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THE college clock was chiming nine o’clock as I scrunched across the
snowy gravel towards the worn steps of the building. From the lower floors
of the crumbling gothic facade only a few lonely lights lit the gleefully
eddying snowflakes, but the sound of dance music from the upper stories
told that the Dean’s Christmas party was already in full swing. I paused
at the top of the steps to stamp the snow from my leaky shoes. Fresh flakes
were already covering my meandering track across the courtyard, adding to
the timeless tranquillity of the scene. As I heaved open the swing doors
the warm scent of academia whooshed out into the night air. It was a rich
bouquet compounded of floor wax, wood and leather furniture, the sweet mustiness
of old books – and the lingering acrid tang of ageing laboratories.

The porter looked up from his desk as the door slammed shut behind me.
‘Evening, Sir.’ ‘Evening, Sid,’ I replied with the casual bonhommie demanded
by college protocol. ‘You’ve heard the news I suppose, Sir?’ I shook my
head and he beckoned me into the inner sanctum of his office. This unheard-of
invitation, coupled with the expression on Sid’s face, warned me that some
monumental event had taken place. It had. In the pool of light from a brass
reading lamp lay a copy of the evening paper. The headline ‘COLLEGE TO CLOSE
IN CASH CRISIS’ confirmed the news that had recently been whispered in the
corners and coffee rooms. So – it was official. I let my eye run down the
columns of text. Yes, the familiar arguments had been dragged out again.
The old place was just too costly to run; the laboratories alone needed
Pounds sterling 2 million to bring them up to a competitive standard, and
a similar figure would be needed to prevent the fine lead roof from plummeting
through the rotten, worm-eaten timbers which had supported it for the past
few hundred years. No one, it seemed, had Pounds sterling 4 million handy,
so the college building was to be sold off to a firm of city whizz kids.

Sid reached into his desk and drew out a decanter. It was half full
of a dark, oily liquid. ‘As it’s Christmas, Sir, I wondered whether you
might like to join me in a glass of port.’ The porter glanced down at the
newspaper. ‘I think we could both use a stiffener.’ After wiping two glasses
with a piece of rag he poured out some of the brownish-red wine. ‘Here you
are, Sir, merry Christmas!’ It looked more like bromine than alcohol, and
I sniffed at it with barely concealed suspicion. ‘Head Porter’s special
supply,’ said Sid reverently, ‘donated by a peer of the realm sixty years
ago – after my predecessor pulled his son out of the river on boat-race
night.’ He took a respectful sip of the ancient liquor and sighed. ‘There
isn’t much left now, but it should hold out until I do my rounds for the
last time.’

My companion stared dispiritedly into his glass for a few moments, then
rummaged through the contents of a wooden pigeon-hole and handed me a folded
piece of paper. Sid put in helpfully: ‘The hairy gentleman from the computing
centre was looking for you earlier – seemed quite agitated. He said to make
sure you got this note.’ I moved nearer to the light and frowned at the
spidery scrawl.

‘Dear John,’ it said. ‘This is getting ridiculous. Someone in your department
is clocking up huge charges on about five different computer networks all
over the place. Have you been hacked? If so, find out who it is or I’ll
be down there to cut off your privileges. Cheers, Spike.’ ‘Merry Christmas
to you too, mate,’ I thought gloomily. Oh well, the party would have to
wait, we couldn’t have hackers rummaging through people’s intellectual property.
Still clutching the glass of port I trotted off down the echoing corridor,
pondering the nature of the problem as I went. Like many computer managers,
Spike developed the symptoms of advanced paranoia when anyone even mentioned
data security. I had no doubt that this was another of his famous false
alarms, but as a firm believer in humouring the unstable I intended to change
all the passwords, send him a message saying all was well, and I’d be at
the party within five minutes.

When I reached the computer room it was in darkness, only the occasional
red light and the nasal whine of oriental electronics betraying any sign
of life. I switched on the lights, and got a shock. On the far side of the
room a cloaked figure was seated at one of the terminals. ‘The party is
in the senior common room. That’s two floors up and on your right,’ I intoned
in my ‘formal’ voice. The figure didn’t move. ‘Oh hell,’ I thought, ‘the
first drunk of the night.’ I tried again. ‘Look, I have to lock up now,
will you leave please?’ The figure shrugged and pushed his chair back from
the terminal. As he turned to stand up I caught a glimpse of a pale, unfamiliar
face. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded nervously. ‘I’m the hacker,’ he replied
in a calm, reasonable voice – and walked straight through the wall.

The human mind has amazing powers of self defence. When confronted with
a situation beyond its experience it will seek out some commonplace problem
to resolve instead. Faced with a disappearing hacker my brain had a quick
look round and found the ideal replacement. Working on automatic, it caused
the glass of port to be raised to my lips and unceremoniously drained. The
hydrofluoric burning of the throat which followed gave my body something
real to worry about. Gasping for breath and wiping away tears of corrosive
shock, I walked over and prodded the wall. It certainly looked solid enough.
What the hell was going on? At this interesting juncture, the phone rang.
Spike’s hairy voice held an edge of excitement. ‘Did you catch him?’ ‘Who?’
‘The hacker, bonehead! He logged out about ten seconds ago.’ ‘Uh, no, not
as such . . .’ ‘Why not? He was right there next to you!’ I took a deep
breath. ‘He walked out through the wall.’ Well, he asked for it.

There was a short pause while Spike digested this piece of intelligence.
When he spoke again it was obvious that he was in the grip of a powerful
emotion. He spoke slowly and with a dangerous tremor. ‘John, have you been
drinking again?’ I glanced down at the empty glass in my hand. ‘Yes.’ Spike
hung up his phone with a force usually reserved for splitting logs. Why
is life never simple when you tell the truth? ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’
said a quietly amused voice behind me. I turned around quickly, becoming
entangled with the telephone in the process, and saw the cloaked man standing
in the doorway. The port had ceased to burn my throat and was now making
a concerted effort to wipe out my stomach lining, making it hard to concentrate.
I made an effort. ‘I know that I’ll regret asking,’ I ventured, ‘but – how
did you do the thing with the wall?’ He smiled a pale smile. ‘Easy really.
You see, I’m a ghost.’ I leaned on the edge of a desk and pondered this
for a while. The port had now reached my knees, and balance was becoming
a bit tricky. Well, yes, his explanation seemed sensible enough, but something
fundamental bothered me. ‘If you’re a ghost,’ I reasoned carefully, ‘why
aren’t I scared of you? Are you not a soul in torment?’ The ghost blinked
at me with some surprise. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I’m a bit depressed I suppose,
but torment is putting it a bit strong. I’m definitely a ghost though, no
real doubt in my mind there. I’ve had about three hundred years to get used
to the idea.’ I realised that I could no longer feel the ends of my toes.
With the exaggerated care of the half-stewed I lowered myself into a chair.
‘I think,’ I said, motioning the ghost to a vacant seat, ‘that you had better
tell me the whole story . . .’

Geoffrey was, by his own account, a fairly run-of-the-mill ghost. The
youngest son of a noble, but impecunious, family, he had been sent to the
college in 1630 to obtain a fitting, but economical, education for a country
gentleman. All, it seemed, had gone well until he fell madly in love with
Elizabeth, the beautiful daughter of the very unbeautiful Dean. The Dean
did not approve of his daughter mixing with students, especially when they
were the penniless sons of minor gentry. He most particularly objected to
them being entertained in his daughter’s rooms. So when his stern footsteps
and clanking swordbelt were heard approaching, Geoffrey had thought it both
politic and expedient to make a hurried exit through the window. Sadly,
his haste had forced him to place an unwise reliance on the tangled wisteria
which covered the stonework. A bough had given way beneath him and he had
fallen to his death.

Finding himself an unexpectedly discorporated undergraduate he had at
first attempted to continue his studies, but lacking the material density
to even turn a page he was reduced to reading over the shoulders of his
fellows. This was made easier by the fact that he could neither be seen
nor heard by anyone. Being an amiable, low-key sort of ghost, Geoffrey soon
became content to sit quietly around the college. He particularly liked
the senior common room, where both characters and stories would remain unchanged
for decades. This gave Geoffrey a pleasing continuity and a defence from
the increasingly frantic changes in the outside world.

As the years had ticked slowly by, Geoffrey had become bored with his
vicarious existence. The tedium of his lonely life had almost become unbearable
when the college leapt into the new age with the installation of its first
computer system. To his great delight, Geoffrey had found that he could
manipulate the tiny voltages of the microchip in a manner which eluded him
with less ephemeral forces. His new toy pleased Geoffrey mightily, and he
set about mastering its intricate pathways with a will. Geoffrey’s big day
came when the computer was connected to an academic computing network. Suddenly,
a whole galaxy of electronic mail services and bulletin boards gave him
the chance to talk to thousands of people – some of whom, he discovered
by delicate questioning, were also ghosts. It seemed that Geoffrey was not
the only college ghost to have moved with the times. From these individuals
he learnt many things, including the trick of manifesting himself in a visible
form. Which was why, the ghost concluded, we were able to have this conversation.

As Geoffrey finished his tale, I realised that a question was nagging
at my stressed and tattered consciousness. ‘Why did you let me catch you?
All you had to do was to make yourself invisible.’ He smiled from beneath
the hood of his cloak. ‘It seems,’ he replied ‘that we need each other’s
help. I have a plan to save the college.’ By this time I was fairly shell-shocked
by the course of events – and the port – so it seemed quite reasonable that
the college’s oldest undergraduate should rush to its defence. ‘I understand
that a large sum of money is required?’ he suggested. I explained the amount
involved, then went on to wax lyrical about the unpleasant plans which the
prospective owners had for the college buildings, how they planned to rip
out the old interior and fill the gutted shell with fountains, glass-walled
offices, boldly painted pipework and loud, Porsche-driving youths wearing
red braces. The ghost shuddered and drew even paler. ‘That sounds more like
the work of devils than of men!’

‘You mentioned a plan . . .’ I prompted gently. ‘Yes. Have you heard
the story of the college silver?’ No one could work in the college for long
without hearing the tragic tale of the lost millions. ‘Of course,’ I replied,
‘it was ‘liberated’ by Cromwell’s troops during the civil war.’ ‘Not quite.
The Dean of the day was wily enough to hide it before they arrived. Unfortunately,
the turbulent times led him to leave the treasure concealed and he died
without revealing its hiding place. It is still secreted in a blocked-up
doorway in the library. It just needs someone to happen along and ‘discover’
¾±³Ù.’

I considered this for a few moments. It would be easy enough to find
an excuse to drill a few exploratory holes in the wall. The librarian had
always complained about her lack of a computer terminal – better late than
never. With the proper stage management, we could perhaps reverse the ailing
fortunes of the college. Yes, it would work. It had to work. ‘This calls
for a celebration,’ I said to the ghost. ‘When did you last go to a party?’
‘Er, I think it was 1632.’ ‘Right, time you went to another. You are going
to gatecrash the Dean’s Christmas festivities.’ The ghost looked doubtful.
‘Don’t worry about the cloak, it’s more stylish than anything that lot will
be wearing. Come on . . .’

And so it was that after 357 years Geoffrey the scholar was finally
rehabilitated into college life. New faces are rare at college parties so
when I introduced him, as a visiting academic, the Dean’s eminent guests
greeted him warmly. One elderly professor even claimed to have enjoyed his
recent articles, to which Geoffrey bowed graciously. With that he was whisked
away into a series of pleasantly trivial conversations about the weather,
the economy and what the government really didn’t understand about higher
education. I stood watching them for a few minutes. It seemed that my unusual
guest provided the perfect excuse for laying aside the grim ‘closure’ stories.
As he moved slowly from group to group his infectious good humour began
to bring amusement and laughter to the whole room. Geoffrey was a success.

It was an hour before I saw him again. I was wandering aimlessly around
the room, trying not to grin too loudly at people, when I noticed Geoffrey
in rapt conversation with a striking young woman. They were both smiling.
As I watched them walk arm-in-arm towards the dance floor I felt a moment
of unease which still haunts me. I wish I had known that the Dean would
invite his daughter to the party.

John Gilbey is a hopeless romantic. He lives in North Devon.