Yuki chan in Brontë Country

by Mick Jackson

  The day of Yuki’s second visit to the institute was an even colder, greyer affair. So dismal, in fact, that by the time she’d walked all the way out there and climbed the front steps of the beleaguered building she wondered if she had the strength to force herself through its doors. The same receptionist buzzed her through. The same big-bearded gentleman sat and gazed out from his portrait. Having signed in, Yuki was instructed to sit beneath him on a wooden bench. So for a while she and the bearded fellow sat and stared into the distance together, both wondering what the future had in store. After three or four minutes Yuki heard a clatter of footsteps coming across the tiled floor towards her and looked up to see a slightly younger man than the one above her, and not quite so beardy. They shook hands, he introduced himself, then led her past the reception and into the gloom.

  Halfway down that dimly lit corridor he turned and pulled back an old wooden door, but it wasn’t until Yuki came alongside him and saw him drag a metal grille from left to right that she understood that this was an elevator. They stepped inside, Mr Fields slid the grille back, pressed a button and they started to ascend. It was the slowest elevator Yuki had ever encountered. She thought, We’d have been quicker taking the stairs. She pictured the wooden box in which the two of them stood dangling at the end of an ancient rope.

  As they rose, creaking and bumping, through the middle of the building Yuki could see the plaster of the elevator shaft creep slowly past – could quite easily have reached through the grille and written her name there so that future passengers in this wardrobe/elevator would wonder at the Japanese writing. Might imagine it to be some secret code. After they’d passed the second doorway without docking Yuki had a furtive glance up at her host. His beard still had several years’ growth ahead of it before entering the bushy realms of the fellow downstairs. Who knows, thought Yuki, perhaps within the institute’s walls the length of a man’s beard is restricted according to his psychic status. Or perhaps a beard responds spontaneously to a man’s spiritual experience, suddenly bursting forth as each new level is attained.

  At the third door the elevator slumped to a halt and hung there, rattling in the shaft. Mr Fields swished back the grille, pushed at the door and held it open, allowing Yuki to step out first. Then he led her down the corridor, took out his keys and opened a door into a long room, about the same size as the library. Its ceiling was not so high and the shelves, rather than being spread evenly throughout, were crowded together at both ends. A huge old table took up the remaining space.

  The room seemed very green. The table top was covered with a layer of green leather and the lampshades which hung down over it were even greener. As she edged her way round the table Yuki counted four large cast-iron radiators, each pumping out its own dusty Victorian heat. Mr Fields took her coat and pulled a chair out for her.

  Now, he said, Mrs Harris tells me you’re interested in spirit photography. And he asked if there were any particular photographers or collections that she’d care to see.

  Yuki had only landed in the UK a couple of days earlier. She understood maybe half of what Mr Fields was saying, and was having to speculate about the rest.

  My mother, she said, then stopped.

  She gathered her thoughts and tried again, doing her best to tell Mr Fields how her mother had once visited the institute. Then raised both hands, with all ten fingers and thumbs splayed out.

  Your mother visited us ten years ago? said Mr Fields. Yukiko nodded at him.

  Yuki had had weeks – months, even – to practise her part in this conversation but, judging by the expression on Mr Fields’s face, most of her words failed to put him in mind of the word she was after and the ones that did didn’t seem to appreciate each other’s company. But she persevered and, one way or another, she thought, managed to convey the most significant point: that she wanted to see the photographs her mother had seen on her visit. Would that be possible?

  Mr Fields seemed suddenly uncomfortable. He was sorry, he said, but whatever records the institute might have regarding their visitors and the material they requested would be confidential.

  She may not have grasped every word but Yuki could tell from his face what he was saying. He seemed to genuinely regret the situation, but Yuki now sensed his attitude towards her harden, as if she were guilty of having made an improper suggestion regarding his relationship with Mrs Harris. This troubled her. I am, after all, she wanted to say, just a psychic detective trying to follow in the footsteps of her poor dead mother. You’d think a place like this would be more sympathetic to my cause.

  For a while Yukiko gazed down at the old green leather, ashamed and awkward. Until at last Mr Fields said, Why don’t I just bring out a few items for you to see?

  Then he crept away, into the shadows at the far end of the room. Two minutes later he returned with a small stack of books propped against his chest and what appeared to be a pillow tucked under his elbow. He placed the books to one side and put the pillow squarely down in front of Yuki.

  How kind, she thought. When the books, the Victorian heat and all the greenness become too much for me Mr Fields will lay my head down, dim the lights and leave me to my dreams.

  In fact, she knew very well why Mr Fields had brought the pillow. These books were old and very precious. And, to confirm this, when Yuki next looked up she found Mr Fields pulling cotton gloves onto one hand, then the other. Yukiko was presented with her own gloves, and once they were on Mr Fields leaned over and picked a small book off the top of the pile.

  The pillow had a shallow valley down the middle and Mr Fields carefully tucked the book’s spine into that cleft before gently opening it. Even so, Yukiko could still detect a series of tiny creaks, which she assumed was either the complaints of the dried-out glue in the binding or the sound of the pages parting after being closed for so long.

  This book, said Mr Fields, was one of the earliest on the subject of spirit photography. It looked to Yuki quite unexceptional, with a plain black cover and no more than a hundred or so pages of text. But in the middle were four pages of photographs, all very poorly reproduced, in which tiny faces peered out from the darkness. The faces, it seemed, had been cut out of other photographs, placed against a dark background and photographed again. The effect was not so much ghostly, more like a child’s attempt at collage.

  The next collection was of a similar standard, but by the third or fourth book semi-transparent figures began to appear, draped in linen and drifting above the sitter. These, Yuki assumed, had been produced by double exposure, but at first sight the results were a little unnerving – similar to photographs Yuki had found online, and she thought, then and now, how convincing they must have seemed when photography was in its infancy, and still considered uncompromisingly scientific. How it must have seemed that the previously unreachable had been inadvertently plucked out of the air.

  Mr Fields and Yukiko slowly worked their way through that first stack of books, and then another, with Mr Fields meticulously transferring the books to the pillow, bobbing in and out to reveal their contents, then building a new stack on the other side. Yuki could see how much he revered these books. How he loved bringing them out for his visitors and talking about the photographers involved. After presenting his second stack he asked Yuki if she didn’t perhaps wish to make some notes – even offering to provide a pencil and paper. Yukiko accepted, if only so that Mr Fields didn’t think her ungrateful or that she was failing to treat the subject with the seriousness it deserved. Whereas, in truth, she could have happily sat all morning, gazing down at whatever appeared on the soft altar of her pillow, beneath the flurry of Mr Fields’s soft white gloves.

  After they’d worked their way through a third selection and Mr Fields went off again, Yukiko sat back in her chair and looked around the room. Her mind already felt packed with pictures and she wanted to briefly contemplate something else. When Mr Fields reappeared he was carrying two small photographs, one in each gloved hand. He nudged the pillow to one
side and placed the first photograph on the table – a rather stern-looking woman in her sixties sat with her hands folded in her lap. She wore a dark woollen twin set with a soft, flat collar. A row of covered buttons ran down the jacket’s trim. Her hands were almost manly. Or, perhaps, swollen and arthritic. Everything about her was grey and unassuming, except for a necklace, a ring on one finger and a buckle at her waist. And yet she was enveloped in something flimsy. As if she had been photographed through the fine spray of a waterfall, and when Yuki followed it back to its source, she found the face of another woman, half-shrouded and facing off to the left. A dark-haired girl, barely there but for the eyes, nose and lips. And Yukiko thought, What an odd combination – this transparent, half-formed beauty and beneath her this rather cold and fierce-looking individual.

  Yukiko found herself more intrigued by the real woman than her accompanying ghost. Her face looked as if it had been cut from stone. Yuki leaned in, examined her closely and discovered one other source of light, to go with the necklace, the ring and the buckle. She had a glint in her eye, defiant. As if to say, You see her, don’t you? You dare tell me that you don’t.

  Mr Fields informed Yukiko that her name was Ada Emma Deane. He placed the second photograph on the table beside her and tapped his finger under the first one, then the other.

  She took this, he said.

  Ghost aside, the first photograph was quite a conventional portrait, but no matter how hard Yuki looked at the second one she found it practically indecipherable. All she saw was a mist or blizzard, with the stark outline of a leafless tree off in the distance. The lower half of the picture might have been a cobbled street or beach of shingle. But, as Yuki stared at it, the cobbles or shingle were gradually transformed into a vast crowd. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of heads and faces, all packed together. This was, Mr Fields explained, a very particular occasion – a service in memory of soldiers who had died in the Great War. Not a funeral, he emphasised, but a service held in their honour. Mrs Deane was in attendance and she took the photograph as the crowd stood in silence. Then Mr Fields reached in and with his gloved finger hovering over the photograph indicated a line of shadows above the heads of the crowds.

  The soldiers, he said. The ghosts of the dead servicemen.

  Yukiko leaned right in, until she could feel her own warm breath come back up off the table, and finally was able to make out a line of dismal forms, hunched forward, as if they were marching. Well, that would make sense, she thought. That all these people gather to bow their heads and think about the poor, dead fathers, sons and uncles. And, without even knowing it, conjure up their ghosts.

  She was still hunched over the tiny photos when Mr Fields slipped away again and this time was gone for quite a while. When he finally returned he was carrying a selection of dusty albums. He moved the photographs aside and retrieved the pillow. Settled the first album onto it and eased its pages apart. The photographs were as small as the last, like miniatures, but laid out six to a sheet. In each shot, it seemed, some forlorn-looking individual perched on a chair while a veiled creature floated about them. But these were more elegantly composed and altogether better executed.

  Yukiko studied the expressions of the subjects, trying to gauge whether they were in on the deception. Possibly not, she thought. But when Mr Fields replaced this album with the next and drew back the cover, Yuki found a set of pictures which were quite different from the rest. Well-dressed men and women faced the camera in groups of three and four, their hands folded in their laps or holding the hand of the person next to them. The prints had the same ochre tone as a leaf which had given up its last drop of chlorophyll. The men and women all looked quite formal, but somewhere in each photograph was a small, intense ball of light. It was stronger in some than others but in every image clearly illuminated the neighbouring air. And this ball of light seemed to Yuki more arresting than any number of ghostly faces. More chillingly convincing. That what had been caught was not a face up against the veil that separates our world from another, but an unknown and uncompromising force.

  Yukiko sensed that Mr Fields was watching her. When she finally turned he indicated for her to accompany him and led her over to the far end of the table, where he crouched down before a great wooden plan chest which was tucked beneath it. He ran his finger down the labels, then pulled a drawer out. He picked out one print, then another – quietly chatting to himself as he did so – then laid them out on the table top.

  These prints were much larger than the others and, judging by the subjects’ clothes and the quality of the photographs, more recent. Mr Fields turned to Yuki. These are very rare, he said.

  Yuki nodded, to show that she appreciated the gravity of the situation, but it was only later that she understood he may also have been saying that they were rarely seen.

  Yukiko moved quietly in alongside him. The photographs appeared to have been taken at séances or meetings of some sort and from the outset Yuki saw that they were different in another regard. All the stillness and reverie was gone. These images were packed full of action and random energy, the participants caught in a flash, with tables and chairs flying, as if in the midst of some strange electrical experiment. Most of the figures weren’t seated or static. One or two may have held hands around a table but most were up, out of their chairs, leaping and stumbling – with the camera right in among them. Participants were caught, eyes closed and open-mouthed, among the chaos. Not at all sure what was happening, or what was in the room with them.

  Mr Fields undid a ribbon from around a cardboard file and took out a clutch of photographs in which a middle-aged woman sat with a shawl up over her head, like a South American peasant. Her eyes were closed and she was grimacing, as if undergoing the most terrible anguish or ecstasies. In the next, a woman was drooling, eyes popping, her breasts spilling out of the top of her blouse. Everything was strained and full of discomfort and Yuki saw how there was an illicit thrill in viewing these images – something wild, even sexual about them, akin to an anthropologist’s photographic record of some far-flung primal ritual. It wasn’t till much later, as she lay on Kumiko’s couch and struggled to sleep, that it occurred to Yuki what else these images reminded her of. She’d once seen a collection of photographs of individuals incarcerated at a lunatic asylum – desperate, vulnerable people. Intentionally or not, these psychics and mediums were mimicking the tortured souls of those disturbed and uninhibited inmates. Which helped lend credibility to the idea that these spirits were with them – in them – and, whether their host wanted to help them or not, were insisting on being known.

  Mr Fields seemed to sense Yukiko’s discomfort. There are worse, he said. But perhaps we should save those for another time.

  He was about to add something when a telephone rang somewhere off in the shadows. Mr Fields went in after it. Yuki could hear him talking. And when she next saw him he seemed quite excited.

  Do excuse me a minute, he said. But we’ve had a little delivery.

  He slipped away. In truth, Yuki was grateful for the respite. On the whole she believed herself to be capable of considerable mental stamina, but each series of photos had seemed to land a blow on her. She also suspected there was something faintly toxic about them. Something darkly unpleasant that she didn’t want to get too deep into her.

  She walked round the table, just to stretch her legs, and came to the stacks of books where she’d originally sat. She bent over them and sifted through them in her cotton gloves. Then thought, What’s the likelihood of me ever seeing such pictures again?

  She knew she should wait and ask Mr Fields’s permission. She also knew there was a good chance he might refuse. So she went over to her jacket, took out her phone – and crept back. Then took as many photographs as she dared.

  When Mr Fields finally returned, beaming and carrying a package, Yuki was back over by the plan chest. She sensed that Mr Fields’s attitude towards her had softened. And not just because of his delivery, which he set down at t
he far end of the table. He raised a finger. One minute, he said. Then headed off towards the shelves again.

  Yukiko looked round the room. Wondered if this was where Mr Fields spent all his time, in this green half-light. Whether it had been his predecessor who’d met her mother or Mr Fields himself, with even less of a beard on him.

  Your mother, Mr Fields called out. How long ago did you say she visited us?

  Yuki squinted and could just make Mr Fields out, in a small pool of lamplight, picking away at a pack of index cards in a small set of drawers.

  Yukiko explained, as well as she could, that her mother had come over to the UK in the summer, which meant that it was probably a little more than ten years ago now.

  Mr Fields continued picking through his index cards. Then Yuki saw him stop and, a moment or two later, heard him say, Well, that’s odd …

  He stumbled away, even deeper into the darkness, and finally re-emerged carrying a plain A4 folder. He made some space and placed it on the table, pulled back the cover and for the first time that day Yukiko saw a non-Western face staring back at her. What’s more, it was a face with which she was vaguely familiar.

  Have you heard of Tomokichi Fukurai, Mr Fields asked her. Yukiko nodded. She’d seen a similar, if not the very same photograph whilst carrying out her own research, with his hair combed back, a tiny moustache and pair of thin-rimmed spectacles. He had an air of faint amusement, but there was nothing ghostly about him, and no ghosts anywhere else in the frame.

  And do you know his work, Mr Fields wanted to know.

  Yuki wasn’t quite sure. Over the years she’d read a good deal about spirit photography, but her research hadn’t followed any particular form. She’d read accounts of the experiments Fukurai had carried out with Koichi Mita, not least the one in which they tried to conjure up an image of the far side of the moon. She had also skipped through a rather dry book of his in which he described how his experiments were carried out. But she had him firmly fixed in her home country and hadn’t expected to encounter him over here.