High Spirits

II

II“Hey, whatcha doing’”

Patrick smiled. Em had a way of saying that which sounded both silly and, at the same time, adorable. She was the best friend he had, and even though people thought it was all a bit weird, especially as she had a boyfriend, Chas, they got along like brother and sister, and he was grateful that she was around.

“Just about to sit down with some spag bol and the news,” he replied as he balanced his mobile between ear and shoulder, the remote control in one hand and a bowl of food in the other.

“Well, hold that thought,” said Em. “I’ve just picked up a copy of the Echo, and your family’s in it.”

“Christ, what’s Pop done now?” Patrick put down the remote and the bowl and flopped into his big, comfy chair ready to hear what his grandfather had been up to this time.

Pop was Patrick’s grandfather. They had a great, if occasionally fraught, relationship. Pop was estranged from his own son, Patrick’s dad, and the crack ran deep. Very little had ever been said outright to Patrick about what caused the rift; he’d asked his father once or twice but was told to ‘mind his own business.’

Pop had been brought up in Plimpton Market, a town so utterly staid, conservative, and genteel as to almost rot his teeth with the sugary-sweetness of it all. So, at seventeen, Pop decided to go and see the world. Of course, this outraged his mother; Rose had standards and expectations of her son. Her family had a name in the village and a reputation to uphold. They had servants, for God’s sake. Members of the Harman clan did not go off working their way around the world.

Well, of course, Pop, or Clive as was known then, realised he had the means to upset his overbearing mother’s aspirations for him and went for it with gusto.

He took a train to Dover, got on a ferry, and landed in France. He took work where he could find it; picking grapes, working in fields, waiting on tables and it was here that he met Claudette and it was love at first sight.

“Pop hasn’t done anything,” she said, “Well, not this week at least, but it is only Tuesday. It’s about that bloke who used to run the museum. Got blown up or something.”

“You mean grand-uncle Alec?” Patrick frowned. “Why’s he in the paper?”

“Don’t you mean great uncle?”

“No, I mean grand…look, never mind.”

Patrick scooped up a forkful of food and shoved it in his mouth on the basis that Em never used ten words when fifty would do. As long as he left enough room to be able to make the odd ‘uh-huh’ sound, he’d be safe.

“It’s like a whole page. Okay, not a whole, whole page more like three-quarters (…uh-huh). Anyway, there’s this bit about him – seventy years since the bomb, blah blah, stuff, words but, and this is where you come in (…uh-huh); they want more info on him. So, you know, I thought you’d know or maybe Pop (…oom). Are you chewing? (…mo) Anyway, the next bit is about the museum being haunted; they reckon it could be your dude. Interesting, huh?”

Patrick swallowed. “Right, yeah. Never heard of him haunting the place.”

“It doesn’t, you know, say it’s him but, like, he did die there, so it’s possible.”

“Who wants this stuff?” Patrick could hear the rustling of the newspaper.

“Just says the Trustees. They want anything they can get their hands on by the sounds of it. You should call them.”

Patrick had partially zoned out but was brought back by Em’s stern tone. “Patrick?”

“What? Sorry, sorry, yeah, um, okay cool, I’m onto it.”

“Fab, let me know what happens. Say hi to Pop for me.” And she was gone.

Patrick put down the phone and clicked on the TV. Tomorrow he’d drive over to see Pop and ask to look in the old trunk which was kept on top of Pop’s wardrobe.

***

“Unbelievable!” Bethan was outraged. “I give that horrid creature a story, and he can’t even be bothered to give my name. ‘The Trustees have requested any information on Alec Edwards’. Like the Trustees have a flaming clue!”

“Never mind, my love,” soothed Sal. “As long as it gets the job done.”

It really wasn’t the point though, as far as Bethan was concerned. If there was a chance to snatch the glory, those bunch would take it. With a disgusted sniff, Bethan threw the rag into the recycling bin.

***

Bastian Hedge was filthy rich and as mad as a box of frogs. Conservative estimates suggested that his fortune stood in excess of five hundred million, but no one was quite sure as he didn’t live a five hundred million quid lifestyle. Well, not what most people would think of as a five hundred million quid lifestyle.

His hair was an explosion – steel grey shot through with dramatic streaks of white. It had turned grey through shock, or so Bastian had claimed, after a particularly frantic night hunting the ghost of the wicked Sir William Mellors, a debauched and disgraced lord who had scandalized the court of Charles II (which, overall, was quite a feat).

Sir William had an insatiable appetite for all things deviant. By night, it was rumoured that he rode the highways, holding up carriages, robbing and killing the occupants before desecrating their still warm corpses in the vilest manner possible.

Or, he might just have had some bad press.

Bastian, then fresh out of Oxford, decided to find out. Legend had it (by legend, read his version of events), he went to the site of Sir William’s hideout with a head full of black hair and came out with a head full of grey. The shock had been that great.

Not long after that due to circumstance, i.e. being an only child and his father having the good grace to pop his clogs, Bastian found himself in charge of the family fortune. Thus, untethered from his father’s miserly purse strings, he was able to ignore the rules of society and do what the hell he liked. And what he liked was fast cars, alcohol, drugs, women and lounging in bed.

Having missed out on the ‘free love’ of the Sixties, he made up for it in the Seventies, and his parties became the stuff of legends.

Stannimore Park became the epicentre of the hip and happening. He was frequently the subject of lurid tales which found their way into the tabloids, but did Bastian care? Only as much as a young man with a multi-million-pound fortune could.

Like the notorious Sir William before him, much may have been wild rumour and speculation fuelled by a press intent on scandalizing their readership who were, in the main, facing the three-day week, trade disputes and the end of life as they knew it with the advent of punk rock. Nothing drove a class war quite like an out of control toff.

By the nineteen-eighties, Bastian found himself outgunned by the new kids on the block – the yuppies, and they out-debauched him on every level. So, he decided to take a new path; holistic therapy and New Age mysticism.

He embraced this new inner spirituality with as much fervour as he had embraced his past life. He still smoked pot on an industrial scale, but now it was purely for medicinal purposes. The scent of patchouli and the sound of a bonsho wafted through the long passageways and corridors of Stannimore.

Tranquillity descended. Bastian had thrown himself into being a ‘guru’.

Of course, it was terribly helpful that people were willing to throw money at him to come to his ‘retreat’ to meditate and let go of their stressed out, high-powered multi-million/billion-pound deal making lives.

The family cash pot, which had been a bit strapped for money during the hedonistic days, grew steadily fatter.

Now Bastian could soothe his own conscience by convincing himself that he was helping people even if it was at several thousand pounds a throw.

It couldn’t last - much like the decade itself, and the bottom fell out of the yuppie market.

Now anyone who was anyone was talking about global warming and saving the planet. It was all about being greener; no…it was all about being ‘seen’ to be greener. They traded in their gas-guzzlers for zippy ‘about town’ hybrids and started recycling.

Bastian didn’t mind so much. He’d got pretty fed up with them whining about not being able to get a table at The Ivy or where ever the latest place was. He went into seclusion.

Where once there wasn’t a social event, gala opening, film premiere or envelope he didn’t grace the opening of, now there was introspection, and a bit of talking to himself.

Then it happened. He had an idea. A pretty cool idea, even if he thought so himself. He made some phone calls, called some buddies from the good old days, cashed in some favours, greased the wheels of the ‘old boys’ network and voila, Bastian was now the producer of a network programme: The Ghost Doctor©.

The premise was simplicity itself. Anyone with a ghostly problem called in The Ghost Doctor – a psychic psychiatrist. The ‘ghost’ would unburden themselves to the Doctor and they, in return, would diagnose the problem and turn them towards the light. It was a Jeremy Kyle/Jerry Springer/Crossing Over with John Edwards mash-up of such epic naffness that the viewers couldn’t help but lap it up.

Pretty soon, Bastian had an international hit on his hand with syndication to Europe, the US and Australia. He’d gone global, baby.

Quite why, given the obvious format of his production, the story of ghostly goings-on at a provincial museum should take his attention, he didn’t quite understand. Nevertheless, it did. In fact, one could say, it hit him straight between the eyes.

Bastian had gone into Stannimore Cross to pick up some lentils, hummus, and a pack of ciggies when a sudden and quite unexpected (given the stillness of the day) gust of wind blew a sheet of newsprint right into his face.

Momentarily befuddled by the paper, which defied all attempts by Bastian to peel it off, he’d missed his footing and gone over on the kerb. As he lay on the asphalt, his sight wandered to the bold headline and, despite the agony of a severely twisted ankle, not to mention the ignominy of his situation, Bastian snatched up the newspaper and shoved it in his duffel bag for later.