Ghosts Know (17 page)

“What are you supposed to know, honey?”

“I don’t.” Her syrupy epithets feel like toothache, but I need to be clear. “Not a thing,” I say. “That’s the truth, believe me. You didn’t actually call about that, did you?”

“They’re trying to tell us we’re all coloured, dear.”

“That’s because we are.”

“Only some are more coloured than others, darling. That’s all I want to say,” she declares and rings off.

I’d opened my mouth for an argument, and it feels idiotic until I clap it shut. I’m less frustrated by the time I finish disagreeing with Wanda from Ancoats, who insists we soon won’t be allowed to listen to “Good Golly Miss Molly” or call anyone a boy or say snigger or spick and span or Day-Glo. I end up suggesting we’ll be forbidden to say a horse has been spayed or refer to a packing case, and as for the astronomer who dared to mention a black dwarf… I feel as if I’m understudying Benny at the bar, though I hope to sound even sillier. I’m ready for another confrontation as I say “George from Micklehurst, you’re going to tell us something else we won’t be able to say.”

“They can’t call them convicts now, can they? They’ve got to call them custodial service users.” Before I can argue he says “Anyway, I didn’t ring up about that. Strikes me you could be like your friend who put on the show at the funeral.”

“He’s anything but a friend, believe me.” I feel as if the headphones are forcing my head down towards my clenched fists. “What are you saying we have in common?”

“It’s like you said, maybe you’re as psychic as he is.”

I said that in another context, and that’s as much as I recall. “How would that be?”

“Something must have led you to that poor girl.”

“Trust me, nothing did. I just happened to be there.”

“We’ll have to make up our own minds about that.”

“That’s how I like it,” I say and do my best to mean, but I’m happy to end the call. “Levi from Newton Heath, you want to talk about differences, do you?”

“You don’t want anybody talking about Kylie Goodchild.”

I can’t tell whether this is meant as a question or a complaint, and so I say “The phone-in isn’t meant to be about me.”

“We’re let then, are we?”

“I thought I’d made that clear. Are you a friend of hers?”

“Was.”

“Of course, forgive me. I wasn’t meaning to sound like Frankie Jasper.” With an unspoken vow not to mention Patterson again I say “I didn’t see you at the funeral.”

“You’d know me, would you?”

“Sounds as if I should. I’m guessing Eunice who called before would say you’re more coloured than some.”

This is almost devious enough for Jasper, and I’m ashamed of it at once. I feel Christine’s gaze adding to the burden of my headphones until Levi says “Kylie was cool with it.”

“I imagine she would be.” In case this isn’t unambiguously positive I add “Anyone could see that from her poem.”

“Know some stuff about her after all, do you?” Before I can respond he says “Remembered what you said to her yet?”

“Not a word and believe me, I’ve tried. It couldn’t have been too important.” I hope nobody thinks that’s my view of her, and I work on being clearer. “Whatever made her come back, it couldn’t have been anything I said or did, or I’d remember.”

Levi lets me have a silence, and I’m assuming he’s satisfied until he says “Come back where?”

Too late I realise this hasn’t been made public, but I don’t see how to avoid saying “It seems she was round here the night she died.”

“Who says?”

“If you want to know all about it, ask the police. And,” I’m far too belatedly prompted to say, “while you’re at it, talk to her classmates.”

Christine might be frowning on his behalf as he demands “Who says they were there?”

“They were here the only time I met her. They must have seen nothing went on between us, and I’m sure they’ll have told the police.”

I’m waiting for him to respond when I realise the line is dead. Christine ducks so close to her microphone that it obscures her expression. “Are you sure you’re all right with this, Graham?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s what I’m about,” I assure her. “It’s the real me.” That’s quite enough for the listeners not to hear, and I release the switch. “Now here’s Manny from Cheetham Hill. Tell us why you’ve called in, Manny.”

“You left out jews.”

“Sorry.” I’m not prepared for this, since the screen gives today as his subject. “Do you want to put them in?”

“D’you care?”

“Well, of course I—”

“D’you think and jew mind and jew cause and jew date. Watch out or they’ll be banning all of those next, and it won’t be jew to us.”

So he’s joking, and Jewishly to boot. “Better not even think of giving the devil his jew,” I contribute.

“That’s a cracker,” Manny says, although I seem to sense resentment, perhaps because he didn’t come up with that one himself. “We’ve had a long time to get used to it. Some of this new lot, they’re going to have to. Nobody’s got any right to tell the rest of us what to say.”

“But you wouldn’t want anybody to be made into a scapegoat, would you?”

“It’s been sounding like some people want to make you into one. I’ll tell you what you ought to do to shut them up.”

“I’m not sure I want to do that. I mean, I don’t. I wouldn’t have a show without all you callers.” Nevertheless I add “What?”

“Take a test on the air.”

“A test,” I repeat, which seems to leave even more meaning behind.

“A lie test. That’d shake up anyone that needs shaking.”

“I suppose it might.” I’m uncertain who he has in mind and bemused by his suggestion too. “Well, Manny,” I have to say, “I see the news bearing down on me, so—”

“Don’t take it so serious. It’s only a show.”

This simply reminds me I’ve most of an hour’s worth of calls still to take on the far side of the one o’clock news. Before I can speak again Manny has gone, and I leave the Wilde Card jingle playing while I hurry to the water cooler. I gulp a cupful and refill the cup and hurry back to the control room. “Keep them coming,” I tell Christine, since she clearly has a question. “Just try and make sure who they are and what they want before you put them on.”

“Mary Chrystal speaking.”

“Forgive me for calling you between funerals. I was wondering if you could tell me—I’m sorry, I don’t know how you like to be addressed.”

“No need to keep apologising. Call me Mary, of course. All my friends do.”

“Well, thank you, Mary. Is it right you were officiating at the funeral before Sheila Cartwright’s on Saturday?”

“Wasn’t that Kylie Goodchild? Then yes, I was.”

“I was wondering what you could tell me about the young man who seemed so upset.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Why he was, if you’ve any idea.”

“He was poor Kylie’s boyfriend.”

‘Are you saying that’s all? I realise it should be enough.”

“Do you mean the argument he had outside the chapel afterwards?”

“I did see that”

“Mrs Goodchild called me about it later. Apparently Wayne felt the gentleman he spoke to shouldn’t have been there.”

“Why was that, do you know?”

“He, that’s the gentleman, he’s the host of a radio programme Kylie must have liked. Perhaps Wayne thought he was there for the publicity and not because he cared about her. I’m not saying that was the truth.”

“Wayne, you said.”

“Wayne Stanley. I had him down to speak about Kylie but when it came to it he couldn’t. Sadly that’s often the case.”

“I wonder how I could get in touch with him.”

“May I ask why, Mr..?”

“Of course you can. The name, my name’s Childer, by the way. I’d like to give him something that might help the situation.”

“That’s kind of you, Mr Childer. May I know what it is?”

“Just something personal. Would you happen to know where I can find him?”

“If you’d like to leave it here for me I could pass it on to him.”

“I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.”

“You’ve put me to none at all yet, and that wouldn’t be any either.”

“Well, thank you,” I murmur and end the call. I’ve asked her enough, and she has given me some of the information I need. Besides, keeping my voice low to disguise it has been quite a task, if not as much of one as carrying off the second half of today’s Wilde Card, where I kept thinking callers might be cronies of Wayne’s, whatever name they gave and wherever they said they were from. If they were using mobiles they could have called from anywhere, and I couldn’t trust them to address the subject they said they’d called about until they finished speaking. In fact nobody referred to Kylie Goodchild, but I still felt as if she might bob up unannounced. When the show was done at last Christine told me she’d kept nobody off the air, which only left me suspecting she had.

I’m in her apartment, sitting on the pale plump firm sofa that barely admits to its pattern of delicate silvery leaves. Shelves are built into all four corners of the room, and whichever way I face I’m aware of books with names that end with question marks. The memorial brochure from the funeral identified Mary Chrystal, though I had to phone the chapel to discover which service she’d conducted next. I wish it listed the people who’d undertaken to speak, but at least it reminds me of the name of Kylie’s school. It’s St George’s Comprehensive, and Christine’s laptop gives me the phone number. “St George,” says a secretary’s brusque voice. She sounds more like the dragon. She’s certainly not inviting jokes, perhaps having been greeted with too many of them. I’m about to speak when she says “Tell me you’re calling about the machine.”

“Which machine is that?”

“The wretched computer.”

“You’re having problems with it.”

“We never have anything else. Pen and paper’s worked perfectly well ever since I’ve been here but no, we have to change it or we won’t be up to date.”

“You have all my sympathies. I’m sorry, though, I’m not the chap you’re waiting for. I’m from attendance.”

“Are you? You don’t sound familiar.”

“I won’t, that’s right. The person I expect you usually hear from is on holiday, and some of the details I need are locked up on wouldn’t you believe it, their computer. I’m guessing you’ll know what that’s like.”

“It’s just typical of those things.” All the same, she pauses in order to think. “Won’t he have a password? What’s wrong with using that?”

“Unfortunately he didn’t leave it with anyone, though I’m sure he’s got nothing more to hide than I have.”

“You’ll know where he is, won’t you? Can’t you ring and ask?”

“Believe me, it’s been tried, but he’s either switched his mobile off or there’s no signal where he is.”

“Those things are more trouble than computers. Every child has one and they won’t be told not to bring them into school. It’s about time they stopped inventing things and gave the world a rest.”

“Perhaps there ought to be a law.”

“That’d be going a bit far.” I’m afraid I may have until the secretary says “So why were you ringing up?”

“I’m about to make a home visit and I’d like to get some information I’m missing.”

“Which of our pupils is it?”

“Wayne Stanley. I think we may have had to deal with him before.”

“Which year is he in?”

“Do you know, I haven’t even got that information. I don’t especially need it, of course.”

“Don’t you?”

I’m hoping I didn’t hear any suspicion in her voice. “It’ll be either year ten or eleven, I’m certain.”

“It’s year ten,” the secretary says like a rebuke to at least one of us and perhaps to her records as well. “What else are you asking for?”

I didn’t need that information, and I’m worried in case it has used up my chance to ascertain something crucial. “Could you remind me of his father’s name?”

“Remind?”

“It’s possible I may have heard it, but I can’t recall it for the moment.’”

“I should think you would if you had.” Her silence makes me desperate to concoct another prompt until she says “The man responsible goes by the name of Eldridge Stanley.”

“You’re right, that’s certainly one to remember. They live there in Middleton, don’t they?” I have to take her lack of response as a yes and ask “Could you give me the address?”

“Haven’t you got any of this anywhere? I know my records are in a mess just now, but really I’d have thought yours—”

“I’m not thinking, am I? I should know you won’t be able to find it just now on your computer.” A worse mistake is trying to obtain too much information from a single source; it enrages me to find I’m less deft than Frank Jasper. “I won’t get in your way any more while you’re waiting to hear about it,” I tell her, not too hastily, I hope. “We’re bound to have the address somewhere.”

I manage to stop short of claiming I’ve just found it after all, though I hope it won’t be long before I do. Less than a minute on the laptop shows me an Eldridge Stanley—the only one. He lives in Burgess Road in Harpurhey, which isn’t far from Middleton, and the listing gives his phone number. Once I’ve worked out how to speak to him or Wayne or some unknown person who may answer, I make the call. I’ve grown infuriatingly tense with waiting for the ringtone to be interrupted by the time I cut it off.

At least now I know nobody’s home, which may be helpful in itself. A search for the road produces an address just two doors away from Eldridge Stanley’s—Nazir’s News, Food and Video. Feeling confident now, I phone at once. I’ve begun to fear the shop is closed if not defunct when a voice protests “Hello, please.”

He sounds weary, perhaps resentful of having been roused, and it seems best to ask “Is that Nazir’s?”

“Yes, please.”

If this is an invitation it’s more dutiful than heartfelt. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” I tell him. “I was wondering if you could help with one of your neighbours.”

“Who is that, please?”

“Stanley from next door but one, if you know him.”

His voice sharpens—it almost sounds awake. “Which Stanley, please?”

“The young one.”

Before this has a chance to net me any information I hear the ringing slam of a cash register, and a less obviously Asian voice demands “Who is it, dad? Is it some of their mob?”