All Things Undying by Marcia Talley Page B

gatehouse where a man in civilian clothes stepped out to greet them. ‘That’s the chap from Portsmouth,’ Alison whispered, almost as if she were afraid he’d overhear her.
    Even in pre-9/11 days, security had been tight at British military installations, the college included, because of the Irish Republican Army. Afterwards . . . well, it took a written invitation, several forms of identification, and an official escort before they issued you a visitor’s badge and let you past security at the gates.
    On the screen, the man Alison had identified as the PAO handed Susan a plastic badge, waited while she clipped it to her lapel, then the three walked through the gates together. A uniformed sentry stood at stiff attention in the doorway of the gatehouse as they passed.
    The cameraman panned from the rigid form of the sentry down to the bottom of Prince of Wales Drive. Four individuals stood where it intersected with College Way, just as rigid and silent as the sentry, holding signs. I leaned forward and squinted at the screen, but the camera panned by the demonstrators so quickly that I couldn’t read what the signs said. ‘Who are those people?’
    Alison hit pause, freezing the frame on one of the individuals in question. She clicked forward frame by frame until the sign the guy was holding came into focus: The Bible. The Real Message from Beyond.
    â€˜Protestors,’ Alison said. ‘In a minute Susan will mention them.’ She clicked play, and Richard Porter promptly complied by asking the medium, ‘What can you tell me about the demonstrators, Susan?’
    The medium waved a dismissive hand. ‘They seem to follow me wherever I go, Richard. Comes with the territory, I guess. I suppose I should be flattered that I have groupies, like the Rolling Stones.’
    â€˜Or the Grateful Dead?’ I quipped, causing Alison to nearly fall out of her chair laughing at my stupid joke.
    When we returned our attention to the program, Richard was saying, ‘Security is tight at the college, as you can imagine. We’ve tried to keep your visit with us today very low key. How did the demonstrators know you’d be here?’
    â€˜If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that at least one of them is psychic, except they don’t believe in that, do they?’ The camera moved in for a close-up which showed only wry amusement rather than concern on Susan’s face. ‘There’s a mole among my production staff in London, I’m afraid. But I’ve had occasion to talk with these people, and although we obviously don’t see eye-to-eye, they appear to be harmless. Frankly,’ she went on, moving forward again, eyes on her feet, ‘I have an ex-husband in California suing for half of my assets, so a few . . . how shall I say . . .?’
    â€˜Crackpots?’ Richard suggested, brown eyes twinkling behind the glasses.
    â€˜Um, yes. Anyway, in the vast scheme of things, I think these demonstrators are the least of my worries.’
    Susan certainly knew how to work the camera. She stared straight into the lens and winked out at the television audience. ‘Besides, if anything ever happened to me, I’d come back and whisper in your ear, “If yer lookin’ fer the bloke what done me in, his name is Greg Parker.”’
    After a beat, the camera focused on Richard’s astonished face, then panned out, located another one of the demonstrators, steadied and zoomed in on the sign she was carrying: There shall not be found among you a consulter with familiar spirits for all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord. Deut. 18:10–12.
    And the program cut to an ad.
    â€˜Abomination? Doesn’t sound harmless to me,’ Alison remarked, fast-forwarding through the ad. When the program resumed, Susan and Richard were seated in an officers’ lounge in comfortable club chairs arranged in a