Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“No, no.” She was talking over him. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’d been drinking…worrying if you were—”

“Listen. I want to tell you—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” He took her hand in both of his own. “I was with someone who is in real trouble. They asked for help and I couldn’t refuse. It took longer than I expected.”

“Was it someone at school?” Already Kate’s warm heart was drawn to this unhappy soul. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I promised not to discuss it with anyone.”

Then Kate understood. And Mallory knew that she did. He reached out and took her other hand. Gripped them both. And hung on.

Here we go again, thought Kate. Two against one. In spades, this time. In bloody spades. At least up until now everything that happened between the three of them – discussions, rows, jokes, arguments had been just that – between the three of them. Or had it? That was the whole point of secrets. Those outside never knew there was something they didn’t know. How could they?

Kate had always considered herself a pragmatist. Someone in the family had to be. Clear-eyed, she understood how things really were, though accepting things as they really were had never been easy. She remembered Polly as a tiny child climbing on her daddy’s knee. Playing with his tie, putting her arms around his neck, whispering in his ear. Winding her silky hair around his fingers.

And now she was in “real trouble,” her mother was not allowed to help. Was not even allowed to know what the trouble was. To Kate’s surprise – for had she not found herself only the other day wondering if she still loved her daughter? – this hurt a lot. She went with the pain, bowing over slightly, one hand against her breast. Mallory put his arms around her and they rocked gently for a while back and forth.

Eventually he said, “I thought I’d get breakfast today.”

“Brilliant,” said Kate. She took a deep calming breath. And then another. “I’ll have a shower and come right down.”

“And afterwards we’ll have our first business meeting.”

Benny had been invited to dine at Kinders. She was looking forward to it immensely, and not just for the pleasure of Dennis’s company, for he was also a wonderful cook.

She arrived about seven, carrying a bottle of Carey’s apple wine and a stephanotis she had been bringing on in the greenhouse. She balanced the pot awkwardly in the crook of her arm to open the gate. Dennis’s strip of garden, running around the base of the house and full of agapanthus and marguerites, looked bone dry and Benny itched to get her hands on a watering can. She knocked quietly on the blue front door and waited. No one came so she did it again, as loudly as her shyness would allow, but with the same result.

Then she made her way through the garage, squeezing past the car and up the double steps to the kitchen door. It was unlocked. Stepping inside she was filled with apprehension. If Dennis was in and had not heard her knocking there was only one place he could be. The kitchen was full of warm, delicious smells. Benny put her plant and wine on the spotless draining board, then stepped into the carpeted passage that led to the rest of the flat.

“Cooee?”

Pointlessly she peeped into the sitting room. Evening sunshine illumined the lovely Chinese rugs and gilded the ornate picture frames. There were some yellow roses and lots of books and newspapers. A quiet, sad wailing came from the hi-fi speakers and she recognised Dennis’s Saracen songs from the crusades.

Benny hurried past the bathroom and paused briefly outside the single, monkish room where Dennis slept. The door was ajar. She coughed hoarsely into the aperture and called again. Silence. Now all that was left was the war room.

The flat had lightweight walls, which were about ten feet high, and artificial ceilings. Once inside, as with any other building, the surrounding landscape was invisible and consequently unthreatening. But observed through one of the arrow-slit windows under Kinders’ high roof it must have looked extremely fragile. Vulnerable too, like a climber’s hut crouching between steep and silent cliffs of white plaster and menaced by the great dinosaurs of iron and steel and wood that stalked the shining floors.

Benny, standing by the door that led to this great space, already had her strategy planned. She would sweep the room with a single glance, swift but thorough. This would show her whether Dennis was there and, if he was, where he was. Then she would go directly across to him, walking carefully and looking only at the ground. Having done this once it would inevitably be less frightening the next time. Even less the next. And so on…

“And after all,” murmured Benny, her hand already trembling the latch upwards, “it’s not as if they’re alive.”

She saw him straight away. He was standing in front of the giant slingy one looking up at the high rack of heavy wooden balls and the fearsome ropes and ratchets. He stood motionless like a statue, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Though full of trepidation Benny walked quickly to his side.

“Dennis?” She waited, hesitating. “My dear, are you all right?”

There was a short silence, then Dennis shook his head and sighed.

“What is it?” urged Benny. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. Nothing, probably.” He smiled but his expression remained uneasy. Then turning away he added in an absent-minded manner, almost as if talking to himself, “Or perhaps…a ghost in the machine.”

“Oh!” Benny gasped as if cold water had been thrown in her face. “How awful! Ghosts, oh!”

Dennis linked arms. Something he had never done before. He must be really worried, thought Benny. Gladly she turned with him away from the death-dealing mechanism and they walked away, soon to be out of the fearful place.

“It’s good to see you, Benny. I’m sorry I wasn’t present when you came.” Dennis poured a glass of Madeira to which Benny had become extremely partial. She sat at the kitchen table while he took a small blue iron casserole out of the oven. “It’s turbot in a white wine sauce.”

“Lovely. D’you think it’s true that fish is good for the brain?”

“Not so good,” said Dennis, adding tiny carrots and new potatoes to warm plates, “as reading and music and paintings.”

They ate in the dining room, sitting in soft, springy armchairs with trays on their laps. The sort that were really comfortable, with big bags underneath, full of granules, so the tray didn’t slip and slither and upset your food. Benny confidently accepted another drink, this time white wine. She knew she could handle it. It wouldn’t be like it was the other night with Kate. She didn’t get all giggly or silly or stupid with Dennis. He brought out the best in her. His grave attention to everything she said made what she said more considered. She was never compelled to rush into speech to cover gaps in conversation as she did with strangers. Instead the pauses felt more like little comfort stops along a delightful walk.

“This turbot is just beautiful.”

“That’s a relief. I bought it on Thursday, then got home too late to cook it.”

“Was that pressure of work, Dennis?”

“In a way.”

Benny was the last person he could unburden himself to. An incident merely out of the ordinary would worry her. A genuine mystery and she’d be consumed with anxiety on his behalf. But Dennis did want to discuss his concern. He hoped that another point of view might put the business of the lights in some sort of perspective. Show it up for the trivial bit of nonsense it might well prove to be. He had been thinking about this all morning and had almost decided to talk to Mallory.