The Fatal Strand. Robin Jarvis

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      Neil’s father regarded the man with irritation. He had certainly made himself at home. His mackintosh was hanging from a segment of vertebrae jutting conveniently from a fine example of an ichthyosaur skeleton set into the far wall. His highly-polished brogues had been placed neatly beneath a cabinet and his feet were now cosily snug in a pair of slippers.

      That disease-ridden raven was playing in one of the cases, tugging at a spare pair of braces he had unearthed amongst a pile of vests, and the newcomer himself was talking to his sons about haunted houses.

      ‘Blood and sand!’ Brian mumbled. ‘It’s one thing after another in here.’

      There was, of course, nothing he could do about it. If his eccentric employers wanted to have seances, then it was up to them, but he wasn’t going to permit Josh to remain and listen to this nonsense.

      Brian had spent the afternoon trawling the local markets and public houses, asking after casual work, and had eventually ended up in the job centre. His searches had not been successful, but he had brought a bundle of newspapers and leaflets home with him. Leaving the ghost hunter to his own business, he returned to the caretaker’s apartment, with his four-year-old son trailing reluctantly behind.

      Neil heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought his father would demand that he join them, but Mr Chapman’s mood had mellowed in the time he had been out and he was obviously too anxious to hunt through the papers to begin an argument.

      ‘Doesn’t say much, your dad,’ Austen Pickering commented. ‘Now, where did I pack my pullover? Be draughty in here tonight – already turned a mite chilly.’

      Neil glanced at him. The old man was busy putting new batteries inside an old tape recorder and the boy cast his eyes over the apparatus he had arranged on the glass surface of the display cabinets.

      The ghost hunter’s paraphernalia was disappointingly mundane. Neil had envisaged sophisticated electronic gadgets which bleeped and flashed at a phantom’s approach. But the most advanced piece of technology was an ordinary camera, loaded with infra-red film.

      As far as he could see, coupled with the tape recorder, that was as far as scientific instruments had progressed with regard to studying spectres. The rest of the ‘equipment’ was hardly impressive. There was a flashlight, at least a dozen balls of twine, a carrier bag filled with candles, several thermometers, a tape measure and a packet of chalks. The familiar notebook had joined forces with a clipboard, a bag of flour and a small, brown glass bottle.

      ‘Smelling salts,’ Mr Pickering explained, seeing the boy’s curious expression. ‘It has been known for people to swoon with fright when they come into contact with the spirit world. Always pays to be prepared.’

      Neil began to suspect that the old man had never actually seen anything ghostly at all before, and that the smelling salts were for himself. Perhaps he was just a harmless crank who had let his hobby turn into an obsession. At the moment, anyone looking at him could mistake Mr Pickering for a lonely old pensioner settling himself down for a quiet night in front of his stamp collection, rather than preparing to see in the early hours, keeping watch for the supernatural.

      ‘Do you think you’ll see anything?’ Neil asked.

      The old man peered at him over his spectacles. ‘Who can tell?’ he answered. ‘I might be here a week before I hear so much as a creaking floorboard.’

      Neil groaned inwardly and realised how much he had been looking forward to what might never materialise.

      ‘Then again,’ the old man added, ‘there’s so much bottled up in here, I think it’ll be more a case of what won’t I see. Soon as I tweak the cork that’s holding it all in place, just stand back is all I’ll say.’

      Neil brightened up – perhaps he wasn’t a fraud after all.

      ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen,’ the ghost hunter continued. ‘Misty shapes drifting over the ground, blurred figures melting into walls – investigated the lot, I have.’

      ‘What was the most frightening?’ Neil asked ghoulishly.

      Mr Pickering reached into a case for his pullover. ‘The dead can’t hurt the living,’ he declared, his voice a little muffled as he dragged the olive green woolly over his head. ‘Like I said, all I want to do is help them and see that they pass over. Besides, I’ve got the most powerful defence I could wish for.’

      From another case he brought out a small, black-bound book, the pages of which were gilded about the edge, and he brandished it with great solemnity. ‘My Bible!’ he proclaimed. ‘That’s the first and most important safeguard. There’s no harm can come with this as protection.’

      The evening was closing in. Darkness pressed against the blank windows of The Wyrd Museum and the old man moved through the rooms, measuring distances and drawing diagrams of the layout in his notebook.

      ‘Would your dad mind if I filled my thermos with hot water?’ he asked. ‘Three large mugs of strong black coffee should see me through and stave off the drowse.’

      Neil thought that if his father was still in his relatively good humour then there was no harm in trying, and so he led the old man to their apartment.

      Brian Chapman was sitting at the small table, surrounded by a sea of open newspapers. Josh had been put to bed and the caretaker scowled at the interruption when the door opened.

      ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

      Neil guessed correctly that his father’s job hunting was proving more difficult than he had anticipated and was glad that he had not brought Quoth along also.

      ‘I said Mr Pickering could have some hot water for his flask.’

      His father grunted and irritably flapped the paper he was reading. ‘You know where the kettle is.’

      ‘This way,’ the boy began.

      Austen Pickering followed him inside the apartment, then drew a sharp, astonished breath. ‘Tremendous!’ he exclaimed, blowing upon his hands and shivering uncontrollably.

      ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Brian asked.

      ‘Can’t you feel it?’ the old man cried.

      Neil shook his head, but glanced warily at his father.

      ‘It’s freezing in here!’ the ghost hunter declared. ‘This room is a definite cold spot. Something quite dreadful must have happened here in the past. Let me get my thermometer – I must see if it registers.’

      Brian Chapman rose from the chair and slammed the newspaper upon the table. ‘That’s it!’ he snapped. ‘You and your crackpot notions can get out of here. For God’s sake, I’ve got a four-year-old boy trying to sleep in the next room. I don’t want him scared by this mumbo-jumbo claptrap. Go on – I said leave!’

      Still shivering, a crestfallen Austen Pickering looked away, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he uttered. ‘I sometimes get carried away. I’m sorry, I’ll get back to The Fossil Room. It doesn’t matter about the hot water.’

      ‘Oh well done, Dad,’ Neil shouted when the old man had departed. ‘There was no СКАЧАТЬ