The Unhappy Medium, page 20
Baxter’s first proper meeting with the McCauleys had also been something of a disappointment. It didn’t really seem to go anywhere at all, though the brothers had at least explained something about the company strategy.
‘We specialise in the more controversial sites,’ Ascot had told him. ‘We buy up prisons, graveyards, sites of special scientific interest, beauty spots, nature reserves, public spaces … it’s a bit of a calling frankly. We then turn these locations into cheap affordable housing or industrial units.’ Ascot showed Chris the big map of Britain, his bony finger seeking out sites amongst the flags and post-its. ‘Of course, you can see that there are so many places simply begging to be developed! I mean, look here.’ He pointed up at Scotland. ‘Oh, if we only had the freedom to break free of restrictions and petty bureaucracy! Culloden Moor – we could put five hundred new residences on that little beauty, no problem. And as for Glencoe, well! The views are magnificent, the setting breathtaking – perfect for a leisure resort.’
‘Great!’ said Chris Baxter, hoping for a cut of the action. He’d never heard of either the battle or the massacre, but he wouldn’t have been interested anyway.
‘People are so sentimental, don’t you think Mr Baxter?’ Chris nodded back obligingly. ‘But progress, my dear boy, that’s the thing.’ Ascot’s finger drifted south. ‘Look here, a massive plague pit in Northampton. A historic tythe barn in Cirencester, circa 1250, but with perfect access to the M4 and ample parking – but oh no, listed!’ he snarled with frustration. ‘And here, a petting zoo, smack bang in the centre of Wolverhampton, the perfect site for a Toys R Us or a B&Q. You know, Mr Baxter, it breaks my heart.’ Ascot attempted a sincere expression, like a hyena begging for scraps at a safari park. ‘I have a big heart,’ he continued, ‘and it breaks that heart to see prime unexploited real estate left to rot for what is laughingly called “the nation”. After all, what is a nation if it is not a large-scale housing development? When you can have a brand-new house with a built-in garage and picture windows, why would you prefer to wander around the site of some dreary massacre or battle?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Chris.
Later, when the day was over, the McCauleys invited Chris and Miss Dryer for dinner in the Grange’s old dining room, the food served by the impossibly old chef, a wizened gentleman with chronic shakes. The cook had been travelling backwards and forwards from the walled kitchen garden via a service tunnel all morning, sacks of spuds and winter vegetables slung over his bowed shoulder in a netted shopping bag. The resulting meal, when it finally made it to the table, was foul. Even the water was watery. The unidentifiable meat had been boiled until it was grey, the cabbage until it was transparent, and the potato hovered uneasily between mash and soup. They ate in silence, their knives scratching uncomfortably on the chipped china, setting Baxter’s wonderfully intact teeth on edge. As if that wasn’t enough, he became convinced that Miss Dryer, pouting like an elderly Monroe, had winked continuously at him during the main course. By dessert, a bowl of prunes in custard, he was certain something was up when her stockinged foot began playing with his right leg under the table. He danced his feet from side to side to avoid the unwelcome attention until a big grandfather clock mercifully clanged 9pm, giving Baxter the chance to make his excuses and a quick exit to his ugly damp attic room.
‘I’ll give it a few weeks,’ thought Chris, as he tried to get comfortable beneath the blanched covers. ‘I’ll get a flat nearby if I have to.’ As always, he repeated his nightly prayers to Dale Carnegie until, finally, he began to drift away into an itchy sleep. He was on the verge of a wonderful dream about international business travel when he heard a distinct creak in the corridor outside and his eyes flipped wide open.
He could think of no reason for anyone to be there. His room was up more rickety small staircases than Chris had ever seen before, each one smaller than the last. Up in the attic, there were only a few store cupboards and empty offices, and no one else had a bedroom there. He was relieved he’d locked the door. As he turned his head towards the sound, he noticed the hall light shining through a sizable gap below the door and distinct shadows cast by two small feet hesitating outside.
‘Hello?’ he said quietly, swallowing, half wanting no reply.
‘Hello Mr Baxter, are you in there?’ came Miss Dryer’s voice with a worrying, homeopathic trace of kitten in it.
‘Err hello, Miss Dryer, yes ...’ said Chris, pulling the damp covers up to his chin. She left a long pause.
‘Is there anything I can get you, Christopher?’ she said in an artificially low register.
‘No, I’m fine thank you,’ said Chris.
The door handle rotated, but the lock held.
‘It can get very lonely out here on the heath,’ said Miss Dryer. ‘A woman can get ... ideas.’
‘Ideas?’ said Chris.
‘Oh yes,’ came the deep-breathing voice through the door. ‘I shall have to watch myself. I wouldn’t want to lose my virtue.’ The handle was pulled a little harder, a trace of frustration in the rotation of the doorknob.
‘Well it’s a bit late,’ said Chris, directing a long ostentatious yawn towards the door. ‘I should be getting to sleep, busy day and all that.’
‘My room is on the second floor,’ said Miss Dryer, ignoring Chris’s evasion. ‘I never lock it, you know, never!’
‘You don’t?’ stuttered Baxter.
‘Oh no, there might be a fire.’
‘Well quite.’
‘I might need to go and get some water ...’ she continued, pausing for effect, ‘in my nightclothes.’
‘Right ... of course,’ said Baxter. ‘Well if you don’t mind, I’d best get off to sleep now.’
There was a long pause followed by a brief but frantic turning of the door handle. ‘So it’s goodnight then?’
‘Goodnight Miss Dryer,’ said Chris firmly. Finally, to his great relief, he heard reluctant footsteps descending the narrow staircase. He lay still for a while, looking at the ceiling, trying to get things in perspective.
‘You’ve still got it,’ he said to himself and turned off the light.
CHAPTER 17 – An unhappy mediu m
How did ghosts work? What particles did they use? Where was this Purgatory, and was it made of solid matter? Or for that matter, did it matter? Did anything matter? Dr Newton Barlow’s mind was full of questions and no satisfactory answers whatsoever. His old life with its certainties, nice comfy laws of physics and everyday common sense lay winded on the canvas. None of it made sense, not even slightly. He sighed heavily yet again and looked at his monitor. He was trying desperately to make himself complete an article about ten-dimensional space-time for Living Physics , but now, devoid of all his old reference points, he felt that he might as well have been typing an alphabetic list of famous clowns.
Physics, he thought bitterly, had disobeyed the laws of physics.
Perhaps, deep down, he’d kept alive a hope that somehow, against the odds, he’d regain his old position in academia, somehow escaping the mushroom cloud of doubt that had tainted his reputation. Now, he felt surer than ever that this could never happen. How could he hope to unlearn the bizarre truths bubbling through the once-watertight lid of his own personal universe? He couldn’t even try to explore these weird revelations using hard science. Not only was there no hard science anymore, he couldn’t possibly explain to his fellow physicists where these revelations were coming from. All that was over and he knew it, so sitting there in the magazine’s office, struggling to describe multidimensional spaces in the light of recent events – it was about as futile as a degree in Klingon.
At least things had improved with his daughter. Halfway through the interminable morning, Gabby sent him a grounding text, and he’d reassured her he’d be taking her out again soon and pressed send. But that didn’t alleviate the ennui for long, so sighing, he turned back to struggle half-heartedly with the article, feeling increasingly like an atheist editing a parish magazine. He found himself aimlessly moving the mouse around in circles while he pondered the endless implications. In a last bid to shake himself out of the rut, he rang Viv, who was at home celebrating the fact she’d been rejected for another job.
‘Hello fruitcake!’ she teased. ‘Whassup?’
‘I’m leaving crumbs everywhere thanks,’ sighed Newton, desperately wanting to share the unsharable.
‘Any new phenomena you’d like to tell me about?’ said Viv, munching on toast.
‘Oh just the usual,’ said Newton wearily. ‘It’s fun going mad. I’ve never had such clean laundry.’
‘I usually associated madness with soiled clothing,’ replied Viv. ‘You should count yourself lucky. Anyway, when are you going to take me for a spin in this weird car of yours then?’
‘How about the weekend? I’ve promised to take Gabby out.’
‘Woahhh!’ said Viv. ‘Is it meet-the-kids time already?’
‘Well, it’s just that we seem to be getting on well for a change, and it might be a good time to get it over with.’
‘Get it over with?’ Viv said, slightly annoyed. ‘Well seeing as you put it so nicely.’
‘Sorry, that sounded bad. I mean, if you don’t want to ...’
‘No it’s fine,’ Viv said reassuringly. ‘It’s one of these classic awkward things you have to do I guess. Just hope she likes me.’
‘She will! Of course she will. OK look, let’s say I give you a ring on Friday to arrange things.’
‘OK,’ said Viv doubtfully, ‘love you.’ She rang off a trifle more abruptly than normal, leaving Newton sitting there even more despondent than before. Utterly distracted, he ground once again to a halt.
Lunchtime passed in a blur of half-eaten sandwiches and a sly pint of lager in a nearby pub. Newton returned reluctantly to his desk to find a post-it note from Denise slap-bang in the centre of his monitor.
‘See me,’ it ordered.
‘Sorry Newton,’ she offered apologetically as he entered her office, ‘this just isn’t working out.’
‘Err no,’ said Newton. ‘Bit of a bad week. Sorry.’
‘Bit of a bad month,’ she corrected. ‘Look Newton, I’d love to help you but I can’t. The stuff you’ve been doing – it’s all over the place.’
‘It is? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Well that’s just the problem. I can’t cover for you Newton – the other staff are getting really peeved. Look at this!’ she said, pointing at a subbed printout covered in corrections. ‘You’ve even stopped using spell-check, there are two s’s in pointless.’
‘I knew that.’
‘And everything’s late. I can’t protect you, it’s not fair on the others.’ He looked out through the glass at the other staff. As one, they quickly looked away and pretended to work.
‘Err no, sorry,’ he said, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘So you’re letting me go? Don’t I get a warning?’
‘I sent you two, Newton, and they’re still unopened on your desk.’
‘Those ? I thought they were pay slips.’
‘No.’
‘Oh right. Well fair enough then, I guess.’
‘Look, maybe you need to do something completely different – get away, clear your head.’ Denise tried again to look kindly. ‘Have a word with Viv, she seems good for you. Ask her what she thinks. I’m sure you can get some amazing offers if you think things through.’
‘Funny you should say that ...’ started Newton, before changing his mind. ‘I’m sorry, look I mean thanks for helping me and I’m sorry I couldn’t hold it together. Things are a tad ... complex.’
‘I do understand, really.’
‘I doubt you do actually,’ thought Newton as he pecked her gratefully on the cheek. And once again, yet another bridge had been burnt, this one while he was standing on it. He cleared his desk of not very much at all, and with his thoughts pressing down on him like a fallen bookcase, he wandered out onto the street and straight into a pub.
Five pints later, Newton was wandering aimlessly around north London feeling a mix of euphoria, pointlessness and self-destructive nihilism that only comes from draught lager and/or a sudden unexpected familiarity with the afterlife. He eventually found himself up on Hampstead Heath, the huge sprawling survivor of woodland that had once surrounded London when it was still unpleasantly small and yet to burn down. He grumpily wandered, hands deep in his jacket pockets, along the footpaths between the old trees.
Eventually he found himself at Highgate. From the High Street he looked towards the crowded roads of Archway and Holloway to the south, getting a clear if wind-chilling view of the spectacular dome of St Paul’s in the old heart of London some five miles away. Then, backtracking towards home, he headed into a leafier corner of the village until he began to notice overgrown gravestones and mausoleums appearing behind old railings at the northern outskirts of Highgate Cemetery. They looked so clichéd in their topsy-turvy ivy-clad disarray, so Hammer House of Horror , that Newton snorted a derisive harrumph, as if their spooky Gothic pretensions were mocking him. He pondered the bizarre appeal of the cemetery, where the Victorian obsession with death, immortality and classical funeral architecture faced a counter-attack by ivy, weeds and trees. The result was half film set, half nature reserve.
Reaching the ludicrous Gothic entrance to the western cemetery, Newton crossed the road and ducked into the eastern section, newer but no less peculiar, which was open to the public without a guide. He paced the avenues of mausoleums, half expecting to see stereotypical ghosts popping out from behind graves and running around, heads tucked below their arms, ridiculing his scientific method as pointless pedantry. He kicked the gravel. As his mood blackened, he was rewarded with a sudden glorious downpour, the cold rain coming down in great icy sheets, making the distant tourists belt manically for cover. Caught out in the open and hardly in the right clothes for a soaking, Newton dashed for the nearest shelter, a red marble mausoleum with a small covered entrance. Shivering, he watched the rain crash down upon the gravestones.
‘You’d better come in,’ shouted Dr Sixsmith from behind the cast-iron doors. Startled, Newton looked in through the small barred window. The ghost of Alex Sixsmith was inside, sitting on a coffin, playing with his spectacles.
‘Oh no, not you again,’ said Newton.
‘Push the door, it’s open,’ said Sixsmith.
Newton looked around to make sure no one could see him then leant hard against the heavy old door. Creaking and resistant after two hundred years of rusting, it gradually yielded and Newton reluctantly stepped inside.
‘No, don’t sit down,’ said Sixsmith standing, ‘we shan’t be staying.’ And with that a small hatch opened to reveal a stone staircase.
‘Oh very Gothic,’ Newton muttered. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m going down there, I’m claustrophobic.’
‘Are you?’ said Sixsmith, laughing. ‘Well, can’t be helped, there’s someone you need to meet.’ He gestured to the steps. ‘Please, after you. ’
Newton pulled his keys out, switched on his small Maglite and began to descend the stairs.
******
Two learned men, one dead and one in a right bloody mood, made their way along the musty tunnel.
‘You’d never know all this was here, would you?’ said Sixsmith. ‘It was all about avoiding being buried alive, you see.’
‘Eh?’ said Newton. ‘Why, what is this?’
‘Escape route. If they’d woken up in the coffins, they could nip out, sharpish like, and dash home to ruin the wake.’
‘Where does it go?’
‘Pops out in a pub. Sensible move I reckon. By the way, sorry to hear about the job,’ said Sixsmith, trotting ahead.
‘Yup, thanks for that,’ said Newton, brushing away some cobwebs. ‘I couldn’t have lost it without you.’
‘Now, now,’ said Sixsmith. ‘It was probably for the best.’
‘How can it possibly be for the best?’ replied Newton curtly. ‘I’ve lost my job and my income, in no small part because I’ve been contacted by the kingdom of the dead. That will look good on my CV.’
‘Ah,’ said Alex, ‘does leave you free to do something new, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh I get it – that’s what this is about? Well just because I’m technically destitute doesn’t mean I’ll do any job. Actually, I was thinking of something in mine clearance. Outdoor work, you know.’
‘You’ll say yes, though?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Very, and you’d be mad to say no,’ said Sixsmith. ‘Especially in your somewhat complex situation.’
‘Yes well, thanks for that. Anyhow, how can I work for the afterlife? I mean, how will it affect my tax?’
‘Haha, very good,’ chortled Alex. ‘Actually, we worked all of that out. You’ll seem perfectly normal from the outside – no one will notice anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Apart from the headless horsemen and the ectoplasm,’ said Newton derisively, dodging a huge arachnid.
‘Oh there’d be none of that!’ said Alex reassuringly. ‘Anyway, it’s not my place to explain the job to you. It’s better that I let the personnel department handle that.’
‘Personnel department? Oh come on, you have to be joshing me!’
‘No really, I told you it was bureaucratic. I’ll let them explain it.’ With that, they emerged into an underground chamber with frescos flaking from the walls. In recesses, Victorian coffins were crumbling to dust. In one corner of the chamber, invisible at first in the gloom, stood a figure. He was wearing long robes and at first, Newton mistook him for a statue. But then the figure turned, and Newton’s small torch began to light up his golden hair and earnest face in the blackness.
