by Amy Cross
A poster on the opposite wall shows a picture of Never Turn Back, advertising their new album.
Nearby, on the street corner, a spectral man stands forlornly in the doorway of a shop. If anyone could see him, they'd recognize him immediately as a ghost: he has the dark-ringed eyes of someone who has passed to the other side, and his pale wrists are criss-crossed with thick red marks; his clothing, meanwhile, is old, like something that would have been worn in the 1940s or 1950s, and he has a different light about him, as if he doesn't quite belong.
No-one notices him as they hurry past, and he has his gaze firmly fixed on one person.
He's staring straight at Eddie.
“Fuck,” Eddie mutters, oblivious to the man as he turns and looks both ways along the packed street.
“Chelsea!” shouts a drunk guy nearby, stumbling over to Eddie with a half-empty beer bottle in his hand. “Who won the fucking derby today, eh?”
Eddie stares at him, clearly not understanding.
“You know!” the man continues, chest-bumping Eddie before his girlfriend starts pulling him away. “The best fucking club in this country, that's who!” He reaches up to grab Eddie's sunglasses, but Eddie manages to push his hand away just in time. “You rock on,” the guy continues, too drunk to really care as he takes a step back. “Go extra sized tonight, yeah? Blast it!”
“I'll try,” Eddie says quietly, watching as the guy sways and rejoins the crowd. He takes a moment to adjust his sunglasses and cap, before turning and making his way along the street, walking right past the ghostly man in the doorway and not noticing him at all.
A little further on, another unnoticed figure stands in the shadows by a fast-food restaurant. As Eddie walks past, the figure turns to reveal that one side of his face has been eaten away, exposing the grinning skull beneath.
There are so many drunks out in the street, cheering and shouting as they head from one club to the next, and not one of them has noticed that they're outnumbered by the dead. Standing completely still and mostly just watching their surroundings with blank expressions, the ghosts come from every era of London's history: there are pale men in rags and cloth hats, pale women in Edwardian dress, pale children with crushed skulls... Every person who has ever died in the city, whether by fair means or foul, is out on the streets again, unnoticed by the living. Most of these ghosts are motionless, as if they still don't understand what has happened to them, but some are panicked and screaming as they're lost in the rampant city, and a few seem to know exactly what's happening, watching the lives of the living with interest.
Eddie pushes on against the crowd, unaware like the others of the ghosts all around him.
He walks for a couple of hours, trapped in his own thoughts and paying no attention to his route. Regent Street, Park Lane, Victoria station, the Mall; he passes them all, a lost man in a lost city. One street might be filled with drunk party-goers, the next might be silent and left to the ghosts, but Eddie seems strangely cut off from both worlds, until finally he emerges from yet another street and stops, staring at the surprising sight of the river, its dirty water seeming so dark under the night sky. Crossing the deserted road, he reaches the wall that runs along the length of the embankment, and finally he looks down at the river below.
“The Thames,” he whispers, as if he's in shock. “The mother-fucking Thames.”
Unseen by Eddie or by any of the city's living inhabitants, the river is filled with ghosts. So many lives have been lost to the Thames, there isn't even room for them all as they crowd the banks and, in many cases, wait silently beneath the surface. The bridges, too, are packed with the ghostly forms of those who, over the years, have jumped or been pushed. There are men with ropes around their necks, women with their guts ripped out, even naked children marked with satanic symbols, their bodies contorted into crushed shapes after they were shoved into cloth bags and tossed screaming into the darkness. Nearby, close to the Palace of Westminster, there are more ghosts than anyone could ever imagine all crushed together, spilling out into the water, some of them wailing and moaning. So many of them are children.
Eddie stares at the ghost-filled scene for a moment, almost as if he senses that there's something he isn't seeing, before looking up at the hazy light orange sky.
“Hey man!” a passing drunk shouts out. “Going for a swim?”
“Huh?” Eddie turns to him. “Where's the party tonight?”
“What party?” the drunk asks, slowing for a moment even as his girlfriend tries to drag him along.
“I don't know,” Eddie continues, “I just... I figured there's gotta be a good party in town, right?”
“Fuck knows,” the drunk says with a grin. “Make your own party, man, that's my advice!”
With that, he's pulled away by his girlfriend, leaving Eddie to stand alone, surrounded by unseen ghosts.
“Make my own party,” he mutters, turning and making his way along the street, “what the fuck does that mean?”
He walks on, unknowingly brushing shoulders with the city's dead, not noticing the few that turn to watch his progress, until finally – after a torturous route that takes him past Victoria Embankment Gardens and Charing Cross and then along the Strand – he stops outside an all-night cafe that houses the wounded and tired casualties from the evening's festivities. There are drunks sleeping next to untouched cups of coffee, and crying girls angrily texting their friends, and spaced-out men and women slowly coming down from whatever high they managed to reach.
“Might as well,” Eddie says quietly, adjusting his sunglasses and cap before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
There aren't many ghosts in the well-lit cafe. Not ghosts of the dead, anyway. Most of the patrons at 3am in a place like this are just the worn out remnants of their usual selves, filled with alcohol and drugs, desperately trying to rally themselves either for another push into the nightclubs or for the disappointed trip home. After ordering a coffee at the counter, Eddie takes his cup over to the far corner, where he finds an unoccupied table covered in dirty cups and crumb-covered plates. Pushing the detritus aside, he takes a seat and glances around the cafe, stopping for a moment to stare at an open-mouthed guy sleeping at the next table.
“It's a like a warzone, isn't it?” says a voice suddenly.
He turns to see a young woman sitting nearby, nursing a cup of tea. She has tears in her eyes and mascara running down her cheeks, but there's a faint smile on her face. On the table, her phone briefly lights up to indicate a new message, but the girl pays no attention.
“Actually,” she continues, “I guess that's pretentious bullshit, right? I'm sure a real warzone is nothing like this at all.”
“Well,” Eddie replies, clearly a little uncomfortable, “maybe you've got something there.”
“You lost your friends?” she asks.
“Uh...” He pauses. “Something like that.”
“Mine can go fuck themselves,” she continues, checking her phone with a scowl. “Bunch of fucking bitches.”
Eddie smiles as he takes a sip of coffee.
“It's mud, isn't it?” the girl says. “The coffee, I mean. It's like they just scoop it up off the floor.”
“It's definitely not the best coffee I've ever had. Then again, I've been in L.A. for a so long, I guess I'd forgotten what London coffee tastes like.”
“You live in America?”
“But I'm from England,” he tells her. “Can't you tell from the accent?”
“So what do you do over there?”
“Just... this and that. Work, mostly.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of work do you do?”
“I'm in the... entertainment business.”
“Like films and stuff?”
“Not too far off.”
“You mind if I shift over?” she asks. Without waiting for an answer, she carried her cup to his table and sits opposite him, before reaching out a hand for him to shake. “Lucinda. You can call me Lucy.”
&nbs
p; “Hello, Lucinda,” he replies, shaking her hand. “Lucy.”
“I like American accents,” she continues. “They're pretty sexy.”
“I can fake one,” he says, in a convincing California drawl.
“Cool!” she replies.
“Anyway,” he replies with a faint, embarrassed smile, “I think I like British accents as much as American ones.”
“You think they're sexy?” she asks, fixing him with an eager expression.
He smiles again as he looks down at his coffee.
“You seen the ghosts?” she asks suddenly.
He looks back at her.
“There's ghosts everywhere in this city,” she continues. “Occasionally you can see one or two of them, but I reckon that's just the tip of the iceberg. The rest, they're hidden. I don't know how, but I guess it's a good thing. Imagine if you could seem them all.”
“You think you can see ghosts?” he asks, still smiling.
“I know I can,” she tells him, before frowning. “You look kinda familiar, though. Have we met before?”
“No,” he says quickly, adjusting his sunglasses.
“Huh,” she replies, clearly a little suspicious. “Whatever. You know the best time to see ghosts? Nights like tonight, when there's loads of drunk idiots about. I don't know why, but it's like the more people and the more noise, the more you start to see ghosts mixed up in the crowd. Like, if you see a hundred people in the street, and if you look more closely at each of their faces, eventually you'll spot at least one ghost. I don't know if it's like that in every city in the world, but it's definitely true in London.” She watches him for a moment. “You seen any ghosts tonight?”
He shakes his head.
“Want to?”
Laughing, he takes a sip of coffee.
“You've got a cute laugh,” she tells him.
“Thank you.”
“I can help you see some if you want,” she continues. “I know it probably sounds mental, but I've been studying the whole thing and I've picked up a few things. I know a place just a few hundred meters from here where I guarantee you'll see at least a few ghosts.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Cast iron guarantee, you'll see some.”
“That's a lovely offer,” he tells her, “but -”
“I know what you're thinking,” she adds. “You're thinking it's a trap, that somehow I'll mug you or try to grab your wallet, but the place I'm talking about is totally in the open, it's not like some dark alley or something like that. You don't need to go somewhere out of the way, in fact you're more likely to see a ghost if you're in a crowded place. Kinda counter-intuitive, I know, but...”
She continues to watch him.
“Come on,” she says finally. “What you scared of?”
“You really think you can find some ghosts?” he asks, clearly interested.
“Or your money back,” she tells him, getting to her feet. “You coming? It's only, like, a couple of minutes away.”
Finishing his coffee, he stands up and lets her lead him to the door.
“You won't regret this,” she tells him as they step out into the cold night air. “Promise.”
“I like to stay open-minded,” he tells her, as he checks his phone. “I definitely think there could be things in the world that we don't understand.”
“That's an understatement,” she replies, leading him along the busy street.
There are ghosts all around them, of course, but they don't notice as they take a right turn and head back down toward the river. On the corner, a woman with a hole in her head turns to watch their progress.
“This place I'm gonna show you,” she continues, “used to be a workhouse in Victorian times, one of those child labor places where everyone lives in squalor. Real Dickensian stuff, like in Oliver Twist. You read that?”
“I don't think so.”
“Anyway, there was a fire one night and the whole place burned down, and they reckon there were, like, more than two hundred women and children inside.”
“How many of them died?”
“Are you kidding? All of them.”
“Woah,” Eddie replies, “that's horrible!”
“So the warehouse got rebuilt,” she continues. “No-one really batted an eyelid about the people who died, 'cause Victorian London wasn't exactly short of poor-as-dirt workers to take over.” She stops at the next corner and points at a large department store on the opposite side of the street, with a bustling pub along one side with hundreds of drinkers still partying loudly. “That's what they built on the site of the old workhouse. There's no sign of the original building at all, it's just a bunch of shops and bars, but... Do you see anything unusual?”
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asks.
“The crowd.”
“I just see a bunch of drunks,” he tells her, watching the faces of all the wasted people spilling out of the building.
“Look closer.”
“I'm pretty sure there aren't any ghosts,” he replies with an amused sigh. “I just -”
Suddenly he stops, narrowing his eyes slightly.
“You see one?” she asks with a broad grin.
“I don't know,” he says, clearly shocked. “Over there, by the door, there's a guy who looks like he doesn't belong. He's just standing there, see him?”
She peers at the crowd.
“Old guy with white hair and a big beard?”
“What's he doing?” Eddie asks. “He looks like he's just... doing nothing.”
“He's one,” she replies. “I reckon a lot of them don't really know that they're dead, or if they do, they don't accept it.” She points to the other side of the crowd. “There's a few kids over there, see? Do you reckon they look like they belong?”
Following her gaze, he looks toward the spot she's indicating, where some hollow-eyed children are standing next to what appears to be a wild hen party. There are many, many more ghosts in the area of course, but Eddie and the girl can only see a few of them.
“Those are ghosts?” he asks.
“The dead,” she replies somberly. “They're the fallen, people who died and just ended up lingering. Like I said, I don't understand it all, I just know what I've observed over the years. I'm pretty sure there must be a lot more ghosts, and we only see a few, but...” She turns to him and cracks another smile. “Got anything like this over in Los Angeles, have you?”
“We do not,” Eddie says, taking a step forward off the curb and -
“Careful!” the girl shouts, grabbing his arm and pulling him back just as a night bus roars past. “You don't wanna be a ghost, do you?”
“This is a trick, right?” he asks, turning to her.
“Like how?”
“Like it's a con. There's no such thing as ghosts.” He looks back toward the pub. “Those were people in fancy dress. I don't even see them now.”
“You rarely do for long,” she tells him. “Each ghost seems to be visible for just a moment, like the length of your attention span, and then when you look away and then you look back, they're gone. But then there'll be others.”
“So you're telling me that the whole world misses this stuff,” he continues, turning to her again, “and yet you, some girl in a cafe at three in the morning, has somehow managed to pick up on it?”
“I've had a lot of time to watch out for this kind of thing,” she replies cryptically, “and anyway, most people see them, but they don't notice them or they don't process them or... whatever.” She pauses. “Listen dude, I just thought I was doing you a favor, having a little fun with you, but it's cool if you don't like it.” Taking a step back, she holds her hands up in mock surrender. “Your loss. Don't turn it into a drama.”
With that, she turns and starts walking away.
Eddie looks back at the pub for a moment, clearly frustrated, before running after the girl.
“Lucy!” he shouts as he catches up to her. “Hey, wait!”
&nbs
p; “I'm not in the mood to have the piss taken,” she replies, turning to him. “I've had a bad night, remember? A really shitty night, actually.”
“So you can see ghosts anywhere?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Like... If I took you to a place where there's maybe a ghost, you'd be able to see it?”
“Why?”
“Just tell me.”
“I don't know,” she replies. “It's not like I can guarantee anything...” She pauses, eyeing him with suspicion. “What's going on? Who are you, exactly?”
“It'd be worth a try, right?” he asks.
“You want me to see if I can spot a specific ghost?”
“I'll pay you. Whatever you want, anything, I'll pay you a lot, in cash, if you'll just come with me.”
“I don't know, dude, this is starting to sound dodgy.”
“We'll be in a public place,” he continues, “or at least, we will be until we get to my hotel room, but I swear there's nothing to worry about. You've got your phone with you, right? Just text someone and tell them where you're going, that way you know you're safe.”
He waits for her to reply.
“Lucy?”
“I'm thinking about it,” she tells him. “You don't need to pay me, though. I'm just picking up this weird vibe from you, that's all. I'm not a fan of weird vibes.”
“I'm desperate,” he continues, as another night bus goes past. “We'll take a taxi to my hotel, and I'll take you to my room -”
“You've got a ghost in your hotel room?” she asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“Maybe.”
“That's a new one.”
“I'm serious!”
She stares at him.
“Yeah,” she says finally, “I think you are.”
“You can even go up alone,” he tells her. “I can wait in the lobby while you -”
“No, you can come up,” she replies. “I guess. It might be good to have you there, if...” Another pause. “I guess if it's in a hotel, the ghost can't be someone who's actually connected to you, can it?”