plate on the counter and dropped them into his suit pocket.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said Samantha, retreating back behind the counter. ‘There’s nothing wrong with giving people a touch of local colour.’
The man grunted a laugh, then did a slight double-take at Metka. ‘Miss Benkovič,’ he said. ‘Hope your flat’s working out?’
‘Very well,’ Metka replied. ‘My landlady is very pleasant.’
‘Excellent,’ said the man, before nodding this time to Susan. ‘Am I to take it you’re working at Ashford Hall along with Miss Benkovič?’
‘I am,’ Susan replied guardedly.
The man fished inside another pocket before producing a business card and handing it to her. ‘If you’re ever looking for a place to rent, or even buy...’
Susan saw from the card that his name was Adam Phillips, a local estate agent. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I have an AirBnB that serves me quite nicely.’
Phillips made a gagging sound, then smiled to show he meant no offence. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Keep the card in case you change your mind – house prices started to climb once Ashford announced he was investing in the area, and they’re only going to climb higher after the Halls are officially open for business.’ He pointed a finger at her and Metka. ‘And don’t listen to any nonsense about the spirit of some murdered girl wandering the corridors. Good day to you.’
‘Arsehole,’ Samantha muttered as he left,
then cast a glance at Susan and Metka’s empty plates. ‘You done, then?’
Outside the café, the rain had turned misty. The two women walked a few feet up the road, then turned to each other and laughed.
‘All that stuff that man said, about a girl being murdered,’ asked Susan. ‘Is that something that really happened at Ashford Hall?’
‘It is,’ Metka affirmed, zipping up her windbreaker and pushing her hands deep into its pockets. She nodded at her car. ‘I can give you a lift to the Halls if you want.’
Susan hesitated just a moment too long, and Metka rewarded her with an appraising look. ‘You’re worried about something?’
About Andrew seeing me arriving with you? She cringed at the thought of him making another scene. If it wasn’t for the fact that her project was almost on the rocks, she’d have asked Ashford to find her another project manager.
‘Not a problem,’ said Metka, pulling out her keys. ‘You have your own car, of course-’
‘No,’ said Susan. ‘Actually, it’s in for repairs, so I’ve been getting a taxi into work. It’d be much easier if I just came with you.’
Susan began to regret her decision on discovering that the heating in Metka’s car was broken. With all the wind and rain over the past few days, it felt more like February than July. Susan shivered in the passenger seat and pulled her coat tight around her.
‘This girl who was murdered,’ she asked, while Metka guided the Volkswagen out into the traffic, ‘who was she?’
‘Clara Ward,’ Metka replied, the wheel sliding under her hands.
‘And she’s the one reputedly haunting the place?’
‘Reputedly, yes.’ Metka shrugged like it was the least of her concerns. ‘Of course, unless her spirit comes up and introduces itself by name, we have no way of being certain.’ She glanced sideways at Susan.
‘Who was Clara Ward, exactly? Was she from Wardenby?’
Metka nodded. ‘She was a young girl from the council estate.’ The car took a right turn. ‘She was just seventeen in 1987 when she was murdered by a down-and-out. Her body was found in the same room where you lost your shoe on Friday, as a matter of fact.’