Free The Voices by F. R. Tallis

Fate!’
    ‘Well, he isn’t saying that, is he?’
    ‘Yes, he is.’
    ‘No, he’s not. He’s saying . . .’ Laura paused for a moment before continuing: ‘Come to me, Faye.’
    Christopher shook his head. ‘No, no, no.’
    ‘Come to me, Faye. That’s what he’s saying. Who is he?’
    ‘Just a second.’ Christopher rewound the tape and put the headphones on. ‘Let me hear it again through these.’ He was sure that his wife was mistaken. Even so, he decided that he should at least appear to be taking her assertion seriously. The voice started and Christopher listened. He closed his eyes and was surprised to discover that he was now less sure about what he was hearing. Simply knowing that the speech could be interpreted differently seemed to introduce a subtle shift of emphasis. The consonants softened as he strained to clarify thewords. Another replay failed to resolve ambiguities. Christopher realized that he hadn’t cleaned the tape up quite as much as he’d thought. There was still a lot of hiss and rumble to confuse matters. He opened his eyes. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
    Laura’s stare was accusatory. ‘What’s going on, Chris?’
    He slipped off the headphones and gestured at the tape machine. ‘Roger thinks that these people are dead.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Neither do I. Not yet.’
    Christopher parked his car on the Archway Road and walked a short distance, over cracked paving slabs, to The Earth Exchange. Massive lorries and double-decker buses laboured their way towards Finchley, belching black smoke from shaking exhaust pipes. He turned into an open yard and approached an imposing brown-brick house ahead. Some of the windows were decorated with colourful transfers and the front door had been left half open. Christopher ascended the stairs and stepped inside. Immediately, the smell of diesel was replaced by whole-some fragrances wafting up from the vegetarian cafe below. He advanced down the shabby hallway, his heels banging loudly on the exposed floorboards, and turnedinto a large, brightly lit room. He saw baskets full of pulses and grains, fruit and vegetables, and shelves stacked with cartons of tofu, soya chunks and bottles of sarsaparilla. Sitting by the till was a young woman with straggly black hair. She was wearing a skimpy white vest through which Christopher could see the shape of her small breasts and the raised dark outlines of her nipples.
    ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling. There wasn’t a trace of make-up on her face.
    ‘Hello,’ Christopher replied.
    ‘Nice day.’
    ‘Yes. It is very nice.’
    He went over to a tall bookcase and glanced through the titles. They were just as he had remembered: books on Buddhism, hypnosis, tarot cards, telepathy, stone circles, astrology and ghosts. He picked up a volume by two authors who were identified on the cover as ‘professional ghost hunters’, and then consulted the index for any mention of tape machines or tape recordings, but he couldn’t find anything relevant. He continued his search, inspecting the contents pages of other books without success.
    ‘Can I help you?’ The young woman had emerged from behind the till. He could now see that she was wearinga long, rustic skirt, the embroidered hem of which stopped short of her bare feet.
    ‘I’m looking for a book,’ Christopher replied, by a professor who claims to have made tape recordings of spirits.’ He felt slightly embarrassed by this admission and gave a nervous laugh.
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said the young woman, ‘I know the one.’ When she moved, tiny bells attached to an ankle bracelet jingled. She stopped next to a carousel of books and spun it around. Standing at her side, Christopher could smell patchouli and a slight undertow of musky perspiration. ‘You must mean this.’ She handed Christopher a thick hardback.
    He took it from her and momentarily their hands touched. ‘Thank you.’
    She turned and sashayed back towards the till. Christopher found