'What are you researching? Music?'
Music was Pete's only interest - music and a girl called Emma, who'd dumped him eighteen months ago.
Bob gave Nathan an imperious look, and Pete stepped in: 'He wants to know about my brother.'
'Mate, I didn't even know you had a brother.'
'That's the point.'
'So, what? Is he inside or something? Like, all black sheep and shit.'
Bob said, 'If you would,' meaning Shut the fuc up, please. He turned to Pete. 'Would you prefer to be alone for this?'
'Nah. Nathan can sit in. If he's into it.'
Nathan was into it.
Bob told him, 'If you stay, please don't interrupt. Please don't ask any questions.'
'All right. Whatever. Jesus.'
Bob leaned a little towards the Dictaphone and said, 'July 4th, 1993. 1.30 p.m. The subject is Pete King, aged . . .'
'Twenty-four.'
'Pete King. Aged twenty-four.'
For a moment, Nathan thought Pete was about to start giggling.
But instead he sat up - cross-legged and straight-backed - and began to talk.
Bob: So, when are we talking about?
Pete: Summer, 1981. June or July or something. I think it was June.
And your older brother?
David, his name was. We lived out in the country - our dad had a farm. When I was little, I used to follow our David round. He showed me all these secret places. He called me a limpet; but he didn't mind, not really - not even when I went off alone to have a gander at his jazz mags.
[Laughter]
There was all these knackered old Men Onlys and Razzles and Clubs. He had them stashed in an old box between the roots of this massive old yew tree, right on the edge of our dad's land, down by the river. It must've been five hundred years old, that tree, and our David used it to stash dirty magazines.
And how old were you -- when David died?
Twelve, I suppose. Twelve, going on thirteen.
What happened?
It was stupid, really. He was helping our dad fix the bailer. It was Friday afternoon and he was in too much of a hurry. He got his arm caught, then it was ripped out of the socket. Our dad was with him. He ran off to call the ambulance, but by the time it gets there, our David's dead. And how did you feel about that?
I don't know how I felt about it, really. It was all a bit weird.
Shock, or whatever. Our mum was crying and our dad was drinking, and all these aunties and uncles and neighbours and Granddad and Grandma were round. It was sort of like I wasn't there. What happened next? Well, they buried him. Did you attend the funeral?
Yeah. But I didn't think that much of it. I'm sitting on this bloody pew in a suit, all tight round the collar. And nobody's said two proper words to me about him. It's a really hot day. You remember that summer -- they had all the riots, St Paul's, Toxteth, Brixton and wherever.
So anyway. On the way home in the car, I'm not speaking. I don't cry or nothing; I just don't speak. And as soon as the car pulls up outside the farm, I run inside. Our mum's got this big spread laid out. Sandwiches and that -- pork pies, this massive ham.
Our dad comes up to me and says, Don't do this to your mother, not today of all days.
So I start crying and run upstairs. I'm so pissed off, I don't know what to do. So I start looking round for something to smash. I want to break something -- something I really care about. Does that make sense? It's very common.
Anyway. I'm standing in the middle of my bedroom, fists all clenched, and I think: the Specials.
Our David had been to see them -- in Bristol, at the Locarno, in 1980. He'd hung round outside and got the album signed. Not Terry Hall - but Neville had his name on there, and Roddy Radiation. It was David's most treasured thing, and I'd always wanted it. I used to nick it, hide it among my records. I only had about five - Top of the Pops and Disney songs and that - so he always found it, easy. So anyway. I go to David's bedroom and I kneel down, and there it is - the most precious thing in his world, the first Specials album, signed by Neville Staple and Roddy Radiation.
I had it in my hands, I was going to snap it - when I see something in the wardrobe mirror. I look up, thinking it must be our dad and I'm in deep shit. But it's not our dad. It's our David. Your brother David? My dead brother David, yeah. What was he doing?
Just sort of sitting there. Smiling at me. Did he speak?
He didn't need to. It was the kindest smile I ever saw. Like he knew exactly what I was doing, and why I was doing it. The funny thing is, the first thing I thought to do was to put the record back where it belongs. So I do that, and when I look up, our David's gone.
What happened next?
I sit there on the edge of the bed, next to where David had been.
Then go down to the wake and say sorry to our mum and dad. They were all right about it. Did you mention seeing David? No need. Had anything like this happened to you before?
No.
And since?
No.
One last question. What was David wearing?
[Pause]
I don't know. I can't even remember. How weird is that?
Bob sat back on the sofa, pocketing the Dictaphone.
Pete relit the skinny joint he'd allowed to go out.
Nathan said, 'Blimey.'
Pete puffed and exhaled, saying, 'Freaky or what?'
The door creaked loudly and Nathan's heart exploded in his chest.
He looked over his shoulder, at the door, saying, 'Christ. I'm getting the fear.'
Bob told him, 'Sometimes, telling these stories acts as a kind of evocation.'
'Evocation
of what?'
'I don't know. Whatever.'
Nathan's feet were cold. The worn carpet was bitty on his soles. He said, 'What are you talking about?'
'I'm doing ghosts.'
'Doing ghosts.'
'Studying them.'
'Yeah, right.'
'Absolutely. I'm two years into a PhD. Psychology.'
'But there's no such thing as ghosts.' He cast a quick, guilty glance at Pete. 'Sorry, mate.'
Pete shrugged, unbothered.
Bob began to pack up his briefcase, saying: 'So, is Pete lying?'
'Of course he's not.'
'Is he mad?'
'No.'
'Was he seeing things?'
'No.'
'Then what happened?'
'I don't know.'
'Nor do I. That's why I'm studying it.'
