The Ghost

by The Ghost (epub)

Last to leave – oddly – was Henry Gray.

  “Anyone would think you’re the one who’s moving on, Henry,” said Cook, as his Ed-in-Chief lolled over an empty glass, childishly twanging his bottom-lip against the rim.

  “You’re not ‘moving on’, Dorian,” said Gray, lifting his head. “You’re escaping. Ends as new beginnings – that’s all bollocks.”

  Cook winced away the dregs of his pint. “Are you still excited about film, Henry? Or is it just a job?”

  “I love films,” said Gray, a little defensive. “Good guy kills the bad guy, saves the girl. But I can’t stand ‘film’. Too much fucking reality.”

  “And perspective?” said Cook, grinning at the Spinal Tap reference, which was lost on Gray who, keen to underline the profundity of his sign-off words, was already rising to leave.

  Then, a handshake – too firm and lingering – and, echoing the rehearsed consolation of Cook’s GP, that shoulder double-tap.

  Cook stayed for another, wallowing in the solitude of a dark and unpopular corner near the toilet door. He pulled a freesheet from a wall-rack and flattened the front page across his table. Towards the end of the front section, slotted into a page-deep side-column, he found what he feared.

  ELLIE: POLICE PRESSED ON ENQUIRY

  Detectives investigating the disappearance of Eleanor Finch, 38, have been questioned on when the case might be reclassified from one of Missing Persons to Murder.

  “Eleanor’s last contact with her family was three months ago,” explained Detective Chief Inspector John Barrett at an emotional press conference on Tuesday. “But we are continuing to piece together her movements in the hope of information which may help us understand why a woman with two young children would suddenly choose to not return to her home.”

  With Ms. Finch’s ex-husband Gareth, 43, at his side, DCI Barrett fielded strong questioning on his force’s progress.

  “To date, we are obviously concerned that Eleanor may have been the victim of crime, but we have no direct evidence to confirm this and we will continue to pursue significant enquiries with friends and associates in a bid to shed some light on what might have happened to her.

  “Sometimes, adults who go missing may wish for their location to remain anonymous, and they do have that right which we must respect. I have no reason to believe this is the case here. Regardless of what has caused Eleanor’s disappearance, we need to find her urgently and give her family some answers. It’s vital that people call us if they know anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

  Cook gulped at his drink. There was nothing insignificant about this for him. He stared at the police-issue picture of a young-looking, near-forty woman leaning self-consciously against a door-frame, smiling but sad-eyed, long brown hair stacked over one shoulder. Their correspondence had never evolved into a meeting, but there was something familiar about her expression – a hint of accusation, a knowing glow of sympathy. For a second, he was carried away and gently settled alongside her, in fragile limbo, hovering out of reach, neither dead nor alive. Like Cook, Eleanor had slowly degraded – from earthly constant to apparition of thought. He hoped there was still life inside him – and her, despite Detective Chief Inspector John Barrett and his unsuccessful enquiries.

  Cook’s phone convulsed against the wooden table-top. A placeholder image of a silhouetted head-and-shoulders appeared on the screen, below the words ‘Dennis Mountford’. Anxiety stampeded over him. As the phone ground out its silent alarm, Cook gathered his coat and backpack and squirmed through a cluster of baying broker types. Outside, he tapped the answer icon and cautiously lifted the phone to his ear. There was a voice – Dennis Mountford’s voice, spluttering, half-sobbing against the background drone of traffic.

  “Dorian! Dor! Is that you? Someone’s been to Jake’s school! They were talking to Jake and his friends and one of the older kids said something and he left.”

  “A man?”

  “What? Yes! A man!”

  “Did the kids say what he looked like?”

  “No! I don’t know. I’m rushing back home. I was at a job with no signal. I’ll find out.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He was asking Jake about me. Said he knows me.”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  “It is not fucking ‘nothing’, Dorian!”

  28. Grounded

  May, 1976

  It was a Raleigh – three-speed, derailleur gears, drop handlebars, dark orange frame, and the word ‘Chopper’ in lemon-yellow, pasted along the lower tube. Cook’s annual pester for the bike kicked in sometime around late autumn, as regular as the clocks going back. The hints to Esther and Lily had grown heavier by the year – pointing out other children who had recently evolved from scooters, pushing the kitchen-table chairs into a line to form a ‘play-bike’ and, most recently, leaving torn-out pages from the Kays catalogue slotted inside Esther’s TV Times. On Christmas Day 1975, the “We’ll see…” refrain had finally delivered his own private fiery chariot.

  Cook rode it in the morning before school – a menace to milk-floats. He rode it to school, at speed, whooshing by the pushchairs, grazing the shuffling cliques. He came ‘home for dinner’, so he could ride it more casually, trundling around the play-park path, gliding down empty streets. He rode it home after school and, on this day, he kept riding – to Dennis Mountford’s house, where the two boys drank grapefruit squash, listened to ‘heavy rock’ records and plotted a robbery.

  “You could stick it under your coat,” said Mountford. “Easy. My mate gets loads like that.”

  “I’m not putting your stuff under my coat!”

  “Okay, then. You get the lamp and I’ll get a pump.”

  “Lamp will be harder to hide.”

  Mountford laughed. “We won’t get caught, Dor. It’s a massive place and we’ll be too quick.”

  They cycled, side by side, parallel, fanning out then drifting back in close. They cycled up steep Lowther Street, to test their gears. They cycled to the gravel wasteground at the edge of the play-park path and – heads down, highest gear – raced each other, completing three full circuits before laying the bikes flat and collapsing by the main gate. Mountford’s bike was a metallic blue Grifter – better suited to his older, rangier frame. The fit of Cook’s Chopper was a little generous, but he was still too smitten to covet – he wanted to grow into his own bike, not be big and old enough for someone else’s.

  “Hi, Dorian!”

  Lisa Goldstraw skipped off the roundabout and swayed over to the gate, gripping the bars, poking her face through. Cook, mortified at being caught in a moment of recuperation, leapt to his feet.

  “Guess what? No more school for me now!”

  “How come?”

  “We’re going to Canada in a few days. Emigrating.”

  Cook had known and prepared for this, but had kept it safely shut away and suspended – an abstract unpleasantness, far away in the foggy future.

  “Wow. Brilliant! When are you coming back? Are you going on a plane?”

  Lisa laughed. “Of course we’re going on a plane! It would take ages by boat. And we’re not coming back. We’re going to live there. My mum’s family are there.”

  Cook crouched and sifted through a stack of pebbles by the gate foundations. “So, you’re not coming back – ever?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Are you still at your house?”

  “No. We’re living with my auntie.”

  This was a major setback for Cook’s long-term plan – to marry Lisa and live in her enormous house when her mum died.

  “Is it because of me?”

  “What?”

  “Rebecca. The magazine.”

  “Of course it isn’t!”

  Cook rolled the pebbles, one by one, into the hole that held one of the gate’s support posts.

  “It’s not that far. I could come and visit you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kissy-kissy!”
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  A group of boys who Cook recognised from Lisa’s class ambled from the roundabout to a perilous-looking rocking-horse in the park’s far corner. As they passed by the gate, they giggled and aimed lip-smacking noises at Cook and Lisa.

  Cook jumped up. “Got to go for my tea.”

  Lisa nodded. “Is that your new bike? It’s really nice.”

  “Yeah,” said Cook. “The orange one.”

  A gaping pause. The scene was suddenly drained of flavour. Cook wandered back to his bike and mounted it, hoping he looked vaguely cowboyish – aloof and unhurtable. He pushed away without looking back, reclaiming the betrayal. Mountford had to hurry to catch him and keep pace.

  “Dor! You’re not going home yet, are you?”

  “No! But I couldn’t say we’re going nicking, could I?”

  *

  At the far end of Lowther Street, Cook and Mountford slowed at the sight of a small figure, cautiously wheeling his bike along by the kerb, in the gutter, despite the absence of cars. The weather was mild, but John Ray’s top half was smothered in heavy winter clothes – duffel-coat, padded jumper, scarf – while his lower body had to make do with an ill-fitting pair of flimsy polyester flares. He looked like he’d been dressed remotely, by two separate people in different climates. Mountford called to him.

  “John! Come with us to the new Tesco!”

  Ray glanced over as he dragged his junior racer onto the pavement. He pivoted the handlebars a couple of times, flinching at the squeak. Cook pulled up alongside him.

  “Y’need some oil, John.”

  John Ray stayed silent, keeping his gaze fixed on the far side of the street. He squeezed and unsqueezed his brake handles.

  “Do you want us to get you some?” said Mountford, hanging back, circling.

  “No, thank you.”

  Ray looked up and, at last, submitted to eye contact. His pupils had lost a little of their redness, but Cook was startled by how bright and white his forehead dazzled beneath that waxy hair. The heat around his nose and cheeks caused a subtle blood-flush below eye-level, but the upper half of his head was so parched and colourless it seemed to have been dusted in flour. He glanced from Cook to Mountford and back again, accusing eyes staring from the centre of tear-streaked sockets.

  “You alright?” Cook posed the question carefully, but it made Ray startle and he pulled out his handkerchief, blowing his nose to displace the agitation.

  “Yes. I’m fine. I can’t come with you.”

  The voice – immaculate enunciation but so slender and frail and fleeting.

  “It’ll be a laugh. Go on!”

  “I can’t.”

  He was steadying his bike, turning his back, planning his escape.

  “Don’t be a chicken, John!” offered Mountford. “We’ll look after you!”

  But John Ray was done. He climbed aboard and squeaked away, even less convincing than Cook as aloof and unhurtable.

  At the new Tesco, Cook and Mountford were detained by a tall and terrifying store detective as they stupidly tried to leave by the fire exit. Mountford had slotted a long, thin tyre-pump under his jumper, palpably impeding his movement. Cook had poorly concealed a bulky detachable head-lamp under his jacket. In a windowless side-office, the store detective smoked gravely and made several phone calls. Cook cried, Mountford held off until his mother arrived. Between sobs, Cook kept asking the same question, over and over.

  “Can we go yet?”

  The store detective smoked and dialed and typed and shook his head.

  Two uniformed policemen eventually appeared and took some details. When Cook finally found the strength to wrench his gaze from the carpet, he saw that one of the policemen was Frank Ray.

  (“I can’t.”)

  With Mountford’s mother and Esther present, Frank Ray explained that the boys were expected to attend the station for an interview within a week, and that their case may be referred to a ‘juvenile liaison committee’. Outside, Esther kept her furious distance – five body-lengths ahead of Cook, who wheeled his bike slowly and sniffed and snivelled all the way home.

  “Am I going to prison, nana?”

  “No. Shame! It might teach you a bloody lesson!”

  In the house, Cook hurried through the front-room and tried to dash up the stairs, but Uncle Russell was ready for him and barred the way.

  “Dorian. You crackpot! What was that for? What a silly, stupid thing to do!”

  “The other boy made me do it!” lied Cook, through a fresh downpour of snot and tears.

  “Dorian, it’s stealing! When you go out now, you’re not to go past the end of the street. And you’re not going out on that bike.”

  “What? How long for?”

  “Until I say so, Dorian! If you go past the end of the street or take the bike out, then I’ll make sure it gets sold – to someone who can appreciate it!”

  “I do appreciate it!”

  Esther came in from the kitchen. “Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it!”

  “It’s not fair!”

  Cook pushed past Uncle Russell, thudded up the stairs and dived into the corner closet, shutting the door on it all. The darkness absorbed him – cool and calm and dispassionate. It was above ranting and crying and knew nothing of emigration or juvenile liaison committees. It was the only judge he respected.

  *

  In the morning, the smell of poached egg on toast lured Cook downstairs. There had been no familiar call from Esther – she had simply laid the food out on the table before leaving for her Saturday job with a sulky door-slam. He ate and watched cartoons, closely observed by Rusty who was eventually rewarded with a few crusts and a dollop of unwanted egg. He slouched out into the back yard and felt a flex of anger at the sight of his hard-won bicycle, propped against the toilet wall, temporarily decommissioned. On top of this private pain, there was also the public shame, the exposure. PC Frank Ray would surely tell his sons and the thwarted shoplifting story would spread and breed around the school, growing more lurid and shameful in the telling.

  Cook climbed up onto the metal dustbin and hopped over the wall, down into the cobbled back entry. Since Uncle Russell’s inclusion zone extended only to the end of the street, the old butcher’s shop was now an outer marker. As ever, Cook approached it with a mix of fear and fascination, but since it was now the edge of his world, the urge to explore had grown more seductive. If he could conquer the fear, it would surely make an incredible den, and, because other people would have been too scared to go in, there might even be abandoned treasures. He crouched down by the ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ sign and wriggled through the gap by the gate’s broken hinge.

  The builder’s equipment was unchanged – wheelless wheelbarrow, scaffold tubes, metal sheeting. It felt almost theatrical – an ossified exhibit, more arranged than abandoned. Emboldened by outrage at his confinement, Cook aimed a kick at the wooden panel blocking the hole in the brickwork and it flapped over, invitingly, to one side. The opening was roomier than the gate-hinge gap and he barely had to stoop to pass through into a small back-room overrun by chalky chunks of masonry. The walls had shed enormous dunes of plaster and formed a central pyramid of powdery grime. Slender shafts of daylight poked in through gaps in the window-boards, casting a sepulchral shimmer over the clusters of bottle-shards and faded beer-cans. He digested the silence and stepped through a battered door-frame into a larger, less cluttered main hall which served as a central chamber to several box-rooms, all now doorless. The fittings had been mostly hacked away and the floor’s uneven concrete crunched and crumbled underfoot. It was brighter in here, with light leaking in from an exposed staircase which led to the first-floor window – the one from which Cook had been dared to wave on the day they had retrieved John Ray’s school-bag. Stumbling through a patch of greasy polythene, Cook approached the staircase. He would rehearse the dare – climb to the window, admire the view, hopefully call to someone he knew. But at the bottom step, he peeked through a split
in a splintered door and spotted another staircase winding down into darkness, out of sight. To a cellar? If there was treasure here, surely it would be down there. He pushed at the door, surprised at its weight. It swung open, lower hinge screeching in protest.

  Cook could only see the first five or six steps. The others melted into the gloom, if they were even there at all. He edged forward, hovering a foot just beyond the threshold of the door-frame. From somewhere down below, something groaned – a swelling, extended rumble, somewhere between pain and fury. Cook turned and tripped and leapt away, skidding on the polythene, crashing through the panel, then outside and running, running, running.

  29. Suffer the Living

  “MR COOK?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Inspector Ramshaw, this is Constable Whitcombe. Would you mind if we came inside and asked you a few questions?”

  Cook was underdressed for the occasion – grimy REM T-shirt, elasticated tracksuit trousers, no socks. It was 8.30pm on Saturday night and he was about to settle in for a punishing double-bill of Bergman and Preminger. The doorbell had interrupted a ranting hunt for the TV instruction manual. He had been freeloading here for a week, but he had not yet adjusted to his absent friend’s taste for minimalist electronics.

  The policemen were positioned a respectful couple of steps beyond the doorstep, offering weak smiles and photo ID.

  “What’s this about? I’m just…”

  Ramshaw’s smile broadened into something approaching sympathy. “It’s just a few quick questions. We won’t keep you for too long. It’d be helpful if we could discuss it indoors.”

  The rhetoric in the request was now clear. Cook stepped aside and the officers entered, taking turns to shuffle their feet on the doormat. Cook’s phone vibrated – silently – in his saggy pocket.

  “Have a seat in the…”

  “Sitting-room?” smiled Ramshaw, with a calculated brevity that only made Cook more nervous.

  “Yes. Can I get you anything? I was just making tea.”

  “No, thank you. As I say, we won’t be too long.”