Free The Ghost Page B

only stand to watch documentaries?”
    â€œDid you just say that Hitchcock wasn’t British?” Machin’s smile was bright and broad.
    â€œWell… I meant he’s not
perceived
as British.”
    â€œHe was born in Leytonstone, Dorian!”
    Now, Cook was diverted by Machin’s nicotine-yellow front teeth, his coarse little goatee (grown to distract from a double-chin), his overwashed check shirt. And, yes, he was actually wearing
cords!
    â€œAnyway,” said Cook, spluttering, “this business of engaging with the mass audience. You can’t produce art that second-guesses the sensibilities of those who might consume it. That’s just marketing. Whiteley is shaping up to be one of this country’s most essential artists, and if he’s going to reach his full potential, he needs to
ignore
the masses and be a complete fascist when it comes to his artistic integrity. That’s what he’s done with this film, that’s what makes it such a success and, I think, that’s what every filmmaker who has ever made something truly great has also been aware of.”
    â€œDorian, I don’t think I can take a lecture on film from someone who doesn’t know the nationality of one of our all-time greatest directors.”
    This was unnecessary, but effective. Cook was hushed. His eyeline detached from Machin’s smirk and became unmoored, drifting off to the right – up, up and away, straight into the camera lens, returning its laser-guided glare. The dolly-mounted Sony NXCAM was happy to accept the staredown challenge. It stood firm, unflinching, taking photograph after photograph, exposure after exposure, blasting its subject out of the past and into the nearly-present – ageing, bloating, defiling. Cook absorbed the silence like a stolen peace, willing it to extend into eternity. And then, somewhere out there in the ribbons and refractions of light, he could have sworn he saw a ghost – something no longer imprisoned in soundless void, something dead and gone and yet somehow alive and here again. The idea stirred him from stupor, and he was mortified to discover himself unswallowed by unopened ground.
    â€œIs it me?” he said weakly. “Or is it hot in here?”
    They were the first words to be spoken in the studio for at least ten long, gaping seconds. Trotman guffawed, gratefully seizing on the remark as self-deprecating. Machin, head tilted, studying Cook with awe, spoke slowly and carefully in triumphant sympathy.
    â€œI’m pretty sure it’s you, Dorian.”

12. Low Gates, High Stakes

    May, 1974
    Uncle Russell shunted the two boys to his usual spot on the City home terrace and pulled two flasks from his work satchel – milky instant coffee for himself, ‘orange’ for Cook and Mountford. Unusually, the surrounding cluster of fans could comfortably be described as a crowd, and the air was a churning brew of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and meat-pie belches. According to Cook – and, a little more reluctantly, Mountford – the two were now ‘best mates’. As milk monitor for the term at Bethesda School, Cook always tried to hold back an extra bottle for his visit to Mountford’s classroom and occasionally managed to slip it onto his friend’s desk unnoticed. Mountford had not formally requested this privilege, but he accepted the gesture and, despite their age difference, the two boys were never far from each other’s playground clique.
    The match was listless – early bursts of chanting were soon replaced by a murmur of cautious apathy. Mountford took to gripping the horizontal section of the terrace bar with both hands, tipping himself forward, legs straight, scuffing his feet on spectators behind.
    â€œMind out, son!” barked a scrawny man in a cloth cap. Cook and Mountford giggled conspirationally, and Cook copied the trick, swinging even further forward and drawing similar