Ways to See a Ghost

I wasn’t supposed to be there that night, you know?
    It was Dad’s weekend, and I should’ve been at his flat. Eating beans on toast, watching his box sets of Doctor Who. That’s what he’d told Mum, anyway, but what he tells her and what we do are always different. It’s why we weren’t. In his flat, I mean. Why we were bumping along this dusty farm track instead, him parking the camper van at the end of it, us looking out over the valley.
    It was a good spot. At the top of the slope, with a clear view across the fields. Lots of trees and well out of the way, not even a road going near.
    August, it was. One of those on-off warm days, when the sun and clouds take turns in the sky. Dad spent thewhole afternoon staring up or checking the weather forecast. Luckily, by the time we got parked the clouds had all drifted away. Everything glowed golden in the sunset. The wheat shushed and settled in the last bit of breeze, and swallows twittered high in the air, hunting flies.
    Perfect conditions, my dad said.
    He twisted in his seat.
    “You ready to set up, son?”
    I nodded, undid my seat belt and squeezed into the back. Started untying the ropes and bungees holding down all his heavy black boxes. There was all sorts in them: cameras, monitors, meters, leads, even a generator.
    But then, there’s always a lot of stuff, with my dad.
    I did the untying, and Dad did the unloading. Putting the boxes down on the dry grass, opening them up and getting all the gear out. He was humming, happy.
    “It’s going to be a good night, Gray,” he said, not looking up at me. “The weather’s right, last week there were three genuines near Gloucester…” he trailed off, like he does when he’s out there, and went back to his fiddling. I got my stuff last. Sleeping bag, coat, hat and gloves. It was still warm, but it gets really cold by three in the morning.
    “Did you bring any food?” I asked, and Dad nodded.
    “In the cupboard on the right-hand side. Have what you want.”
    I opened the cupboard door. Loads of little plastic packets, lined up neatly; whatever I wanted, so long as it was Super Noodles.
    When Dad had everything ready, we sat in our camping chairs looking out over the valley. The sun had properly set by then, and the first bats were out, fluttering circles through the twilight. Dad pointed his fork, noodles squirling off it.
    “Here they come.” He meant the stars twinking into view in the sky. “It’ll be tonight. I’m sure of it.”
    I just ate my noodles; I wasn’t expecting much. Nothing, actually. And I bet Dad wasn’t either, whatever he says now. The thing is, we’d done this stuff every fine summer night since I was eight and Dad had gone out by himself before that, which makes it years of waiting for something to happen. Years of watching and filming. Years of pushing through waist-high crops in the dark, me with my eyes out for an angry farmer, him with his dowsing rods, or one of his beeping meters. And in all that time…
    Dad said he had loads of evidence, but most of it… Well, I wouldn’t say this to him, but even his UFO mates didn’t think much of it.
    Until that night.
    We ate our noodles. The sky inked into black, filling up with stars. Dad started tapping away at his tablet, doing his weird sums, and I reached in my pocket for my torch, so I could read my book. That’s when I saw it.
    A little flash, down in the field. Like a camera popping. Then another flash, and another. Not on the ground, like if someone was in the crops taking pictures. Up in the air.
    “Dad,” I said. “What’s that?”
    He hadn’t even noticed, eyes down on the screen.
    “What’s what?”
    Of course, by the time he looked up, they’d gone. Winked out. Dad eyed me, but he didn’t say anything. Just pushed up from his chair, went and checked his laptop, playing back the readings.
    “There’s no change in the background fields,” he said. “You joking, Gray? I won’t be happy if you are.”
    “No. Honest.” I wouldn’t joke; he’s got no sense of humour about this stuff.
    Flash.
    Flash, flash, flash, flash, flash.
    They were back. Three, then five, then twenty. Hundreds of lights, flickering over the shadowy field.
    “They can’t be fireflies, they’re too bright.” My dad was whispering, like they might hear us.
    The lights rose upwards, like sparks from a fire, and each one left a glowing trace, drawn on the dark. They zigged and zagged, up and towards each other, stretching a