Thirteen Stops

by Sandra Harris

  “Language, Pip!” Nicola expostulated, shaking her head in disapproval.

  “That’s Michael, of course,” said Kimmie. “Your Michael.”

  “I can see that. You’ve written his name over his head there. But what’s this he’s doing? And who’s that beside him?”

  “He’s getting married to that girl,” Kimmie said, as if it were obvious.

  “And why am I not in this pitcher?” Philippa said.

  “You are,” Kimmie insisted. “That’s you crying in the corner there.”

  “What the fuck?” Philippa glared at her sister. “Have you ever known her to be psychic?”

  Nicola shrugged. “Not especially. Although, there was this one time . . .”

  “What one time?” Philippa looked alarmed.

  “Well,” said Nicola slowly, as if trying to remember, “there was this one time when I lost my purse with quite a lot of money in it. Shane thought I’d spent the money, but I hadn’t. I was really upset with him for thinking that. I turned our old house upside-down looking for it. I’d pretty much given up on it when Kimmie just walks into my bedroom where I’m sitting on the bed crying about it and she tells me that it’s up on top of the wardrobe. And, sure enough, it is. I’d put it there for safe-keeping and forgotten about it. And high up enough and far back enough so that neither she nor Little Nicky would have been able to climb up to see it there – and why would they do that anyway? She wasn’t able to remember how she knew where the purse was, so we had to just let it go.”

  “Sister dear,” said Philippa through gritted teeth, holding out one of the Little Pitchers to Nicola, “this is a pitcher – a picture – of my boyfriend Michael, my Michael, getting married to someone else. Excuse me if I’d like to know where Kimmie got the idea from. I mean, has Michael been talking to you, or to Kimmie, or what?”

  “Of course he hasn’t. We’ve never even seen him except for the times you’ve been with him, like the times you’ve brought him over here.”

  “Then why the feck is she drawing pitchers of him and some woman? What’s been putting that in her head?”

  “Mawia told me,” Kimmie said complacently.

  “Mawia? Who’s Mawia?” said Philippa.

  “She means ‘Maria’.” Nicola leaned forward to put a protective hand on Kimmie’s shoulder.

  “Well then, who’s Mawia? Erm, I mean Maria?” Philippa directed her question at Kimmie.

  “She’s the woman who lives in our first-floor bathwoom,” said Kimmie.

  “Are you absolutely positive we should be doing this?” stage-whispered Nicola.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock. The storm was in full spate outside. The lights had been flickering on and off all over the house the whole evening. Nicola and Philippa had amassed a little collection of candles, matches and a couple of flashlights in case of the power-failure which now seemed likely, if not inevitable.

  The kids had insisted on not being put to bed until after the X Factor live show, even though they were both fast asleep on the couch before the fourth act – a middle-aged ‘Overs’ lady of stout proportions, murdering Cilla Black’s ‘Anyone Who Had a Heart’, much to the audience’s amusement. (The older ladies were always the first to go home, Philippa thought. Society had no use for them, except for advertising anti-ageing creams, and seemingly television talent shows hadn’t either.) The kiddies were in bed now, clutching teddies and deep in Dreamland. Philippa had been inclined to quiz Little Kimmie at greater length and in infinitely more detail about this ‘Mawia’ person and why she had told Kimmie to draw Philippa’s boyfriend marrying another woman, a woman with very short hair like a boy’s who definitely wasn’t Philippa. Michael didn’t even like short hair on women. Philippa was absolutely certain of that. He was always running his fingers through her long luxuriant chestnut locks and saying how gorgeous they looked and felt to the touch and how much he loved women with really long hair like hers. But Nicola, ever the protective mother, had put the kybosh on any further quizzing of Kimmie, who in any case had answered Philippa’s frantic questions with only a maddeningly enigmatic smile and a shrug of her shoulders.

  Now the two women were installed upstairs in the first-floor bathroom, ready to hold their séance, the séance to which Nicola hadn’t yet quite reconciled herself.

  “Some things it’s better not to know, surely?” she kept insisting.

  She hadn’t even wanted to go into the big old bathroom on the first floor where the kids had their baths every night. There was a bathroom on each of the four floors of the house, and en suites in the master bedroom and in two of the guest bedrooms. Shane and Nicola had the en suites installed themselves for convenience and comfort. Tonight, Philippa had to enter the first-floor bathroom by herself first, just to make sure that this ‘Mawia’ person was nowhere to be seen. Only then would the nervous Nicola agree to go in herself and help Philippa set up for the séance.

  Now Nicola said: “Would you still be doing this if Kimmie hadn’t shown you that picture she dwew – I mean, drew – of Michael marrying that other woman?”

  “Of course I would,” said Philippa staunchly. “You asked me to help you with your ghost, and séances are the only proper way to flush out a ghost. If you’ll excuse the bathroom pun.”

  She laughed but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement, it was too forced for that. Nicola reached out and put her hand on her sister’s, squeezing it a little in what she hoped was a comforting way. Nicola knew that Philippa adored Michael and was now terribly worried about Kimmie’s drawing, although she was trying to hide it behind a front of bravado. Before Michael, she’d been single for a whopping four years while she tried to get over a break-up with a guy who she’d also adored, but he’d been a cheating rat bastard who’d made shite of Philippa’s loving heart which, in Nicola’s opinion, she gave too fast and too freely, leaving herself open to being hurt, which happened pretty much every time. Nicola desperately didn’t want the same thing to happen now with Philippa and Michael. She knew how much Philippa loved him and, in fairness to the guy, he’d always struck Nicola as a decent sort, friendly, generous and good-looking, but not so good-looking that you’d worry about leaving him alone with other females. That was very important in a boyfriend.

  “You shouldn’t set too much store by Kimmie’s drawing,” Nicola said now. “Shure, for God’s sake, she once drew me and Shane as spider people, with eight hairy legs each and a load of googly eyes, and that never happened, did it? We never turned into spider people, scuttling around the place scaring people like the guys in those D-movies you’re always watching to impress Michael.”

  “B-movies,” Philippa corrected automatically. “And I don’t only watch them to impress Michael. I actually enjoy them for themselves now.”

  She was never too downhearted to correct someone if they were wrong about something.

  Nicola, who’d made the little mistake accidentally-on-purpose to rouse her sister to something like her usual animation, breathed an inner sigh of relief.

  Then Philippa piped up: “Yes, well, maybe, but then there was that time she drew a pair of tits on the postman and a few weeks later he knocked in to say he was going off for a sex-change and you’d be getting a new guy for a few weeks, and when he came back to work he was Lucille instead of Larry, or whatever his name was. We were both surprised, you and me, that the Post Office apparently had such an enlightened take on modern sexuality, remember? I’ve only just remembered it myself.”

  “I’ll give you that,” conceded Nicola reluctantly. “But just to add that she’s wrong as often as she’s right, so you’d be better off not paying any attention to that silly drawing and just getting on with your life as usual, as if you’d never seen it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. But it’s not Shane in the picture buggering off and marrying a woman with short hair which, by the way, I know for a fact Michael doesn’t like.” She knew she’d said this already but it was important, wasn’t it? Well, wasn’t it? Righ
t now, it felt like all she had to hold on to.

  “Well, there you are then.” Nicola’s tones of fake heartiness sounded hollow even to her own ears. “It can’t be right, so. Just forget about it for now and put it behind you. Let’s just get on with what we’ve come up here to do, will we? What are we meant to be doing, anyway?”

  Nicola was well used to employing distraction as a technique to prevent her kids from killing each other on rainy days. She was pleased to see now that it worked successfully on adult sisters as well. Philippa seemed to give herself a mental shake and to perk up a bit.

  They were both sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, with the blinds tightly drawn against the storm, the main light on and about two dozen fat and skinny candles lit and scattered around the place, mostly standing in empty jam-jars that Nicola, typical little housewife that she was, would clean and keep after use in case they ever ‘came in handy’ for anything. And now look at them, coming in handy all over the shop! They had their wine with them too, of course. It was always wine o’clock when the two sisters got together. Philippa, the ‘expert’ on séances because she’d seen more horror films than Nicola, had drawn a circle on the floor with chalk nicked from the kids’ toybox. Inside the circle she’d drawn one of those pentagram thingies. Nicola didn’t know what it meant but it looked really authentic and impressive and occult-y. Both of them were seated inside the circle because they’d be safe that way, Philippa had said. The circle would protect them from any harm or evil that might threaten to befall them. Nicola didn’t know who (or what) might be wishing harm on them but she was glad of the safety of the circle, nonetheless, and of her sister’s close proximity.

  Now, Philippa said in her sort of solemn, otherworldly voice: “Is there anyone there? Can anyone hear me? Do you wish to communicate at all? Speak to us if you’re there?”

  Nicola spoiled the effect somewhat by sniggering.

  Philippa glared at her before going on, in the same otherworldly type of voice: “We wish you no harm, spirit, if you’re there, okay? We just want to get to know you, that’s all. Are you there, spirit? Give us a sign if you are. Any sign will do. We’re not fussy. Flush the toilet if you like or run one of the bath taps. Or even blow out the candles.”

  Nicola snorted with laughter.

  “Oh, well, if you’re not taking this seriously –” Philippa began.

  The overhead light went out and they both screamed.

  “It’s just a power cut, Nic, nothing to worry about.”

  Philippa’s voice was awfully shaky in the semi-darkness. It sounded to her sister as if she didn’t really mean what she’d said.

  “But what if it’s the sign you were asking for?” Nicola started to get to her feet. “I’d better go check on the kids, see if the lights are out all over the house.”

  “You can’t leave the sanctity of the circle! It will mean terrible danger for both of us! You could even get us both killed!”

  “I’ll only be a minute.”

  She disappeared for a few moments.

  When she returned, she said, “The kids are fine, but the lights are out all over the house. It’s a power cut all right.”

  “Of course it’s a power cut, because of the storm,” said Philippa crossly. “Now can you please get back in the sanctity of the circle so that we can continue with the bloody séance?”

  Nicola giggled as she lowered herself awkwardly back into the circle with her wineglass.

  “Spirit, we know you have suffered –” began Philippa earnestly again.

  “How do we know that?” Nicola sounded intrigued. “How do we know she’s suffered?”

  “Well, she’s a ghost, isn’t she?” snapped Philippa. “It stands to reason that she must have suffered something in her lifetime. At the very least, she’s suffered death, hasn’t she? That’s a form of suffering, isn’t it?”

  “She might have died peacefully in her sleep, mightn’t she?” Nicola was becoming argumentative now. It often happened that way when she was drinking. She’d argue the toss about everything and anything. “That’s the way I’d like to go, not knowing anything about it.”

  “If she died peacefully in her sleep,” an exasperated Philippa said loudly, “then would you mind telling me why she’s haunting your upstairs jacks a hundred-plus years later?”

  Nicola had no answer to this.

  Philippa made a ‘humph’ sound and then continued in her otherworldly voice: “Spirit, we come in peace! We bring you wondrous offerings of, erm, soap and shower-gel and, erm, some lovely face-flannels and loo roll if you will only reveal yourself to us and tell us your terrible story of suffering and pain.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear a terrible story of suffering and pain while I’m sitting in this awkward bloody cross-legged position,” Nicola grumbled. “My legs are feckin’ killing me. I’m too old for sitting on floors. Couldn’t you just ask her for the abridged version? Or maybe we could hear the story in instalments?”

  Philippa pointedly ignored her sister’s interjection. “Spirit, I ask you again, will you reveal yourself to us? We promise you that no harm will come to you if you will only give us a sign that you hear us. Give us a sign, oh spirit! Don’t be shy. Ah, go on, please! We’ll be your friends!”

  The candles guttered and went out, but not before they’d revealed a huge black shape, which definitely hadn’t been there before, in the open doorway of the first-floor bathroom.

  Both women screamed.

  STOP 11: CHARLEMONT

  Michael and Melissa

  Michael jumped on the Luas in town. Charlemont was his destination today but, if there was time afterwards, and it was a big if, he might just take the Luas to Beechtown, to the house Philippa shared with her friends. He needed to spend some quality time with her and, as soon as the funeral was out of the way, he intended to do just that.

  He watched as a tall, dark-haired guy seated across from him tried to pick up a good-looking Spanish or perhaps Brazilian woman who was sitting beside him. The girl was laughing, obviously flattered by the man’s intentions but not really taking the dark-haired sleazebag in the long dark coat seriously, maybe because she could clearly see the wedding ring on one of his long, tanned fingers. Michael certainly could, anyway. It stood out a mile. The guy was nuts if he didn’t think that other people could see it too. What a jerk, decided Michael idly, his thoughts immediately dismissing the other man and sliding back to the night before last when he’d stopped off at Philippa’s sister’s huge old house in Ranelagh during the storm, and had scared the living shite out of them by suddenly appearing in the darkened bathroom doorway unannounced.

  It had been a desperately stormy night and, on his way home from the hospice, he’d decided to call in at the house to check on the two women, who he’d known were alone there with the children for the weekend. Nicola’s husband Shane had gone off to Cork for two days on business, which apparently he did fairly often, and Philippa would frequently go and stay with her sister and her little niece and nephew to keep them company at these times.

  Michael still wasn’t sure what exactly had been going on in the house when he’d reached it and found the lights off all over the big, sprawling building. That much he’d been kind of expecting anyway, the bit about the lights being off, because there were power cuts all over the city because of the storm, which had been quite a significant one, enough to warrant its being given a woman’s name anyway. There were numerous trees down in the city and the Electric Ireland lads were still working around the clock trying to restore power to all the places that had lost it. After knocking on the front door and ringing the bell for several minutes and getting nowhere, he’d tried one of the front sitting-room windows, not really expecting it to be unlocked, and then climbed inside the house sharpish, out of the storm, when he’d found that it was. What the feck were Nicola and Philippa thinking of, to leave it unlocked like that? They must have been distracted indeed to commit such a dangerous oversight. It was lucky
that it had been just himself trying to gain access to the place at eleven o’clock at night, in the middle of a raging storm, and not some mad axeman from a horror movie or something.

  The big old house had been as spooky as hell in the dark, straight out of a horror film with the thunder crashing and the lightning flashing outside, and enough rain to nearly wash the whole place away in a mudslide. Michael had wandered through the downstairs of the house, calling out the two women’s names, but there’d been no answer. Up he’d gone then to the first floor where he’d found them in a bathroom of all places, both squiffy and huddled together on the floor surrounded by candles. After shrieking with horror when he’d first appeared silently in the open doorway, they’d both flung themselves at him and begged him to stay the night, or at least until the lights came back on, which they hadn’t done for some hours. They’d been rather close-mouthed, the pair of them, regarding exactly what they’d been doing on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, surrounded by candles and sitting in what had looked to him suspiciously like a pentagram. He’d seen enough of them in the horror films he loved to know what they looked like and what they were generally used for, and he knew that Philippa did too. When he asked them if they’d been holding a séance and why, they said they were doing it for a laugh. They weren’t laughing, though – in fact they looked terrified. He felt there was a good bit more than that to it. Maybe it was better not to know. At any rate, he wasn’t in the headspace just then to go there. If Philippa wanted to tell him of her own accord at some stage, well then, that was fair enough.

  He’d gone to bed with Philippa then in one of the guest bedrooms, after first making sure that the house was properly locked up and that Nicola and the kids were safe and tucked up for the night, and they’d made fast, urgent love which had been good (oh, so good!) for both of them. He’d fallen into a dead sleep after that, the strain of the last few days beginning to tell on him at last.