Chapter 5

Having omitted to tell Eddie Pargeter about the events on the seventh floor of his office block, I felt the time also wasn’t right to tell him about the events in the flat either, for the same reason. There was little prospect of any corroborating evidence, apart from possibly some dried cum stains somewhere I legally shouldn’t have been.

That made four occasions when I’d encountered the girl and been used by her, and the encounters seemed to be escalating. And the worst part was that I wasn’t sure I wanted them to stop, even though they felt wrong.

Eddie’s observation about consulting experts in the supernatural came to mind. I was a births, marriages and deaths churchgoer, and I had absolutely no confidence that the old coot who conducted Lynda’s funeral service would be able to help. Instead I turned to the internet. At first I tried to track down people who’d had similar experiences to mine, but the signal to noise ratio of the results was incredibly low. I spent days trying to refine my searches to get more useful results. I did manage to find a small number of cases worth a second look, but there were generally scant similarities with my own experiences. In fact, I would have been surprised if any of them had been anything other than the result of an overactive, possibly substance enhanced, imagination.

Then I researched paranormal investigators. Most were obvious charlatans. Even TV documentaries, which purported to show inexplicable phenomena such as loud noises in the middle of the night and objects apparently moving of their own volition, carried the disclaimer that the programme was for entertainment in tiny script at the end.

To my surprise, I found one paranormal investigator advertising in my local paper. I gave him a call to sound him out and decided there was no harm in his offer of an initial free consultation.

The paranormal investigator, Lamont Fisher, turned out to be a retired man in his sixties. He arrived at my place on time, carrying a suitcase, and was polite and respectful. He gave me a firm, confident handshake on arrival and wasn’t afraid to look me in the eye. He told me he was doing it more or less as a hobby as the paranormal had always intrigued him, then asked me what I wanted investigating. I explained I was being ‘haunted’ by a teenage girl, but I didn’t mention how she’d used me and I didn’t feel I yet trusted him enough to show him the video evidence.

Although none of the ‘hauntings’ had occurred on my property, Lamont offered to do a quick survey for any paranormal phenomena. The price he quoted seemed reasonable and, after I agreed, he took some electronic measuring equipment out of his suitcase and tested every room, then went outside and walked the property boundaries.

“I have to say everything looks clear,” said Lamont. “Since all the manifestations so far have been away from your house, the girl is probably attracted to you personally rather than where you live. Would you like me to do a scan of your body to look for any anomalies that might be causing the attraction? I assure you it’s completely safe - I’m not allowed to use anything dangerous like X-rays.”

“Yes please.”

Lamont got another set of equipment out of his suitcase, a hand-held scanner connected to another measuring device. “Do you have any metal implants in your body?”

“No.”

“Any metal objects about your person?”

I emptied out a few coins and removed my metal-clasped belt.

Lamont ran his scanner over my body. “Nothing I can detect,” he concluded. “To investigate any further, I’d need to be there in person with my equipment when the girl shows up next.”

“Since her appearances are unpredictable, I guess I’m no better off then,” I said disappointedly.

“Well, the scans have eliminated some possibilities so it hasn’t been a complete waste of time,” said Lamont, as he packed his equipment away. “If you want to try something to protect yourself while you’re at home, I can get you some solar-powered pulse emitters. They emit low-powered pulses that are supposed to compromise the integrity of ectoplasm. They look like solar lights only they don’t light up. They come on stakes for you to drive into the ground a short distance from your outside walls. Some people say they work but I reckon they’re more of a placebo. However, since I see you take pride in your garden, they do at least have the benefit of deterring cats.”

“How much are they?” I asked.

“They come in sets of four for £100,” said Lamont. “That should be plenty for your property. And they’re guaranteed for ten years.”

I didn’t know whether I’d just fallen for a sophisticated sales technique, but Lamont struck me as honest and self-deprecating about his hobby. And besides, a cat deterrent would be useful. “Okay, I’ll take a set,” I agreed, reaching for my wallet.

“I don’t keep them in stock so I’ll have to get them from my supplier,” said Lamont. “And I’ll have to show you how to set them up and check they’re working. I’ll give you a call when I’ve got them.”

“So, how much do I owe you?” I asked.

“Just for the scans today,” said Lamont, repeating what he’d quoted beforehand. “You can pay me for the pulse emitters when I bring them.”

I paid Lamont then we shook hands again before he left.

The mild relief I felt at having done something constructive came crashing down when I realised my next appointment with the unemployment benefit people was days away, and I’d been so wrapped up in the paranormal investigation angle that I hadn’t received any job rejection letters because I’d hardly sent off any job applications. So I’d be forced into attending one of their useless retraining courses unless I went for a short-term alternative like flipping burgers until my industry picked up.

Later I checked the local paper but all the unskilled jobs available seemed to be scuzzy minimum wage zero hours jobs. It looked as though I’d have to submit to retraining.

The morning before my next unemployment benefit appointment, the telephone rang. “Hello, could I speak to John Pearson please?” the caller asked.

The tone didn’t seem like a scammer so I answered. “Hello, this is John Pearson. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Eliogu Kwante. I don’t know whether you remember me, but I work for Amalgamated Engineering. We met once on a training course.”

That jogged my memory; an urbane man who had seemed pretty competent. Amalgamated Engineering were frenemies with Consolidated Industries, and the two companies had combined forces on several contracts in the past.

“We’ve just taken on a new contract and we have an experience shortfall,” Eliogu continued. “We’ve got lots of promising young newly qualified apprentices but the team needs an experienced hand to oversee the work and do on-the-job coaching and mentoring. I contacted Consolidated Industries in the hope of a loanee. They said you would be ideal for the role, and you’re currently a free agent because of cutbacks. The exact terms are negotiable but we’re thinking of three days a week on a contract basis. Are you interested?”

“Yes, I’d like to know more.”

“How soon could you come for an interview?”

An interview meant wearing a suit. And my suit still had cum stains on the trousers. If I rushed out now, I could leave it with a same day dry-cleaner and pick it up the next day after my unemployment benefit office appointment. “I already have an appointment tomorrow, but the day after would be fine,” I suggested.

“Good. You know where we are. Come to the main reception and ask for me by name.”

We agreed a time, then ended the call. I grabbed my suit, folded it as neatly as I could then dashed out of the door. I crossed my fingers and hoped not to encounter the girl.

After I made it safely to the dry-cleaner’s, I choked back my embarrassment - after all, they must surely encounter cum stains all the time - and handed over the suit to the assistant at the counter, saying that I wanted to collect it the next morning ready for a job interview.