Ghosts Know

by Ramsey Campbell

  “I haven’t seen a cloud for quite a while, have you?” Since this would sound worse than facetious I say “If enough people want me to I’d have to think about it.”

  “The paper does.”

  “That’s just a few people at one paper.” I grow aware that I’ve been tearing fragments off the front page and strewing them across the console. As I set about collecting the rubbish to bin it I say “Maybe they ought to get their readers to vote. Thanks for your thoughts, Les.”

  The next caller thinks the vote should be confined to my listeners, and someone else advises me to sue the newspaper, but Harold from Beswick has a question. “Do you think lie detectors work?”

  “I have to say yesterday’s didn’t for me.”

  “Then you’re a liar, Mr Wilde.”

  The strip I’m tearing off the newspaper removes the first letter of the last word of the headline. “Will you be telling us why, Harold?”

  “Because it said one of your answers was true and now you’re saying it didn’t work.”

  “It did for that one, and you heard the examiner wasn’t happy with the conditions either. Just think how he sounded when people started phoning in.” Harold meets this with a silence I’d like to take for agreement, and I say “Madge from Melling, you’re on.”

  “Can I call you Graham, Graham?”

  I nearly give her an answer too reminiscent of Jasper’s. “Of course you can.”

  “I’m going to upset some people, Graham. Nobody except an idiot could trust a lie detector.”

  “Do you think that’s a little harsh? I know—”

  ‘Graham,” she says like a maternal rebuke. “It’s nothing of the sort, Graham. They should be ashamed of themselves, damaging your reputation with that nonsense. Tests like those, Graham, they’re just a performance. They’re as fake as your friend who tried to make out he was psychic.”

  “I wouldn’t call him a friend, but—”

  “I was being sarky, Graham. Graham, nobody that’s not an idiot would want him for a friend.”

  “Well, again, Madge, perhaps that’s a little—”

  “Graham. He’s the one who should have had a lie test, but I’ll bet my pension he’d have turned it down, Graham. Shall I tell you why?”

  Surely I’ve no reason to hesitate. “Go ahead.”

  “Because he didn’t know you were the killer, Graham.”

  My vision quakes, or there’s a nervous movement somewhere at its edge, or both. Paula’s door hasn’t burst open, but Christine has jerked her head up. I hold her gaze without being able to judge what either of us is thinking as I say “That’s because I’m not one, and if anyone—

  “You didn’t let me finish, Graham.”

  I hardly think I’m the one to be accused of interrupting, but I hear my voice say “Then please do.”

  “Graham. He was there with you in your studio, wasn’t he? How far away, Graham?”

  My name has begun to feel as though it’s adding weight to the clammy headphones. “Close enough to touch,” the voice that’s my job says, “not that I did.”

  “Well, there you are, Graham.” I’m about to demand where she thinks that is when she says “He didn’t mention anything about it when he was supposed to be so psychic, Graham, but he’s trying to make out you’re a killer now.”

  “I don’t believe he’s ever said that.”

  “Some people should watch what they’re saying, Graham, and they ought to be careful what they think as well.”

  “I’d rather people spoke out on here, but thanks for your support, Madge.” She must have meant it that way, and yet I feel in need of a break. I run an ad for Frugarden Centres—“Bring a bit of Eden home”—and then I do my best not to be reminded of Kessler’s monitor as I consult the screen. “Now we have Maurice from Failsworth. What would you like to add, Maurice?”

  “May I ask you just one question, Mr Wilde?”

  “Two if you count that one, or as many as you’ve got.”

  “That’s what you say now you aren’t being tested.” Before I can deal with this he says “What do your parents think of everything you’ve done?”

  My fists clench on the newspaper. I can’t pretend to know the answer, which makes the question feel even more like a wistful reproach from my mother. She isn’t far away—about thirty miles since she put some distance between herself and my father—but I haven’t been to see her for weeks or phoned her either. As for my other parent, I haven’t seen or spoken to him since my grandfather’s funeral. I feel urged to respond, not least by Christine; I’m aware of her despite if not because of avoiding her gaze. “I don’t suppose they think I’ve done too badly,” I say and manage to let go of the crumpled paper.

  “Don’t you know your own parents, Mr Wilde?”

  “I really don’t think they need to be brought into this. Was there anything—”

  “You were ready enough to talk about your family when you were trying to make your guest look foolish.”

  So we’re back to Jasper yet again. “I think he did that without any help from me.”

  “Some people might think you wanted to discredit him in case he said too much about you.”

  “Then they’d be wrong, and I hope I’m not the only one who’d wonder why they said it.”

  “Thank you for proving my point, Mr Wilde.”

  I become aware of having closed my fists on the edges of the newspaper again. “Which point was that?”

  “You’ll do all you can to discredit anyone who dares to say anything against you.”

  “I’m sure our listeners will make their own minds up, Maurice.”

  As I wait for him to respond, the line goes dead. The newspaper parts jaggedly down the middle, and I mash it together before chucking the unreadable lump into the bin. I rub my blackened hands on my trousers while I attempt to concentrate on the screen. “Now we’ve got Liz from Blackburn. What’s your view, Liz?”

  “It’s Oswaldtwistle, Graham.”

  “That’s part of Blackburn, isn’t it? I know it quite well.”

  “Do you?” Before I can judge her tone Liz adds “What do you want me to say?”

  “It isn’t about what I want, Liz. It’s your show.”

  “It’s been feeling a bit like that lately.” As I make to ask why she says “All right, I’ll tell you. I think you and Mr Jasper—”

  The pause is all hers, and it gives my rage time to gather. I can’t leave the air dead, and so I say “What about Frankie and me?”

  “I think you were a bit hard on your father.”

  Now the silence is mine until I hear myself demand “What gives you the right to say that? Are you claiming you’re psychic as well?”

  “Oh, Graham.” She seems to think this is enough of a response until she says “I was there.”

  For a moment I assume she means Jasper’s stage performance, and then I blurt “Who is this?”

  “You’re just saying that for your show, aren’t you?” When I don’t respond she says “It’s your mother, Graham.”

  “I didn’t know.” That’s unlikely to placate her, and I feel driven to add “My producer didn’t say.”

  “She wouldn’t know me, would she? We’ve never met.” Just as reprovingly my mother says “I thought you’d have recognised me.”

  “People don’t sound the same when they phone in.” I hope this helps, but I still need to learn “What were you trying to say about my father?”

  “It wasn’t just him who was violent.”

  “Who was?” I have to ask.

  “Not just him.” Her defiance falters, and she says “We used to have fights but sometimes it was my fault as well. You always took my side because you were a gentleman, but I did think seeing all that must have affected you.”

  I can’t let this go unquestioned. “How?”

  “You did end up with quite a temper. That time your father swung you over the balcony, I know people will find this hard to credit, but I think he was j
ust trying to take you out of the situation. I know you meant to defend me, but you really were doing your best to hurt him. If one of those punches of yours had landed it would have done him a lot of damage, young as you were. And when you were a few years older and I wouldn’t let you go out one weekend in case you got into a fight with someone over some silly thing I can’t remember now, you split a panel in the front door, you gave it such a thump.”

  I can’t bring any of this to mind. Perhaps my silence prompts her to say “Sorry, Graham, have I said too much?”

  A laugh jerks my head up, but I manage to keep the sound to myself. Only Christine sees my face, and she seems unwilling to share my expression, whatever it may be. “Nobody can ever say too much on this show,” I declare without knowing how my voice trapped in the headphones sounds, and then I’m ambushed by an idea. “As long as you’re casting your mind back, what do you remember about Frankie Patterson?”

  “Who’s that, Graham?”

  “He went to my school. He was always trying to impress everyone with some trick or other. He liked to make them think he could do things nobody else could.”

  “He must be someone else I’ve never met.”

  “But you heard about him. He stuck a knife in his hand when he was playing a trick he’d seen in a film.”

  “That does sound familiar.”

  “Of course it does. He was here on my show calling himself Frank Jasper.”

  “I do listen to you whenever I can. I just didn’t think you’d want me ringing in.”

  “Well, you have and that’s fine. Do you recall anything else about him now?”

  Perhaps the pause means she’s attempting to remember. As I stare almost blindly at the console, willing her to speak, there’s a flurry of movement beyond the studio window. Paula has come into the control room, and she’s speaking so emphatically that I can read her lips. “Go and get Trevor,” she tells Christine and marches into the studio, gesturing at the microphone with such force that she looks as if she’s delivering a blow. “Hold on, I’m being signalled,” I say and reach for the relevant switch.

  My mother’s voice is still clamped to my skull. “Before I go, Graham, do you really have to argue quite so much?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “So long as it pays you. I just wondered if it’s how you stop yourself doing worse.” Presumably she intends this as some kind of defence. “I hope we’ll see each other soon,” she says.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” I say, though I’m not sure how much I mean her. “Here’s a message from our sponsor.” I start a run of adverts—Fruground Organic Coffee, Your Morning Mouthful, and Frugrime Household Cleaner and Fruguard Insurance besides whatever else is in the bunch— and drop my headphones on the console. “Sorry if any of that was too much,” I tell Paula. “I didn’t know I was putting my family on the air.”

  “I’m sorry too. I’m afraid that has to be all.”

  She glances behind her so quickly that I could fancy she’s hoping for reinforcements. Of course she’s looking for Lofthouse, who I suspect is up on the roof for a cigarette break. “You mean you’re shoving Trevor in again? What did I do that was that bad?”

  Paula takes her time over turning back to me, as if she’s anxious not to disturb her stiffened coiffure. “They’ve agreed upstairs,” she says, “we should give you time off till the situation is resolved.”

  ‘Agreed with whom?” When her face stays as immobile as her hair I protest “I thought you said you were speaking for them.”

  “They’re agreeing with the Clarion.”

  “It’s a victory for the little people, is it?” Just too late I realise this sounds like a gibe at her height. While I don’t much care, I do her the favour of adding “The local rag against the firm that owns the world, I mean.”

  “It isn’t like that, Graham.” Paula hesitates and says “It isn’t public yet, but Frugo have acquired the newspaper chain.”

  “Is there anyone they haven’t bought?” Several people in the newsroom look no less appalled than I feel; they’re staring in disbelief towards the studio, presumably having guessed that Paula’s here to oust me once again. When she stays as mute as the windows make my colleagues, I say “Then I’ll just have to see if the BBC’s still interested.”

  Paula shakes her head, which doesn’t stir a hair. “Leave yourself a little dignity, Graham.”

  “Is that what you think you’re doing?” Just as furiously I demand “What are you trying to say?”

  ‘We know they’ve withdrawn their offer.”

  The stares of the staff in the newsroom might be expressing my reaction. “Who told you that, mav I ask?”

  “Your friend there did.”

  Paula has turned to stare into the newsroom, where Christine has reappeared with Trevor. “Christine,” I hiss in a voice that makes my teeth ache.

  “Not her. Don’t go attacking her.” Paula faces me and says “Hannah Leatherhead. She was in the Dressing Room when I had lunch with Dominic and Meryl.”

  “Bitch.” I don’t care who Paula thinks I mean. Christine has been intercepted by someone at the far end of the newsroom, but now she and Trevor put on speed. As they reach the control room I say “Here’s Trevor to the rescue. If he’s taking over for a while he’ll have to get a personality of his own.”

  Christine yanks open the studio door and gives Paula a wary look. “Graham,” she blurts, “you’re live.”

  Paula stares wide-eyed at me and opens her mouth as though she’s miming silence. I don’t know whether the headphones knocked the switch on the console out of position; perhaps it lodged against a crumpled fragment of newspaper. I’m barely able to contain my mirth—I’ve no idea what kind. “Well, there you are, everyone,” I say to the microphone. “No secrets on this show.”

  I blunder out past Trevor, who steps well aside as if he fears I mean to thump or otherwise mistreat him. Many of my colleagues are watching to see what I’ll do. My rage sends me to grab the phone on my desk. As soon as I’m through to the police I say “I want to tell you who killed Kylie Goodchild.”

  30: Stating The Charges

  I’ve found my keys at last—they’re lodged beneath the computer monitor like a secret I was trying to keep from myself-—when the doorbell gives a single trill. Its abruptness sounds authoritative, as though I can’t avoid admitting the caller, not that I want to put off the interview. I hurry down the hall, only for the intercom to say “It’s just me without my keys.”

  I thumb the button to let Christine in. I needn’t have borrowed all of her keys this morning; it feels as though I’ve forced her to come to my flat because she can’t get into her own. From her tone she might have been apologising because she isn’t the police. I don’t know whether I would have preferred to talk to them while she wasn’t here—no, why would I? I stare into the flattened eyes of Robert Mitchum’s preacher until her footsteps come upstairs, and then I open the door. “Oh, Graham,” she says.

  Presumably that means more to her than it does to me, and I do my best to find a joke. “Even I’d have to call that inconclusive.”

  “I didn’t know this was supposed to be a test.”

  “Let’s say we’ve both passed,” I say and shut the door.

  Nobody speaks again until we’re seated in the main room, where the computer and the television put me pointlessly in mind of Kessler’s polygraph. “Have you been working on your novel?” Christine hopes aloud.

  “No, I’ve been looking for my keys.”

  “At least you’ll have the time now if that’s what you want to do.” She seems to wish we were on the couch instead of facing each other across the room. “And maybe you’re better out of Waves,” she says.

  “You aren’t.”

  “I was let off the lecture, though. Paula couldn’t blame me when she’d sent me to fetch Trevor. She was ranting at everyone in the newsroom for not warning her you were both on the air. She wanted anybody who’d been listening to you to own
up, but do you think they did? I’ve never seen her lose her temper before. You don’t really know what people are like until they lose control.” Christine pauses not quite long enough for me to speak, and almost seems to be interrupting herself. “What are you going to tell the police?”

  I’m taking a breath when the doorbell rings, an even terser trill than hers was. As I make for the hall a doubt stirs somewhere deep in me; it feels unreasonably like the twitching of a polygraph. I haven’t identified whatever is troubling me by the time I have to say “Hello?”

  “Graham Wilde.”

  “Nobody else but.” Christine can be a surprise and if necessary a witness as well, because I’ve recognised the voice. “Come right up,” I tell him.

  He brings more footsteps upstairs with him. He’s Lippy Linley, and he is indeed accompanied by Beaky Rudd. Neither of them seems to want to show me an expression just now. As I lead the way along the hall I find Christine waiting at the end. I could imagine she’s keeping an eye on my behaviour, although she says “Would anyone like a drink?”

  “We don’t need one,” Linley says.

  Nor do I, and in any case she wouldn’t have meant anything alcoholic. “Can we have your name?” says Rudd.

  “Christine Ellis. I’m Graham’s producer.”

  “Are you?” Rudd sits on the couch as if to ensure I can’t share it with her, and then he says “Still?”

  I head off Christine’s answer but just some of my rage. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Haven’t you been taken off?” Linley asks as he settles in an armchair.

  “Only till his name is cleared,” Christine retorts. “I hope you’ll be helping.”

  “You’ve been listening to my show, have you?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Rudd assures me.

  “We’ve been fans for weeks,” says his partner.

  They sound far too much like a comedy team—one that doesn’t care whether I appreciate the joke. I mustn’t be provoked, and I concentrate on offering Christine the other armchair. When she mimes giving it to me I take it and wait while she sits on the arm. Both policemen frown, perhaps only at the delay, but Christine must assume they don’t want her so close to me. She brings a scrawny chair from the kitchen and perches on it, propping her elbows on its back and clasping her hands to support her intent face. “Are you ready to talk now, Mr Wilde?” says Rudd.