On the whole, it felt much more like a science project than anything to do with Spain. Still, it was difficult to judge whether she was about to give away something related to a haphazard, defunct programme or expose a key operation.
She was lost in thought when the room grew even chillier than before and the old ectophone in the corner rang—three metallic tinkles of a bell in rapid succession.
‘Hullo, hullo! Is Rachel there?’ said a cheery female voice.
‘Yes, Mother,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s me.’
* * *
Rachel’s mother, Henrietta Forbes-Smith, had been dead for a decade.
She had exercised her euthanasia right early when the lumps first appeared in her breast and had passed away in the place she loved the most, even more than India—the garden of their house in Ealing, sitting in a folding chair in warm May sunlight, the morphine drip in her arm. She had one last look at the Hinton Cube diagram of the Ticket in her lap, and then held on tight to Rachel and Rachel’s father, one with each hand. She leaned back, let out a satisfied sigh and was gone so quickly Rachel had to touch her smiling face to realise that her mother was dead.
Whenever Rachel felt as if she had forgotten her mother’s face and smell, she thought about the hand in her own: small, like hers, red and dry, with tiny cuts and callouses everywhere, black dirt under the fingernails, a gardener’s hand. It always brought back the rest.
They waited anxiously an hour until sundown, like they were supposed to, and then Rachel’s father fumbled with the tuning dials and fussed over the hiss of static and the howling noises of the passing dead attracted by the aetheric device’s operation.
And then there it was, her mother’s voice in the speaker, low and warm.
‘Hullo, hullo!’ she said brightly. ‘Did you know there are flowers here? Who could have imagined?’
* * *
Rachel sat down in the big armchair in front of the ectophone. It was an old-fashioned model the size of a wardrobe, and did not have a nyctoscope screen like some of the newer models Mr Baird’s company made.
‘How are you?’ she asked distractedly, holding the heavy Bakelite handset between her chin and shoulder, trying to keep studying the CAMLANN papers in her lap.
‘I am still dead,’ her mother said, ‘although it has been so long since you called that I could have been resurrected by the Second Coming in the meantime.’
‘Mother, I have been busy.’
‘I am sure you have.’ Henrietta paused. ‘You look sad. I can see your soul from here, you know, all tangled and spiky, like thorns.’
Rachel swore under her breath. Dealing with Bloom should have taught her how visible her mental state was to the spirits.
‘Never mind that. It was a difficult day at work. What have you been doing?’
‘I am well, Rachel, if a little bored. Your father is sending pictures from Cyprus. We were there once, you know, when you were young. I put his photographs in my thought-garden, to grow together with the memories.’
Sometimes, it was difficult to understand how things worked in Summerland. Unlike many other dead, Henrietta was retired, supported by Rachel’s father and a small portion of her own income. It was a nightmare scenario that anti-Dimensionist economists often brought up in newspapers—that each subsequent living generation would have to carry a vast, growing pyramid of the dead on their backs. It was clearly nonsense: there were so many applications for aetheric technology that in many fields the dead were becoming more important than the living. The Service itself was a good example. Her mother was happy, that was the important thing, and she had an eternity to start working again. Now it was her time to rest.
‘But you don’t really care about me, Rachel, you just want to hear my voice, since something is bothering you. I told you, I can see it.’
‘I … I was demoted. I am now working in the Finance section.’
‘What? It must be a mistake.’
‘I am not allowed to talk about it. But it is not a mistake, at least not one they will admit.’
‘Rachel, Rachel, I am so sorry. Surely it wasn’t your fault?’
‘I don’t know, Mother. Perhaps it was.’
‘Rachel, I always told you it was not a good idea to work for the government, no matter how much you liked your father’s silly stories. You can never trust them.’
Rachel sighed. Endless arguments had ensued when she announced her intention to join the Service. Her mother was intensely distrustful of anything to do with politics or intelligence work.
‘Never mind, Rachel, I know it is important to you. Can your father help?’
‘No, Mother. This was at a different level.’ As a young man, Rachel’s father had served as a junior signals intelligence officer in Russia, attached to the Navy, before he moved to India. He was now retired and travelling the Continent. She knew he would get angry, write letters and make noise, but he simply could not reach people like Sir Stewart or C.
‘Well, then.’
‘Well what?’
‘Then the question is, what are you going to do next?’
For a moment, Rachel wanted to be a child again and hear her mother tell her that everything was going to be all right. But Henrietta continued in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘When you have a child, you try to make them feel safe, like nothing bad will ever happen. But you are not a child anymore, little Rachel. You must accept that nothing is forever. In the meantime, flowers grow. And you will find some flowers, too, I know. Your Joe is a good man.’
Rachel’s eyes burned. There was static on the line, sharp pops rather than the usual background noise.
‘Mother,’ she asked quickly. ‘Tell me—are there other spirits with you?’
‘It is always so crowded here, in the city.’
‘Just look. Did you see any of them before, when you followed me?’
‘There are some that move quickly, like manta rays of light. One passed by just now. What is it? Why are you scared?’
‘I have to go. I am sorry. I love you. I will call again next week, I promise.’
Rachel switched the ectophone off. Its low hum took a while to die down.
With a cold certainty, she knew that the figure her mother had seen was a Watcher from the Summer Court. What was more, she was almost certain who had sent it.
She hoped that her mother was already on her way back to the Summer Homes and would not see what Rachel’s anger truly looked like.
* * *
Roger Hollis lived in a small first-floor bachelor flat in Redcliffe Mews in Chelsea. Breath steaming in the cold, Rachel stared up at a dark window and wondered whether Roger was visiting one of his mistresses or vice versa. Then she thought she heard a faint coughing sound and grinned.
She rang the doorbell a few times, and when nothing happened she resorted to banging the door with her fist. Lights went on in the neighbouring flats, and finally Roger opened the door, blinking. He looked dishevelled and was dressed only in a heavy nightgown.
‘Rachel? What the hell are you doing here at this time?’
‘Why, I am here to have a nice cup of tea with you, Roger. Are you not going to invite me in?’
She brushed past him, took the short flight of steps up to his flat in a few strides and switched on the lights. The furniture was old and grandiose against a background of green-striped Regency wallpaper, and a rather pompous bust of Nelson faced the main window. In the pale electric light, the place looked overcrowded and more than a little pathetic.