you.’
‘Yup.’
He smiled at me. ‘Still . . . that doesn’t stop it being a great piece of work. You were the only one who reacted in time.’
As always, the full warmth of his approval made me feel a little flushed. I cleared my throat. ‘Lockwood,’ I said. ‘Bickerstaff’s ghost . . . What kind
was
it? I’ve never seen anything like it before. Did you see how it rose up so high? What Visitor
does
that?’
‘I don’t know, Luce. Hopefully all the rest of the iron we piled on will keep it quiet till dawn. Then, I’m glad to say, it becomes DEPRAC’s problem.’ He sighed, rose from his chair. ‘I’d better go and help George. I know I’ve offended him. Also I’m slightly worried about what he’s doing to my cocoa.’
After he’d gone, I lay back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Whether it was my weariness or the events of the night, the room didn’t seem quite still. Images spun before my vision – George and Joplin frozen by the coffin; the blackened grinning face of the Bickerstaff corpse; the terrible ghost in its long grey shroud rising, rising towards the stars . . . The figures moved slowly round and round in front of me as if I was watching the least child-friendly carousel ride in the world.
Bed; I needed bed. I closed my eyes. It didn’t do any good. The images were still there. Plus, it made me remember the cold, yet wheedling voice I’d heard as I stood there in the pit, urging me to look at . . . To look at what? The ghost? The mirror?
I was glad I didn’t know.
‘
Feeling rough?
’ someone said softly.
‘Yeah. A little.’ Then something like a lift shaft opened in my belly, and I felt myself drop through it. I opened my eyes. The door was still closed. Two rooms away I could hear Lockwood and George talking in the kitchen.
There was a greenish light revolving on the ceiling.
‘
Because you sure as hell look it.
’ It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before.
I raised my head slowly and looked at the coffee table, which now shone in emerald ghost-light. The substance in the jar was pulsing outwards from the centre like boiling water on the hob. There was a face within it, a leering face superimposed upon the plasm. The tip of its bulb-like nose pressed hard against the silver-glass; wicked eyes glittered; the lipless mouth champed and grinned.
‘You,’ I said. My throat was dry; I could barely speak.
‘
Not the greatest welcome I’ve ever had
,’ the voice said, ‘
but accurate. Yes, I can’t deny it. Me
.’
I struggled to my feet, breathing too fast, fierce exultation surging through me. So I’d been right: it
was
a Type Three. Fully conscious, able to communicate! But Lockwood and George weren’t here – I
had
to show them,
had
to prove it somehow. I started towards the door.
‘
Oh, don’t bring
them
into it
.’ The whispering voice sounded pained. ‘
Let’s keep it intimate, you and me
.’
That made me pause. Seven months had passed since the skull had last chosen to speak. I could well believe it would clam up the moment I opened the door. I swallowed, tried to ignore my heart hammering in my chest. ‘All right,’ I said hoarsely, facing it directly for the first time. ‘If that’s how you want it, let’s have some answers. What are you, then? Why are you talking to me?’
‘
What am I?
’ The face split open, the plasm parted, and I had a clear glimpse of the stained brown skull at the bottom of the jar. ‘This
is what I am
,’ the voice hissed. ‘
Look on me well. This fate awaits you too
.’
‘Oh, very sinister,’ I sneered. ‘You were just the same last time out. What did you say then?
Death is coming?
Well, so much for your predictions. I’m still alive, and you’re still just a dribble of luminous slime trapped in a jar. Big deal.’
At once the plasm drew together like two lift doors closing, and the face re-formed. Its reproving look was slightly undermined
‘Yup.’
He smiled at me. ‘Still . . . that doesn’t stop it being a great piece of work. You were the only one who reacted in time.’
As always, the full warmth of his approval made me feel a little flushed. I cleared my throat. ‘Lockwood,’ I said. ‘Bickerstaff’s ghost . . . What kind
was
it? I’ve never seen anything like it before. Did you see how it rose up so high? What Visitor
does
that?’
‘I don’t know, Luce. Hopefully all the rest of the iron we piled on will keep it quiet till dawn. Then, I’m glad to say, it becomes DEPRAC’s problem.’ He sighed, rose from his chair. ‘I’d better go and help George. I know I’ve offended him. Also I’m slightly worried about what he’s doing to my cocoa.’
After he’d gone, I lay back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Whether it was my weariness or the events of the night, the room didn’t seem quite still. Images spun before my vision – George and Joplin frozen by the coffin; the blackened grinning face of the Bickerstaff corpse; the terrible ghost in its long grey shroud rising, rising towards the stars . . . The figures moved slowly round and round in front of me as if I was watching the least child-friendly carousel ride in the world.
Bed; I needed bed. I closed my eyes. It didn’t do any good. The images were still there. Plus, it made me remember the cold, yet wheedling voice I’d heard as I stood there in the pit, urging me to look at . . . To look at what? The ghost? The mirror?
I was glad I didn’t know.
‘
Feeling rough?
’ someone said softly.
‘Yeah. A little.’ Then something like a lift shaft opened in my belly, and I felt myself drop through it. I opened my eyes. The door was still closed. Two rooms away I could hear Lockwood and George talking in the kitchen.
There was a greenish light revolving on the ceiling.
‘
Because you sure as hell look it.
’ It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before.
I raised my head slowly and looked at the coffee table, which now shone in emerald ghost-light. The substance in the jar was pulsing outwards from the centre like boiling water on the hob. There was a face within it, a leering face superimposed upon the plasm. The tip of its bulb-like nose pressed hard against the silver-glass; wicked eyes glittered; the lipless mouth champed and grinned.
‘You,’ I said. My throat was dry; I could barely speak.
‘
Not the greatest welcome I’ve ever had
,’ the voice said, ‘
but accurate. Yes, I can’t deny it. Me
.’
I struggled to my feet, breathing too fast, fierce exultation surging through me. So I’d been right: it
was
a Type Three. Fully conscious, able to communicate! But Lockwood and George weren’t here – I
had
to show them,
had
to prove it somehow. I started towards the door.
‘
Oh, don’t bring
them
into it
.’ The whispering voice sounded pained. ‘
Let’s keep it intimate, you and me
.’
That made me pause. Seven months had passed since the skull had last chosen to speak. I could well believe it would clam up the moment I opened the door. I swallowed, tried to ignore my heart hammering in my chest. ‘All right,’ I said hoarsely, facing it directly for the first time. ‘If that’s how you want it, let’s have some answers. What are you, then? Why are you talking to me?’
‘
What am I?
’ The face split open, the plasm parted, and I had a clear glimpse of the stained brown skull at the bottom of the jar. ‘This
is what I am
,’ the voice hissed. ‘
Look on me well. This fate awaits you too
.’
‘Oh, very sinister,’ I sneered. ‘You were just the same last time out. What did you say then?
Death is coming?
Well, so much for your predictions. I’m still alive, and you’re still just a dribble of luminous slime trapped in a jar. Big deal.’
At once the plasm drew together like two lift doors closing, and the face re-formed. Its reproving look was slightly undermined
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