Mean Spirit Part 48

'Did you ever hypnotize somebody to see a ghost?'

Feeling for the pocket where he'd put the key. A key that size, it should be ...

'I really don't know what you're talking about, Alice.'

'Well, like ...' she was being real quiet, in case a bunch of coins or something spilled out '... like you could say to someone under hypnosis you could plant some kind of auto-suggestion thing, so that every time they came into certain circ.u.mstances, like they entered a particular room or something, it would be there, this ghost. And it'd keep happening to them. Scaring the s.h.i.t out of them. Until you hypnotized them again and took it away.'

'It wouldn't work,' Kurt said. 'You can't make someone do something that would be repugnant to them or see something terrifying they wouldn't normally believe in.'

'But suppose they were the kind of person who ...' scrabbling at the pants. Got to be in a pocket. Got to '... who would not be that scared. Who would not think it was so weird ...'

'Like a medium,' Kurt said.

'I guess.'

'You guess.'

The light blinded her. She dropped the pants.

Kurt Campbell was sitting up on the bed. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't erect. When she was through blinking she saw that the long key lay on the coverlet between his legs.

'Uh ... right.' She breathed quickly in and out. 'OK, Kurt, here's what's gonna happen. You ... are gonna toss me that key. You're gonna stay right there on that bed. And I'm gonna unlock the door.'

'Really.'

'Uh huh. In return for this consideration and in light of me perhaps failing to make it sufficiently clear that you were not gonna get laid, I will formally undertake not to write about any of this in the New York Courier or any other publication. Or indeed my diary. h.e.l.l, Kurt, I will forget about it.'

'You really don't need me, do you?'

'Kurt, in other circ.u.mstances, who can say-'

'Because you've just f.u.c.ked yourself very nicely, haven't you, Grayle?'

Silence. The Andean band had stopped. There was no audible applause, just the wind whipping the window.

'What ... what did you call me?'

Kurt said, 'Gary recognized you at once.'

'What ... whaddaya mean?' She backed up against the door. 'Who's Gary? I don't know any Gary.'

'He and a friend were visiting Seffi at Mysleton Lodge one night. You apparently became quite hysterical. Overreacted.'

Oh no. She saw the eyes through the holes in the hood, heard the cold voice, You ... are dead. A numbness began to eat in. Oh, please G.o.d, no.

'Naturally, he made a point of finding out who you were. But as he didn't get any further than your name and the fact that you were American, it was quite a stroke of luck you turning up here.'

'Oh ...' Felt like she was going to vomit. 'Oh, dear G.o.d.'

'Gary was going to have a chat with you earlier on, but I said, "Gary, the woman's been driving me potty. I've just ... I've really got to s.h.a.g her, you know?" Gary was fine about that. He says, "OK, you've got two hours."'

She closed her eyes. She couldn't think.

'You could've been so much less tense by now, you silly b.i.t.c.h. Afterwards, I'd have relaxed you. It could all have been so much easier for you.'

Grayle found that she was still holding the champagne bottle. She lifted it, hefted it like an axe.

'OK. Either you give me that key ...' her hand was trembling; the bottle was almost full, champagne glugging out, splashing on the floor. 'Or I hurl this through the window.'

'So?'

'Everybody's gonna hear it. Everybody down there.'

'No, they aren't.'

'Or I'll smash it against the wall and I'll ... I'll cut you up.'

'No, you won't.'

'Yeah, I will.' Don't look at his eyes. 'I d.a.m.n well will. You ... you better believe that, you a.s.shole.'

'OK,' Kurt said lightly. He picked up the key and tossed it to her. It fell at her feet. 'There you go.'

'All right.' She bent down, still clutching the bottle. Maybe he was thinking about what she'd done that night with the hedge hacker, what she could do to his pretty TV face with a broken bottle. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the key, poked around for the lock, glancing back at him on the bed, but not at his eyes.

He didn't move. He just looked disappointed, cheated.

She found the keyhole. The key turned at once.

'And don't you come after me, you hear?'

'Christ,' Kurt said, 'what do you think I am?'

And she turned the door handle, and she was out of there on to the little landing, panting with a mixture of fear and elation.

OK ... so what she'd do, she'd go right down the stairs, but at the bottom of the tower she'd turn the other direction, away from the banqueting hall and the entrance hall; what she had to do was find the kitchen where that nice woman Vera was and maybe Cindy, also; or she'd get out the back way and if she couldn't find Cindy or Bobby, she'd avoid the truck and get over a wall, run to a cottage or a farmhouse, and she'd call the cops, no messing around this time. So terribly small and sordid. Cindy was right. And Kurt, he was mixing out of his league; Kurt was no killer, but he'd downshifted, gotten involved, maybe out of greed, with people for whom killing was a small thing, a tidying up.

Grayle hurried on to the spiral staircase and went down three steps, and then stopped, in sick dismay, the stomach bile really rising into her throat this time.

Two of them.

Just like at Mysleton Lodge, only this time they were in uniform.

And not cops.

Part Seven.

From Bang to Wrongs: A Bad Boy's Book.

by GARY SEWARD.

I done all right.

That's what I always say. I mean, n.o.body, no matter how they spent their life, is going to say I done all wrong, are they? I've robbed people and I've hurt people, but most of the people I've robbed, well, they had it to spare, didn't they? And most of the people I hurt, they done things what could not be tolerated in a civilized society, in terms of being too c.o.c.ky and gra.s.sing up straight villains and whatnot. All you need to understand is that our world is a rigid and conservative world and we never got around to banning corporal punishment nor, indeed, the Final Deterrent.

Now, I don't want to give you all that Frank Sinatra stuff, but it's true. I done it my way. You'll never hear me bleating, Oh, it's my social background, I was abused as a child and all that old toffee. Everything I done was considered and decided on, and that's the way it will always be.

I suppose that's why death still bothers me a bit. 'Cos you lose control, don't you? I really hate the thought of losing control, and if anything keeps me awake at night it's that.

I just cannot bleeding tolerate the thought of losing control.

XLIX.

THEY WERE NEVER VERY ROUGH WITH HER, BUT WHEN SHE OVER-came her initial fear and became frantic and garrulous and started bouncing questions off of them ('How many of you guys are there here? Is this your full-time job, or are you just on a retainer for special events? Is it a good organization to work for, Forcefield? Are there fringe benefits? Do you get overtime for this?') they taped her mouth.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds taped her freaking mouth!

Using this stuff about two and a half inches wide, so it covered from her chin to her nose, and she guessed she recognized it from someplace deep in the Cotswolds, and when the bile rose again she was convinced she was going to choke to death on it, on her own puke, a sad, disgusting death.

All this time they were using thinner stuff electrical tape from a roll, ripping it out and biting it off to secure her hands, wrist to wrist, tight and chafing behind her back.

This was after they'd all come down the stairs, one in front of her, one behind, and, ironically, had turned exactly the way she'd been aiming to go, and the building was dumping whole centuries again, switching from medieval Gothic to dingy early-twentieth-century industrial.

And then they put a bag over her head.

Which was just so disgusting slimed and smelling of someone else's sweat and clinging to her face, getting sucked in that she could hardly breathe and could only make this high-pitched puppy whine in the back of her throat.

All of this happening within a hundred yards of the gentle New Age fiesta, folk discussing the journeys of the soul, to the floating woodwinds of the Andean band. Overlaid in her head by the voice she now knew to be Gary Seward's, coming at the end of a long, awful, blood-misted silence and flat with cold certainty. You ... are dead.

Stumbling, tripping over her own feet, a big hand in the centre of her back, blackness in her eyes. The sounds of doors being opened but no voices; wherever they were headed, people seldom came this way, leastways not people who might be moved to question the sight of a trussed woman dragged along by two big men dressed like para-cops. She tried to bring up a picture of these two men's faces; one had a beard, this was all she could recall.

And then she knew, by the coldness of her bound-up hands and the sound of the wind through the bag, that they were outside, and she recalled horror stories of IRA executions, the hood over the head, the moment of silence before the bullet through the brain, and she suddenly wanted to pee very badly.

A door creaked. Inside again. A close, flat atmosphere. Another door. 'Steps,' one of them said. 'You take it slowly, luv, or you'll gerra broken leg.'

Northern accent, a good deal heavier than Bobby Maiden's, but the same general area, Grayle guessed Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, someplace ... don't pee, don't pee ...

The steps seemed to be wide and short, but she kept tripping and the big hands went up under her arms. So, if they'd come down from the tower to the ground, then this meant ... Jesus, just when you thought you weren't claustrophobic ... they were going underground. Lips taped, head bagged and earth all around, Grayle began to puppy whine again.

'Take it easy. Nearly there.'

Sound of a key struggling in a door. Like the tower room, a big key, a thick door. But an old, resistant lock.

'Stay back, sunshine,' the northern guy said, 'or you'll get your face kicked in.'

Then n.o.body was touching Grayle any more and there was the sound of the door shutting, the key grinding in the lock.

And this other northern voice, quiet and sad.

'It's OK, Grayle. It's OK.'

The voice really saying, You're still alive, but it's not OK.

Grayle went rapidly all around the walls, like a fly, feeling the rough, damp stone, pat, pat, pat ... but it was no good: no more doors, no boarded-up windows. It was a dungeon, in the original sense; you reached up you could even feel the ceiling stone or concrete, no boards, no plaster.

'We're screwed, right? We're gonna die.'

A small, black, cold cube, like the hole in the middle of a concrete block, and stinking of earth and mould and some kind of decay.

'They put us down here just until it's like the middle of the night and everybody's off the site, and it's safe to take out the bodies. Our bodies. Like, there's a hundred acres out there to bury us in.'

The one merciful aspect of absolute darkness was that n.o.body could see you cry, and she let it come, in floods.

'Grayle, listen ...'

'Oh, dear G.o.d, this is not the way I planned to go out.'

'Killing people ...' his voice came from the corner from which he hadn't once moved '... Killing people is no big ceremony for these people. They don't have to wait for midnight, they don't have to worry about getting rid of bodies, they just-'

'Wow. Jesus. I'm so comforted by that, Bobby.'

She sniffed. Her tissues were in her raincoat pocket, up in Kurt's tower; she used the cuff of her sweater.

Bobby said, 'All I'm saying is if they'd wanted to kill us, we'd be long gone.'

If he came out with much more of this c.r.a.p, he'd be maybe halfway to convincing himself. The instant of relief at finding she was in here with Bobby had been swiftly cancelled by the knowledge that he was no longer out there and able to resume as a cop, call in other cops and move against these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

She still couldn't see him. He'd pulled off her bag and stripped off her tape, and they'd rubbed the circulation back into her wrists and she'd told him about Kurt, how really f.u.c.king smart she'd been.

'Where are we?' She'd thought her eyes would adjust, but no light was no light; it was like being in an immersion tank, most of what you could see was what you imagined, the forms your mind gave to the invisible.

'I came in bagged like you,' he said, 'but I'm a.s.suming we're under the house. Crole had these cellars built for ... I dunno, for his coal, probably.'

'Oh sure, we all lock up our coal.' Grayle breathed in deeply through her nose. 'I'm sorry, Bobby. It's just people in this situation, in the movies and stuff, they sit down and they say, hey, we gotta be practical here. And that's when they find the hidden trapdoor. Or they feel around the walls, and these stones suddenly slide out and there's this secret pa.s.sage, and, OK, it's waterlogged and full of snakes, but it's a way out. And I just went over the walls, feeling and patting, and there is no way out of here except through that door for which we do not have a key. Oh G.o.d.'

The pressure that wasn't going to ease.

Bobby said, 'Erm, if this is ... I mean, obviously I can't see you or anything.' His voice was stripped down to the accent you weren't that much aware of when you could see him. 'All I, er .... I mean, would it help if I was to put my fingers in my ears?'

'Uh ... yeah,' she said. 'I guess that would help.'

'OK. I'm doing it. I can't hear anything.'