Chapter 29: Ghosts.
'So you survived?'
'Yes.'
'And Fothergill has held you ever since?'
'Yes.'
Silence.
'Why?'
The woman, sitting opposite Ron and Hermione, seemed momentarily stumped by his question. She sat as still and composed as her reflection in the burnished, polished mahogany surface of the antique, magical table that stood at the centre of the conference room; as still and composed as the silence that seemed to hang in the very air – a silence full of dread and tension.
She might as well be sitting the other side of the wide Atlantic Ocean for all the closeness Ron felt towards her.
Suddenly, she moved slightly in her seat, and glancing quickly towards her immediate left where Dorothy Garnett-Butcher sat quietly stirring her black coffee and adding a third white sugar lump, cleared her throat.
'Sorry?'
'Why?' Ron waited.
Hermione made to lean forward but she stopped when Ron placed a light but restraining hand on her right leg below the table, which clearly said wait, not yet.
'Why?' the woman repeated his question.
'Yes. Why?' Ron paused again, leaned forward once, looked hard at her, drew a deep breath – and then leaned back into the conference chair. 'We think you're dead and then: here you are – just popping up, in the most dramatic fashion,' here he glared briefly over at Dorothy '– you and Adam, apparently – or whatever the hell that thing was that attacked us out there today.'
'We didn't attack you.'
'Really? You call firing shots at the Chief Auror of Great Britain not attacking somebody? Plus illegally apparating – at least twice – causing mayhem and disorder in Central Birmingham?'
'Firing shots? We don't use Muggle firearms,' she replied.
'When Adam first appeared – '
'The alleged Adam,' interrupted Hermione. Ron ignored her.
'When Adam first appeared – '
'We do not use Muggle fire arms.'
'At all?'
'No.'
Ron weighed up her words. The conference room was imbued with the latest mendacity detectors. If there'd been the slightest hint of untruthfulness the usual physical reaction would have caused an almost imperceptible warming of his palms. There was nothing – she seemed to be telling the truth.
Still, Ron thought, pursue the question.
'So why did you attack us? Me?'
The woman reached up to flick irritably at a strand of brown hair that had come loose across her brow. A slight, sharp breath left her mouth.
'We didn't attack you, we were there to – '
A knock at the door interrupted her. All four turned towards it. The face of Williams, Head of Communications poked around it.
Dorothy had risen to her feet.
'I gave express instructions we were not to be disturbed.'
'Yes, ma'am. Sorry, but it's the Minister. Priority Floo Call'
Dorothy looked down at Ron and Hermione, a frown appearing on her brow. Before she had time to say anything Williams continued.
'It'll have to be in the Communication Centre, ma'am, sorry – he wants complete security.' His face disappeared back round the door, then momentarily reappeared.
'Oh, and he wants to speak to Undersecretary Granger too, ma'am. Sorry.' He smiled apologetically and disappeared again.
Dorothy sighed heavily and looked at Ron.
'Hope it's not London deciding to get a backbone and start interfering, eh?' she said and turned to Hermione. 'Shall we go and see what the hell he wants?'
'Yes, suppose we'd better see what he wants,' replied Hermione, standing up from her chair and walking to the door with Dorothy.
'You'll be alright, Ron?' Dorothy asked.
'Yes, we'll be fine.' He moved his wand once; the room glowed a little for a second with a purple tinge then faded. 'Yes, recording and security are set up.' He stared over at the woman sat opposite him – a woman everyone thought had been dead for years. A ghost. 'Won't we?'
'Yes,' she replied tersely. 'I told you – we're no threat.'
Ron glanced back to the two women waiting now by the half-open door. 'We'll be fine.' He looked back over the table their guest. 'The dead can't hurt the living.'
The woman said nothing in reply. The door clicked shut.
Ron produced his wand again, giving it another slight wave and looked up at the ceiling.
'Recording paused,' he said quietly. He stared hard at her, maybe for ten, fifteen seconds – but it felt like a lifetime. 'So, Francesca … how have you been?'
She ignored his question.
'Right. Why did you attack us?'
'For the last time, Ron!' she said. 'Listen, I assume you've stopped the recording because you don't want Dorothy to know – or Hermione?' she added pointedly.
'Okay, let's assume you're right,' replied Ron. 'What of it?'
'Well, then, we won't have long, will we, before they are back?'
'So?'
'We didn't attack you.'
'But the shots?'
'Coincidence?'
'Coincidence! Fucking hell, Francesca! I believed you were both dead: dead!' Ron thundered, his anger bursting forth. In all the interview, it was the first time he'd shouted. Considering how he'd been feeling that day, it was perhaps a small miracle he'd not been shouting for the whole time. 'You're both alive!? And you tell us he's kept you captive all these years?' He paused. I need to calm down, he thought. 'And then you expect me to really believe he didn't set up something else – for me, of all people?' Again he paused, looking down at the table; then he peered carefully back up at her. 'After all, there's probably only one person he hates more than me,' he said, leaving that thought to hang in the air, for a moment, unwelcome to the other person in the room. 'Jimmy? Remember your brother.'
She said nothing, swallowing visibly, her expression stony.
'Sorry.' Ron softened. 'Sorry.' He said again. 'I just don't understand. What is going on, Francesca? It is both amazing, wonderful … and horrifying to see you,' he trailed off.
'I understand, Ron. I do,' she replied. They looked at each other and she reached over the table, grasping his hands in hers. For the merest part of a second he flinched: a hand from the grave, reaching out to him – to grasp and seize him. But the sensation passed as soon as it came; she felt warm and alive, her skin soft and yielding.
'I have a message for you and for you alone. I don't know anything about the shootings – he certainly didn't sanction that,' she said. 'You have a lot of enemies, Chief Auror, that's all I can say – perhaps one of them chose that moment to make themselves known. No, my mission was to meet you via Dorothy and convey my message somehow - but only to you, no-one else, Ron.'
'Why the secrecy, Francesca? Why me alone?'
'Because there is only one condition he wants.' Ron suddenly paid even more attention at this. 'But he suspects it will not be allowed or sanctioned – not even for the Chief Auror of Great Britain.' He looked carefully at her; she seemed to smirk ever-so-slightly. 'Certainly not by Dorothy,' she looked hard back at him, '– or Hermione?'
'What's the condition? What does he want?' Ron asked quietly, releasing her hands. 'Why can't you tell me more?'
'Because we haven't got the time, Ron,' she replied quickly. 'We need to be quick and discrete. The other information I can divulge to you and Hermione and Dorothy – but the condition is for you and only you. Only you can decide if it's worth the risk?'
I cannot believe I'm doing this – but what the hell, thought Ron.
'Well? Be quick, then! Ask?'
'He wants to meet.'
'Meet!?'
'Yes, meet.'
'That will be impossible.'
'He told me to tell you he knew you'd say that; so I was to convey to you the understanding that if you refused, he would kill all and any hostages he retains – including Adam and myself.'
'How do I know he's not bluffing?'
'You don't – but he guarantees there will be no trickery,' she replied. 'Our lives are the guarantees.' She paused. 'He simply wants to talk: he wants a deal.'
'A deal!?'
'He has certain information he feels could be worth the risk – but he wants a deal made for it,' she continued. 'But he only wants to talk to you – just you and him.'
Ron thought hard. If he accepted, he'd be breaking so many protocols, even for the Chief Auror. But if he accepted, perhaps he could finish things, one way or the other – for ever. He looked over at Francesca's expectant face, her expression keen, almost hungry. And not surprising really. Would Fothergill really execute them, even after all these years? Perhaps it would be better if he met him rather than say – Jimmy? There'd be only one outcome – if that was allowed to happen: death for Fothergill.
And that wouldn't do. Not at all. Not for Ron.
Not for Fothergill.
For him, there should be sweat. And tears. And justice.
No, it would be better if he made the contact. In a way, Ron couldn't understand why he was thinking this way – but he found his mind made up in less than ten seconds after Francesca had last spoken.
'Okay,' he said, his voice surprisingly firm, considering what he was about to propose. 'Okay. Take this,' and he reached into his jacket pocket and produced his Muggle mobile. He placed it on the table and tapped it once with his wand. Immediately, it began to vibrate – and then, as if from nowhere, a second phone appeared next to the first. He picked up the new phone. 'That is a messaging copy I've just created, of my Muggle mobile phone – I am contactable either way on it, day or night. It is totally secure and is magic-resistant so will work in any location.' He handed it to Francesca. 'I will contact you on that when I'm ready.' He looked down at his original phone.
He paused and again looked over at the woman opposite him.
The ghost who was no longer a ghost.
He breathed in, more deeply and quietly than usual – and found himself holding the breath for a few seconds before releasing it, like a great sigh of surrender, to the inevitable.
'Okay,' he said, looking her square in the face and holding her gaze. 'I'll meet him.'
He looked up towards the ceiling and again grasped his wand, giving a small motion.
'Recording on,' he said.
