Ghosts Know (23 page)

Her face looks grimly resolute, stiff as her hair. So Megan called her, not security at all. I let my badge dangle on its shrinking cord and step back. Paula might almost be on her way to swat an insect, since she’s holding a rolled-up newspaper—I’ve no doubt which. She pulls the door open and brandishes the paper. “Don’t run away, Graham,” she says as the door shuts behind her. “I take it you’ve seen this.”

She plants the
Clarion
on the counter, where it unfolds jerkily beside the photographs of me. I’ve already subjected myself to its contents more than once—not just the front-page story that transcribes Kessler’s questions and his verdicts on my answers, but the editorial that says I shouldn’t be allowed to work at Waves until I’ve been thoroughly investigated, though the writer stops short of saying by whom. “I’m sure a lot of people have,” I retort.

“Have you, Megan?”

“I glanced at it.”

She doesn’t now, and seems to resent being made to own up. I’m close to demanding how her opinion counts when Paula says “Don’t let it bother you, Graham. It won’t bother us.”

I’m as uncertain whether Megan is included as she appears to be, but it’s more important to establish “That’s Frugo as well.”

“I rather think I can say that, yes.”

“You’ve heard from them.”

“I expect to very shortly.”

I sense she’s vexed by having to say so. If she dislikes being overheard, why didn’t she take me into her office? Before I can propose it she says “I think they’ll share my view.”

“Do you mind if I ask what that is exacdy?”

“Why should I mind?” Paula lifts her chin, and the tips of her cropped hair rise precisely as much. “We’re independent radio,” she says, “and that means we don’t let other media dictate policy to us.”

Even if it sounds stupid I need to say “About me, you mean.”

“About any managerial decision.”

I take this to mean yes. Megan’s face has grown as blank as Kessler’s, which is a comment in itself. Yesterday I was distracted by the antics of the polygraph, and now she’s providing the unspoken judgments I’m unable to ignore. As I struggle not to turn on her Paula says “Megan, Wilde Card will be going on as usual. If anybody calls about that, put them through to me.”

As she holds the door open I grab the newspaper, not wanting Megan to have it. “Shall I bin this?”

“Do what you like with it, Graham,” Paula says.

I’m tempted to rip it to shreds, but I wouldn’t like Megan to see, and so I hold it between a finger and thumb as I follow Paula. Some of my colleagues glance up at me; some even take the time to look encouraging.

I flourish the
Clarion
at them and hurry into the control room. “Was Paula talking to you?” Christine wants to know.

“That’s why I’m here,” I reassure her and hurry to put on my headphones, having dropped the newspaper on the console. Today is Elderly Excellence Day, but I suspect I won’t be hearing much about that. “Let them all on,” I tell Christine and read the monitor. “Kicking off is Les from Swinton. What do you have for us, Les?”

“Why are you still here?”

On some level I’m delighted with the question. If Paula wants confrontational broadcasting, I’m more than angry enough. “Where would you like me to be?”

“You wouldn’t want to hear it. I’m asking why you are.”

“Somebody must want me.”

“And a lot of us don’t, only we don’t matter. We just have to put up with everything the likes of you and your friends in high places inflict on the rest of us. It used to be if you were under a cloud you’d do the decent thing and resign without needing to be told.”

“I haven’t seen a cloud for quite a while, have you?” Since this would sound worse than facetious I say “If enough people want me to I’d have to think about it.”

“The paper does.”

“That’s just a few people at one paper.” I grow aware that I’ve been tearing fragments off the front page and strewing them across the console. As I set about collecting the rubbish to bin it I say “Maybe they ought to get their readers to vote. Thanks for your thoughts, Les.”

The next caller thinks the vote should be confined to my listeners, and someone else advises me to sue the newspaper, but Harold from Beswick has a question. “Do you think lie detectors work?”

“I have to say yesterday’s didn’t for me.”

“Then you’re a liar, Mr Wilde.”

The strip I’m tearing off the newspaper removes the first letter of the last word of the headline. “Will you be telling us why, Harold?”

“Because it said one of your answers was true and now you’re saying it didn’t work.”

“It did for that one, and you heard the examiner wasn’t happy with the conditions either. Just think how he sounded when people started phoning in.” Harold meets this with a silence I’d like to take for agreement, and I say “Madge from Melling, you’re on.”

“Can I call you Graham, Graham?”

I nearly give her an answer too reminiscent of Jasper’s. “Of course you can.”

“I’m going to upset some people, Graham. Nobody except an idiot could trust a lie detector.”

“Do you think that’s a little harsh? I know—”

‘Graham,” she says like a maternal rebuke. “It’s nothing of the sort, Graham. They should be ashamed of themselves, damaging your reputation with that nonsense. Tests like those, Graham, they’re just a performance. They’re as fake as your friend who tried to make out he was psychic.”

“I wouldn’t call him a friend, but—”

“I was being sarky, Graham. Graham, nobody that’s not an idiot would want him for a friend.”

“Well, again, Madge, perhaps that’s a little—”

“Graham. He’s the one who should have had a lie test, but I’ll bet my pension he’d have turned it down, Graham. Shall I tell you why?”

Surely I’ve no reason to hesitate. “Go ahead.”

“Because he didn’t know you were the killer, Graham.”

My vision quakes, or there’s a nervous movement somewhere at its edge, or both. Paula’s door hasn’t burst open, but Christine has jerked her head up. I hold her gaze without being able to judge what either of us is thinking as I say “That’s because I’m not one, and if anyone—

“You didn’t let me finish, Graham.”

I hardly think I’m the one to be accused of interrupting, but I hear my voice say “Then please do.”

“Graham. He was there with you in your studio, wasn’t he? How far away, Graham?”

My name has begun to feel as though it’s adding weight to the clammy headphones. “Close enough to touch,” the voice that’s my job says, “not that I did.”

“Well, there you are, Graham.” I’m about to demand where she thinks that is when she says “He didn’t mention anything about it when he was supposed to be so psychic, Graham, but he’s trying to make out you’re a killer now.”

“I don’t believe he’s ever said that.”

“Some people should watch what they’re saying, Graham, and they ought to be careful what they think as well.”

“I’d rather people spoke out on here, but thanks for your support, Madge.” She must have meant it that way, and yet I feel in need of a break. I run an ad for Frugarden Centres—“Bring a bit of Eden home”—and then I do my best not to be reminded of Kessler’s monitor as I consult the screen. “Now we have Maurice from Failsworth. What would you like to add, Maurice?”

“May I ask you just one question, Mr Wilde?”

“Two if you count that one, or as many as you’ve got.”

“That’s what you say now you aren’t being tested.” Before I can deal with this he says “What do your parents think of everything you’ve done?”

My fists clench on the newspaper. I can’t pretend to know the answer, which makes the question feel even more like a wistful reproach from my mother. She isn’t far away—about thirty miles since she put some distance between herself and my father—but I haven’t been to see her for weeks or phoned her either. As for my other parent, I haven’t seen or spoken to him since my grandfather’s funeral. I feel urged to respond, not least by Christine; I’m aware of her despite if not because of avoiding her gaze. “I don’t suppose they think I’ve done too badly,” I say and manage to let go of the crumpled paper.

“Don’t you know your own parents, Mr Wilde?”

“I really don’t think they need to be brought into this. Was there anything—”

“You were ready enough to talk about your family when you were trying to make your guest look foolish.”

So we’re back to Jasper yet again. “I think he did that without any help from me.”

“Some people might think you wanted to discredit him in case he said too much about you.”

“Then they’d be wrong, and I hope I’m not the only one who’d wonder why they said it.”

“Thank you for proving my point, Mr Wilde.”

I become aware of having closed my fists on the edges of the newspaper again. “Which point was that?”

“You’ll do all you can to discredit anyone who dares to say anything against you.”

“I’m sure our listeners will make their own minds up, Maurice.”

As I wait for him to respond, the line goes dead. The newspaper parts jaggedly down the middle, and I mash it together before chucking the unreadable lump into the bin. I rub my blackened hands on my trousers while I attempt to concentrate on the screen. “Now we’ve got Liz from Blackburn. What’s your view, Liz?”

“It’s Oswaldtwistle, Graham.”

“That’s part of Blackburn, isn’t it? I know it quite well.”

“Do you?” Before I can judge her tone Liz adds “What do you want me to say?”

“It isn’t about what I want, Liz. It’s your show.”

“It’s been feeling a bit like that lately.” As I make to ask why she says “All right, I’ll tell you. I think you and Mr Jasper—”

The pause is all hers, and it gives my rage time to gather. I can’t leave the air dead, and so I say “What about Frankie and me?”

“I think you were a bit hard on your father.”

Now the silence is mine until I hear myself demand “What gives you the right to say that? Are you claiming you’re psychic as well?”

“Oh, Graham.” She seems to think this is enough of a response until she says “I was there.”

For a moment I assume she means Jasper’s stage performance, and then I blurt “Who is this?”

“You’re just saying that for your show, aren’t you?” When I don’t respond she says “It’s your mother, Graham.”

“I didn’t know.” That’s unlikely to placate her, and I feel driven to add “My producer didn’t say.”

“She wouldn’t know me, would she? We’ve never met.” Just as reprovingly my mother says “I thought you’d have recognised me.”

“People don’t sound the same when they phone in.” I hope this helps, but I still need to learn “What were you trying to say about my father?”

“It wasn’t just him who was violent.”

“Who was?” I have to ask.

“Not just him.” Her defiance falters, and she says “We used to have fights but sometimes it was my fault as well. You always took my side because you were a gentleman, but I did think seeing all that must have affected you.”

I can’t let this go unquestioned. “How?”

“You did end up with quite a temper. That time your father swung you over the balcony, I know people will find this hard to credit, but I think he was just trying to take you out of the situation. I know you meant to defend me, but you really were doing your best to hurt him. If one of those punches of yours had landed it would have done him a lot of damage, young as you were. And when you were a few years older and I wouldn’t let you go out one weekend in case you got into a fight with someone over some silly thing I can’t remember now, you split a panel in the front door, you gave it such a thump.”

I can’t bring any of this to mind. Perhaps my silence prompts her to say “Sorry, Graham, have I said too much?”

A laugh jerks my head up, but I manage to keep the sound to myself. Only Christine sees my face, and she seems unwilling to share my expression, whatever it may be. “Nobody can ever say too much on this show,” I declare without knowing how my voice trapped in the headphones sounds, and then I’m ambushed by an idea. “As long as you’re casting your mind back, what do you remember about Frankie Patterson?”

“Who’s that, Graham?”

“He went to my school. He was always trying to impress everyone with some trick or other. He liked to make them think he could do things nobody else could.”

“He must be someone else I’ve never met.”

“But you heard about him. He stuck a knife in his hand when he was playing a trick he’d seen in a film.”

“That does sound familiar.”

“Of course it does. He was here on my show calling himself Frank Jasper.”

“I do listen to you whenever I can. I just didn’t think you’d want me ringing in.”

“Well, you have and that’s fine. Do you recall anything else about him now?”

Perhaps the pause means she’s attempting to remember. As I stare almost blindly at the console, willing her to speak, there’s a flurry of movement beyond the studio window. Paula has come into the control room, and she’s speaking so emphatically that I can read her lips. “Go and get Trevor,” she tells Christine and marches into the studio, gesturing at the microphone with such force that she looks as if she’s delivering a blow. “Hold on, I’m being signalled,” I say and reach for the relevant switch.

My mother’s voice is still clamped to my skull. “Before I go, Graham, do you really have to argue quite so much?”

“It’s my job.”

“So long as it pays you. I just wondered if it’s how you stop yourself doing worse.” Presumably she intends this as some kind of defence. “I hope we’ll see each other soon,” she says.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I say, though I’m not sure how much I mean her. “Here’s a message from our sponsor.” I start a run of adverts—Fruground Organic Coffee, Your Morning Mouthful, and Frugrime Household Cleaner and Fruguard Insurance besides whatever else is in the bunch— and drop my headphones on the console. “Sorry if any of that was too much,” I tell Paula. “I didn’t know I was putting my family on the air.”

“I’m sorry too. I’m afraid that has to be all.”

She glances behind her so quickly that I could fancy she’s hoping for reinforcements. Of course she’s looking for Lofthouse, who I suspect is up on the roof for a cigarette break. “You mean you’re shoving Trevor in again? What did I do that was that bad?”