The Last Days of Jack Sparks (7 page)

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I somehow sit through clips that push the boundaries of taste by exploiting celebrity death. You might glimpse the terrifying ghost of a film star who specialised in fast-car movies (
Eleanor: See? I
can
self-censor. I didn’t use the guy’s name. Anything to stop you and those lawyer guys quacking on about libel or whatever it is
) walking away from his real-life fatal wreck. The dumbest example I see is a video from user HiggsBassoon4 that claims to show Princess Diana’s ghost on his own wedding day. We see the same few looped seconds of the happy couple cutting their cake, magnified closer and closer. We screw our eyes ever tighter in a vain attempt to see something in the window behind them that plainly isn’t there.

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I growl at videos that instruct you to keep a very close eye on static CCTV-style footage of a room or corridor. After thirty seconds, they attempt to jolt you with a sudden jump-cut to a close-up of a hideous face overlaid with a screech. The finest specimens manage to make you jump even when you’re blithely expecting them, but of course as evidence of the supernatural they leave everything to be desired.

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If you ever start to get suckered in by a video that claims to show a ‘super-white ghost’ during a school nativity play, abandon it. After replaying user ScalpLaughs65’s video several times, unable to see the ghost, I finally realised the whole thing was a joke at the expense of an unusually pale boy.

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A A A A A
Don’t forget to collect your brain on your way out.
A A A A A
LOL PMSL ROFLCOPTER’

J J J J J

The further I trudge through this shit, the more I drink, the more I bemoan the lack of creativity. I swear I could do better myself. None of it is remotely unnerving, scary or – most importantly – convincing. My jeans remain unsoiled. My heebies are jeebie-less. There are no willies up me.

As I tried to explain to people in the first place, if a genuine ghost video came along, we’d know all about it. The damn thing would be on BBC News and bounced around the planet faster than a Barack Obama sex tape.

To couch this in SPOOKS List terms, all these people are filming fake ghosts, whether trying to deceive others or being deceived themselves. No third explanation is required.

Confident that the people of social media have wasted my time yet again, I do battle with my phone’s autocorrect function, which seems so much less helpful when you’re drunk: ‘Okay, guys! I’ve watched this ghost video “EVIDENCE” of yours. These videos are all – and I mean ALL – idiotic fakes. NO MORE.’

I’m satisfied this has put an end to the matter. I can give scary videos no further thought. And then I check my feed. Big mistake.

While I’ve been watching the last thirty videos, lots of people have messaged me with variations on ‘Did you make this one yourself, then?’ or ‘This is actually pretty scary!’ Others have posted to their own followers, saying things like ‘Creepy new video from TheJackSparks!’ These posts have two things in common: they’re all spreading fast and they all feature the same clickable YouTube link.

It confuses the balls off me.

I click on one of these identical links and am surprised to be taken to my own YouTube channel. This is where I post sporadic videos, talking to a whole ocean of fans about whichever burning issue springs to mind. Usually something about science, technology, music or my books. Since entering rehab, I’ve let it slide, and three whole months have passed since the last post.

Or at least that’s how long it’s been since the last post by
me
.

There’s now a forty-second video on this page that I did not post.

It has no title or accompanying details, other than the date and time it was posted. Today, about half an hour ago. It appears that I posted it myself, although this patently isn’t the case.

I stare at the page. At this video, waiting to be watched. I frown, hit the ‘Back’ button, then reclick the link. Surely the presence of a completely alien video on my YouTube channel was a random glitch that is about to repair itself.

Except I know others have seen it too.

Yep. The video’s still there.

All forty seconds of it.

My forefinger hovers over the ‘Play’ button. My stomach clenches, mainly because I’m worried that a complete stranger has dumped something obscene and incriminating on my YouTube channel.

Several thudding heartbeats later, I press ‘Play’.

Alistair Sparks: ‘The following are words written on a napkin with biro pen, found on 21 November 2014 in a compartment of a suitcase in a room booked under the name Jack Sparks at Los Angeles’ Sunset Castle Hotel. The napkin has been verified as originating from the Rome airport bar that Jack claimed to have visited.’

Notes on vid:

Feet/legs, black

Fade in, fade out. Weird

Dark space. Basement?

Something on ground. Human?

Slowly turns [unintelligible word on napkin].

Around corner – argh!

Three long words – mean same thing?

White fire scorches one side of Bex’s face, making her look even more radiant. Behind her, a million dust motes hang in suspended animation, showcased by the broad rays of sun invading Victoria’s Bar.

Blinking and pushing on her shades, she says, ‘So it wasn’t paedo porn, I take it.’ As usual, she says this far too loudly. She’s banned from every library in East Sussex. ‘Because if there was paedo porn in that video,’ she continues as I shush her, ‘I’d have heard about it by now. And you’d be chased off the pier by locals.’

Many large, heavy random objects hang from the bar’s ceiling, including a tuba, a pram, a model plane and a limbless dressmaker’s dummy. I know that when I’ve finished telling Bex about the video, she and I will play our traditional cool game, whereby we nominate which of these objects we’d prefer to fall down and kill us. Best game ever, yes?

Fine, suit yourself.

Bex is especially lively today, a crack-addled Tigger, and we argue more than usual. We waste half a pint bickering about whether I pocket-dialled her yesterday from Italy. She insists I did, even after I scroll back through my outgoing calls and show evidence to the contrary. I can’t decide whether such intensely petty squabbles indicate a brother-and-sister relationship or latent sexual tension.

‘So what
was
in the video?’ she finally says, agonised, torn between relishing the moment and really wanting to know. ‘Actually, no, don’t tell me, show me.’

She nods at my phone, but I sigh. ‘Wish I could.’

‘You dropped that thing in the toilet again, didn’t you.’

‘No. It’s just that . . .’

‘What-what-what?’

And I tell her what I’m about to tell you.

So I’m in that Rome airport bar. Pissed. In both the sense of being drunk and the American sense of being angry. I’ve had a great deal of Jack Daniel’s, and some weirdo has gained access to my YouTube channel.

I’ve watched the video two, three, four times. I’ve also posted this: ‘If anyone knows who posted this video on my YT channel, I’d REALLY like to hear about it. Because it wasn’t me (no, seriously): [YouTube link].’

The damn video’s hard to absorb, what with it having been shot in near darkness and my eyes often seeing two of it, until I concentrate and refocus. I order a quadruple espresso, then check my feed. There’s lots of ‘WTF?!?!’, ‘:-O’, ‘O_o’ and ‘OMG that’s creepy!!!’, as well as the inevitable variations on ‘Er, is that supposed to be creepy or something?!’

While I naturally belong to the latter camp, this video already has me fascinated.

My espresso is plonked down beside me, its bitterness stroking my taste buds via osmosis. I chug it down and hit ‘Replay’, finding it easier to keep my eyes open. This time, I want to pay more attention to this freaky little clip. There’s just something about it. Something so very different from all the rest.

Something
.

This time, a message pops up: ‘This video is no longer available. It has been deleted by user.’

Now, in my
head
, I’m saying ‘No! Fuck you –
I’m
the user!’ inwardly, to
myself
. Turns out I’m actually bellowing it while pointing at my phone and making everyone flinch. Lots of hard stares fly my way, but seeing as I’ve already incurred the wrath of Father Primo Di Stefano today, they may as well be fragrant rose blooms caressing my skin. These fuckers are amateurs, all of them. Still, I apologise, to buy myself some time. I need to stay here. Yes, I must stay here and change my YouTube account password. I must keep hitting refresh until that stupid message disappears and the video returns. Where the hell has it gone? Why has the ‘user’ deleted it, so soon after posting it? Thousands of fans are asking the same thing. They’re trying to work out what I’m playing at, and I’m trying to tell them I’m not playing at anything.

A bald and bespectacled barista lumbers over and gets right in my face, telling me to calm down and keep quiet. I tell
him
to calm down and keep quiet, which neither calms nor quietens him. So I tell him to get fucked, figuring that this reverse psychology might work instead.

I post this: ‘Nope, it REALLY wasn’t me who made/posted that video. And neither was it me who remo—’

Before I can finish typing the word ‘removed’, I’m bodily removed from my chair by Baldie and another barista. I accidentally hit ‘Send’, which makes me look like the kind of plum who thinks nothing of ending sentences with ‘who remo’, without so much as a full stop.

As the bastards kick me out, an agitated voice announces my name over the tannoy. Apparently I’m the last passenger Flight 106 is waiting for. Everything becomes a blur as I run for my gate. Corridors, confusing signs, conveyor belts inconsiderately not designed for drunkards . . . and
people
, far too many people. Zombie sheep, milling around.

I’m blinded by it all, then dizzied by a massive head rush. Everything flashes green. I stop running, close my eyes and centre myself.

When I come back to reality, the first thing I see, clear as day, is the face of Father Primo Di Stefano. Several of him, in fact.

Even in my inebriated state, I soon register that it’s his face on the cover of multiple copies of the same book, lining a promo rack at the front of a shop. I don’t recognise the title:
The Devil’s Victims
. Must be brand new. Without stopping to think how I’ve already bought three of this guy’s books as research and probably don’t need the latest collection of reheated dogma and anecdotes, I grab one from the English language row and ferry it to the cash desk. The tannoy crackles into life again and demands that Jack Sparks come to the gate
immediately
.

Oh yeah, I’m a rock star, baby. Who doesn’t love their name being spoken over PAs, for whatever reason? A killer mention from a user with thousands of followers. Right here, right now, everyone in Rome airport knows my name. This thought triggers another crazy head rush, flashing red this time for some reason, which almost makes me keel over.

As I saunter on to the plane, I’m far too busy thinking about that video, and its disappearance, to worry about the rows of narrowed eyes passing by. Once strapped into my window seat, I charm the cute Irish stewardess into sneaking me a large gin and tonic. Come the stroke of midnight, we taxi on to the runway. I rest back and gather my thoughts.

That video felt like something no one was ever supposed to see, as opposed to your average clip shouting, ‘Woot! Look at this!’ No irritating captions squeaked, ‘Add me on FB!’ or ‘See more on my other channel!’ It had no accompanying details whatsoever, not even a title. That very fact reeled me in. This was a
found thing
. The digital equivalent of a video cassette tape bearing no label and placed on your doorstep . . . that is then stolen from your living room a short while later. Someone wants you to see it, but not keep it. A glimpse of spooky stocking.

YouTube videos are all about the attention. The hits, the numbers, the advertising. Monetise your content, it’s the new way. The only way. So when an arresting YouTube video appears, then vanishes after just a few hundred hits, I want to know why. While I have no doubt that its makers are ‘trying to deceive others’ (SPOOKS Explanation #1), the video’s
raison d’être
is something other than the norm. For whatever reason, these people have targeted me and it would be churlish for me not to react and play along.

So then. Fair play to them. Game on.

As our many tons of aeroplane arc gracefully up into the night, all I know is, I must see that video again ASAP. My obsession also cements my resolve to finish writing this book – an idea that came to me one day as a mere whim.

Stretching my toes in 40A, I pledge to find the people behind this video. Because when I prove the most convincing (not that this is saying much) ghost video to be a fake, then all the others must be fake too.

I gaze out of my small round window at puffball clouds, the light that pulses reassuringly on the wing and, thousands of miles below, the broad swathes of Italy on Halloween. The mighty forces of coffee and alcohol lock horns to make me feel distinctly alive, as I notice the tiny glow of a fire somewhere down in the hills. Someone’s bumpkin barbecue, way out of control.

I feel even better when I remember that I have
The Devil’s Victims
to enjoy. I tug it from my shoulder bag, relax, turn to page one and chuckle all the way home.

A huge devil-eyed gull bursts into flight, making a group of tourists duck in alarm beside the tarot wagon. Bex stares out of the bar window at this, her face bearing the healthy, happy flush of someone on their third pint.