The Ghost

by The Ghost (epub)

  “It’s not a trial,” snapped Gina. “We’re talking about a real separation.”

  “Yes,” sighed Cook, always too eager to tinker with semantics. “For a trial period. It’s not to see if we want to stay separated, it’s to get a sense of how it feels to be separated, to get things into perspective.”

  Gina nodded, muting her scepticism with a sip of tea. Cook held the moment. He flipped onto his front, head in pillow, then onto his back, covering his face with the duvet – always the comfort and calm of the indifferent dark.

  “Do you still love me, Gina?”

  Quickly. “Of course, I do. I always will. I just can’t live with you. Not at the moment.”

  To her surprise, he absorbed this with relative grace. “I’m hoping I can live with myself.”

  She spluttered on the tea. “Where’s that from?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It sounds like a line from a film.”

  They laughed – a tactical solidarity.

  “I dunno. Just my head.”

  Tension unblocked, the plan emerged quickly, lubricated by fifteen years of finely evolved inter-dependency. As with all long-standing couples, they carried an instinct for each other’s phoney-tough defences – the tics and tactics, sulks and blusters. At the best of times, this bond was empowering – a hardy symbiosis. But it could also be used as ammunition. Before he met Gina, Cook had fluttered from partner to partner, always alighting at the point where familiarity threatened to mutate into contempt. He suspected that most relationships, if left to endure, simply drifted into a state of mutually assured destruction, where the focus switched from desire and support to the careful cultivation of a status quo, with each partner equally convinced they had the most to lose from a break-up. Now, here, this was confirmed – the shift of imbalance was complete, and Cook could no longer convince his wife of the benefits of his company.

  For the sake of Alfie’s stability, Cook would move out and live, relatively close, at the recently vacated flat of a university friend who was on an overseas work placement. Cook’s usual improvised approach to planning always seemed to improve when his own well-being was at risk. As the marriage had deflated over the last year, he had secured his friend’s flat as a housesitting gig, with a vague intention of using it as a bolt-hole (“Shag-shed!” – Will Stone). Now, it was to be his pre-furnished point of exile – for six months. He would be welcome at home, but was expected to give Gina notice of visits, in order to ‘manage Alfie’s expectations’. Cook had declined the offer of Alfie staying with him at weekends, claiming that he didn’t want to confuse things. Secretly, he objected to what was clearly the core of this idea – a rehearsal for permanence.

  Alfie finished his toastie, dragged his finger through a swirl of ketchup at the side of the plate and sucked away the sauce.

  “Can I take my scooter to school?”

  Gina looked over to Cook. He silently signed off the request with a grin.

  “Okay, darling. Go and get it from the shed – and brush your teeth!”

  As his son scampered past, Cook grabbed him for a squeeze. But Alfie stiffened and strained and wrestled away, dashing out to the garden without looking back.

  “He’s just a bit excited,” said Gina. “I wouldn’t get anything, either.”

  On cue, Cook approached her with arms wide. She abandoned the whisk and edged into an uneasy embrace, nuzzling in close and speaking into his shoulder – as ever, displacing emotional discomfort with practicality.

  “Alfie’s got a sleepover tonight. Maybe you shouldn’t go until the weekend. I have to work. It means you won’t have to pick him up, drop him off and then leave.”

  Cook was startled at her acceleration of thought, how she already seemed comfortable with the new emphasis on logistics over emotion. He gave her a parting squeeze and looked down into her eyes, ornate with sadness. She turned her head to the side, avoiding his gaze, but he mirrored the movement and lightly cupped her chin with both hands, tilting it up to make eye contact unavoidable.

  “It’s not forever. Don’t worry.”

  Cook’s phone bleeped, puncturing the moment.

  Gina offered a broad, forced smile and shook her head – to confirm or deny? She ducked away from the deathly cuddle and followed Alfie outside.

  Cook took out his phone and navigated to the PastLives.com inbox. There was one message, with no subject header. He tapped it.

  what goes around, comes around

  D

  26. Now Approaching Midnight

  December, 1975

  Every Christmas Eve, Cook was routinely woken at 11.30pm by Lily and Esther for a bleary force-march to the Catholic Church near Bethesda School. He trailed along, numb-limbed and heavy-lidded, behind his mother and grandmother as they pitched and listed, slurred and cackled, laden with port and lemon. Today, they were joined by Tom and Uncle Russell, both generously refreshed with the brackish bitter they had once insisted Cook sample – to his disgust and their delight. As they approached the steep incline at the top of the oil-works road, there was a synchronised stumble-and-stop, as all four adults seemed to simultaneously doubt their ability to tackle the challenge. They milled and fretted like refusing horses until Cook, laughing, shouldered into the back of Russell, who lurched forward, delivering a shove to Tom which sent him wheeling into front-runners Esther and Lily – and momentum was restored.

  The church was deep and tall and splendid: kaleidoscopic stained-glass windows; looming walls lined with solemn effigies clutching emblem shields; a colossal, vaulted apse with rim of hand-woven tapestry. Despite his sleepless delirium, Cook was always jolted by the supernatural contrast as he slipped away from the scruffy streets, inhaled by the sighing organ. He could faintly remember the subject of the tapestry from a school trip to the church (Mary being crowned Queen of Heaven?) and knew a little of communion and confession, but he had no real understanding of the human context. It was all just a soothing escape – a temporary drift.

  “Dor-Dor!”

  As Cook shuffled into a pew, he felt sticky hands tug at his jumper. In the row behind, Rebecca Goldstraw squirmed on her mother’s lap, arms outstretched and flailing, reaching for Cook, trying to hurdle the wooden seat-back and fling herself into his care. Lisa sat beside her mother, hair parted and woven into two shoulder-length pigtails. Her light-brown eyes were cloudy with fatigue, but she offered Cook a wide, sincere smile and, as usual, his stomach flipped.

  “C’mere then, young lady!”

  Uncle Russell hooked his hands into Rebecca’s armpits and raised her up and over into the small space at the end of Cook’s bench. She immediately set about scaling Russell’s knees in a renewed effort to get to Cook, but Lisa diverted her with a chocolate bar, posted through a carved slot in the back of the seat. Cook watched as Rebecca investigated the lurid pink chocolate, nibbling suspiciously at the edge. He saw that the scar on her chin had now become a feature – an embossed blemish which underlined the base of her face.

  The congregation rose and, prompted by the organist’s impatient stabbing at a pair of opening chords, mumbled its way into song. Cook normally mouthed and mimed his way through, eyes on the floor. But this time he knew the words, having practiced the hymn at school assembly for the past few weeks.

  In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan

  Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone

  Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow

  In the bleak midwinter, long ago

  As the song ended, and the organ reverb receded to deferential silence, Cook heard a familiar sniffing and snuffling. He looked across the aisle and saw John Ray, with father Frank, brother Darren and – half out of Cook’s eyeline – a small, pale woman in a thick fur hat. Frank and Darren stared ahead, stern and savage, while John flicked and dabbed at his nose with the blue-and-white handkerchief. Cook was suddenly light-headed with a loathing that seemed to have no source or anchor but which enclosed the whole family – sickly classm
ate, hateful brother, brutal father, mousey mother. John pocketed the handkerchief and turned his head, catching Cook’s eye. He offered a dutiful smile of recognition, his bleached features an eerie beacon in the unsteady candlelight. Cook pretended not to notice and shifted his gaze to the altar and the priest’s halting eulogy.

  After the service, the tipsy worshippers hobbled away to reconvene outside, on a raised porch by the front doors. Tom was the first to light up, dragging deeply on an unfiltered cigarette and respectfully expelling the smoke away from the church, high into the frosty air. (Lily flapped at it, coughing theatrically.) There were hair-ruffles and cheek-pinches, overlong bear-hugs and hardly necessary Merry Christmases. As he searched for Lisa, Cook was startled by an eruption of bellowing, libidinous laughter from Tom and Phil – the man who, it seemed, had signed off on the reject-smashing session at the pot-bank. The shock rattled Cook’s bones and made him crave his bed and his hot water bottle. He wandered away from the group, around the side of the building.

  Rebecca Goldstraw was crouched over a small puddle near the church’s side entrance. She had removed her shoe – a pink, buckled sandal – and was repeatedly filling it with water, emptying it back into the puddle, and refilling it again. Cook walked towards her, away from the huddle and hustle of the porch. He was surprised and calmed by how quickly the adult world faded – how it slid backward as he moved forward, through the untended scrubland at the fringes of the church grounds, into the early-morning dark.

  As he approached Rebecca, she looked up and, overcome by excitement, raised the shoe above her head and slammed it into the surface of the puddle, splattering her grinning face with muddy water.

  Cook chuckled. “Oh no! What a mess!”

  “Dory!” squealed Rebecca.

  Cook flinched, but was grateful at least for the progression from ‘Dor-Dor’.

  “Look!”

  Rebecca lunged for Cook’s hand and yanked him away from the puddle. She pointed at a tangle of bramble near the entrance to a small graveyard.

  “Comic!”

  Cook knelt down, in the gloom, on the frosted grass, and reached into the weed-patch carefully, wary of thorns. He pulled out a flash of colour – a torn-away section of a magazine. It was faded and dew-matted, with creases worn into perforated edges. There was a front cover – mostly legible – with a few relatively unsoiled front-section pages. The cover image featured a young woman, shot from the side, wearing white underwear, stockings and suspender belt. She was topless, with her right breast exposed, nipple strategically obscured by the elbow of her right arm. Her head was turned – painted eyes glaring into camera, shoulder-length brown hair blow-dried and centre-parted. In her right-hand, she balanced a hand-held microphone, grille close to her open mouth. A cover-flash announced:

  FREE LOVE POSITIONS! LP RECORD INSIDE!

  As Cook’s eyes adjusted, he could make out a calligraphic logo, top-right (‘The Journal Of Love’) and a rack of wordy cover-lines which traced the ‘S’ shape of the woman’s shoulders and back.

  SEE YOUR RANDY COVERSTAR IN INTIMATE ACTION WITH HER BLOKE! In mouth-watering close-up full colour!

  YES, HEAR HER TELL YOU ALL ABOUT HER FAVOURITE LOVE POSITIONS & INTIMATE KICKS! While she’s hard at it on record!

  Cook ruffled through the pages, browsing the tableaux of bodies – scrawny, dumpy, sweaty, always hairy. He gaped at their shaggy plumage – the furry chests and frizzy chins, the flourishing pubic afros. Faces leered and grimaced, as if in alarm or pain. Tongues extended, probing at overlit flesh. Unclipped nails clawed into cellulite.

  “Becky?” Lisa’s voice, calling her sister.

  “Rebecca!” Mrs Goldstraw, more urgent.

  Cook buried the magazine deep inside the bramble, but the density of the weeds made it difficult to obscure.

  “Dory!” said Rebecca. “Funny lady!”

  Adults were arriving – Tom, Phil, Mrs Goldstraw. Even Esther had made the effort, accompanied by Uncle Russell. Rebecca was scooped into her mother’s arms.

  “How many times have I told you? Stay close to me!”

  Mrs Goldstraw was half-sobbing with fury and relief. She turned to Cook. “What do you think you’re doing? Bringing her down here? She’s only three!”

  “He’s only nine!” bellowed Uncle Russell, loud enough to make Mrs Goldstraw cringe.

  “Russell!” (Esther).

  “I didn’t bring her here!” said Cook. “I found her!”

  Lily appeared. “Dorian? What’s going on?”

  “Comic!”

  Rebecca writhed in her mother’s arms, pointing down at the weeds. Russell stamped at the brittle stems, beating out an opening. As he reached in and retrieved the magazine, Rebecca reached out – to The Journal Of Love – with both arms. Russell lifted it out of her range, and Mrs Goldstraw snatched it up. She briefly noted the content and jerked away her hands, as if the magazine had suddenly burst into flames. It sploshed into the puddle next to Rebecca’s shoe.

  “Dorian, where did you get that from?” Mrs Goldstraw’s tone remained indignant, but with a softer, enquiring edge.

  More adults gathered – murmuring, clucking, tutting, their alcoholic breath swirling.

  “I found it!”

  “Where?” (Lily).

  “In there! Well – Rebecca found it and showed me.”

  Mrs Goldstraw scoffed loudly at this.

  “He’s nine years old!” (Lily again).

  Cook looked up and searched the spectators’ faces, looking for Tom – but he was disappointed to see his dad leaning in to Phil’s ear, whispering something that sparked a snigger.

  “Well then, he should certainly know better than this!”

  “Than what?”

  “Than showing dirty books to a young child!”

  Barely suppressed laughter from Tom and Phil.

  “It’s just as well,” announced Mrs Goldstraw to the crowd, “that we’re moving away from here!”

  Cook stumbled forward and snatched the magazine out of her hand.

  “Dorian!” Uncle Russell made a grab for the pages, but Cook was too quick.

  “Alright, then. Look!”

  Cook kicked at the grass by the bramble. He dug in the heel of his shoe, scraped a small pit in the soil and drove the magazine into the hole, mashing it down as deep as it would go. Uncle Russell reached down to pull it back out, but recoiled as Cook frantically smothered the paper with a scattering of large stones.

  “See! Look! It’s not mine! It’s gone, it’s gone! I got rid of it!!!”

  27. Old Acquaintance

  IN HIS LAST WEEK at Widescreen, Cook had expected his impending absence to be conspicuous. But, apart from the odd email expressing – with questionable sincerity – how much of a privilege it had been to work with him, there seemed to be little pre-emptive melancholy from either direct colleagues or wider work associates. He was presented with a Modern Toss leaving card – a scrawled homunculus shouting into a telephone mouthpiece, with a speech-bubble exclaiming, ‘I can’t come in to work today, so fuck off!’ It had been signed by all the staff, apart from publisher Laura who, perhaps strategically, was away ‘on a course’. Most signatures were accompanied with sly little tessellations – doodles, emoticons, kisses, slashed dividers. It was a florid but duty-bound display and Cook looked forward to abandoning the card to a litter-bin once he’d anointed his exit at the bar opposite the office.

  It was hardly a conscientious demob. He dawdled through a nominal to-do list and tinkered with an over-detailed handover document, to be passed on to freelancer Nigel Smith, who would cover while the magazine found a permanent replacement. Smith, ever the predator, had scented Cook’s lameness well before his Talking Pictures appearance, and had been openly circling since the tetchy editorial meeting. Now, on a salary hike after dropping his retainer to Movie, he swooped.

  Writing came – small reviews, a think piece on the futility of certification in the digital age, a pithy side-bar on Bergman.
But the words oozed out, overbaked and redundant, to be shuffled into boilerplate sentences. He was fading – from view, from thought, from connection. Even the technology was tired of him. When his security pass began to insist on multiple swipes, the IT guy questioned the need for anything more than a temporary replacement, and Cook concurred with minimal protest. (Meekness, he felt, was an attitude he would be wise to embrace.) He sensed a collective holding of breath – an impatience for his influence to drift into history. He had become the guest who would have to leave before the party could relax.

  At the pub, his backpack bulging with sentimental stationery and gifted hardbacks, Cook chaired a stilted conference with a modest pack of colleagues and industry allies. Widescreen art director Warren Plant demolished several bottles of artisan ale and, to Cook’s relief, hijacked the farewell banter with a frank assessment of his current girlfriend’s sexual appetite.

  “She says she’s ‘OCD’,” slurred Plant, his fermented rasp barely an inch from Cook’s ear. “And I tell you, Dorian, she is fucking thorough!”

  Cook pushed out a guffaw, but sex was now lost on him and he was lost to it. The penis-enlargement email had recently ended, in a near overnight shutdown. He had found solace in its absurdity – the offers of swollen girth and surging volume had become more than just commentary on his insecurities. But as the backbeat of his dread quickened from pulse to patter, the sudden silence carried a ghastly implication – his untouchability was now so comprehensive, he was being spurned by spam-bots.

  Most of the attendees drifted away, leaving only back-slaps and cliches. (“You’ll be able to enjoy films more now you don’t have to write about them!”)