Lady of the Shades Read Free Page A

forget about the finer
details overnight. He’s a bit disappointed. I’ll have to look through my old notes when I get home and email him a few background scraps and discarded plot lines, restore his faith in
me.
    ‘It’s freezing,’ Joe says, breathing warm air down the neck of his jumper.
    ‘I noticed.’ It shouldn’t be. It’s a balmy night outside.
    ‘Maybe the ghost’s coming. The temperature drops before an appearance, doesn’t it?’
    ‘Sometimes,’ I nod. ‘I was in a room once where it plunged twenty degrees in the space of a minute.’
    ‘Did a ghost appear?’ He’s smiling. He’s never seen a ghost. Doesn’t really believe that we’re going to find anything here.
    ‘I don’t know. I had to leave. It got too cold.’
    Joe rubs his hands together. He’s wearing a chunky grey jumper and a duffel coat, but is shivering worse than me, even though I’m only clad in a light shirt. I wouldn’t have
thought that someone with Joe’s physique would feel the chill. He’s as muscular as a wrestler. He looks odd, actually, because he’s not a big man, with small hands and a neat,
oval face.
    He notices me studying him and grins shakily. ‘Old wounds,’ he explains. ‘They play up in the cold. You should see me in winter — if I leave the house in less than three
jumpers and two pairs of jeans, I have to be thawed out by an open fire.’
    I smile sympathetically. Joe told me about his injuries a couple of days ago, when I asked why he was walking around in the middle of a heatwave fully dressed from neck to ankle. His mother grew
up in Northern Ireland and they used to go back on regular visits. One day they were out shopping. There was an explosion. Joe was caught in the blast. He nearly died. Doctors patched up the worst
of the damage, but his body is a mass of scars and broken skin. He never exposes his flesh in public, ashamed of how he looks. That’s why he grew a thick beard — his lower face is
scarred too.
    ‘We can leave if you like,’ I offer.
    Joe shakes his head. ‘And miss my big moment? Not bloody likely.’ Joe is intent on making this book work. He’s thrilled at the thought of contributing to one of my novels.
He’s determined to assist me in every way possible. He’d probably pump money into the venture if I let him.
    ‘We could bring in an electric fire,’ I suggest.
    ‘No good. The ghost shies away from electrics.’
    That’s what the owner of the house told us. It’s why we’re sitting by candlelight. Ghosts are shy creatures, loath to reveal themselves. I know from previous studies that they
often choose the most inopportune moments to appear, when you’re fiddling with your camera or pointing it in another direction. Sceptics mock such failures, but they don’t realize how
canny the spirits can be.
    Canny
. I’ve picked that up from Joe. The new book is set in London. I need to get to grips with the way the locals speak. I’ll have to make sure I mix with some genuine
Cockneys though — if Joe’s my only reference, I won’t know if I’m using southern or northern terminology.
    ‘You still haven’t told me what the story’s about,’ Joe comments.
    ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I tell him. ‘I know some of what I want, but there are still large gaps to be filled in.’
    ‘But you’re going with the SHC angle, right?’
    ‘I kind of have to, to keep you happy, don’t I?’ I chuckle.
    ‘It doesn’t matter a damn to me,’ Joe says. ‘Honestly.’
    Joe was the one who got me interested in spontaneous human combustion. He’d read a lot about it and mentioned SHC a few times in emails, told me how scientists were unable to explain how
it happened, discussed a few of the differing theories with me. Intrigued, I started to do some research of my own — I’ve tried to cover every supernatural angle over the years, seeking
answers in the most unlikely and unrelated of places. That research eventually led me here.
    ‘It’s going to be a