The Last Days of Jack Sparks (15 page)

‘Enjoy,’ she whispers, her breath rancid.

Then she topples backwards, down, out of the light, her body rigid as wood.

I don’t hear her strike the carpet. When I jerk the Zippo down to illuminate the spot where she would’ve-should’ve landed, I see nothing and no one.

I move the Zippo all around, exposing the whole carpet.

Nothing and no one.

I’m shaking. With anger. Rage, even.

How dare the Catholic Church try to terrorise me?

My blood boils as I snatch a phone from a wall cradle. I tell some front-desk goon that an intruder’s been in my room. No, I don’t need anyone sent up from security, but I do need them to keep an eye open downstairs for a thirteen-year-old Italian girl dressed as a farm labourer trying to sneak out. Yes, keep me informed, cheers, bye.

I run through the dark suite, Zippo flame dancing, until I reach the entrance door.

It’s not only shut, but locked and latched on the inside.

No way could the actress Maria Corvi have got out.

I fish the keycard out of my discarded jeans and jam it down into the wall box. The whole suite floods with light, glorious light.

‘Let’s see how fucking scary you are now,’ I babble. The plan must have been for me to run petrified from the room, allowing Corvi to make her escape. Well, that ain’t going to happen.

I search all 850 square feet in a methodical frenzy. Every inch of every cupboard, every walk-in wardrobe, both bathrooms. Every plush curtain gets yanked up to reveal the wall behind.

No sign of Maria Corvi anywhere.

As I check to see if there’s a connecting door between my suite and an adjoining one – which there is not – the word ‘connecting’ jams inside my mental filters.

I sink into a chair that overlooks the yawning nightscape. I empty two small whisky bottles into a glass. This crazy rush badly needs dampening.

Connections, connections.
How seductive they can be.

The scenario of a targeted Catholic Church set-up slowly loses viability. Talk about extreme measures. Shipping an actress to Hong Kong? Breaking into my suite to stage this weird little scene? What would be the goal? Me stating in these pages that I’d been a fool to disbelieve what I saw in the wilds of Italy? Besides: Maria Corvi seemed to vanish as a ghost would, as opposed to a possessed teenager. Unless I’ve missed breaking news, the girl’s still alive. So tonight’s scene doesn’t even match the Italian scenario.

I revisit the idea that Maria Corvi is genuinely disturbed and not part of the Catholic propaganda show. Maybe she came out here of her own free will. This is
vaguely
possible. In a public post two nights ago, I mentioned the hotel’s name while photographing my dinner in its revolving top-floor restaurant.

But how did she get out of this locked suite? Perhaps Hercule Poirot might have an answer, but I don’t, so this Mad Maria theory crumbles too.

My head spins. I’ve actually become one of
those
people who’s seen something that on the face of it seems supernatural.

I need to analyse myself. I need to throw SPOOKS at this situation. So I grab my laptop and edit the list.

It hurts me to write a third entry on the list. Physically hurts me.

What the hell to write in that last set of brackets? A steadily blinking cursor awaits my verdict as whisky ravages my gullet.

Scientific logic has backed me into a corner I thought I could avoid.

If someone claims to have seen a ghost and they’re not lying, or being lied to by others, then they must have somehow lied to themselves.

Hey. Hear that grinding noise? Those are the tectonic plates of belief, shifting under my feet.

The latest email salvo arrives from Astral Way. I’ve ignored his messages for days now, because the man’s become aggressive, bordering on abusive. But tonight I think ‘What the hell’ and open this one.

Astral tells me that the Hollywood Paranormals’ experiment will begin in six days, and that I’m ‘seriously a damn FOOL for missing out on covering it, or even potentially becoming a part of it’. You sense smoke rising from his keyboard as he furiously types, ‘This will be THE most prestigious twenty-first-century investigation into the human mind’s ability to conjure up a ghost.’

The human mind’s ability to conjure up a ghost
.

If I believed in fate . . .

Astral goes on: ‘Furthermore, IF you agree to join us for this experiment and give it the full exposure it warrants, we will grant you some VERY valuable information regarding your supernatural YouTube video. After conducting intensive studies, we have concluded WHERE in the world it was shot, narrowing it down to an area of less than FIVE SQUARE MILES.’

I was already sold, but now I’m solder. My fingers are a blur.

‘Hi, Astral. Calm down, mate. I’m coming.’

Alistair Sparks: ‘There follows a transcript of a conversation recorded by Sherilyn Chastain on 7 November 2014. She has claimed the conversation took place with Jack at Lantau Island’s Ooh La La bar.’

(Beach waves and bar chatter in the background throughout.)

SHERILYN: So, Big Man. Here’s my challenge to you. You get to choose its fate. If you’re so very
certain
I’m full of shit, then just say the word. I’ll wash the bottle’s contents in salt water and destroy the spirit. On the other hand, if you’re not a hundred per cent sure, then spare its life and I’ll try to help it move on.

(Long pause.)

JACK: Last chance. Have you ever
seen an actual ghost
?

SHERILYN: I can’t
answer
that. The things I’ve seen could be
labelled
—

JACK: Kill it.

SHERILYN: Jack, listen, don’t do this. Sit down. I’m sorry I lost my temper, okay? It’s just, you’re not being honest, and—’

JACK: Just kill it, Sherilyn.

SHERILYN: Jack, there’s something you should know about that video. Something about the words. (Pause.) And hey, don’t you want my verdict on the
book
?

JACK (Walking away): I was being stupid, the other day. Just jet lag, that’s all. Get rid of the book too. Burn the rest of it yourself, with fucking sage or something.

SHERILYN (Raising voice): That book really
is
from the future. (Pause.) Jack, did you hear me? The book’s from the future and it does mention your death. (Pause.) Jack! Run all you like, but it’s still true. (Long pause. Sherilyn sighs. The sound of a bottle being dragged along a table. Sherilyn’s voice lowers to a mutter.) Come on then, mate. I’m so sorry. Let’s get you in the water.

1
This last sentence is untrue, as will become apparent later –
Alistair
.

(
Eleanor: Very important note – please delete any and ALL earlier mentions in this manuscript of the words ‘Adramelech’, ‘Mephistopheles’ and ‘Baphomet’ on the soundtrack of the YouTube ghost video. Afterwards, check and recheck to make sure that NO mention of these words remains.)

I jerk upright on the sunlounger, the moment I realise Bex is crying.

My ringing phone woke me half blind and glistening beside a kidney-shaped swimming pool. This was no great surprise, as it’s where I fell asleep after lunch and the kind of Bloody Marys that might kill a lesser man. Less anticipated was the book-shaped hole in my new tan, thanks to
Conjuring Harold: An Exploration of Psychokinesis
being splayed across my pecs. During the first twenty-four hours of my stay here at West Hollywood’s Sunset Castle Hotel, I’ve absorbed half of this account of the seventies experiment that the Hollywood Paranormals plan to emulate. Can’t be bothered to read more. Books were way too long back then.

Professor Stanley H. Spence wrote this thing. He was one of the eight Toronto parapsychology researchers who conducted the Harold Experiment back in the day. Semi-impressively, Spence will be flying down to join us for the experiment, acting as ‘impartial observer and advisor’, according to one of Astral’s overexcited emails.

When the phone wakes me, it’s 5.21 p.m. PST on 11 November. Onscreen beneath the incoming number, the words ‘BEX MOB’, together with a still photograph of a laughing, drunken redhead in Brighton’s Bar Revenge, tell me it’s Bex calling, from eight hours ahead of me, GMT. Time travel.

Funnily enough, when I answer, she sounds drunk and might actually
be
in Bar Revenge. Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s an untalented karaoke gentleman in the background, struggling to match the frenetic pace of Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy In Love’.

And at first, I think Bex is laughing.

‘Why do I do it? Why do I fucking do it? Tell me!’

‘What’s going on?’

More sobbing. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ she says. ‘Crazy In Love’ becomes muffled, reduced to bass notes, and I hear traffic. She must have gone outside. Sitting here in the sun, I do my best to picture her at 1.22 a.m., standing distraught among bouncers, smokers and snoggers, while the Palace Pier sits dark and skeletal across the roundabout. Perhaps, nearby, a lone seagull tugs at batter-coated chicken bones on the roof of a parked Ford Fiesta.

‘Bex, what’s happened?’

‘What is it with you guys? If you do want to commit to someone, why’d you feel the need for one last freedom-fuck? If you need that, then why bother committing?’

I do my best to sound devastated. ‘Oh God. Honey, I’m so sorry to hear that. Who did he
—
’

‘Some slut-bitch
slut
with a slutty profile pic. She messaged me about it and I confronted him and he eventually admitted it and I dumped him. Oh, social media, it’s so great. It
connects people
.’ Her fury collapses back into bitter sobs. I can just about discern the pumping bass notes of Girls Aloud’s ‘Something Kinda Ooooh’.

I know Bex needs a good friend here. She needs to be told that Lawrence probably just had a dumb fear spasm on the eve of moving in with her. That people do silly things when they’re afraid. That
she’s
the one he wants to move in with, as opposed to Slut-Bitch Slut, who probably just looked great after five pints.

I know I should tell her to sleep on it and, if she really loves Lawrence, to sit down and talk things through with him tomorrow.

‘What a huge cunt that guy is,’ I tell her. ‘He never deserved you.’

More sobbing. ‘God, this is pathetic. You got a new flatmate yet?’

‘Yes,’ I say, intending to follow this up with the triumphant sucker punch of ‘You!’, but before I can do so, she lets out a pained wail.

‘It’s . . . you,’ I say, flatter than planned.

‘Oh, right,’ she says, controlling herself a little. ‘Then that’s something.’

I still have one of those perky, light-headed hangovers that make everything seem less real and more possible. ‘Hey,’ I tell Bex, ‘why don’t you jump on a plane and come out here? I’m doing this stupid experiment thing and there’ll be a fuck-ton of downtime. We could . . . hang out.’

A stunned pause. ‘How . . . how much would the flights be?’

I give her a rough estimate, conveniently leaving off the taxes, fees, airport charges and carrier-imposed surcharges. She starts crying again.

I haven’t experienced such a strong yearning since I emptied my study five years ago to turn it into her bedroom. I want her to move in with me all over again. Year Zero, Day One. Yes, she’ll move into my big West Hollywood hotel room and I’ll ease her pain. And mine. So I tell her I’ve loads of air miles saved up. I tell her I’ll cover her return trip. I tell her not to worry about a thing. And once she’s here, if she’s okay with it, she can crash in my room free of charge. Because that’s what friends are for.

She agrees to the trip. Says she could fly out in three days. Oh God, she says, maybe this is exactly what she needs to move on.

Beneath all her burbled gratitude, I can make out the bass notes of ‘Celebration’ by Kool & The Gang.

I only allow myself to sing it when I come off the phone.

The roof of the Sunset Castle is lined with stone turrets, just like you want it to be. The hotel was built 105 years ago, but it’s new to me and I approve. This place has just the right amount of swish, and it towers over a stretch of Sunset Boulevard that I love. The staff are slick and helpful, treating me with the respect to which I’m accustomed. I’m unhappy with the mineral water brand in my minibar, but am in the process of having that rectified.

Servers glide discreetly around the pool area with trays, delivering drinks and club sandwiches. I stop one and order a celebratory mojito. He’s wearing shades, so I can’t tell whether he’s staring at the paler rectangle on my chest where
Conjuring Harold
made its mark.

The YouTube video is a big boy now. The likes of Kim Kardashian and Tom Cruise have helped propagate it via social media, to the extent that it is now ripe for parody. There are multiple versions of it on other people’s YouTube accounts. One of these rather predictably replaces the audio with the
Ghostbusters
theme tune. Another pulls a similar trick, but dubs in audio from
The Blair Witch Project
, so that actress Heather Donahue is heard snivelling and crying as if it’s her filming in the basement. When those blackened feet float around the corner at the camera, poor Heather screams herself hoarse: ‘
Oh my God, what is that?
’ By far the most widely shared bastardisation of the video, though, employs visual trickery to place large fluffy slippers on the apparition’s bare feet. The kind of fluffy slippers with big claws. Giant Muppet flippers.