Page 91 of Hot Ghost Summer

In between a flurry of erratic and jerky movements as Theo fights back, he barks a grotesque and broken, “Go!”

The spark gap at the edge of Theo’s electricity supply is a jump I’ve not successfully made before. Like a yawning chasm, it’s an effective barrier between me and the National Grid. I hover at its periphery, uncertain. Last time I tried, it was like being sucked through a vacuum—one that returned me to him. But that can’t be the outcome today.

In order to save him, I have to leave him.

To do that, I have to break what binds me. I need to move on.

With one last look back at Theo, and with this new knowledge, I revisit the moment of my death.

It had been my fixation on Theo that blinded me to Bowen’s presence, and there was nothing either of us could have done to change the outcome of that day. We were woefully uninformed and unprepared. As the senior Spirit Extraction Specialist, that responsibility fell on me. Just like it falls to me to be the one who severs this connection between us.

Our continuous exchange of emotional energy isn’t a thing of beauty; it’s vampiric. Since the moment I returned in this new life, I’ve used it to feed on Theo, and my hatred for him was all the justification I needed.

I was wrong. Theo deserves better. I will do better.

Like flicking a switch, the moment I let him go, I shift seamlessly from one state to another and leap the spark gap. Vanishing into the vast electrical ether that smothers London like smog, I freely navigate the complex maze of cables that branch and twist as they creep under the busy roads above.

As I travel further from Theo’s building, slower copper wires gradually replace super-fast fibres, and as I close in on my destination, I face a whole new dilemma. Pymmes Brook.

For centuries, it marked a natural boundary along the edge of Bowen’s land, and now it provides one for me.

I can’t breach this. There’s no technological infrastructure on the other side, and without electricity to fuel me, I can’t get any closer to Plot 47.

Frustrated, I map the edges of where I can reach, looking for any way across, when I find a thin ribbon of… nothingness. A complete absence of any detectable electromagnetic field threads thinly between two areas of high-density background radiation. I flow closer, curious.

It’s a perfectly straight line that cuts diagonally across the brook, and right through the heart of the Bowen’s Plaza worksite. What energetic signature would display this way?

Cautiously, I press closer, expecting to be met with resistance like I found at the spark gap, but there isn’t any, and in one fluid motion I slip easily into the void.

From inside, this narrow cavity looks completely different. On either side is a luminous aurora curtain that shields the outside world from view. Cascading down, streaks of vibrant red, green, blue, and purple paint a glowing cliff that stretches long and thin, like a cosmic highway.

A ley line. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, but not why I’m here.

Flowing through the crevice, I cross Pymmes Brook and mentally count the distance as I remember walking it with Theo until I reach my final destination. The abundant earth energy inside the ley line is more potent than anything I’ve ever felt, and even after this short time bathed in it, I feel revitalised. Is this how it is for all spirits? Is every ghost able to access them like this?

Absorbing as much as I can, I use it to power my transformation, and when I step out from behind the vertical rays, I do so in visible form.

The chipboard security gate of Bowen’s Plaza is entirely off its hinges now. Splintered and broken, it lies on the ground, and I step over it. Soundless, my boots don’t crunch on the chalky ground as I walk, nor do my breaths disturb the night as I make my way toward the white van that idles in front of Plot 47.

Its rear doors are wide open, and slumped against them are two men dressed in black. One with an obviously broken leg who’s barely breathing, and another with a hole in his chest big enough for me to insert my fist into. It’s a similar-sized hole to the one Bowen’s shotgun pumped into the brickwork of Theo’s flat, and my gaze cuts across to the open trench I came here for.

Whatever the intention of these men, it’s likely they’re what disturbed the revenant, and they paid the ultimate price. It’s a timely reminder of how dangerous the man who currently possesses Theo is, as well as a stroke of luck.

As a technomancer, I can’t carry items with me when I travel, so I couldn’t bring the ExorSquad workbag. Yet I do need to salt and burn Bowen’s bones.

Squatting beside the first man, I pat down his pockets. Nothing useful. The man with a broken leg yields better results—a lighter. Perfect. But that’s not all he has that I need. A combination of the unseasonably hot weather, his critical injury, and what he no doubt witnessed happen to his friend, has soaked his T-shirt through with sweat.

The man groans and moans as I jostle and roll him until he’s divested of it. The fabric drapes heavily over my arm, but that’s good. Sweat is packed with electrolytes, and those are still salts. They’re also a damn sight better than nothing right now.

Lighter and T-shirt in hand, I jog to the digger parked at the end of a row of machinery and deposit my items on the seat. Invading the ignition, I breathe life into the engine. The excavator roars, and its loud rumble quakes the ground, but I’m no longer concerned about how much noise I make. The threat I once tried to avoid aggravating has already claimed a victim and isn’t here to disturb.

Driving the heavy machine over the raised concrete pad of Plot 47, I cut a direct path to the large foundational trench out the back. The hydraulic boom extends at an agonisingly slow pace, filling the immediate vicinity with the smell of iron and oil, as I aim the massive bucket into the cavernous pit. Its jagged teeth bite into the dried soil far below, scraping and grinding over long-buried secrets as I scoop up mounds of clay.

When I’m confident that I’ve exposed enough, I draw more strength from the mini network of cameras still mounted here and materialise once more. Dropping into the deep hole, I hunt through charred remains until I find who I’m looking for.

This late-season heatwave has ensured that it’s not just the ground that is parched. Partially exposed to the elements, Jim Bowen’s bones are dry and brittle, and I wrap as many of them as I can fit inside the sweat-soaked T-shirt.

I click the lighter, but I’ve lost the energy boost from the ley line, and my form isn’t solid enough to strike a spark.