The Fatal Strand

Quoth gave a mournful cluck but the ghost hunter was not disheartened. ‘Better luck next time,’ he assured them. ‘I’ll put some more flour down later.’

‘I don’t think I want to see the next time,’ Neil put in.

Mr Pickering took out his handkerchief and polished his glasses. Peering at the blurred boy in front of him, he tutted and said, ‘Don’t say that. I’m counting on you, Private Chapman. I know you were scared, but there really was no need. I’ve never heard of a case where the departed harmed the living – fear alone does that.’

‘You don’t understand!’ Neil insisted, smacking the glass counter he was leaning upon. ‘That thing back there and those people I saw, they weren’t ghosts – they were as solid as I am.’

‘They might have seemed solid …’

‘Listen to me, they were! How else do you account for that splinter of wood?’

The ghost hunter replaced his spectacles and browsed through his notes. ‘Your little friend could have scratched one of the tables by mistake. It was pitch black in there. As for the woman in the passage, how could she be real? This confusion between this world and the next is very common, lad. Those who witness such events are often so caught up in the tragedies unfolding before them that their perspective on reality is altered, and they believe that what they are seeing has substance, when in fact it does not.’

Neil scowled and folded his arms. ‘She dragged me halfway down the corridor,’ he said emphatically. ‘I’d call that pretty substantial, wouldn’t you?’

‘You thought that she did,’ Mr Pickering persisted. ‘I’m a trained observer of this kind of phenomenon, lad, trust me.’

‘So what do you think it was then?’ the boy asked.

The ghost hunter put down his clipboard and leaned forward across the counter. ‘Most definitely an incident that happened way back in this building’s past. Judging from what you’ve told me, my first guess would be that it occurred in the time of the lunatic asylum, but we must wait until we have all the facts before we can be certain.’

‘That would explain the awful smell,’ Neil agreed.

‘Think of this place as a vast camera, and the air that fills it a photographic plate. Just like a camera, that plate is very sensitive – not to light in this case, but to certain actions and emotions. What you saw was a moving projection of some horrible, violent act that was so severe it imprinted itself on the atmosphere within that corridor. And, unless someone can release that unfortunate lady’s suffering, that scene will be replayed over and over forever.’

Neil wasn’t so sure. ‘But it wasn’t like that,’ he protested one final time. ‘It was more like I had slipped back in time, gone back to the past.’

Austen Pickering gave a humouring chortle. ‘Now, that is preposterous! I’m sorry, lad, but when I write this up for the psychic journal I can’t put that down – I’d never be taken seriously again. Time travel indeed.’

The boy realised it sounded ridiculous, but he also knew that within The Wyrd Museum anything was possible. He could not help smiling at the thought that Austen Pickering would undoubtedly have to eat a great many of his words before his investigations were over.

‘Master Neil!’ Quoth interrupted, pulling the boy’s sleeve to get his attention. Still grinning, Neil turned to him and saw that the raven was jerking his head towards the doorway. Before he could swivel around on his chair, there came an awkward cough.

Standing behind them, looking embarrassed and abashed, was Brian Chapman. ‘It’s gone nine,’ he muttered in a small voice. ‘There’s a bit of supper in the flat. It’s a school day tomorrow.’

Neil realised that his father was trying his best to make up for what had happened earlier. ‘So was today,’ he admitted.

‘Well, you got back late last night – and I got up late. One day won’t matter.’

Austen Pickering regarded the lanky, dishevelled man with mild interest. The boy’s father was the opposite of Neil; he didn’t appear to be capable of looking after himself, let alone two children. The ghost hunter’s critical, observing eyes flicked over the gangly figure before him and made a quick mental appraisal.

Brian had not shaved since yesterday, his greasy hair curled over the collar of his unironed shirt and wiry bunches spiked from his nostrils. A wide gap between the top of his scuffed shoes and the bottom of his ill-fitting trousers betrayed the fact he was wearing odd socks, and his slouching stance suggested that he was trying to pretend he wasn’t there. Mr Pickering had never encountered anyone who was so uncomfortable in his own skin before, and he pitied the boy for being afflicted with such a parent.

‘I brought you this,’ the caretaker said, shyly bringing his hand from around his back to reveal a thermos flask filled with hot water. ‘Didn’t mean to snap before. Been a bad few days.’

Austen Pickering smiled disarmingly. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said and meant it. ‘Thank you for this – I could do with a cuppa right now.’

‘You … you could come and have something to eat if you like,’ Brian offered, not meeting the other man’s eyes.

The ghost hunter grinned but declined with a polite wave of his hand. ‘Appreciated, but no thanks. I’ve some satsumas and an instant soup if I get peckish later. I might take you up on it tomorrow, though, if the invite still stands. Lot to do tonight, got to get stuck in.’

‘Not found any spooks yet, then?’ Brian inquired, forcing a strained laugh.

Neil shot the old man a look which was loaded with meaning. Mr Pickering understood and a difficult silence followed that was broken only when Quoth shook his wings and cawed softly.

‘Haven’t made a proper start yet,’ the ghost hunter said evasively.

Brian nodded and backed clumsily to the doorway. ‘Well, see you in the morning, then,’ he mumbled. ‘See if your hair’s turned white.’

‘Not enough of it left for that,’ the old man joked.

Neil hesitated before following his father.

‘Dad,’ he called. ‘What about Quoth?’

At the mention of his name, the raven flew to his place at the boy’s shoulder and let out a sorrowful croak.

‘Oh, well – bring him along then,’ Brian relented, seeing how downcast and forlorn the mangy bird appeared. ‘But he’s not to sleep in your room.’

‘Zooks hurrah!’ Quoth sang.

Neil thanked his father and said goodnight to Mr Pickering. ‘Be careful,’ the boy warned him.

When he was alone in The Fossil Room, the ghost hunter gave a slight shiver and inspected one of the thermometers.

‘Down five degrees,’ he commented aloud, adding the information to his notebook.

The next half-hour was spent sprinkling more flour in the adjoining rooms, relighting all the candles and switching off the electric lights again. When it was done, the old man made himself a mug of strong black coffee and eased himself into his chair.

A brooding silence had descended over The Wyrd Museum and Mr Pickering took time to gaze about him. Like a dark sea, profound shadows lapped the walls and ceiling above him, and he lightly closed his eyes, trying to assess the building’s mood.

‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Having a bit of a rest are we, or is it the sulks? Well, let’s see what else you’ve got up your sleeve, or should I say drainpipe?’

His voice echoed hollowly into the empty gloom and he shrugged. ‘Maybe you just prefer frightening children. You’ll not upset me so easily.’

Placing his Bible upon the counter, he took a swig of coffee and chose a book from one of the suitcases.

‘Billy Bunter!’ he proclaimed to the watching night. ‘A perfect read for the small hours. You’ll love it.’

Turning the pages, he moved the two central candles a little closer and started to read aloud. The beetle-black canopy enclosed around him and the ghost hunter reflected that it was going to be a long, but hopefully eventful, night.

Obscured behind thick, impenetrable cloud, the moon imparted little light upon the unlovely shape of The Wyrd Museum. Yet what drizzled through the large square windows was far brighter than the hoard of shadow with which the building clothed its galleries.

Those rooms facing out on to Well Lane benefited from the extra glare of the street lamps. Their stark, sodium glow diffused through the cluttered spaces in an unnatural, sulphurous daubing and, up on the first floor, Edie Dorkins meandered through The Separate Collection, the silver tinsel in her pixie hood glittering with small orange sparks.

After the Chamber of Nirinel, this was her favourite place. She loved to stare at the exhibits, wondering what they were for and, in some cases, who they had been. The headstrong and enigmatic little girl revelled in the delicious oblivion that the dark afforded and relished the musty, decaying smells of the museum which were always stronger in the lonely, shadowy murk.

Standing on a box, she pressed her nose against one of the glass lids and her mouth watered at what she saw inside. A large golden locket, bigger than her fist and curiously shaped, lay upon a cushion of faded purple velvet and Edie traced the snaking loop of the fabulous chain with the tip of her tongue.