The Ghost Writer

folders, all crammed with papers… no, letters…

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: None

Date: Wed, 11 August 1999 19:48:21 +0100 (BST)

Something very weird has happened. I've discovered a diary-Anne's diary-hidden in my mother's room-I'll tell you about that in a second-but in the library this afternoon I found…

My own letters to Alice. All of them. Running backwards in time, from the email printouts at the front, back through the laser and the inkjet and dot-matrix printers, down to the next tier of cabinet, the electric and the manual typewriters, all the way back to my lumpish, sprawling, thirteen-year old handwriting and 'Dear Miss Summers, Thank you very much for your letter. I would very much like to have a penfriend…'

This can't he happening. I must be concussed; I'm hallucinating; I'll wake up in a minute, back in the hotel. It felt exactly like the moment in a nightmare when you realise you must be dreaming. I stood staring numbly at the folder in my hands until the contents slid out and scattered over the keyboard. Lights flashed green and orange; the fan whirred; the screen lit up.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: None

Date: Fri, 13 August 1999 11:54:03 +0100 (BST)

I've just made the most appalling discovery in the Family Records Centre…

'Gerard.' A slow, insinuating whisper at my back. From the shadows at the far end of the room, an indistinct figure, shrouded in flowing white, detached itself from the wall and glided to the door. Draperies swirled; the door closed; a key turned in the lock. As the figure moved towards the circle of light I saw that she was tall and statuesque and veiled like a bride; a long white veil, floating above a great cascading cloud of chestnut hair that flowed on down over her shoulders exactly as it had in so many dreams of Alice. Her arms were entirely concealed by long white gloves, and her gown, too, was white, gathered high at the waist. Small flowers showed beneath the fringes of the veil, between coiling strands of hair; small purple flowers, embroidered across the bodice of her gown.

'My questing knight,' she whispered. 'Now you can claim your prize.'

'W HO ARE YOU?'

'I'm Alice, of course. Aren't you going to kiss me?' It was the voice I had heard from the gallery, intimate, lingering, with an icy hiss on the sibilant, and an eerie after-echo, as if two-or several-voices were whispering in unison.

The figure moved towards me. I retreated around the desk until it halted a few paces away. No trace of features showed through the veil.

'You don't seem very pleased to see me, Gerard. Is it because I'm dead?'

I made an incoherent sound.

'I died, you see-perhaps I forgot to mention that. In the accident with my parents. But I still want you, Gerard. Body and soul. For ever and ever.'

The floor dipped and swayed. I gripped the edge of the desk and tried to will myself awake, but the veiled figure refused to dissolve. This isn't real.

'Oh but it is.' I did not think I had spoken aloud. I wanted to run for the curtains behind me, but I knew I would fall if I let go of the desk.

'You're not thinking of leaving, Gerard? That would be so rude. We haven't even made love yet. And you've always said you wanted me so much.'

She moved a little closer.

'Shall I take off my veil, Gerard? Or don't you like dead women? No? Would you rather run away? There's a balcony behind you: you can throw yourself over.'

The veiled figure began to circle around the desk towards me. As it came closer still, I saw that it moved with a strange, jerky rhythm-glide and halt, glide and halt-as if it had stepped from the screen of a silent film.

I backed away, keeping the desk between us until I bumped against the open drawer containing Viola's manuscript. For an instant I saw my mother's Medusa face in the bedroom doorway, contorted with fear and fury. The formless suspicions of the past four days flared like the papers I had burned in the cellar.

'You're-you're Miss Havi-Hamish,' I blurted. 'You found Anne's body in the cellar and then-' went mad.

We had come full circle around the desk. The veiled figure halted.

'It's you that's mad, Gerard. You've been mad for years. That's why you can see me.'

'No! You loved her-Anne-you wanted revenge. You traced my mother to Mawson, posted the story-the pages you found in the cellar-and then-why didn't you go to the police?'

For the first time, I heard the hiss of breathing.

'It's your story, Gerard. Your bedtime story: you finish it. And then we'll play here comes a candle to light you to bed.'

She was at least as tall as I was. The veil rustled and stirred: cliches about maniacs having the strength of ten came horribly to mind.

'But I never hurt Anne,' I said desperately. 'I didn't even know she existed until you wrote to me.'

'We all have to pay, Gerard. Unto the third generation. You know that.'

'Then why did you spare my mother? Why didn't you go to the police?'

You know what they say, Gerard, about a dish best eaten cold. There you both were, rotting away in Mawson, wasting your lives… and what would poor Alice have done, without her lover?'

The room lurched and spun. She must have been insane from the start: had she dragged Anne's body out of the cellar and buried her in the back garden instead of dialling 999?

'How did you know where to look for Anne's body?'

Silence. She was no more than six feet away, almost near enough to lunge across the top of the monitor.

'Anne didn't die in the cellar,' she said at last. 'That was for your benefit.' The voice had taken on a deep, rasping note. 'She had nine operations and seven years of radiation treatment. Radiation, for radiation burns. Therapy, they called it. Worse than the torments of hell. You saw where your mother hid the machine. She left it on all night, six inches from Anne's head. They skinned her alive, trying to stop the cancer. And then she died.'

'But-but you said in your letter,' I began, and stopped dead. Most of what I thought I knew had come from that letter. All false, all fake; all bait for the trap she had set. Like that last desperate message in the cellar. Like Alice.

'All fake,' I said numbly. 'Everything I found here.'

'No, Gerard; only the message in the cellar. Everything else is real.'

'You stole my life,' I said.

'Your mother stole mine. But at least the baby died-his baby, the one she really loved-

'Died-how?'

'Pneumonia. Alice would have given you that certificate, if you'd asked her nicely. And remember, Gerard, you enslaved yourself. I didn't force you. Think of the life-all the girls you could have had. Instead you chose to be my eyes and ears, my puppet. My adoring puppet.'

I shuddered, swallowing a wave of nausea.

'Why did you let me out?'

'You set fire to my house; one has to improvise. And now it's time to put the puppet back in his box. The machine still works, you see.'

'You can't mean… you can't make me-'

'Can't I?'

She made as if to circle the desk again. My knees shook wildly; I realised I was gripping the desk with both hands. Through the shrouded layers of material, I caught the outline of something dark and formless: it did not look