Ghosts Know (13 page)

“Didn’t you like how you sounded?”

“I didn’t think I ought to intrude.” When Marcus lets his silence lie I’m compelled to add “When you say how I sounded…”

“Folk can make up their own minds like you say you want,” he says and rings off.

More than one listener comes to my defence, protesting that Marcus shouldn’t have attacked me, at least not so soon after I found Kylie Goodchild. While I feel undeserving of their sympathy, I don’t want to offend them. I do my best to bring us back to Plant A Plant Day, which prompts a caller to suggest planting a garden in memory of her. By the time the news crowds me off the air there’s talk of opening one in Crumpsall. As Rick Till blunders into the studio, bumping the door open with an elbow while he fumbles with his tie and smooths his hair, I stalk through the control room and over to Lofthouse’s desk. “What was the trick with my interview, Trevor? Did you decide I hadn’t said enough?”

“Paula did. She wanted you to be more sympathetic.”

I’m heading for her office when the phone rings on my desk. “Somebody’s here for you, Graham,” Megan at Reception says.

Shilpa is in Delhi for a wedding, and either her replacement hasn’t learned to ask the names of visitors or doesn’t think it’s worth the exertion. Megan is examining her face in a compact mirror—I’ve heard her say the tan she’s gained from lying in the sun can’t compete with the studio product. A large man is standing with his back to her, facing the blind eyes of the zeros above the lifts, but turns as I leave the newsroom. He’s Kylie Goodchild’s father.

The features on his broad head look even more inadequate, as if they’ve been shrunken by grief-—not so much the flattened nose as the small mouth and the eyes set still closer together. A trace of a scratch near his right temple reminds me how he dragged his nails across it when Jasper claimed to see Kylie under something unspecified, certainly not the canal. I do my best to put Jasper out of my mind as I say “Mr Goodchild.”

“Robbie.” Even pronouncing his own name appears to take an effort, and he pauses in order to be able to say “Margaret wants me to say we appreciate everything you did.”

“I don’t know if I did enough.”

“Can’t be helped now.” His mouth looks close to dwindling as he adds “Nobody else did what you done.”

I’m increasingly unsure why I’m being thanked. “Did you hear what I said on the radio today?”

“No offence, but I don’t listen to you.”

I’m ashamed of presuming that either of Kylie’s parents would just now, if at all. “I was hoping all your memories are good ones.”

If possible this sounds even more fatuous than the wish I expressed on the air, and I can’t blame him for wanting to change the subject. “Can I ask you summat?” he says.

“Anything,” I say and regret it at once.

“How did you find her?”

For an awful moment I fancy he’s enquiring about her state. I do my best to fend off any details of the memory by saying “I didn’t know I had.”

“Summat must have made you call the law.”

“I just thought something might be wrong and I didn’t want to let it lie.”

Perhaps he doesn’t care for my turn of phrase; I don’t think much of it myself. Megan has added quite a contribution to the silence by the time I ask “Can you say when the funeral will be?”

“When they’ve finished whatever they’re doing to her,” he mumbles, raising his crooked fingers towards his face. I’m afraid he means to claw at it until he turns on Megan. “Are we embarrassing you, love?”

The last word sounds far from affectionate. “You are a bit,” says Megan.

“Then I’d better fuck off where they’re used to me.” He stares at her with his hand still raised, as if he’s challenging her to respond. When she returns to looking in her mirror—she might be searching for an outraged blush under the tan—he swings around and deals the button between the lifts not much less than a punch. As the numbers start to add up he glances at me. “Are you coming to it?” he says.

He can only mean the funeral. It sounds more like a demand or even a dare than an invitation, but I say “If you and your wife want me there, of course I wilL”

“She’ll want it all right”

I can’t tell whether he’s conveying her view or declaring that she’ll do as she’s told. His gaze finds me again as the lift shuts. “See you at the crem,” he says.

If that seems almost frivolous, it must be his way of controlling his emotions. As the numbers head for zero I tell Megan “He’s just lost his young daughter.”

“That’s no excuse,” she retorts, and I can’t help thinking how unreasonable girls sometimes are. Of course it isn’t only them, but until I retreat into the newsroom, professionally adjusting my expression on the way, I’m shaken by a rage I barely understand.

I’ve hardly stepped out of the lift when Megan says “Paula wants to know as soon as you’re in.”

This sounds a good deal too reproving for my taste, an impression her look aggravates. Is she paying me back for yesterday’s disapproval? As she reaches for the phone I say “You can leave her to me.”

In the newsroom several people rather more than glance at me, but their expressions aren’t telling me anything. I stop at Christine’s desk to murmur “I’ve just got to go and see miss,” and knock on Paula’s door as soon as I’ve collected a plastic cup of water from the cooler. I’m about to knock a second time when Paula shouts “Advance.”

Perhaps she’s too busy to use any more words, because she doesn’t spare me much of a glance from her perch behind the desk. “Don’t stand on ceremony, Graham,” she says and stares at the computer, “unless you’re anxious to be somewhere else.”

The flabby leather seat feels more uncertain of its shape than ever. As it takes my weight it releases a sound like an imperfectly held breath. Paula’s round plump face sinks to remain level with my antics while her hair keeps as still as a helmet. As I labour to sit forward it occurs to me to say “There is somewhere I should be sometime soon.”

“Should I be surprised?”

“You might be. I’ve been asked to go to Kylie Goodchild’s funeral.”

“You’ll be representing Waves there, will you?”

“By all means if you like. I’ll let you know as soon as I know when it is.”

“You must be feeling in demand, Graham.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that. If I feel anything it’s guilty.”

“Now why should that be?”

“It’s not as if I ever knew the girl,” I say despite an odd suspicion that Paula had something else in mind. “I hardly even met her.”

“You must have made more of an impression than you like to think.”

There are surely better ways to phrase it, but I’ve said enough about Kylie for a while. “Anyway, you wanted me.”

“Our new owners will be here next week.”

“I hope it isn’t the day of the funeral.’”

“You’ll have to decide what you’re doing, won’t you?” Paula stares at me as if she expects to learn my decision at once, and then says “I hear you’ve been hiding what you are from us.”

“What in particular? I mean, what’s anyone saying I am?”

“I believe you’re writing a novel. Is that for publication?”

“I hope so when I’ve got it how I want it.” When she revives her stare I say “Are you asking whether you can tell the Frugo people about it? I don’t see why you shouldn’t if you like.’”

If she does, there’s no clue in her expression. I shift on the chair, which amplifies my movements, making them sound absurdly nervous. “Is there anything else you’d care to have me tell them?” Paula says.

“Such as…” When this sinks into her gaze without a trace I have to say “Such as what, sorry?”

“About your intentions for the future.”

So Christine hasn’t only told her about my novel. I do my best to choke off my rage before saying “I’ve had some interest elsewhere, if that’s what you mean.” Her silence and her gaze drive me to add “I was going to mention it. I never seemed to find the proper time.”

“Sooner would have been proper. May I ask what they’re offering?”

“It looks like the chance to interview people the way I interviewed Frank Jasper.’”

“Can you use the same trick?”

My rage is close to surfacing again. “I didn’t use any on him.”

“Maybe you could learn from him.” Before I can attack this Paula says “I wasn’t asking what they’ll let you do. What are they saying they’ll pay?”

“It isn’t settled yet, but I wouldn’t expect to take a drop.”

“And is there anything that’s made you unhappy at Waves?”

“We don’t know about the new regime yet, do we? We don’t know how we may get along with them.”

“We should be seeing we do exactly that. I’d advise making up your mind.”

“You know I’ll deal with them like a professional. That’s what I am.”

Paula’s gaze is growing weary, or she wants me to think it is. “I’m saying you need to decide who you’re going to work for.”

“Can I have until we’re visited? To be honest, I don’t know myself yet.”

“If you really have to leave me in the dark that long. Meanwhile don’t forget you’re still on the air.”

It seems I haven’t earned a sweet today. I struggle out of the infirm chair and am nearly at the door when Paula says “Oh, and Graham…”

I open it and turn to her. “I don’t think you should trade so much on finding Kylie Goodchild,” she says. “It didn’t mean much to our friends from out of town.”

I almost slam the door and stalk to her desk to demand what she’s accusing me of. The twelve o’clock news has begun, and so I shut the door with a gentleness that feels like a secret threat and march to the water cooler before making for the studio. As Sammy Baxter reports that the police are awaiting the results of Kylie Goodchild’s autopsy, Christine blinks at my face. “Oh dear, was it trouble?”

“Someone wanted her to know I’ve had another offer”

My stare might be why Christine retorts “I hope you don’t think it was me.”

“Who else would have had a reason?”

“What reason do you think I’d have?”

“You might want to keep me here,” I say and dodge into the studio as the newsreader prophesises suntans all round. I don my headphones while Christine watches me with an expression I can’t interpret. It’s Join In The Joke Day, and I feel as if the joke’s on me. I’m bracing myself to deal with puns and gags and whatever else the listeners may throw at me—and then I deal the console a thump that makes Christine’s face waver. I’ve thought who else could know about Hannah Leatherhead’s proposal.

“What’s it going to be, Mr Wubbleyou?”

“Nothing just now, thanks.”

“No need for the face. I don’t mind if my regulars just drop in sometimes for a natter. I was nearly feeling I couldn’t talk to you.”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“Your lady friend wouldn’t let me.”

“Which one’s that?”

“How many have you got on the go? Hang on, don’t say. I’m no champion at keeping secrets. The girl that puts you on the air, she wouldn’t let me tell you a joke.”

“I’d have had you on my show, would I? Who knows what reception you’d have got.”

“I’ll tell you it now and see what you reckon. Why don’t Muslims like to draw Mohammed?”

“I’ve no idea, and right now—”

“Because they’re not Jews.”

“I don’t get it, and to be frank—”

“They’re not so keen on making a prophet. Get it now?”

I give Benny a grimace I don’t want him to confuse with a grin, even a pained one. No wonder Christine kept him off the air, though she could have let him on as her revenge for my accusation. When I apologised for the mistake she seemed less appeased than I’d hoped. That’s another reason I’m enraged, a condition Benny either doesn’t notice or feels it’s his job to ignore. “A customer told me that one for nothing,” he says. “Go on, tell me I was robbed.”

“It was a crime all right.”

“Hey, you made one. Thought you were leaving it to the rest of us,” he chortles, though I didn’t mean it as a joke. “I expect you’ve got bigger things on your mind. How’s the writing?”

I clench my fists, but out of sight. “You don’t miss much, do you, Benny? What else did you hear?”

“When you were with the other girl? Seems like you’re in demand.”

“We were having a business discussion, and you told someone about it, didn’t you?”

Benny straightens up, stiffening his neck while his shadow that the footlights cast on the wall behind the bar mimes his umbrage too. “Are you having another joke?”

“Come on, Benny, I’m not accusing you of anything.” I am, but I’m more concerned to establish the truth. “You just said you’re no good at keeping secrets,” I say as I manage to relax my fists, which have begun to ache. “Maybe you were boasting about the kind of customer you have.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Benny, if it wasn’t you—”

“It was one of the rest of them that heard. If I could, don’t you reckon they did?”

I strain to remember who else was there, but nobody comes to mind. “If I was wrong I’m sorry, but somebody’s been talking about me.”

“They will when you do what you do.”

His expression leaves me undecided whether that’s a compliment or some other species of remark. I take it he’s still hurt by my accusation. “Have one on me, Benny,” I say no less awkwardly than I fumble out a fiver to leave crumpled on the bar.

The fierce sunlight falls on me with a roar as if it was lying in wait, a sound it borrows from the traffic. The heat and the uproar seem to crowd every thought out of my skull except one: I need to speak to Hannah Leatherhead. I’m finding her number on my mobile when a not especially slim young woman emerges from the concrete bunker of the BBC across the road. I shade my eyes and squeeze them thin before I’m sure. “Hannah,” I shout.

She doesn’t seem to hear me. As she turns along the side street occupied by one length of the bunker I dart into the traffic. A driver treads on his brakes, but the car doesn’t stop enough to let me cross. I retreat to the gutter as Hannah glances around at the hysterical screech of brakes. She sees me and gestures, but a truck obscures the movement of her hand. She must have been telling me to stay where I am, because when she becomes visible once more she’s making her way along the pavement opposite me. Once the traffic halts she ventures across the road.