The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  1472 E. Iron Eagle Drive

  Eagle, ID 83616

  http://amberjackpublishing.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Lucy Banks

  Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Book design by Aubrey Khan, Neuwirth & Associates.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  CIP data TK

  ISBN 978-1-948705-547

  eBook ISBN 978-1-948705-554

  ONE

  — 2017 —

  HE REMEMBERS LOVE.

  Her fingers, laced with his. The smoothness of skin. Eyes meeting, before they sank under the water.

  He remembers it here, where his stomach once was. The force of feeling lies in the moments when she laughed, the warmth of her nearness, and those quiet times, just the two of them. It is here, in his memories, botched and scarred as they are.

  I know love, the ghost tells himself, because it is important. It’s the rope that ties him here, that keeps him anchored through the centuries. He holds the knowing close, and knows he will never, never let the memory of his wife go, no matter how many decades he moves away from her.

  Though it has been a long time, and times have changed.

  People are different, he finds. Larger, louder, more unkempt. They use peculiar words and rattle away on incomprehensible machinery. But this isn’t the worst aspect of this sparkling, gritty modernity. The true agony is that he is diminishing, losing more of himself with every passing day. This has nothing to do with his lack of physical form. Death has made sure that he is never more than a stillness in the air, a patch of coldness that causes the occasional shiver. Rather, it’s his mind that is alarming him, by slowly, surely unravelling at the edges. He is drifting.

  This is the twenty-first century. He knows it, because it is written in their newspapers, stamped on their glowing screens. Every wall has a calendar, it seems; and there is the year, over and over again; 2017. Bragging how far the world has come, muddling his thoughts.

  The modern world confuses him. It is a mechanical forest, a landscape of metal and glass. Of course, cities expand, he remembers that from his living days. But this? This growth is parasitical, out of control. It sprawls outwards until he can no longer find his way out to the countryside of his childhood. He doesn’t even know if it exists anymore.

  He is in one of those modern places now, though it is past midnight. An internet café, they call it, with rows of glaring screens and sombre silence, broken only by the noise of fingers tapping at buttons. He dares not come too close; machinery startles at his presence, like a skittish horse. It is safer to remain at a distance.

  He is here because of the boy.

  The boy in question sits at one of those screens, a lonely figure hunched in a chair that spews stuffing from its burst seams. The ghost cannot remember his name, though knows it’s something clipped and efficient, as so many names seem to be these days.

  He cannot leave the boy; he knows that too. For better or worse, he is tethered here, at least for now.

  The glow makes the boy’s face ghoulish, and this is emphasised by his frown, the ceaseless flit of his pupils. He is a creature in motion, fingers dancing across a board of printed letters. Each press of a letter produces a corresponding letter on the screen, and so poetry is written, page after page of words that tug at the rags of the ghost’s memories. So much has changed, yet this remains the same, this all too human torrent of emotion. It heats him, if only for a moment or two.

  He first found this boy by London Bridge, staring at the Thames. A week ago, a year ago, perhaps; it is difficult to keep track of the passing of time. The ghost was drawn, pulled by his fever-filled heart, his tumultuous mind. This was a boy in love, he realised; and watched while the boy rubbed his brow, much as he rubs it now, while hiding in this internet café, gazing at the white glow of his writing.

  He is always staring at screens.

  “You like him,” the Fortune Teller whispers. A trace of a finger touches where his arm once was, startling him.

  It has been a while since he’s seen this other ghost. The contact makes him tighten, sputter, then fade briefly. He does not want to talk to her. It has been too long, and she’s been too persistent. Her presence is wrong. This is his boy, not hers, and she should leave.

  “Why do you follow me?” he asks. The words are soundless, yet she hears them. This is how all spirits converse, not that they’ve had much experience talking with any others. For some reason, they are two of only a few that remain, wandering aimlessly among the living. And so, they linger together, connected by a history that the ghost struggles to recollect.

  “You know why I follow you.” She glides past the rows of chairs, past the dull hum of the screens. The air shudders, then stills.

  Love. The word chimes inside him. It is always love. I must remember that.

  He looks to the boy, who is yawning, mouth a distended circle of exhaustion. His hair is a street-urchin mop, and he is from the Orient, perhaps, with deep brown eyes and a pale complexion, though it is hard to know exactly where people come from now. Skin tones are alchemically blended, a chaotic coalition of ethnicity, matching the ambience of the capital perfectly. Old with new. Strange with familiar. Kinship with isolation.

  The Fortune Teller looks over the boy’s shoulder. The shade of her shawl remains, beads glittering a trail of tiny orbs, all the way to the ground. He spies a glimpse of knowingness in her expression, a lock of unruly curl, before she fades completely. Ghosts are an unusual manner of creature, impermanent, restless, full of pain; and she is particularly complex; his coy, confusing stalker.

  “He is writing to her again,” her voice echoes, somewhere in the semi-darkness.

  He doesn’t reply. It is a given that the boy is writing again, pouring love onto the screen. That’s all he ever does here, night after night, rather than return to his home. The ghost wishes he could tell the Fortune Teller to go away. It pains him to see her here, not least because he forgets the details. Once, he knew everything about her, he is certain of it. But he cannot recollect anything of her existence now, not even the moment they met. Time stretches his memory, and all he can do is cling to the thought of his wife; his anchor. This Fortune Teller is not her, and as such, she must leave him be.

  His turmoil brings her into visibility for a moment, before she dwindles against the brick wall, melting back to nothing. For now.

  Show me love, he thinks, and reads the strange, printed words on the boy’s screen.

  Zoe,

  Work was terrible today. Every hour drags without you, but I’m glad your course is going great. Your happiness is what matters, that’s the truth.

  I loved that photo you sent. I love you, more each day. I meant what I said. Marriage, kids, all of that. It’s going to happen.

  Tell me more news. My phone is still cut off, email me. You are my world, babe.

  Bo x

  The ghost smiles. Bo. That is the boy’s name, short as a hasty breath. He knows the photo; the boy had it on the screen last night. A girl, brightness pouring from her, standing by a tree. Her stomach showed, but he understands this is the way females dress now. It is acceptable to show flesh, to take photos, to share with others. The strength of her jawline, the warmth of defiance in her eyes, they remind him of someone, though he cannot remember who. She is what connects us; myself and the boy, h
e reminds himself, knowing he will forget soon enough.

  Certain words in the letter make no sense to him, but everything else is soothing, blanketing him in clarity. For a second or two, his past becomes clearer; a series of disjointed, hazy images. A cosy cottage overlooking the river. A metal-framed bed, the rise of his wife’s shoulder beside him, shining in the morning light. And laughter, endless laughter. The memories rise then fall, like the breath he once had, and he wishes he could clasp hold of them, but it is impossible. Sure enough, they retreat like the tide. He knows better than to try to chase them down, there is no point.

  I cannot continue like this, he thinks. But what choice does he have but to carry on, day after day, year after year? Perhaps there are other options, he muses, and shivers at the thought. He knows the Fortune Teller does not like him to dwell on such things.

  It is strange and silent, that place of screens; aside from a vague hum, like the distant throb of a beehive. This is another thing the ghost recollects from his youth. The bees in the back garden, the sheep, blank-eyed and chewing in the neighbouring field. The name comes to him, Battersea; as does the knowledge that it has changed, that it’s a village no more. The world has turned and left him behind.

  The boy shrugs his rucksack over his shoulder, then choruses a hoarse farewell to the old man behind the desk, who doesn’t reply. The night outside is balmy, noisy. Men shout from pub doorways, black cars fly past, with bright signs printed ‘taxi’. Even this late, the street is alive, energy seeping from the cracked pavements, buzzing off the surrounding buildings. The boy doesn’t notice, only slips two acorn-shaped things in his ears, then drives his gaze to the ground. They pass late-night revellers, a drunken woman clutching her shoes in one hand. It is not a London he recognises.

  The boy’s tiny dwelling is a few minutes away, a pitiful bedsit within the attic of a terraced house. It pains the ghost each time he slides through the door; the broken furniture, the fraying rugs, the windows covered in black sheets. It is a place of despair and loneliness. He can feel the residue of previous residents; the echo of an unhappy wife, running from room to room to escape her husband, the memory of a child, cowering under a bed. Sadness stains every corner, which is why the ghost suspects it is cheap to live here. No one would choose to, unless there was nowhere else to go.

  Sometimes, the ghost can access the boy’s thoughts. Not the exact words, but rather the feel of them, the emotion that drives them through his head. Tonight, it is anxiety. Deep-rooted panic, unable to be voiced. Growing dread at the prospect of losing the one he loves. The ghost shifts further away. To be swathed in human emotions can be a painful, disorientating experience; especially if those emotions are raw and brutal.

  The boy is too young to be burdened with such love. Yet the ghost has a memory of marrying at a similar age, before he turned his twentieth year. He doesn’t know where, or what date, he only recalls the stiffness of his collar, and the shine of his hat when he threw it to the air. Why did I do that? he wonders. He cannot imagine being so frivolous now.

  The night deepens, then departs, and the ghost waits, watching the slow rise of the sun through the crack in the curtain. The boy goes to work, as the ghost knew he would; to the loud, metallic kitchen, where colleagues squeeze around him like rats in a hole. He turns burnt meat on a slab of metal, then piles it in a corner to be collected. Others talk to him from time to time, but he does not listen. His ears are trained inward, to his thoughts. And his thoughts are of her, only of her.

  During this time, the ghost wanders. There is no point remaining there, with the hiss of oil, the muggy air, and the scent of dead animal. Nothing unusual ever happens; the workers merely repeat the same actions throughout the day; meat-flipping, slicing open pieces of bread, squirting bright red sauce on to slithers of fried potato. Instead, he drifts outside to the busy streets and heads towards St Magnus the Martyr, which is only around the corner, its spire now dwarfed by the surrounding towers of glass and metal. The interior is familiar, soothingly white, lofty pillars flanking the aisle. He thinks he must have once walked down it before, when he had feet to walk with.

  An old woman sits, head bowed, on the pew nearest the altar. There is something in her posture that stirs a memory within him, of another ancient lady, in another time. She called me a cursed creature, he thinks. I remember nothing else about the event, but I do recall those words. But was I dead or alive, back then? It disturbs him that he cannot recollect even that.

  She shudders as he floats past, a sign that she senses him, on a subconscious level, at least. Sometimes this happens with those who are more sensitive, and it is often the elderly; perhaps because they are closer to death than the younger ones.

  I remember churches, he tells himself. Every Sunday, a morning service. Another memory, this time of his mother, bonnet ribbons trailing over her chest, and his two brothers, his one sister. He doesn’t know their names, they are lost to him, much like the face of his father. And later, the church for his wedding day, though he forgets which church it was. The lack of memory pains him, so he moves on, out to the streets, where the sun pours through him, hitting the steel-grey pavements below. A homeless man shifts under his lumpen blanket, then settles again.

  All the while, he thinks of what might have passed before, on these streets; which are so familiar and yet so alien. He is confident he was here the previous day, and that he gazed out to the Thames only a few hours earlier. But what of the year before that? A decade previously? A hundred years ago? Where was he then? What had happened? And why is it becoming harder to seize these facts, which once he would have grabbed effortlessly, without thought or strain?

  Of course, he knows the truth. A part of him is gradually departing, the part that made him human. The essence of the man he once was is slipping away like sand from a timer, leaving him a vacant vessel. What will he be left with, once all memory and feeling have gone? Will that be the end of it all?

  It would be a relief, he thinks. Finally, to come to an end.

  TWO

  — 2017 —

  THE GHOST FINDS the boy later, back in the internet café. It is cave-like in there, primitive and dark, though this time, a few other people are present, tapping away at their letter boards. There’s a girl with blue hair, though how such a thing is possible, he does not know. Perhaps it is the breeding of the races again, producing shock-haired children. An older man too, clutching a bottle, which he taps at the desk like a nervous tic. Lonely people. Their sadness shimmers from their shoulders, soaking the air.

  But the boy is happy, because she has replied; his love, Zoe. He smiles, and the ghost does too, or would if he had lips to smile with. These are the moments he yearns for. Communication. Hearing from a loved one. Kind words, written down. They warm him and provide a welcome contrast to all the unhappiness.

  The ghost moves closer, though he is wary of the screen and the way it flickers if he drifts too close. He floats just near enough to read the words and feel the crash of the boy’s pounding heart.

  Hey Bo,

  Sorry work sucks.

  I am doing good, though heard that Gran ain’t so great, she’s in hospital. Maybe you could go see her, give her love from me? You need to ask for Bernadette, not Bernie. That’s her real name.

  We still lovers, Bo. But you need to get lighter, yeah? This time is about fun. I still love you, but you’ve got to stop putting pressure on.

  Peace out.

  Zoe

  The ghost watches the boy’s smile, the way it freezes, falters, then crumbles. It is like watching a wounded animal die. He retreats from the pain before it seeps in too deeply, taking him to darker places that he does not want to visit. This boy’s energy will finish me, if I let it, he realises. The name Bernadette clangs strongly as a bell, before being lost in the turmoil. He closes his eyes, resisting the pressure of it all, dimly aware that he knew her, this grandmother. But how? Now is not the time to wrestle with long-forgotten m
emories.

  Somehow, he finds himself out on the street, though the buildings still spin around him. The ghost knows if he stops moving, things will eventually return to calm, and he will be able to order his thoughts again. Still, the passing scenery reminds him of the merry-go-rounds of the travelling fair, and how they turned the surrounding fields to a blur.

  A travelling fair. Another memory, a strong one this time. Not a fair though, that isn’t quite right; it’s a circus he’s thinking of. The name flashes, Captain Otto, then disappears again. He remembers a Strong Man, in gladiatorial boots and tight, shining undergarments. Sawdust scent, the press of people, surging to see the spectacles, an elephant, tethered to a post. When was this? he wonders. The Fortune Teller, she was there too, in her tent, concealed by draped fabric and darkness. Living then, not dead, and unhappy, desperately so.

  The memory teeters, whirls, then vanishes. Perhaps it was never there at all, only the false recollection. Now, all he feels is the dusty remains of a thing that might or might not have happened. He heads down the road, through throngs of suited young men, not knowing where to go or what to do. Recovery is necessary. Such doses of emotion drain him.

  The Fortune Teller is waiting for him by a metal pillar, one of many holding up yet another of the city’s behemoth buildings. The setting sun passes through her, making her seem a creature of glitter, if only for a moment or two. He thinks he sees a reflection of her human face; high cheekbones, a crooked smile. Then it fades to grey.

  “I was thinking of you,” he says, by way of greeting. They both look out to the river.

  “I know.” She smiles, shimmering in and out of view. “I think I must have sensed it. Were you remembering something of the past again?”

  Why does she have to ask? The Fortune Teller has pressed him on this before, he knows that. He shakes his head, and hopes that it will suffice.

  A boat passes by, people clustered on its deck, taking photos of the skyline. They are happy, relaxed, immersed in their experience of the city, much as thousands of others have been before them, sailing on the sludge of the River Thames. Joking. Laughter. The joys of a pleasure cruise, until there is no joy left. The sight is a dagger, a merciless jab that sets the world spinning once more. He quickly looks away.