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‘None of us like being out of our comfort zone.’
‘We are way out of that, right now.’
Kaplan was silent for some moments. ‘This bed that you’re convinced rotated – in a space that made it impossible – yes?’
‘Yes. Either Caro and I are going mental, or the bed defied the laws of physics of the universe.’
The professor reached over and grabbed half a cheese and pickle sandwich, and bit into it hungrily. He spoke as he chewed. ‘No, there’s a much simpler explanation.’
‘Which is?’
‘It was a poltergeist.’ He grabbed the other half of the sandwich and crammed much of that into his mouth.
‘Poltergeist?’
‘Yeah. You know how poltergeists work?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Kaplan tapped the surface of the table at which they were sitting. ‘This table’s solid, right?’
Ollie nodded.
Kaplan tapped the china plate. ‘This is solid, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wrong on both. Solid objects are an illusion. This plate and this table are held together by billions and billions of electrically charged sub-atomic particles all moving in different directions. They’re being bombarded, just as you and I are, by neutroni particles that pass straight through them. If something happened to change the magnetic field for an instant and, say, all the particles in the plate moved in the same direction, for just a fraction of a second, that plate would fly off the table. The same could happen to the table, making it fly off the floor.’
‘Like the Star Trek transporter?’
‘Yeah, kind of thing, heh-heh!’
‘And that’s your theory for how the bed turned round?’
‘Like I said, Ollie, we understand so little still. Go with it and accept it.’
‘Easy for you to say – you weren’t the one sleeping in the room. Want to come and spend a night in there?’
‘No thanks!’ He laughed again.
36
Friday, 18 September
Ollie stayed talking to Bruce Kaplan at the Falmer Sports Centre, then drove straight to Jade’s school to collect her at 3.30 p.m.
She came out with a group of girls, chatting animatedly, and he was happy to see her looking so settled now. As she climbed into the car and kissed him, she waved her goodbyes out of the window to the rest of the group and said, ‘Dad, is it OK that I invited Laura, Becky and Edie to come to my party as well?’
‘Of course.’
As they headed off he asked, ‘So how was your day?’
‘It was OK,’ she said, brightly. ‘We had English. Our homework is to write a story. I’m going to write a ghost story!’
He gave her a sideways look. ‘A ghost story?’
‘I’m going to write about a girl who moves into a new house, and is on, like, FaceTime with her friend, and her friend sees a strange old lady standing behind her!’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘And what does this strange old lady do in your story?’
‘Well, I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Is she a nice ghost or a nasty one?’
‘Well, I think she frightens everyone. But they shouldn’t really be frightened because she’s not nasty, she can’t help being a ghost.’
He gri
She nodded. ‘I mean, a ghost is just like coloured air, right?’
‘That’s a good way of describing it!’ He was thinking back a few years, to when Jade was about six. She’d had an imaginary friend called Kelly who she played with. Back then she talked about Kelly to himself and Caro constantly. She told them that Kelly lived in her cupboard. He remembered one time asking Jade what her friend looked like and she’d replied that Kelly didn’t have a face.
It had spooked them both. Caro had talked about it to a friend who was a child psychologist, who had said it was something quite common. Rather than worry about it, they should relax and show an interest. Eventually she would grow out of it. So they had shown an interest, regularly asking about her. By the time she was eight, Kelly was long forgotten.
‘Do you remember Kelly?’ he asked.
‘Kelly?’
‘Your imaginary friend, when you were younger?’
‘Oh, Kelly, yes.’ She fell silent.
‘Is this woman that Phoebe’s seen anything like her?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Do you like my idea for the story, Dad?’
‘Yup. I’d love to see it when you’ve written it.’
‘Maybe!’ she said with a mischievous grin.
When they arrived home ten minutes later, there was a large, brown cardboard Amazon box, addressed to Ms Jade Harcourt, sitting on the hall table, which one of the workmen must have signed for.
Ollie moved to pick it up. ‘Looks like a birthday present – I’ll take it upstairs and put it with your other presents!’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, no, no, nooooo! I know what that is! I got Mum to order it for me, for my party!’ She grabbed it possessively, then ran upstairs, clutching it.
Ollie went into the kitchen; three electricians were at work, and there were reels of cable everywhere. He then climbed the stairs and went into their bedroom. There were dust sheets on the floor, and a solitary workman on a stepladder was pushing a paint roller across the last segment of unpainted new ceiling. The television was back in place on its mountings on the wall.
‘Almost done, Mr Harcourt!’ he called down.
‘You’re a total star!’ Ollie replied.
He went back down to the kitchen, and then into the cellar. There was no sign of Bryan, Chris, or any of the other workmen. But several steel Acrow props were in place. As he went back up the stairs into the scullery, Barker appeared.
‘Well, the good news is that your house won’t fall down this weekend, Ollie,’ he said.
‘Glad to hear it!’
‘This is the bad news.’ He handed him an envelope. ‘I’m afraid it’s the bill. If you don’t mind paying it next week, I’d appreciate it – I’ve paid the engineer out of my own pocket.’
Ollie opened the envelope and stared at it in dismay. It was over three thousand pounds. ‘Sure,’ he said, thinking about his rapidly diminishing bank balance, and hoping to hell Cholmondley would pay promptly. He pla
‘I’m afraid I’ve got another bill for you – an interim one from myself – we’ve had to purchase a lot of materials. I’ll pop it in on Monday.’
‘Of course,’ Ollie said, his gloom deepening.
He made himself a mug of tea and carried it up to his office. There were more bills on his desk from the electrician and the plumber, as well as his a
Bob Manthorpe had still not called him back. He dialled the retired vicar’s number again, and once more it went to voicemail. He left another message. Then he checked his emails.
There was an enthusiastic one from Bhattacharya of The Chattri House chain, accepting his quote and confirming he would now like Ollie to extend his brief to include all twelve of his restaurants and his wholesale business. There was also an encouraging one from another classic car dealer, from his visit to the Goodwood Revival, who said Cholmondley had spoken well of Ollie, and asking for a quote for an extensive website. His new business was at least starting to get some traction, he thought, with relief.
He began work on his invoice for the car dealer, detailing the hours spent. But he was finding it hard to concentrate. He kept thinking back to his conversation with Bruce Kaplan, earlier. Energy. There had been a lot about that subject in the Sunday Times article. Also Caro had said that her medium client – the now-dead Kingsley Parkin – had talked about energy. In particular, bad energy.