Ghosts Know (5 page)

“Sure, that’s why it’s healed so much.”

“I’m getting that it was made with a knife.” When this earns me only a tolerant gaze I say “Was it your knife? Didn’t you do it to yourself?”

“I’ve grown up a whole lot since.”

“No more than I have, Frank. Now I’m being led to believe your parents didn’t want you to have a knife.”

“I guess not too many parents would.”

“Yes, but we’re talking about yours. I’m hearing it was your father in particular. Didn’t he have a special reason to be concerned? I’m getting the impression it has to do with his job,” I say and watch Jasper’s unresponsive profile. “Wait, I’m seeing some kind of uniform. Was he in the police?”

Jasper doesn’t face me. “He may have been.”

“Surely you’d know, Frank. He wasn’t in the secret police, was he?” When Jasper still doesn’t glance at me I say “Now I’m seeing you in the open, at a table in the open. Was it under a tree? Wasn’t it an oak?”

“I guess most of us have been someplace like that.”

“That’s where I see you playing with your knife. Wasn’t it by a playground? You mustn’t think I’m blaming you. As you say, you were young. About twelve, would you have been? That’s the number I’m seeming to hear. And the friends you wanted to impress were that age.”

“Don’t you think a lot of boys that age played writh knives back then?”

“You mean we can say things about people that sound more personal than they really are.” While his head jerks almost imperceptibly at this, his eyes are nowhere near meeting mine. “Let’s see if this is more specific to you,” I persist. “What are you saying, Frank?”

At first he doesn’t react, and Christine frowns through the window at the silence. After some seconds he looks at me, though his eyes display no expression. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe it conveys more to you than it does to me. Something about a clown and a pup?” As Jasper shakes his head slowly enough for a reproach I say “No, wait, I’m hearing down and up. It’s down, it’s up, only you’re saying it so fast the words are blurred. You’re saying it as fast as you’re stabbing with the knife. You’d been doing that between your fingers on the table and then you started on either side of your hand and kept turning it over. And then your hand slipped or the knife did.”

As I don the headphones Jasper stares at me as if his stiff face is striving to hold his eyes blank. “No need to say anything if you’d rather not,” I tell him. “I can see it’s all true. Maybe I should thank my grandfather.” Jasper says nothing, and so I say “Harry? Oh, he’s gone. I was going to ask him what he thought of that, but I’ll ask you instead. Can you tell the listeners how I did that, Frank? Maybe I’m as psychic as you are.”

Most of the callers seem to blame me for fooling Jasper. More than one accuses me of duping him, even if they don’t know how. Only the skeptics ask me to reveal the trick, and I refer them to Jasper, who tells them he can’t say. Hilda from Miles Platting assures him that she’s bought tickets for his show, which she hadn’t known about until she heard him on the air, while Gerald from Mickle Trafford condemns me for giving Jasper publicity and warns me I’ll be in his prayers. At last Sammy Baxter brings us the news, and I can’t help hoping it will include Kylie Goodchild—I’d like to watch Jasper’s face if Sammy mentions that he’s involved in the search. “Okay,” he says at once and shoves back his chair. “I guess my hour is up.”

“Aren’t you staying for the second half? You might think of something else you want people to hear.”

“I’m fine with what I did. I trust them to know what they heard.” He holds my gaze while he leans across the console and extends his unscarred hand to shake mine so loosely and tersely that I could imagine he’s ensuring my clairvoyance doesn’t grasp any more of his secrets. Christine escorts him out of the control room as the news goes by again. At least Sammy Baxter doesn’t mention him. I’m undecided how to handle any questions about my reading of his past, but stories about ghosts along with calls ridiculing them dominate my second hour. Eventually the two o’clock news reminds us once again about Kylie Goodchild, and I’m taking off my headphones when Shilpa calls through from Reception. “I’ve a lady on the line for you, Graham.”

The door judders open and Rick Till rushes in, almost missing his breast pocket with the comb he’s just inexpertly used. “I’ll take it at my desk, Shilpa,” I say and give Christine a quick smile in passing, which she doesn’t seem to feel is enough of a response to whatever questions she has for me. I dodge between the desks to pick up the extension on mine. “Put her through, Shilpa.”

“Is that Graham?”

I ought to recognise the voice. “Nobody else,” I try saying.

“It’s Hannah Leatherhead. We met the other evening.”

“I remember.”

“I’m Derek Dennison’s producer.”

I would have said so if it mightn’t have been overheard. “I know.”

“I was just listening to your interrogation.”

“Which one was that?”

“You’re right, wrong word. Your investigation of Frank Jasper. I’m wondering how you knew so much about him.”

“I think you’d have to ask the expert, and that’s him.”

“That’s your way, isn’t it, Graham? You’re careful with your words.” As I wonder how much she intends this as praise she adds “Don’t give away too much for nothing. I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“I’m in London for the next few days. I just wanted to let you know you’re quite an asset to broadcasting. When I’m home you might think of giving me a call if you like and we could meet for a chat. There are things about your kind of show we could discuss.”

“I’d like that. Where should I call you?”

“Here is fine.”

I can’t help feeling as if my perceptions that fastened on Jasper are receding at speed. “Sorry, where’s here?”

“The BBC, where else?”

“I was only making sure.”

“Still being careful what you say? I understand. Must run now, but I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

“You will. Thanks, Hannah,” I say and plant the receiver on its stand. I’m about to leave my desk for the day when Paula Harding says “Well, Graham.”

I’ve no idea how long she has been at my back. I could have done with being at least slightly psychic. I work on controlling my expression if not stowing it away as I turn to face her. “Well, Paula.”

“How would you say that went?”

“The programme.” When she only gazes up at me I say “My programme, you mean, obviously. I think it made its point, do you?”

“I expect your guest does. I’ll be sending it to the new management if they didn’t hear it. I think they should.”

If Hannah admires me for guarding my language, she ought to try talking to Paula. “Why’s that?” I have to ask.

“You had them in mind, didn’t you? You remembered what was said.”

“About how we’re all an ad for them, you mean.”

“You need to play more of those unless you want the management to think you aren’t happy working for them.” Having searched my eyes for happiness, Paula raises her voice. “Just in from Frugo, everyone. At least four advertising breaks per hour in future. Before you head off, Christine, tell Rick, could you?” she says and turns back to me. “Apart from that, Graham, I’d be surprised if they aren’t pleased with the effort you’ve made.”

I wasn’t aware of making one. “You think they’ll want more episodes like that.”

“Never be shy of an argument, and here’s a new slogan for you. Speak your mind but make sure it’s worth hearing.”

I’m not sure how directly this is aimed at me. “Are you saying I should use it in my trail?”

“Have some imagination, Graham. Think how it fits. Now here’s Miss Ellis to spirit you away.”

Christine is waiting just not close enough to appear to be trying to listen. She gives Paula a smile so flattened it barely is one and heads for Reception as soon as I leave my desk. Behind us Paula is telling Sammy Baxter “No need to be so formal with the weather forecast. Let the listeners hear how you feel about the weather.” A woman with a signed photograph of Rick Till—a good deal more composed than the tousled fellow I vacated the studio for—has called the lift, and nobody speaks while we’re all in the windowless box. Outside the building Christine crosses the road the moment the traffic lights turn red, and a driver planning to ignore them has to halt with a screech of brakes. Once I join her on the pavement she swings round to scrutinise my face. “Who was on the phone you didn’t want Paula to know about?”

I feel ambushed. “Was it that obvious?”

“It was to me.”

This sounds like a rebuke, which her eyes make more evident though not clear. “Just someone from the BBC up the road,” I tell her.

“Am I going to have to guess what they wanted?”

“Of course you aren’t, no more than I am, anyway. Maybe they wanted to talk about a programme.”

“Any in particular?”

“I can’t say yet. I mean, I don’t know.” More defensively than I care to feel I add “You know I don’t like to talk about things until I have a proper sense of them.”

“Not even to me?”

“More to you than anybody else.”

I’m not sure how much this placates her as she makes for the nearest steps down to the canal. When I follow her onto the towpath, beside which a barge garlanded with cartoon flowers is waiting for a lock to fill, she says “Are there any more secrets you’ve been keeping?”

“I wouldn’t call that one. I was going to tell you as soon as I had something worth telling.”

Two joggers give us a wary glance and dodge around us. Christine doesn’t speak again until we’ve passed under the road heavy with traffic. As we come alongside the block with Waves on the top floor she says “So did your caller have a name?”

“A lot more of one than the people Jasper says he talks to.” No doubt that’s as irrelevant as she clearly thinks it is. “Hannah Leatherhead,” I tell her.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“I didn’t till I met her. I’d stopped off for a drink on the way home and she came over to ask how I was finding Waves.”

“And how are you?”

“We might want to discuss our options now that Frugo’s taken over, do you think?” This sounds like Jasper’s style of question, and perhaps that’s why it goes unanswered, obliging me to say “She produces Derek Dennison.”

“She’s not looking to replace him, is she?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

Christine blinks at me or at the glittering of sunlit ripples. “I’ve listened to him now and then. He has his points.”

“He’s fine for anyone who wants to be told what to talk about That’s all he seems to tell his callers half the time he’s on the air.”

“Graham, you don’t always let people decide for themselves as much as you may like to think. You were so eager to prove Frank Jasper’s a fake that you set up that trick in advance.”

“I didn’t tell you about it first, you mean.” We’re walking under Oxford Street, and the bridge turns my voice hollow, detaching it from me. “That’s because I didn’t set anything up.”

“Then how did you manage to tell him so much about himself?”

“Exactly the same way he did it to me.”

Christine gives me a sad look rather too reminiscent of the ones Jasper kept producing in the studio. “If that’s another secret—”

“It really isn’t much of one.” With an effort that seems greater than the revelation warrants I say “For a start, his name isn’t Jasper, it’s Patterson. Pattercake, some people used to call him at school.”

“How do you know all this? If it’s online—”

“I’m sure he’s kept it off. It isn’t on his web site.” If I let her have time to deduce the truth she might think I’m being secretive, and so I say “I was at school with him.”

“Where?”

“In Hulme, just like he said. Don’t let the accent fool you the way it fooled me. He must have been in the States long enough to pick that up.”

“But then when did you recognise him?”

“Not until I had him in the studio. We weren’t in the same class at school. I mightn’t have known him except for the scar. I saw him doing that one night when I was on my way home. Maybe it’s why he decided to go in for a different kind of trick.”

“So you think he recognised you at the Palace. Wasn’t he taking a risk that you’d say who he was?”

“Unless he believes in himself so much he’s convinced nobody could see through him.”

The backs of offices wall in both sides of the canal, and Christine heads for a wrought-iron gate that brings us back to the streets. I sense she’s disappointed, with the truth about Jasper or with me if not both. “I still don’t quite understand how you dealt with him,” she says.

“Just how you saw and how I told you I did.”

“But why didn’t you tell everyone who he was?”

“It must be because I let people make up their own minds after all.” As the roar of traffic greets us at the end of the cobbled side street I take her hand. We’re in sight of the Palaces that corner two sides of the crossroads, and I’m happy to turn my back on the theatre. “Somehow,” I say, “I don’t think we’ll be seeing Mr Jasper again.”

Although it’s past ten in the morning, a mist is lingering outside the Palace. Has it drifted up from the canal? Somebody gullible might even imagine that Frank Jasper has arranged for it to add to his mysteriousness, any that remains. I’m alongside the theatre before I realise the grey cloud was left by a bus held up in traffic. As I make to cross the junction I catch sight of Jasper.

He’s on the front steps of the theatre, and talking to several people. I’m tempted to wait for him to notice me so that I can watch his reaction, but haven’t I done enough by now? Surely it would be malicious to confront him in front of his fans, however deluded they are. I’m both amused and angry to find myself hoping to go unnoticed while I wait for the lights to let me cross the road.

A train on the elevated track paces me like a patrol car but speeds ahead before I arrive at Waves. I’ve just stepped into the lift when the street doors reopen and a woman hurries over to the guard at his desk. I don’t hear what she says to him, but he calls “Mr Wilde.” I jab the button to hold the lift, too late. The lift doors meet as she lurches at them, and I can’t prevent it from carrying me upwards.