Resonance Read online

  She paused and took another sip.

  "As I see it, they're dead, but they don't know it. So they go around doing everything they did before. They live in houses, they drive cars, they shop, they make out. Makes sense to me."

  It suddenly made sense to Graham too. An epiphany. He'd never understood why people who came back from the dead never talked about their experiences. He'd put it down to embarrassment, shame maybe, some social taboo that said you don't talk about death or unravelment. But maybe they just didn't realize where they'd been.

  Wouldn't that explain his father's reaction? That first time he'd come back from the dead. Graham still remembered every moment of that morning. Getting up, going downstairs, walking towards the kitchen expecting to see the tear-stained face of his mother still grieving three months after her husband's passing. But hearing laughter instead. A man's laugh. He'd slowed in the passageway, not knowing what to think. The kitchen door ajar, unable to see all the way in, he'd hovered outside for an age. And then the man spoke. It was his father! His father had come back!

  He'd raced into the kitchen, thrown the door back against its hinges and jumped on his father's back. The sheer joy of finding him alive!

  "Dad, it's really you!" he'd said, his voice breaking.

  "Of course it's me, who'd you expect? The milkman?"

  His mother had laughed. "How come I don't get a hug like that?" she'd asked.

  "Because you weren't dead," he'd replied and, suddenly, all the world went very quiet.

  But now, looking at that scene again, he could see it had been shock on his father's face. Not embarrassment. All those years Graham had thought he'd broken some unwritten taboo and dared to tell one of the returned that he'd been dead. But it hadn't been that at all. His father hadn't been embarrassed at his son's outburst, he'd been mystified. Because he hadn't known he'd been dead.

  "Earth to Graham." Graham returned to find Annalise waving a hand in front of his face. "Where'd you go just then?"

  "Sorry, I was thinking about what you said about dead people."

  Annalise shrugged. "That's cool. Now where was I?"

  "You had to send a message to your spirit Annalise."

  "That was it. And I had to learn it by heart. I wanted to write it down but lobster guy didn't want any of that. 'Nothing on paper,' he said. 'Can you memorize a twelve-digit number?' he asked. 'For another hundred bucks, I can.'"

  "The message was a twelve-digit number?"

  "Part of it. He wanted me to get in touch with the same Annalise that told me about the bungled De Santos kidnapping. Very insistent. It had to be her and no one else and she had to contact Gary Mitchison, some doctor who worked at the Queen Alexandra College over here in London. 'Resonance wave,' she had to say. 'I have a message for you from Kevin Alexander on 015 498 226 373.'"

  "Was that his telephone number?"

  "No, I checked. And it wasn't a URL or anything internetty. I double-checked. Probably some code the two of them had worked out before the guy passed over."

  "Why would anyone do that?"

  "To prove they were who they said they were. Houdini started it all. It's a way of checking the medium's for real. If the medium comes back with the wrong code then she's a fake."

  Annalise drained the last of her coffee.

  "Anyway, that was supposed to get this spirit guy's attention. Then came the rest of the message. 'Danger, be careful what you broadcast, remember everything's monitored. Resonance project teams are being closed. No longer safe. Take research off line. The girl can be trusted. Pay her. She's the only secure line of communication. Resonance wave intensifying, repeat, resonance wave intensifying.'"

  "What's a resonance wave?"

  "You don't know?"

  Graham shook his head. He hadn't a clue.

  Annalise tilted her head to one side and looked closely at Graham. "Lobster guy and his dead pals sure seem to think you do." She paused. "They think you're the key."

  Graham swallowed hard and looked at his feet.

  "Anyway, there's more of the message. 'Access the Census logs,' it went on. 'Look for traffic on Graham Smith and cross-reference with disbanded Resonance projects. Can't be coincidence. Why the interest in him and why were the projects closed soon after? End message.'"

  Annalise paused to deposit her empty cup on the coffee table.

  "Spooky, right? What kinda census logs would a dead guy look at? Some kinda dead guy inventory? Or is there something a dead guy can do that a live one can't? Like pass through locked doors and check out classified files?"

  "But what could any of that have to do with me?"

  He was totally confused. Why would anyone in Canada or anywhere else for that matter have the slightest interest in him? He was as near to a nobody as you could get. He could disappear tomorrow and no one would notice. He had no family, no friends, no . . .

  And then it came to him. It was obvious.

  "They've got me mixed up with another Graham Smith, haven't they? It's a very common name."

  "Urrrr!" Annalise pressed an air buzzer with her finger. "Wrong answer, Graham. You haven't heard the dead guy's reply."

  Ten

  Annalise retrieved her coffee cup and held it out to him. "This is definitely a two-cup story."

  Graham took it from her and made a fresh cup. Just the one this time; he knew he'd be up all night if he drank any more.

  Annalise was standing over his jigsaw when he returned.

  "I still can't get over this jigsaw of yours. It's gotta be like—wow—the biggest jigsaw I've ever seen. You must be a real patient kinda guy."

  Graham held out her coffee.

  "You're not having one?"

  "No."

  "This is definitely not how I pictured it," she said, swinging her coffee cup to point around the room. "Your house, I mean. It's not a guy house. It's like normal in a spooky old-fashioned kinda way. Were you married?'

  Graham shook his head.

  "And no TV. Or do you like have one of those home entertainment rooms?"

  Graham shook his head again. "My parents had a TV but . . ." He let the sentence end in a shrug.

  "But what?"

  "I never really liked TV."

  "Wow, you really are weird."

  "You were about to tell me what happened next," said Graham, changing the subject.

  Annalise stared blankly.

  "The dead guy's reply?"

  "Oh, right!" She looked around for somewhere to rest her cup and found the sideboard. Graham fought the impulse to rush over with a coaster.

  "It was a long one, can't remember it all but it went something like, Census logs checked. Can't see link but agree there must be one. Cross-reference Crime and . . ." She paused, tapping her forehead. "Medical. That was it. Crime and Medical logs. Someone wants Graham Smith dead. Possibly same person behind Resonance project closures. Graham Smith under surveillance. Wealdstone Lane house searched, nothing found. Message out. 015 blah blah blah."

  "They searched my house?"

  "Everyone's searched your house. Good guys, bad guys and dead guys. Did you see how many different types of listening devices you uncovered? Bet they weren't all planted by the same people."

  He shook his head in disbelief. "Why would the good guys want to bug my house?"

  "To find out what you know. You're the key to this big mystery of theirs. This resonance thingy. Way I see it, they're all working on these Resonance projects—some secret offshoot from ParaDim—but someone doesn't want them to succeed."

  "Who?"

  "That's what these guys are trying to find out. They don't know either. All they know is that it's gotta be someone high up in ParaDim or someone with real heavy connections. As soon as anyone gets close to an answer about this resonance wave—zap—the project gets closed down. So, lobster guy sneaks a peak at their logs and finds you. You're like the last entry in all these dead guys' diaries."

  "They're dead?"

  Annalise shrugged. "No one's
said. But if they're not, why doesn't lobster guy just ask them. Way I see it, they're either dead or locked up somewhere."

  Graham felt the need to sit down. His head was swimming. How could his be the last name in the diaries of people he'd never met?

  He settled back on the arm of the sofa. Annalise scooped up her cup and bounced down into the armchair opposite.

  "But why me?" asked Graham. "I don't know anything about resonance waves or ParaDim. I've never met any scientists."

  "The dead guy thinks it must be something you know. He reckons you gotta be the key. Why else were all these people interested in you, why did it get them closed down and why's someone trying to kill you?"

  Why did it always come back to that? People want you dead. Wasn't there an Annalise with some good news?

  "And the more these guys uncover, the worse it looks for you. I've been channelling messages back and forth for three weeks now. But instead of protecting you, they're way more interested in studying you. Crazy, ain't it?"

  He couldn't disagree with that.

  Annalise set her cup down on the hearth and bounced forward onto the edge of the seat. "Which is where I come in. Lobster guy flew me over here—he works in London now and needed me close. I am the house medium, after all." She smiled. "Naturally a girl can't help being curious. I was in London, you were in London. You were like key guy and all alone.

  "So, I tracked you down. They said you lived in Wealdstone Lane. I bought an A to Z street guide. There was only one Wealdstone Lane, so how many Graham Smiths could there be? Swung by early one morning and asked the mailman. Pointed me right to you. Then it was just a matter of keeping tabs. Believe me," she smiled, "you are way easy to follow. You have a routine you could set a clock by."

  She slid back in the armchair and brought her legs up beneath her. "Then I called in the girls. They're not all here yet. But they're coming. You're gonna be the safest guy on the planet."

  Two hundred Annalises. He tried to remember how many he'd already met. And then froze. How could he have met them? They were all dead. Unless . . .

  "Are any of your Annalises from Boston?"

  "Let me see." She put her head on one side and screwed up her eyes. "Two of them are. Why?"

  "Any of them ever live at . . ." He couldn't remember the address. "Fairburn or Fairchild Street?"

  "Not as far as I know. Though that's not saying much. A lot of the girls think they live with me."

  "They do?"

  "Spooky, right? Way I see it, when you die your memory gets wiped. But it doesn't always work. Some memories stick. Others start to resurface after a time. But the mind can't wait so it starts filling in the gaps by borrowing stuff from wherever it can.

  "My girls fastened onto me. Probably because I'm a medium. They liked my name so they took it. They liked my house so they took that as well. And they borrowed other stuff. Like chunks from my life. I say I had an Uncle Louie in Minneapolis and some of the girls say, 'Hey, I had an Uncle Louie in Minneapolis too.' But not all the girls, some still had memories of their real families so they didn't need mine. That's cool," she shrugged, "I'm a sharing person."

  Graham could see another possibility. Something he'd never dreamed of. Something he could barely imagine.

  What happened to all those threads that unravelled? Could they still exist somewhere, independent of the world they'd been pulled from but somehow still coherent, still able to support life?

  And was that where Annalise's spirit guides lived? Were the dead and the unravelled somehow mixed together?

  His mind felt heavy and slow. So much was happening all around him. The dead, the unravelled, two hundred Annalises popping in and out like Cheshire cats. Why hadn't fate picked someone brighter? Someone used to thinking on their feet? Not someone mired in inactivity, someone who took five minutes to lock a door and couldn't sleep if he thought a picture was hanging crooked.

  Here was a chance to discover so much and yet he could feel the opportunity slipping through his fingers. He wanted everything written down. Something solid he could put down and come back to, like a jigsaw puzzle, something he could walk around and study for days or weeks, dipping into and out of whenever he felt like it. Not something he had to react to immediately. The spoken word was like water cascading through his fingers—he was drowning one minute and dry the next.

  "Of course, you could stop this any time you like," said Annalise.

  "What?"

  "You're the key. Somehow you can stop this resonance wave. So, go ahead and do it. Once you do, it's over. No resonance wave, no reason to kill you, right?"

  Graham shook his head. If only it could be that simple.

  "How can I stop something I don't understand?"

  "Beats me," Annalise shrugged. "I'm a medium, not a psychic."

  She looked at her watch. "Time to go. My B and B locks its doors at eleven thirty. Can you believe that?"

  "You're going?"

  "Why, Graham." She put her hands on her hips. "What kinda girl do you think I am?"

  Graham reddened and hurriedly looked away. Annalise grinned and punched him playfully on the shoulder.

  "But what about the people who planted the bugs? What if they send someone round tonight to find out what's happened?"

  "No problemo. Annalise Twelve's outside watching the front door. If anyone starts anything she'll stop them."

  Graham glanced towards the drawn curtains and wondered what on earth was on the other side.

  "How?" he asked, turning back to Annalise.

  "She's got it worked out real good. Anyone so much as walks though your gate, she's gonna start heaving bricks through your neighbor's windows. The street'll be crawling in neighbors and cops within a minute flat. Who's gonna dare touch you with that many witnesses?"

  "She can do that?"

  "You ever see Poltergeist?"

  Eleven

  Graham set off for work the next morning, wondering if Annalise Twelve was watching. Was she floating, invisible, above the trees or crouched down between the parked cars? And who else was watching him? Was that Kevin Alexander who sat in the parked car over the road?

  He tried to settle back into his old routine of counting paces between the landmarks but found it hard to concentrate. Part of his mind was analyzing faces—was that woman familiar, hadn't that man passed by on the other side of the road ten minutes earlier?

  It was the same on the tube—anyone getting on or pushing through into the carriage or hanging back by the doors. What would they do if he jumped off at Finchley Road, ran across the platform and took the next northbound train back to Harrow?

  Finchley Road came and went. He'd toyed with the idea of jumping off just as the doors were closing. He'd even edged forward onto the balls of his feet, ready to spring. But something had held him back. His fear of attracting attention, his fear of upsetting his daily routine.

  * * *

  He walked into the Post Room thirty minutes later, glanced over towards Sharmila's desk and stopped.

  Sharmila wasn't there.

  Michael was. Michael hadn't worked at Westminster Street for six months, not since he'd been transferred to Greenwich.

  Michael raised a well-muscled arm in acknowledgement and carried on talking. He was on the phone as usual. He spent most of the day on the phone—organizing his social life, keeping his girlfriends in line, checking all the players were available for the match on Saturday, booking squash courts, restaurants, arranging nights out. Michael lived enough lives for four people—all of them busy.

  Graham waved back. And almost said hello. His mouth started to form the word but his brain kicked in and promptly closed it. He wasn't ready. Not yet. Talking to Annalise had been fun but it had been unsettling too. There was a warm protective feeling about silence. Silence couldn't hurt you. Whereas words could tear your life apart.

  Graham's phone rang. A sound as frightening to Graham as the low drone of a wasp. He swung round, Michael was still on the other ph
one, he must have switched calls through to Graham's extension.

  The phone kept ringing. Graham hovered close by, praying it would stop, wondering if he could pretend he hadn't heard it and walk out the door.

  The phone rang on. Michael laughed and chatted. Graham's insides churned. He hated phone calls. All he could say was mmm for yes and uh-uh for no. And even that was a strain. His throat would invariably tighten or the person on the other end would shout at him.

  But what if it was urgent? What if in five minutes' time someone came storming into the Post Room demanding to know why the phone hadn't been answered?

  He lifted the receiver.

  "Michael, you were supposed to be here five minutes ago. What's keeping you?"

  It couldn't have been worse. Frank Gledwood. Graham didn't know what to say. A thin voice attempted a cross between a mmm and a uh-uh.

  "Shit!" said Frank. "Shenaz, go and fetch Michael. There's only that moron in the Post Room and I haven't time to play twenty questions."

  Graham listened, knowing that Frank hadn't even thought to hold his hand over the mouthpiece while talking to his assistant.

  The phone clicked and the ringing tone purred. Shenaz would be on her way down.

  Graham hated telephones.

  * * *

  Lunchtime came and Graham couldn't leave the building quick enough. He didn't unwind until he reached St. James's Park, found an empty seat by a stand of bushes, sat down and started to unwrap his sandwiches.

  "Don't look around," said Annalise from somewhere behind him. "We have to talk. I'll be here tonight at seven. Make sure you're not followed. Take the subway as usual, lose your tail in the crowd, then double back. Scratch your head if you understand."

  Graham scratched his head and fought the desire to turn around. Had Annalise received another message?

  He waited to find out. Hardly daring to breathe in case he missed a word. Five seconds passed, ten, twenty.

  No answer came. She'd gone.

  Twelve

  Back in the office, Graham thought about Annalise and what she might have discovered. He felt so useless. All he ever did was wait for Annalise to bring him news. Wasn't there anything he could do? Something to convince the people at ParaDim that he was no threat to them, that he wasn't the key or anything remotely deserving of interest?