Ghosty: White Cloud, Blue Mountain

By Bernard Sell

Bingo Elkins, ghost about town, is back, and his sunny disposish is being threatened like never before.

His brilliant executive assistant/bodyguard, the beautiful and deadly Miss Thammavongsa, lies in a hospital bed after the nefarious society of The Black Foot has blown up his yacht. The motive appears to be revenge, but on whom? And for what?

Meanwhile, a new player in London appears...who can stop time. Dashed difficult to handle, what?

What is a gentleman ghost to do? Enlist the help of friends, of course. Eccentric Nobel Prize-shortlister Dr. Reed Robaire, man of SCIENCE! and Klog, an unfrozen, Nietzsche-quoting Neanderthal rush to help.

"White Cloud, Blue Mountain" takes the reader from the Inner Hebrides of Scotland to the mountains of Thailand and back home again to Kensington. If you like P.G. Wodehouse and "The A-Team," you will love Bingo Elkins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bernard Sell
• Release date: Jun 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458010605

Bernard Sell

Bernard Sell is the author of Ghosty: This Fenceless World and its sequel, Ghosty: White Cloud, Blue Mountain. He has co-authored a short story anthology with Jon Nichols.He is married to his girlfriend, has three children, and his day job is teaching American Literature at a rural Indiana high school.

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Chapter One

You know, the longer I biff about God’s green—and as a ghost, I have about three times as much biffing put in as my friends—the more I understand these chappies who, after a time of thinking people sound and reliable, find them unsound and unreliable, and end up swearing off the whole lot. They may start off wide-eyed and optimistic, like yours truly, but a few setbacks push them into a sticky morass, and one disaster later, they end up wearing black sweaters, reading Kierkegaard, and in general, developing the kind of outlook that one might expect from some rich villain developing a death cannon on a private island somewhere.

No—wait. I mean to say, I understand these blokes with the dark clouds following them about and how they may get that way, but let me hasten to add that I think they’ve gone completely off the rails. It’s a beastly fellow who gives up on the essential good nature of others, even when misfortunes seem to be queuing up. I offer up the complex case of one Apollo3807, the villain of this little piece, as proof of the dangers of such gloomy thinking.

I suppose a good place to begin this narrative would be my recent unpleasantness in the Hebrides. Really, I have nothing but fond feelings for the Scots, what with Hume and Burns and my beloved Balmorals, but this was one jaunt I bally well could have done without. Without harking back too far, let me give you the essentials of the scene. Miss Thammavongsa, my pippin of an executive assistant, had recently earned a holiday for putting the vicious assassin Red Door in the ground, and her idea of leisure was to pilot the archipelago in my yacht, the Sisyphus.

Filling out our modest crew was Toddy Peterson, one of my boon companions from the Drongo Club. His was a last-minute addition, and I could discern from the telltale twitches about her dark eyes that Miss Thammavongsa was displeased. Possibly she had reservations about Toddy’s seagoing constitution. He’s a wispy fellow and not the heartiest of adventurers, but he’s well-schooled in the art of merry-making, and in my humble o., this excursion was heaven-sent. The old horse was in a bit of a kick; he had recently stumbled into an engagement with a rather beastly girl, and two weeks’ escape seemed just the thing. Besides, Bingo Elkins has never been one to say no to an old Eton pal.

We were tooling about the south face of Staffa amid calm seas and a northerly wind, when there came to my ears the low rhythmic thumping of a helicopter’s blades, and I went on the bridge to see if Miss Thammavongsa had detected it as well.

She had.

By the sound of it, sir, a Sikorsky H-19. A search and rescue helicopter.

Are you certain?

Yes, sir, said Miss Thammavongsa. She closed her eyes, and then added: A Pratt and Whitney radial engine, if I’m not mistaken.

I wonder what they’re doing out here, I said.

Presumably, sir, searching and rescuing.

The raven-haired featherweight was cheeking me once again, I suspect, but I let it go.

We may be called upon to render assistance, as per the Law of the Sea? I said.

The possibility exists, sir, although they have not yet contacted us. They seem to be hovering at the moment.

H’m! That’s dashed strange.

My sentiments exactly, sir. Additionally, this is not a SARF helicopter. They use Sea Kings, which are yellow.

Did you think to hail them, Miss Thammavongsa?

The thought had indeed occurred to me, sir, she said. They are not responding.

Well, I was blowed. I considered this dot in the sky, which seemed to be keeping an equally watchful eye on us.

A bit of a puzzler, then, I said.

Yes, sir.

I found this to be one of those situations you occasionally come across where there is simply no explanation. One should scarcely expect a chap to root about for causes and effects every time a mystery presents itself. As someone who has happened upon many an inexplicable circ, I can attest that oftentimes the best course of action is to simply shrug the shoulders and move on, and I said as much.

Very good, sir, said Miss Thammavongsa, turning the wheel to port. Might I suggest landing? Since it’s low tide, we’ll be able to see the basaltic columns of Am Buachaille in their entirety. Then we can walk overland to see Fingal’s Cave.

I waved the lass on. This was, after all, her picnic, and I had no horse in the race. This pile of rocky columns may have had Queen Victoria in a state, but I assure you it was doing nothing for me. Nevertheless, Miss Thammavongsa was on top of the world, and dash it if I wasn’t going to bear up.

The same could not be said for Toddy, however. He was lounging on a deck chair on the front deck below us, and our change in course had him in an uproar.

I say, Bingo! he called up to us. What the dickens is your girl doing? We’re not actually going ashore this rock heap, are we?

Miss Thammavongsa’s response was merely to throttle back on the yacht.

Don’t mind Toddy, I said. I’ll let him into the 18 year Glenlivet and he’ll be right as rain. I think he’s still in a fit over Estelle.

"Yes, sir. His, shall we say, complicated situation seems to be a problem that has become more and more common among your friends," said Miss Thammavongsa.

Ha! You are referring to Dr. Robaire, no doubt.

I believe the doctor does fall into this recent trend of broken engagements, sir.

Not so much broken as fled, I’m afraid. Poor old Robey, I said. I thought for sure that a happy ending was in the air. Oh well. Who knows? They may yet work it out, Miss Thammavongsa.

I find the likelihood remote, sir, she said, as Dr. Robaire no doubt took the position at Cambridge in an effort to escape Miss Jenko. I also strongly suspect that he is responsible for the anonymous tips to Homeland Security and the Border Agency that prevented her from obtaining a passport.

It’s a rummy affair, Miss Thammavongsa, I said. One’s heart goes out.

"Thuuk thuuk, sir, replied the doughty lass. Too true. It’s a pity that Dr. Robaire could not see fit to honor his commitment to the young girl."

Pull yourself together, Miss Thammavongsa. I know full well you thought you were off the hook re his affections toward you, and that is the true source of your disappointment. Besides, that’s not the rummy part I was referring to. I think it’s perfectly horrid that Dr. Robaire has gone to work for…that other place. You should consider yourself fortunate that you matriculated from Oxford and not Fenland Polytechnic, or else you would most likely not be working for me.

Miss Thammavongsa smiled, and then drew a silken lock of hair back behind her ear. It was no great mystery why Dr. Robaire and many others found my executive assistant so compelling; not only was she a pretty girl in an exotic, tropic-skinned, laser-eyed way, but when she turned on the wattage, it was impossible for mere mortals to resist. I readily admit that I myself have known occasions where I have been perilously close to fumbling.

I count myself blessed, sir.

As well you should, Miss Thammavongsa. Cambridge is a horrid place.

Above, I heard the cries of two sparrow hawks as they headed toward the island ahead of us. Or perhaps they were puffins.

Miss Thammavongsa, I wish to say once more how appreciative I am for the jolly good job you did on the Red Door caper.

It is extremely kind of you to say so, sir.

And all the research you’ve been putting into this nasty Black Foot business.

Thank you, sir. I am only sorry that Miss Williamson covered her tracks so well. It is, unfortunately, a by-product of her superior training.

It was at that, I thought. The pair had trained together at the same monastery in the mountains of Thailand, and no doubt were bosom chums before the red-headed shrew sold her soul. This wooden O was much better off without her.

A close affair, Miss Thammavongsa. Not a criticism, but merely an objective observation.

I took it as such, sir. In fact, I should be thanking you. Were it not for your timely intercession, I would not be standing here, piloting this craft amid this beautiful and rugged terrain.

I scanned the landscape yet again. I suppose there was something to be said for it after all.

The concrete landing stage was steadily creeping up on us; it was less than a half-league away. I was sure that before long, we’d be dropping anchor and piling into the dinghy.

You know, Toddy called up to us, noisily folding his deck chair, I’ve got it! This slag heap looks like a ruddy muffin that’s been dropped into the sea, init?

I was anxious to preserve the aforementioned state of bonhomie, so I ignored the interj. Instead, I tut-tutted and asked my executive assistant if any philosophical ramblings were beetling through her onion, looking on all this spectacle.

Her faraway look indicated that there were.

"I’m reminded of a verse of Michael Drayton’s, which goes, if I recall correctly:

Stay, speedy Time, behold, before thou pass,

From age to age what thou hast sought to see…"

Her voice trailed off, and then she did something remarkably uncharacteristic for her stolid nature: she seemed to blush.

Why, that’s splendid, Miss Thammavongsa! I leapt in. "Absolutely gives me the pip. And on this count, we are of like mind. Certain moments should be frozen in time, don’t you think?"

I cannot help but to agree, sir.

Like this morning.

Sir?

When we set out from Mull.

Miss Thammavongsa’s eyebrows moved infinitesimally closer together.

I still do not follow, sir.

This morning, Miss Thammavongsa. When the sky had gone violet. I hit my head on a bulkhead, or whatever one calls it. It is a bulkhead, is it not? No matter. I may have even passed out for a bit.

Miss Thammavongsa was silent. When at last she spoke, she used that tone of voice she generally reserved for dealing with imminent threats.

This is remarkable, sir. Was Topsy aware of this?

Toddy, Miss Thammavongsa. And yes, I may have mentioned it to him.

Mentioned what? said Toddy, entering the bridge and throwing himself down on the leather sofa. He was signally careful, however, not to disgorge the contents of his tumbler, the pale amber hue and oaken scent of which revealed itself to be the aforementioned 18 year Glenlivet. Stealing my thunder, the doodah had helped himself.

The to-do from this morning as we were leaving Mull, I repeated.

Toddy drew up his shoulders and made a sour face.

Yes, the ‘to-do’ from this morning, said Toddy, physically notating his comment with his index fingers. Bingo says he bonked his head. A bit of a marvel for a ghost, wouldn’t you say? Oh, and the sky turned purple, he says.

Violet, I corrected.

Violet, he says, continued Toddy. Again, a bit of a marvel, as I was toting supplies to the ship—which, by the way, you didn’t tell me was part of the bargain for coming along, Bingo—and I didn’t notice any atmospheric changes at all. Blue skies the entire morning. Well, blue skies behind all the fog, anyway.

I could see that Miss Thammavongsa had hit a snag taking all the new intelligence in. Clouds seemed to be gathering about the brow, and like all good ship captains in times of rough seas and inclement weather, the expansive holiday mood had been replaced by dour deliberation. I may be the type to glide over the mysteries of life, but Miss Thammavongsa was, as you might say, smacking into the prob.

So what’s for lunch? Toddy chirped. Something warm, I hope. Not the ham pie from yesterday, I should say. What’s your girl got on the menu for today, Bingo? I’ve rummaged through the galley and I couldn’t find a blighted thing, other than the cucumber sandwiches. They were okay, but I went through them pretty quickly.

Toddy had hit upon one of his favourite topics, that is, food. Once a fellow like Toddy gets occupied in this line of conversation, one must report that an Act of God or some other disaster must pass before he can be shaken from it. When it comes to food and spirits, the johnnie is indomitable. Invictus, even. A bulldog, in my opinion.

As Toddy prattled on, Miss Thammavongsa shifted the Sisyphus into neutral, steered her into the wind, and dropped anchor. Something was afoot, and I followed the young file out of the cockpit.

The helicopter was still vigilling away, steadfastly hovering as before. An intuitive flash seemed to streak across Miss Thammavongsa’s countenance and she had just turned to open her mouth, when bim went the Sisyphus.

Well, when I say bim, I may not be painting the right word-picture. The bow flew one way and the stern flew the other way, and all and sundry other yacht parts—to include Miss Thammavongsa and Toddy—filled out the rest of compass, orange fireball close behind.

Moments after the explosion, the helicopter departed.

Chapter Two

It is a frequent topic of conversation at the Drongo Club or the other haunts I haunt that Bingo Elkins is known for his quick thinking in times of peril, and the word that most often seems to pop into the discussion is heady. Nevertheless, when the Sisyphus was scattered to the four winds, you could say that Fate had finally snaffled a triumph at my expense, for I plead guilty that I had been successfully rendered agog. The whole situation had had a definite stymieing effect right away.

Now I had I been corpus firmus, it would have been an easy matter to swim out to Miss Thammavongsa, take her to shore, swim out to Toddy Peterson, take him to shore, and otherwise make a clean job of saving the day and all that rot. As it stood, I had to have a dash at Scheme B, which consisted of floating across the bay to the nearest peat farmer and talking him into hitting the surf for a little s. and r. The effect I had on the crotchety old Scotsman I would run into was considerably less than one might expect; apparently our cousins to the north have been quite inured to such visitations over the centuries, and one more spectre buzzing across the moors fails to raise the bushy eyebrow. And, praise Providence, this old fellow was able to contact one of the island ferries darting about the islands, and before long our two casualties were safely at the hospital in Castlebay.

Miss Thammavongsa was in a most lamentable state, newly possessed of so many broken bones, contusions, and internal injuries that her doctor’s initial diagnosis was a mere Och! But these local sawbones can hardly be expected to do the big cases, so I called my housekeeper Eustace and tasked her to fly in a team of specialists. Created some ill will with the locals, to be sure, but once I promised to add a new wing to their chop shop, all was oojah-cum-spiff in the good feelings department.

Next, the moral support. For this, Miss Thammavongsa would require the presence of our two keenest mates, Dr. Reed Robaire and Klog. Both were decidedly stunned that such a tragedy had come to pass. They seemed to be of the impression, as I confess I was, that certain battleships of the Royal Navy only wished they had the stripe of invulnerability that Rot Thammavongsa seemed to possess. Heeding the call, the scientist and the caveman were up to the Western Isles in a nonce.

Shucks, it looks like you can’t be taken anywhere, Dr. Robaire said in his gravelly North Carolina drawl. He was wearing the wool-and-mohair peak lapel suit I had sent over to congratulate him on his new position, and yet he still had that aura of having just been ejected forcibly from his favourite tavern after a dust-up. Just like in Iraq, he added, this latest comment being delivered sidelong for Klog’s benefit. The Neanderthal had clearly refused my sartorial assistance, opting instead for jeans and a black tee-shirt with a yellow Batman emblem blazoned on it. Like a dead albatross hanging around, causing trouble. I reckon this has something to do with the Black Foot, Bingo. Don’t bother answering that, said Dr. Robaire, as I already know the answer.

Hardly Bingo’s fault, added Klog.

For those of you who are mounting this horse midstream, Klog is the caveman Dr. Robaire thawed out a while ago. The hairy fellow has been re-educated quite nicely, and although he has pretty much topped out grammar-wise, he has a good heart and is a doughty fighter. You may review his file at your leisure, of course.

It’s gotta be his fault, replied Dr. Robaire. This group has got it in for you bad, Bingo. Let’s see now. They tried to have my assistant kill us, and then they sent Red Door to kill us—the common denominator is you, Bingo. What did you do to tick these people off, anyway?

It is unclear whether insisting upon my innocence in this matter would have registered with my chum in his current condition. No, on second thought, the matter is decided, for no amount of protestation could have taken hold. He was wearing one of those expressions one finds on a magistrate condemning a particularly skulky offender to the stocks, and stalked off to a far corner of the waiting room, lighting a cigarette in clear defiance of the sign over his head.

How is Toddy? asked Klog. The use of the copulative is was a clear indication of his level of concern. I have found that with unfrozen cavemen the linguistic practice is to eschew verbs altogether. That is to say, if Klog is representative of the race, of which I have little doubt. Regardless, concern was conveyed, and I was dashed appreciative.

Toddy seems to enjoy the devil’s own luck, I said, watching the stern receptionist confront Dr. Robaire with regard to the tobacco situation. He came out of the contretemps completely unharmed. Apparently he was so tight on my 18 year Glenlivet that being transformed into a human projectile had no lasting effect. Minor cuts and bruises, they said. He’ll be released later today.

Dr. Robaire was now in a heated exchange with the receptionist. Both were gesticulating wildly.

He lucky man, said Klog. Doctor say how Miss Thammavongsa surgery go?

Yes. You should not be surprised to hear that the young lady, as with all her endeavours, handled herself in Bristol fashion. The bones will heal quickly, I’m sure. She lost most of her liver, but I understand it’s a remarkably regenerative organ, and—did you know that they once transplanted a large dog’s liver into a small dog, and the liver shrunk itself to fit the small dog? Amazing, what?

Doctors not put dog liver in Miss Thammavongsa, Bingo? Klog not like hospitals. Klog not trust medicine.

No, of course not. I was merely relaying what one of the medical blokes had said.

When Miss Thammavongsa out of surgery?

Oh, she’s out. She’s in recovery. Once she’s alert, they’ll usher us in.

Meanwhile, Dr. Robaire had lost his battle with the receptionist. He was angrily ripping through an ancient copy of Reader’s Digest. Hopefully I Am Joe’s Lungs. We sat down with the chump and waited. After a time, I popped off to visit Toddy, but within the hour I was back, manning the chairs. When I returned, Old Robey and Klog were knee-deep in an argument about who would win in a fight between ninjas and robots. Or astronauts and pirates. It may have been a Round Robin.

Who would triumph remained a mystery, for soon a doctor approached, and Old Robey was out of his chair like a shot.

The vision’s alabaster face shone like the moon, the surgical scrubs she wore did little to subdue the effect of her slender pear of a frame, it is my duty to report, and her voice had the clear timbre of a Christmas bell. Although the prune was not at all Dr. Robaire’s usual type—the buxom, abusive, and recently cast-off Hester Jenko leaps to mind—it was hardly surprising to find the poor lark palling up to her.

Maister Elkins?

Call me Reed.

The impending information clearly meant for me, I oiled in, much to Old Robey’s considerable displeasure. I corrected the mix-up, and the young doctor continued:

My name’s Dr. Boston, and I’m the attendin’ physeecian hae at Castlebay. From this pynt forrit, I’ll be owerseein’ yer assistant’s case.

Well, that certainly seems acceptable, I said. Now that we’re out of the woods, so to speak.

I could see there was still the residue of rancorous feeling hanging in the air left over from my team grabbing the reins and all that. High-handed, as the expression goes, but although I felt sympathies for the rural shaman, this was a case where expenses could not be spared. Still, she was admirably composed, given the insult.

It mey be a wee hospital, Mr. Elkins, but we are parfaitely capable of haundlin’ her care.

Oh, I have no doubt, I said.

Stop haranguing the doctor, Bingo, Dr. Robaire cut in, swallowing up the judy’s hands with his own. She’s only trying to do her job. Ma’am, don’t let his manner get you down. It’s his way. He can’t help it.

Really, sir—

Doctor, old Robey corrected, and then smiled his smile that could power Yorkshire with its wattage. I, too, am a doctor. But not a medical doctor. A doctor of SCIENCE!

The word science was delivered with a Demosthenian oratorical flourish, as was Robey’s habit. A thing with him.

Dr. Boston was either impressed or frightened, because she blinked several times in succession, rapidly, and then emitted some sound approximating that of a laugh.

May we see her? I asked.

O’coorse, responded the crumpet, disentangling herself from Dr. Robaire. This way.

She led the three of us to the recovery room.

There we found Miss Thammavongsa. The sight was profoundly disturbing, and the three of us were rendered quite mute, as nothing about the tableau jibed with previous images of the force of nature. She was recumbent, suited up in a pastel patient’s gown, a thin blanket grandmotherly draping her lap, and tethered to a standing IV drip and an EKG monitor. Her flawless complexion was mottled and bruised. Her raven tresses were a tangled mess. The former electricity of her eyes had been displaced by a duller, more pedestrian glint. In short, the executive assistant looked very much like someone who had been hurled from an exploding yacht with extreme prejudice.

The easy-going eloquence for which the Elkins breed is known receded before this moving scene, and the differences between myself and a gawking ape were nominal at best. I know this because Dr. Robaire took the opportunity to tell me as such.

You should be kinder to Mr. Elkins, Doctor, said Miss Thammavongsa. Her speech was slurred, and her lovely alto was at present as melodious as a bag of strangled kittens. He has been under considerable stress, and has conducted himself admirably in trying circumstances. Mr. Peterson and I owe him our lives.

If you say so, said Dr. Robaire. Seeing Dr. Boston flipping through Miss Thammavongsa’s chart, he forwarded his address to her side. May I take a look, Doctor?

Dr. Boston closed the chart.

Na, she said, and then smiled. She went on to say she’d give us some privacy, but that Miss Thammavongsa would soon be moved. Moreover, the girl needed her rest, so we would only be granted a short time to visit. Dr. Robaire watched her leave.

Reedy likey, he said after the door closed.

Klog, who had been marshalling his thoughts in a chair at the foot of the bed, got the proverbial ball rolling.

Klog hate bring it up now, he said, but be remiss not ask if Black Foot responsible.

I think we have to assume that—

Of course the Black Foot’s responsible, said Dr. Robaire, peering through the window of the door. Or I guess they’re responsible. We don’t really know, do we? Miss T here has been pretty tight-lipped from the get-go about them.

They’re a secret society, I threw in. One supposes they’re not ones to leave business cards lying about.

Maybe so, said Dr. Robaire, but it seems like these guys have been leaving pretty clear messages. Charlie Mason, Red Door, and now this. These ain’t random occurrences, Cochise. I’m telling you they’re connected. All three agents responsible are tied by threads to some unseen party.

Oh, rather, I said, but what do they have in common? And how may we anticipate the next move of these black fellows and move to intercept?

If Dr. Robaire had said that this was a puzzler and had thrown up his hands at the conundrum, the visit would have concluded peaceably, but he didn’t.

I have the feeling that our exotic bird here with the broken wings knows considerably more than she lets on.

Well, count on old Robey to seize the worst moment to shove his oar in with the rottenest charges. Could Dr. Boston have performed a diagnosis of Bingo at this moment, she would have found his pulse racing, the sinews tightening, and an all-around lurking desire to bop the good doctor on the boko. It was only Miss Thammavongsa’s next words, uttered in a sort of increasingly groggy wheeze, that salvaged my plummeting estimation of the chappie.

It’s true. I haven’t shared everything.

Why Miss Thammavongsa not share her information? asked Klog, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say the little brute’s feelings had been hurt.

It has been my experience with the tricky Thai over the years of our association that while she does have a penchant for withholding certain parcels of the skinny, she invariably has good reasons for doing so, and all parties are better off when they put their trust in a higher power, that is, Miss Thammavongsa’s big brain.

Mmm, replied Miss Thammavongsa.

Mmm? I repeated, not quite following the interjection.

Miss Thammavongsa say ‘mmm,’ said Klog.

Why ‘mmm’? I said.

Dr. Robaire strode to the bed.

Oh, no you don’t, Miss T, he said in a rather direct manner. Don’t you dare fall asleep yet. You’ve got to tell us what you’ve been holding back. Or at least why you’ve been holding out on us.

Unable to slosh the old turnip on the back of the head, I satisfied myself with a pointedly spoken Oi! and gave him a harsh look, the desired effect of which was to frost over the berk’s spine.

You are right, of course, doctor, said Miss Thammavongsa, rousing herself. I have withheld certain information. One does not put bullets in a weapon one does not intend to fire.

Good, said Dr. Robaire. Out with it, then. What’s going on?

Miss Thammavongsa exhaled, the current line of conversation very clearly having an exceedingly taxing effect on her.

My replacement will brief you.

Chapter Three

"Replacement?" I asked.

I was goggled. Completely at sea. Nor was I alone in my reaction, as both Klog and Dr. Robaire looked on as if a shell had recently exploded in their midst.

Obviously, sir, I am in no condition to protect your interests at the present time. A temporary replacement will be necessary.

Miss Thammavongsa adjusted her position, and winced most