Ghost of a Chance, Page 5

  Two men and a woman, standing on the set of a movie that hadn’t started filming yet. Waiting for someone, or something, to shout Action!

  The first thing that struck JC was how complete the quiet was. Silence hung heavily on the air, reluctant to be broken or disturbed. It had no place in a busy station like this. It should be alive with sound, with the clatter and clamour of people rushing back and forth, and the distant thunder of trains coming and going, and the endless self-important announcements. But here, and now, there was nothing. Only the eerie quiet of an empty place, from which people had been driven, screaming.

  Happy’s first reaction to Oxford Circus Station was to flinch sharply, as though he’d been hit. He barely stifled a groan of pain. For a telepath of his class, the station wasn’t empty at all. It was packed from wall to wall with faces and voices and any number of conflicting emotions, all the ingrained psychic traces of the millions of passengers who’d passed though the place, leaving a little of themselves behind, forever. Layer upon layer of them, falling away into the past, and beyond. Happy’s stomach muscles clenched, and sweat popped out all over his face. It was like everyone was shouting in his head at once, plucking viciously at his sleeve, jostling him from all sides. He blindly fished a bottle of pills out of an inner pocket; and then JC’s hand came sharply forward out of nowhere and clamped firmly, mercilessly, onto his wrist.

  “No pills, Happy,” said JC, as kindly as he could. “I need you to be sharp, and focused.”

  “I know, I know!” said Happy, jerking his wrist free. “I can handle it. I can.”

  Reluctantly, he put the pills away, then scowled fiercely as he concentrated, painstakingly rebuilding and reinforcing the mental shields that let him live among Humanity without being overwhelmed by them. It wasn’t easy, and it got harder every year, perhaps because every year he grew a little more tired, at making sure the only voice inside his head was his. He was shaking and muttering and sweating profusely by the time he’d finished. He nodded curtly to JC, who nodded calmly back in return.

  “Better now?” said JC.

  “You have no idea,” said Happy, mopping roughly at his face with a surprisingly clean handkerchief. “One of these days, the strain of doing that will kill me, and maybe then I’ll get some rest.”

  “We couldn’t do this without you,” said JC.

  It was as close to an apology as Happy was going to get, and he knew it. He sniffed loudly and looked around him.

  “Ugly place, this, in more ways than one. I mean, did they have a competition, and this colour scheme won? I’ve been locked up in cheerier institutions than this. And they had piped music.”

  Happy grinned suddenly. “Anyone want to say It’s quiet, too quiet? I mean, it is traditional.”

  JC laughed briefly and went striding around the empty lobby, looking closely at everything and running his hands over the silent ticket machines. He paced back and forth, on the trail of something only he could sense, his head up like a hound on the scent, sniffing for invisible clues. His eyes gleamed, and he grinned widely. JC was on the job and having the time of his life, as always.

  Melody, meanwhile, ignored them both with the ease of long practice. She was only interested in the various pieces of high-tech equipment she’d brought with her, piled precariously high onto an unsteady trolley. She just knew the Institute technicians had damaged something when they loaded the trolley up; they always did. No-one understood or appreciated her precious machines like she did. She wouldn’t be happy until she’d set up base somewhere and could reassure herself that everything was working properly. She ran through her check-list again, making sure nothing had been left behind.

  She paid no attention to what JC and Happy were doing. She trusted them to hold up their end. Inasmuch as she trusted anything that wasn’t a machine. You could fix machines when they went wrong . . . She dimly realised they’d stopped bickering, and she looked around, fists on her hips.

  “Yes, fine,” she said. “Don’t do anything to help, will you? I can handle all this vitally important and extremely heavy equipment myself. Unaided.”

  JC shot her an amused glance. “You know very well you don’t like us touching your toys, Melody. In fact, you have been known to stab at our hands with pointy things if you even think we’re going to touch something.”

  “That’s because you always break them! You two could break an anvil merely by looking at it! You break more of my things than the things we go after. What I meant was, I need your help to get this trolley up and over the closed ticket barriers. Unless you have some clever trick to get us past them.”

  JC smiled at her pityingly, took out his travel card, and slapped it against the clearly indicated contact point. The barriers sprang open.

  “Very good!” said Melody. “Now consider the sheer amount of equipment packed onto this trolley and tell me how you’re planning to squeeze it all through that narrow gap.”

  “You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,” said JC. “But it’s not going anywhere yet.”

  “Why not?” said Melody, immediately suspicious. “What still needs doing?”

  “Listen,” said JC. He stood very still, his head cocked slightly to one side, a single finger held up, as though testing for some spiritual breeze. “Listen . . . Get a feel for the place. It’s 5:07 P.M. Well into the city rush hour. There should be crowds of people flowing through this station, heading home after a hard day’s work or shopping. Men and women and children, workers and families—the city’s human lifeblood—chasing headlong through its arteries. They should be filling this place, loud and raucous and determined to be on their way.”

  “God, you do love the sound of your own voice,” said Melody.

  “It’s always worse when he gets like this,” Happy said gloomily. “It means he’s moved into full smug mode because he thinks he’s spotted something we haven’t.”

  “All right, I get it, it’s quiet,” said Melody. “Can we move on now, please?”

  JC looked at Happy, smiling his most superior smile. “Do you get it, Happy?”

  “Maybe,” said Happy, reluctantly. “It’s the wrong kind of quiet. Not only the absence of noise but the actual suppression of all sound, of everything that’s alive and natural. As though something else has replaced the sound of people. An unwanted Presence, like a weight on the air, pressing down on the world. This light is all wrong, too. It’s too bright, too stark . . . merciless and forensic, like a dissecting lab. We are very definitely not alone down here.”

  “Well,” said Melody, after a moment, “that was very nicely spoken, Happy. All very fab and groovy, splendidly atmospheric and ominous; but you’re as bad as he is. Feelings are useless until I can get my lovely machines set up, and we can start analysing the data! So suck it up, brain boy, and help JC and me lift this bloody trolley over the bloody ticket barriers. Preferably without dropping anything fragile.”

  “Your vibrator broke down again last night, didn’t it?” said Happy.

  “Stay out of my head!”

  “Lucky guess, lucky guess,” said Happy, holding up both hands and trying not to grin. “Let’s shift the trolley and get this show on the road.”

  “God loves a volunteer,” said JC. “Come, children, lift that barge and tote that bale; the ghosts are waiting.”

  The three of them man-handled the trolley over the barriers without too much trouble, Melody alternately coaxing and bullying the equipment to stay in place. They then had to carry it down the escalator to the tunnels and platforms below, as none of the metal stairways was moving. Apparently the main computers were down. Personally, JC thought they were lucky to still have the lights, but he had enough sense to keep the comment to himself. There was such a thing as tempting fate. JC, Happy, and Melody bumped and clattered the trolley all the way down the unmoving metal steps, accompanied by a certain amount of bruised limbs, trapped fingers, and really foul language, before they finally reached the bottom.

&n
bsp; Happy gave the trolley a good kick, on general principles, then stopped suddenly and stood very still, one hand upraised to ward off questions from the others. He frowned thoughtfully, listening with more than his ears. JC and Melody looked at him, then at each other, shrugged pretty much simultaneously, and listened, too. The continuing quiet didn’t seem any different.

  “Well?” said JC, after a while.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” said Happy.

  “You’ve always got a bad feeling,” said Melody. “It’s your standard default position. You probably had a bad feeling as you left the womb behind and headed for the light.”

  “Something’s down here with us,” said Happy, not listening to her at all. “And it’s not anything I expected. This isn’t like anything we’ve ever encountered before, people. This is something new. Or maybe something very old, come round again. Big and powerful and utterly different.”

  “Dangerous?” JC said quietly.

  Happy came out of his trance and shot JC a disgusted look. “What do you think?”

  “Moving on, moving on,” said JC, heading for the nearest platform. “Do feel free to share your feelings with us at any time, Happy, you know how I value your contributions; but do it on the move, please. I can feel a clock ticking, somewhere.”

  “Bully,” muttered Happy.

  “Will somebody please help me with this trolley!” said Melody.

  They finally established themselves on a southbound platform, deep under the surface. The light was as sharp and fierce as ever, the silence still heavy and unrelenting; and nothing moved anywhere. The three ghost finders bustled around, helping set up Melody’s equipment on a semicircular standing frame. Making rather more noise than was necessary, as though to impose their presence on the quiet. Melody oversaw the installation of every piece of equipment, cooing over some of them in a disturbingly maternal way. Their separate power source was a small black box that sat happily on its own, on the platform floor, tucked under the frame. JC really wanted to ask what it was, and how it worked, and how such a small box could power so much equipment . . . but he knew he wouldn’t understand any of the answers, so he didn’t bother. Melody looked a lot happier as, one by one, her instrument panels and monitor screens lit up, along with any number of flashing brightly coloured lights. Though he would never admit it, JC found the lights comforting. It wasn’t real equipment unless it had bright flashing lights.

  But the moment they hit the platform, all three of them had to fight a constant irrational urge to stop, turn sharply, and look behind them. Even though they knew there wasn’t anything there. Something was watching them. They all felt it, in their various ways. JC glared at the dead platform surveillance cameras, Happy kept a careful watch on the shadows, and Melody worked even harder to get her sensor arrays up and working. They were all of them, after all, professionals.

  Melody fired up her various computers and smiled happily as, one by one, they came on-line and muttered busily to themselves, reaching out through state-of-the-art short- and long-range sensors to test the situation on more levels than anyone but Melody could comfortably handle. Her fingers flew across one keyboard after another as she darted back and forth before the flickering monitor screens, eyes bright, teeth worrying at her full lower lip as she drank in rivers of information as though it were the finest wine. Melody was in her element and on the job, and as far as she was concerned, all was right with the world.

  Melody wanted to be the first scientist to put a ghost under the microscope and find out how it worked.

  JC and Happy wandered the length of the southbound platform, looking about them, taking their time. They didn’t know what they were looking for; only that they’d know it when they saw it. The sound of their footsteps was strangely muffled, hardly echoing at all in the quiet. And yet it all seemed normal enough. The huge posters on the walls advertised recent and forthcoming movies, along with all the usual ads for expensive products and services, and even the descending list of destinations on the far wall seemed reassuringly sane and definite. The two men stopped at the end of the platform and peered dubiously into the great dark maw of the tunnel-mouth; but nothing looked back.

  “I don’t see anyone,” said JC. “Can’t say I feel anything much, either.”

  “Feel the air,” said Happy. “It’s colder than it should be, and . . . brittle. I’m getting a definite feeling of anticipation. Of something about to happen. And even though lights are still on . . . doesn’t it still feel dark, to you?”

  “Go on,” said JC. “What else?”

  “Eyes,” said Happy. “A constant feeling of being observed, by unseen eyes. Not human. Nature . . . unknown. But I can feel them, digging into my back. Whatever it is that’s down here, that terrified and traumatised all those people . . . it knows we’re here.”

  “Good,” JC said briskly. “At least now we can be sure we’re not down here on a wild ghost chase. Melody? Do you have anything interesting to tell us yet?”

  “Don’t shout! I can hear you perfectly.” Melody concentrated on what her instrument panels were telling her, not even glancing round at JC and Happy. “Short- and long-range sensors are all on-line and reporting in, but so far all they’re giving me is a headache. Information’s coming in faster than the computers can deal with it, and none of it makes any sense. I’m getting readings all across the board: temperature spikes, radiation surges, electromagnetic fluctuations I would have said were impossible under normal conditions; and a whole bunch of weird energy signatures are popping up all over the place.”

  “Purpose?” said JC.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” said Melody, stabbing viciously at various keyboards with both hands. “I’m getting definite indications of Time shifts. Intrusions from the Past. Some recent, some not. And underneath all that . . . I’m reading Deep Time, JC. From long before this station even existed. This is bad, JC, seriously bad. I’ve never seen so many extreme readings in one place before.”

  “Go on,” JC urged. “Throw caution to the winds and give me your best guess as to what’s happening here.”

  “I do not guess!” snapped Melody. “I am a scientist! I study data and draw logical conclusions. Only . . . there’s nothing sane or logical about any of this. I can’t make head nor tail of what my computers are telling me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were scared. All I can tell you is that whatever it is we’ve got down here, it’s spread itself through the whole station. There isn’t a single platform or tunnel here that hasn’t been touched, and changed.”

  “But is it still confined to the station?” JC said carefully.

  “Maybe. Probably. My long-range sensors get confused, the further out they reach. And before you ask: no, I can’t locate any heart or central core to this haunting. It’s all over the place.”

  “It’s bad,” said Happy. He was wringing his hands together, unconsciously. “I need a pill, JC, I really do. A little something, to take the edge off.”

  “No you don’t,” said JC.

  “Come on, JC! You’re feeling this, too; I can tell. Like ice in your blood, and knives at your throat. Like something really bad could come charging out of that tunnel-mouth at any moment. And for everything you feel, it’s a thousand times worse for me. Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, JC? I am. I am.”

  “You’re no use to me with your brains shut down,” said JC. “There’ll be time for pills later. Now come on; concentrate. You’re stronger than you think. What exactly is it that you’re picking up?”

  Happy slumped down onto the nearest metal seat and looked down at his hands squirming together in his lap. He stopped them moving with an effort. He was breathing hard, sucking the air in as though he couldn’t get enough of it. JC studied the telepath carefully, trying not to let his concern show. He’d never seen Happy this upset.

  “Something awful happened down here,” Happy said softly, his words so quiet JC had to lean forward to hear them. “And I think it’s still happening
. Something really nasty has set up home here, and it has plans, JC, big plans. Some strange intelligence, not human, not human at all. It feels . . . like the end of the world.”

  JC nodded slowly. “Then it’s official. Oxford Circus Tube Station has become a bad place, the kind of place that makes ghosts and maintains hauntings. But why? Nothing’s happened here to justify such a change. No train crash, no terrorist bombing . . . No disaster of any kind, man-made or natural. So what was the triggering event?”

  Happy shrugged. He was breathing a little more easily though he didn’t look one bit less miserable.

  “Sometimes,” he said heavily, “bad places just happen. That’s life for you. And death.”

  “Oh come on; there’s always something,” Melody insisted. “Just because we can’t detect it, or recognise it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. We need to run some experiments, collect some new data.”

  “Spoken like a true scientist,” said Happy. “Remember that time when you wanted to stick a thermometer up that ghost’s behind, so you could measure its core temperature?”

  “That would have worked if you hadn’t stopped me.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Happy.

  “You want a slap?” said Melody. “I’m sure I’ve got one here somewhere.”

  JC left them to it and walked up and down the platform for a while, listening to the flat sound of his footsteps, trying to pin down exactly what it was that so bothered him about the place. They’d been there for some time, making all kinds of noise, more than enough to draw anyone’s attention, but . . . No ghosts, no manifestations, not even a black cat with a bad attitude. Still, there was no doubt that he was looking very cool and elegant in his smart cream suit, and that was a comfort.