Simon Green - Ghost of a Chance

“You’d be lost without me,” said Erik. “Heh-heh.”

He took off his back-pack and lowered it carefully to the ground, as though it contained something breakable and highly explosive. He untied the heavy restraining straps, one by one, and carefully lifted out his latest creation. It wasn’t in the least aesthetic, a brutally functional transparent cube containing rapidly moving parts, with a living cat’s head jammed on the top. Wires sprouted from shaved points on its skull. The cube was an intricate clock-work mechanism, in which all the swiftly moving pieces were made of solid light and shaped energy, blazing fiercely with more colours than the human eye could cope with. The movements alone could make your brain hurt if you looked at them too long, as they rotated through more than three spatial dimensions. The cube ticked and tocked, but not regularly. It raced and paused and speeded up again, like a clock driven mad by seeing too much of the wrong kind of Time. Erik had put a lot of work into crafting the world’s first far-seeing computer, and he was very proud of it. He patted the living cat head fondly, and it hissed and spat at him. Its unblinking slit-pupilled eyes were full of rage. Its thoughts enlarged and expanded through its intimate connection with the computer; it knew what had been done to it but was helpless to do anything about it. Natasha watched Erik make small, careful changes to the control panel on one side of the cube and turned up her aristocratic nose.

“Even by your standards, that is a seriously ugly object. Are you sure this . . . thing, will do what it’s supposed to?”

“Of course,” said Erik, bristling at the implied slight on his abilities. “The computer augments the cat’s natural psychic abilities, and together they can See and Hear whatever is going on for miles in every direction. They can even peek a short way into the Past and the Future. Theoretically. Ignore the spitting and the hissing and the occasional squalling; the cat’s head will do what I want, when I want it to. I plugged a wire directly into its little catty pleasure/pain centre, and a few volts can give it unbearable pain or incredible pleasure. I am its god. Though I still can’t get it to purr for me.” He leered at Natasha. “Think of it: absolute pleasure, at the touch of a button. I could perform a similar operation on you if you wanted. If you asked me nicely.”

“And leave the button in your hands?” said Natasha. “I think not. Ask your cat what’s happening down in the tunnels.”

Erik reached for the control panel, then had to snatch his hand back again as the cat head tried to bite it. He giggled happily, tried again, and made a few small adjustments. The blazing mechanisms jumped and danced, pieces of solid light interacting on many levels, moving irrevocably towards one terrible configuration. The cat head howled, a long, rising sound that continued long after lungs would have given out. And then the cat’s jaws snapped together, its whiskers twitched, and its eyes locked on to something only they could see. The cat head spoke, but there was nothing human in its harsh yowling voice.

“Something new has come to Oxford Circus,” it said. “Or something very old. Something from the afterworlds has manifested in the tunnels, deep down in the dark. And it’s not alone, down there. Its mere presence is enough to stir up ghosts and demons and monsters. The darkness is alive. And it’s hungry.”

Erik looked at Natasha. “See? I told you!”

“Shut up. We already knew there was a powerful force loose in the station.”

“Still, something from the afterworlds, made flesh and therefore vulnerable . . .” Erik rubbed his hands gleefully. “Now that’s a prize worth having.”

“It’s cold, and it burns,” said the cat head. “It’s wild and fierce and free, and it will kill you.”

“You wish,” said Erik absently, and turned off the cube. The cat’s head fell silent, but its unblinking eyes still burned with hate.

“I’m hungry,” said Natasha.

“Eat your chicken legs,” said Erik.

“Hungry for ghosts,” said Natasha. “There’s nothing quite like them, nothing so . . . satisfying. I might even leave a few for you, this time.”

“You know I don’t indulge,” Erik said primly. “Nasty habit, and dangerous to your mental health. If you ever had any.”

“Prude,” said Natasha. “Scaredy-cat.”

Erik sniffed loudly but wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I value the integrity of my mind far too much to risk contaminating it with inferior thoughts and memories.” He gave in to curiosity and looked almost defiantly at Natasha. “I simply do not see what you people get out of it. Don’t you ever get . . . confused, with other people’s memories and identities suddenly crashing about inside your head?”

“Darling,” said Natasha, “that’s the good part. That’s the rush. That’s what makes them so very tasty .”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

And then they broke off and looked around sharply, as every ticket machine in the lobby suddenly spat up all the coins it had taken. Pound coins and assorted change jumped and clattered across the floor as they were ejected with force, bouncing and rolling everywhere, shining and shimmering in the over-bright light. Some of them rolled right up to Erik’s feet, and he reached down to grab a handful; but Natasha stopped him with a harsh command. One by one the machines ran out of money and fell silent. Coins lay scattered all over the floor. Natasha watched the ticket machines carefully for a while, to see if they’d do anything else, but they remained still and silent. She turned her back on them and the money with studied insolence and returned to the top of the escalator. Erik carefully packed his cat-head computer back into its pack, then casually scooped up a handy two-pound coin. Only to yell and throw it away again.

“Hot!” he said. “Hot hot hot!”

“Did it burn you?” said Natasha, not looking around.

“Yes!”

“Good.”

Erik scowled. “Damned thing was hot enough to have been coughed up from Hell itself. What was that for?”

“Someone is playing games with us,” said Natasha.

“Could it be JC and his people?” said Erik, immediately forgetting the pain in his fingertips. “Could they know we’re here?”

“No,” said Natasha. “I’d know . . . if they knew. I think this is something else . . .”

She left the elevators, made her way back through the open ticket barriers, and strolled unhurriedly around the entrance lobby, frowning as she forced her telepathy into every psychic nook and cranny. Her gaze shot suddenly to one side, and she advanced remorselessly on one corner. And then she stopped as Erik hissed her name, and a ragged man appeared suddenly in the lobby with them. He shuffled slowly around, ignoring the coins on the floor as though they weren’t there, and perhaps for him they weren’t. He looked like one of the homeless, tall but stooped, a ragged man in ragged clothes, wrapped up in a long coat stained with damp and mould. He had long, matted hair and a filthy beard, and his eyes were dull, preoccupied with cold and hunger and memories that wouldn’t go away. He slowly made a full circle of the lobby, shuffling right past Natasha and Erik without even seeing them. Until, slowly, he seemed to become aware that he was not alone. His head came up, and his dull eyes fixed on Natasha. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see her, or even to care that much. He held out one filthy hand, mutely asking for money.

“He’s not real,” said Erik. “He’s a ghost.”

“Thank you, I had worked that out for myself,” said Natasha.

“Is he aware?” said Erik, professionally interested. “Or is this only a stone tape, a psychic recording?”