Simon Green: Ghost of a Dream

“Yes,” JC said patiently. “Got that. But what about the details, Melody? All the helpful little details, so we can figure out exactly what we’re dealing with here? What exactly did the volunteers see and hear? Revenants? Poltergeists? The Blair Witch on a Broomstick?”

“I don’t know,” said Melody. “Nothing in the briefing. Only a note to say that we are to be met here by one of the volunteers from the Preservation Trust. Who will hopefully tell us what we need to know.”

“Wouldn’t put money on it,” growled Happy. “Civilians…Always more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Oh hush,” said Melody. “You know you love the chance to feel superior to someone.”

“Almost as much as you love a chance to lecture us,” Happy said sweetly.

They looked at each other and exchanged a smile. Shared emotions were unfamiliar territory for both of them; but perhaps it takes one broken soul to mend another.

“I can hear you two smiling at each other, and I do wish you wouldn’t,” said JC, not looking back. “You know your entire relationship creeps me out big-time. Young Ghostbusters in love. The horror, the horror…”

“And this from a man in love with a ghost,” said Melody. “At least Happy and I can touch each other.”

“And we do,” said Happy. “Often into the early hours…”

“And you call my relationship unnatural,” said JC.

“The living and the dead aren’t supposed to get that close,” said Melody. “For all kinds of worrying and unsettling reasons.”

“It’ll all end in tears,” said Happy.

They reached the bottom of the grassy slope pretty much at the same time and stepped carefully down onto the end of the waiting platform. JC peered easily about him, pretending to look the place over, giving Happy a chance to cough up half a lung getting his breath back, while Melody counted all her precious bits of equipment, twice, to make sure she hadn’t left anything important behind. It had to be said: the Station Halt didn’t appear particularly welcoming. Some attempt had been made to clean up the place, but with only limited success. Soap and water and industrial-strength detergent can only do so much in the face of decades of dust and grime and disinterest. Various rubbish and debris had been brushed roughly to one side of the platform; but the standing structures, the original station buildings…looked distinctly uninviting.

The old stone walls, sourced from local quarries, were stained and discoloured the exact shade of old piss, and the wooden facings, shutters, and doors were all pitted and rotten, looking almost diseased in the limited light. Newly replaced glass windows gleamed brightly enough in the gloomy surroundings, and a few new doors stood proudly open, showing only darkness within. Freshly painted signs hung here and there, saying Ticket Office , Waiting Room , and the like, in clear but still traditionally old-fashioned lettering. No-one had done anything for the buildings on the opposite platform. The slumping, single-storey structures across the tracks looked dim and distant, as though they were miles away.

It was all very still and silent, without even the bird-song and insect buzz from above to add a sense of life to the place. At the bottom of the valley, between the two steep slopes, it all seemed so much darker; as though the light had to struggle to reach so far down. The wind seemed stronger, though, gusting along the open platform with sudden loud murmurings, like a hound on the trail of a scent. The pit between the two platforms was choked with weeds run wild though efforts had been made to clear a short length of track. It seemed to JC that efforts to clean up the halt had stopped and started several times before something drove everyone away…

“First impressions, Happy?” JC said brightly, on the grounds that someone had to be bright and cheerful before they all burst into tears.

“Nothing obvious,” said Happy, glowering about him. “I’m not picking up any manifestations, no stone-tape imagery…But it does seem a lot darker and gloomier down here than it should, as though we’ve left the evening behind, up above, and come down into the night. Look up. Does that look like an early-evening sky to you? Wait a minute, hold everything, drop the anchors. Did anyone else hear that?”

They all moved closer together and stared down the long platform. A light had appeared in the window of the furthest building, the Waiting Room. It was a warm, golden glow, calm and cheerful and quite out of place in the generally forbidding atmosphere. The light moved out of the Waiting Room and quickly revealed itself to be an old storm lantern, held high in the hand of a dim figure. JC looked sharply at Happy, who shook his head and mouthed the word civilian . The figure came walking slowly down the platform towards them, taking its time, holding the lantern out ahead. The advancing golden glow quickly revealed an old man, in comfortable clothes and sturdy working-man’s shoes. He finally swayed to a halt in front of the Ghost Finders and looked at them. He didn’t give any impression of being particularly impressed. He squared his old shoulders, lowered the storm lantern some, and nodded brusquely.

“About time you got here,” he said, in a rough, worn-out voice. “Ronald Laurie, representing the Bradleigh Preservation Trust.”

“Here to help us of his own free will,” murmured Melody. “Try not to frighten him.”

Ronald Laurie was a tall but stoop-shouldered old fellow, well into his seventies, in a battered tweed suit of a kind that men of a certain age like to wear when gardening, or doing odd jobs, until their wives decide they can’t stand the sight of it any more and drop it off at a charity shop when their husband’s out and can’t object. Laurie wore a battered cloth cap on a bald head, troubled here and there with a few wispy grey strands. He had a deeply lined face, a pursed mouth, and piercing steel grey eyes. He managed a small smile, for each Ghost Finder in turn, but didn’t offer to shake hands. He still held the lantern high as though to be sure he was spreading the light as far as he could. And he took his time looking the Ghost Finders over, as though he wanted to be sure they were what they appeared to be.

He’s seen something, thought JC. What have you seen, old man?

“So,” Laurie said finally. “You’re the experts, are you?”

From the way he said the word, it was clear he didn’t take much assurance from it. In his world, experts were people who came down on orders from the bosses to meddle in things they didn’t understand.

“That’s us,” said JC as positively as he could. JC was usually the one who got to talk to civilians and put them at their ease, as much as was possible. Happy and Melody didn’t have the knack. Or the inclination. JC offered Laurie his hand, but the old man nodded brusquely again.

“You took your time getting here,” he said. “It’s late. Getting dark. But then, we’re a long way from anywhere. These days.”

“We got here as soon as we could,” JC said smoothly. “Hope you haven’t been waiting too long. It was good of you to agree to meet us and help out.”

“Aye. Well,” said Laurie. “Didn’t seem right to let you just walk into this ungodly mess without at least a warning.”

“I want to go home,” said Happy. “Right now.”

“So this is a bad place?” Melody said to the old man. “Nice to have that confirmed. What have you seen here?”

“This is Melody Chambers, girl scientist and plain speaker,” murmured JC. “That cheerful soul is Happy Jack Palmer, professional worrier. Don’t get too close or try to feed him. And I am JC. I lead this team, for my many sins. Let us all play nicely together, people. We’ve a lot to discuss and not much time before night falls. It would help us a great deal, Mr. Laurie, if you could fill us in on exactly what’s been happening here. We do have official reports, but we prefer to get our information from first-hand sources, wherever possible. From people who’ve actually experienced the events in question. Whatever they may be.”