“The tourist agency got the machine setting wrong. There’s this tourist agency in the future, running tours into the past, supplying authentic costume and that. They’re exactly like any tourist agency, trying to do it on the cheap, so their machine keeps breaking down. That’s why ghosts groan and howl and go about with their heads under their arms—it’s just that parts have come through out of phase with other parts, and quite likely the agency has gone bust, too, and left them stranded here.”
“I like it,” said Jake. “But why are we afraid of them?”
“Um. Fear of the unknown?”
“Boring. Boring.”
“What about this? It’s not only tourists, it’s baddies. People live for ever in the future, and there’s no death penalty, so the worst baddies get punished by being sent into the past. Not their bodies, just their inner selves …”
“Granpa won’t go for inner selves.”
“Silly old beezer. I’ve got an inner self and so’s he. Anyway, the inner selves of these baddies hang around where their outer selves—their bodies—are in the future. They’re like a bubble of wickedness waiting there, on a staircase, in a garden, in a wood. You go anywhere near, and you feel them. They infect you with fear.”
Martin was very like Dad in some ways. Now he had lowered his voice to a tense whisper, almost as if he was trying to do what he’d described—build a little chill sphere of dread round them amid the noise and lively odours of the caff. He paused, then his laugh at his own ingenuity pricked the fear-bubble. Jake eased a biscuit out of its wrapping, taking his usual foolish care not to tear the cellophane, which he was going to throw away anyway. Crunching contentedly he fished in the breast pocket of his anorak for the pad of postcards Granpa had sent him, which he’d decided to bring in case they might help pick up the trail. They were all in order of sending, so he counted down to the tenth and ran his fingers over the row of pin-pricks, neat as printed Braille, which Granpa used for writing to him.
“What about this?” he said, starting to read. “‘White Lady of Marsham. Wanders across churchyard and dives into tomb where inscription says occupant died for love.’”
“Funny sort of thing to have on your tombstone,” said Martin.
“‘Ah, weep not! Though for love of Man I died, Yet love of GOD shall raise me to His side.’”
“Uh, huh. What does Granpa say? Mist or something?”
“That’s right. He got the vicar to have a bonfire five nights running, until the wind was right and the moon was right, and some of the puffs of smoke looked a bit like a woman drifting between the yew trees in a white wedding-dress. It sounds OK to me.”
“Maybe. But I think I could fit it in. Churches are funny—they go on staying in the same places even when the religion’s completely changed. Whatever religion these people have in the future …”
“No use,” said Jake.
Martin’s chair scraped as he rose.
“What do you mean, no use?” he said. “I was just going to score a triple twenty.”
“No use telling Granpa that,” said Jake, picking up his stick and helmet. “If there’s still a religion in the future he’ll blow his top.”
“What’s he going to say to St Peter when he reaches the pearly gates? ‘You’re a figment of my imagination.’?”
“Or ‘It’s a trick of the light.’ And he’ll tell Peter about the mirages he saw in the Kalahari.”
As Martin’s laugh died Jake heard one of the lorry drivers saying “ … an’ what I say is, OK, you got to cover up a bit of country to build your roads, so you got less country to enjoy. But you gets it back, cause you gets quicker to the bits what’s left, so you got more time to enjoy it, see?”
The boys spent that night near Derby at the home of a friend of Martin’s called Terry McFadyen. Martin had come across Terry through the mysterious network of G.R. enthusiasts to which he now belonged. Jake hadn’t realised how many of them there were. Despite this common interest the visit wasn’t a success. To start with, Terry had forgotten to tell his Mum that Martin had rung a couple of days before and asked if they could come. He’d just said, “Great. Great,” and left it at that. He wasn’t even in the house when the BMW drifted into silence at the kerb and two very stiff-bottomed boys climbed off and knocked on the door. Mrs McFadyen let them in but at once started telling them how inconsiderate Terry was, saying they could come without asking her; but when Martin started to say that they could easily go and find themselves a hotel room she wouldn’t hear of it, and switched her fussing to Jake, trying to lead him round the house and settle him into chairs as though he were a helpless old cripple, and muttering about how far he was from home and what would his mother say if she knew. When Terry came home she switched back to him. She never stopped talking, just like Mum, but it wasn’t like Mum’s talk. Mum rattled on because she found everything so interesting or exciting or absurd (as though she were a radio commentator at the great procession of life, Dad said). Mrs McFadyen talked in a heavy voice with a sigh or a tut in most sentences. There didn’t seem to be a Mr McFadyen, so Terry was all she had and all she thought about, and most of her thoughts were about making him different from what he was. For a short while she sighed and tutted at Jake, trying to talk him back to Southampton and talk Mum and Dad from their lovely cornflake holiday. Then she tried to talk him into a home while they were away, as though he were some sort of pet dog which could be put into kennels. She cooked them a huge delicious supper, the beds were soft and warm, and breakfast was really good too, but it was a relief to say thank you and drown her sighing with the boom of the BMW’s exhaust.
Half way through the morning they had a nasty moment. Jake was leaning against Martin’s back, vaguely wondering what life would have been like if Mum had been a fusser like Mrs McFadyen, when the blare of a horn and the screech of tyres pierced their own exhaust-noise. Martin braked so hard that the deceleration shoved Jake against his brother’s back. There was a lurch to the tight and for one queasy instant down stopped being down. A fierce horn wailed close by, riding above the boom of a hard-driven big engine and the whimper of fat tyres; then as the fast car pressed through on their right the buffet of wind it carried behind it seemed to straighten the BMW … and everything became as it had been before and they were humming up the road, steady and balanced. Only Jake could now feel through the leather a difference in Martin’s body, a tension that relaxed in a series of spasms. Once or twice Martin spoke without turning his head, muttering his fright away.
They turned down a side road and picnicked by a canal. It was warm for March and Jake munched happily at a doughy roll and listened to the click and buzz of insect life and the occasional whip-plop of a fisherman’s line fifty yards along the bank. Noon smelt of sluggish water and dank grass.
“Near thing this morning,” said Martin suddenly.
“I was a bit scared. What happened?”
“Partly my fault—I was too close to the van in front of me, so I couldn’t see when something pulled out in front of it. First I knew was the van braking like fury and skidding half across the road. I forgot you can lock the back wheel of the BMW if you brake too hard—that’s the trouble with shaft-drive—so I got into a skid too. Even if we’d come off we’d have been all right—I was slowed right down by then—but we were almost out in the fast lane and there was this stupid great Jag coming through at ninety. Missed us by about six inches. Made me sweat a bit, I can tell you.”
“Good thing Mrs McFadyen wasn’t watching.”
Martin laughed.
“There was a police car after the Jag,” he said. “I expect they took our number.”
“Whatever for? You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?”
“Witnesses or something.”
“I’ll say I didn’t see anything and perhaps the bloke in the Jag will give me a fiver.”
Martin changed the subject.
He still didn’t really approve of Jake making jokes about his blindness.
“We’ll be in Newcastle in a couple of hours,” he said. “You sure Granpa didn’t give you an address? Shall I look, in case he put it in ordinary writing?”
“Only the Post Office,” said Jake, handing the wad of cards over.
“Stupid old beezer,” said Martin as he flipped through them. “OK, we’ll find ourselves beds first off. Any ideas about how we start looking for one rather loopy old pensioner in a city the size of Newcastle?”
This was absolutely typical of Martin. Jake had several times in the last few days tried to get him to think about it, but he’d refused to until the problem was staring him in the face. Jake had had to do his thinking on his own.
“Let me have my cards back. There was a list on the last one of things he was going to investigate. Here. Footsteps in a warehouse, a patch of cold air in a church, and a pub where the cat keeps getting into a shut fridge at night.”
“No addresses?”
“No. He usually starts by looking up the local Psychic Society. We could ask them. And he goes to the local newspapers and looks at their ghost file.”
“That’s a start, I suppose. But the first thing is somewhere to sleep.”
It didn’t work out like that. An hour or so later Jake began to sense a change in the traffic flow, and a smokier smell in the air, and echoes off large buildings. A car drew level with the BMW, loitered for a while, then drew ahead. Martin stopped the bike and cut the engine.
“Cops,” he muttered.
“Take it easy,” said Jake.
Martin had nothing to prove it by, but he always spoke as though the police were out to frame him for some crime he hadn’t committed. Now Jake could feel his tension as footsteps came towards them with that slow rhythm which means power and patience and apartness.
“Are you Mr Bertold, Sir?” said a voice that had the same weight and slowness as the steps.
“That’s right?” said Martin. “How …”
“Would you mind answering a few questions, Sir? This lad is your brother?”
“Yes. We only …”
“Would you mind telling me what you are doing in Newcastle?”
“That’s nothing to do with you. If you want to know about the accident …”
“What accident would that be, Sir?”
There was no change of speed or emphasis in the dull voice, but beneath the surface Jake could sense a sudden throb of interest.
“There wasn’t one,” said Martin with a got-you-there tone. “There almost was, and we were almost in it, and I thought the police car that was chasing the Jag might have taken our number …”
“But he couldn’t have take our names, could he?” said Jake.
“They’ve got this computer …” said Martin.
“Now, wait a minute, Sir,” said the policeman. “This alleged accident what didn’t occur is not the subject of our present enquiry. Would you be so good as to follow my car to the police station? We shan’t detain you long.”
“Now, look here …” said Martin.
“Let’s go,” said Jake. “It might be about Granpa.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” muttered Martin, obviously glad to get out of fighting a battle he wasn’t going to win.
It was a longish ride, on wide roads at first, but then steeper and more crowded. They stopped in the stale openness of a car park, and went through swing doors into a place which smelt of lino and heated air and the peppery dust that goes with piles of paperwork. There were low voices and distant telephones and footsteps moving unhurriedly on known errands. The brothers waited for several minutes in a larger space where a very nervous man was explaining in a low voice about a wallet he’d found. He probably didn’t realise that Jake could hear what he was saying. The man who was listening to him made notes, and between whiles tapped his pencil on a wooden counter, a noise as monotonous and impassive as a dripping tap.
A door opened. A man with a cold in his nose said, “Martin and Jacob Bertold? This way, please.”
Chapter Three
Jake could have followed the man’s footsteps without help, but he kept his fingers on Martin’s wrist because he was aware of the tension building up in his brother, a mixture of panic and anger which might suddenly make him do or say something really stupid. They went down a long corridor but before they’d reached the end the man stopped, knocked at a door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Jake felt a pulse of surprise run through Martin’s arm, followed by a sudden lessening of wariness.
“Come in,” said a woman’s voice. “Sit down. It’s a bit cramped for three, I’m afraid. You’re Martin and Jake Bertold? I’m Sergeant Abraham.”
“Hello,” said Jake, checking the position of the chair Martin had led him to.
“Hello,” she said. “Please sit down, Martin. I’m sorry to bring you along here like this.”
Jake began to build an idea of her in her tiny, office-smelling room. There were potted plants somewhere, recently watered. She wore quite strong-smelling scent and her voice was deep but not at all mannish. She knew she’d surprised Martin by not being a man and she thought that was funny. There was a vague suggestion of Mum about her, though she was shorter (or sitting on a very low chair) and a bit younger. She didn’t have, anything you could call an accent, but there was something a little careful about her vowels which suggested that she’d spoken differently when she’d been a kid and had taught herself to speak like this.
“What’s up?” said Martin. The remains of resentment still hung round his voice like the left-over smells of supper which are sometimes lingering in the kitchen at breakfast.
“We got a phone call from a Mrs, er, McFadyen …”
“Oh!” said Martin, the last of his tension breaking into a laugh.
“Yes, well …” said Sergeant Abraham, half joining him. “Even so, I thought I’d better look into it. It came through to me because my job’s helping kids sort out some of their problems—you know, runaways and that—so I asked the patrols on the Durham road to keep an eye out for you. It mightn’t have worked, but it did. So now, though I think I know Mrs McFadyen’s type, I’d just like to satisfy myself that you are all right.”
“I don’t see …” said Martin.
“We’re OK,” interrupted Jake. “Our Mum and Dad are in the Bahamas. They won a three-week holiday off a cornflake packet. Martin’s looking after me, but it’s half term so we thought we’d come here and hunt for Granpa.”
“Does your grandfather live here? Don’t you know his address?”
“No. He travels around, but he sends me a postcard every week to say where he’s got to. He hasn’t written for three weeks and I don’t know why. He’s quite old. He’s never missed before.”
“And what is he doing in Newcastle?”
(She pronounced it Newcassel, with all the stress on the middle syllable.)
“Looking for ghosts,” said Martin. Jake could hear he was hoping to get his revenge for her having startled him, but it didn’t work.
“It takes all sorts,” she said. “And the only way you know he’s missing is that he hasn’t sent a card for three weeks?”
“Well,” said Martin. “We wanted to try out my new bike, too. There’s that. But Jake was worrying himself stiff. I’d have given it another week, but this is half term, you see?” “We had ours last week,” she said. “Have you brought his last card with you, Jake?”
“You won’t be able to read it, I’m afraid,” said Jake, drawing the pack from his pocket and holding it out. “It’s the one on the top.”
“Braille?” she said. “Does he carry a machine with him, Just to write to you? He’s not blind too, is he?”
“No, of course not,” said Jake. “He does it with a blunt pin. He taught himself. It’s almost as neat as a machine,
though.”
“Heavens! That must take a bit of patience.”
“He’s like that,” said Jake.
“He’s a good guy,” said Martin. “Nutty as a conker tree, but good with it.”
“The postmarks are pretty regular,” she said. “He doesn’t say anything about not writing for a bit, does he?”
“No,” said Jake. “Shall I read it to you?”
He reached out and waited for her to put the pack into his hand, then ran his fingertips over the pattern of tiny bumps.
“It’s a bit like a telegram,” he said. “He does it to save words. ‘Newcastle. Fine town. Great be in mining country. Friston Horror blank. No witnesses. Old map marks gibbet on spot. Now nosing alleged footsteps warehouse. Cold patch church. Pub where cats get into shut fridge. Expect plenty more big old dorp like this. If not heading north. Great walking: country full bloody border murders. Tell parents have fun Bahamas. Rather them than me. Write GPO here.’”
“It sounds as if he expected to be here some time,” said Sergeant Abraham. Jake thought he could hear a new under-current of seriousness in her voice, and she sat for several seconds in silence with her fingernail tapping the plastic of a telephone housing.
“Can you describe him to me?” she said.
She asked Martin very methodical questions, and made notes. Then she picked up the phone and dialled.
“Tom?” she said. “Poll here. I’ve got a missing person. Fairly definite. Ready? Right. John Uttery. Male. Five eight. Slim build. Sixty-three. Bald. Eyes brown. Small white moustache. Complexion tanned and mottled. Own teeth, good. Good condition. Khaki anorak, blue cord cap, brown polo-neck jersey, T-shirt, colour not known, string vest. Grey slacks. Leather walking-shoes, hand-made. Educated voice. Military bearing. Left forearm severely scarred. Anything like that in the last three weeks? … Sure? … OK, check and ring me back, like a dove. Thanks.”
The phone clicked.
“Well that’s a relief,” she said. “He didn’t go through the lists but he’s pretty reliable. Nobody like your grandfather has turned up in any of the hospital accident centres or mortuaries. Not in the City of Newcastle, that is. We’re putting out an automatic check through the neighbouring districts. So where do we go from here? Do you know what your grandfather would have done when he got to a town like this? What sort of place would he have stayed in? Where would he have started looking for his ghosts?”
Annerton Pit Page 3