Giving Up the Ghost

by Jane Davitt

  Money he was glad Nick didn’t seem interested in. Lord knew they could use it; the house needed a new roof and his boat was getting old…but they’d manage, the two of them, without taking money from a dead man’s pockets.

  Nick was quiet, staring at his glass. “He probably should have the money,” he said. “If he does exist, and if the money exists, and if there’s a way to get it.” He sounded far away, though, and John didn’t like it.

  “His mother can fight this Alicia for it.” John nudged Nick’s foot gently under the table, wanting to jolt him out of his self-absorption. “You’ve got enough on your plate; it’s not your problem. I just thought you might want to meet him, but if you don’t ‑‑”

  “It’s not that.” Nick was silent long enough that John wondered if this whole idea had been a bad one, but then his gaze flickered up to meet John’s. “What if he doesn’t want to meet me? What if he doesn’t even know about me, and finding out just…fucks things up for him?” He lifted his glass, plucking the paper umbrella out and dropping it onto the table before downing most of the drink in several swallows. “My own father didn’t want anything to do with me; I don’t see why this kid would.”

  “Your father was a stupid fucking ‑‑” John stopped himself. Nick didn’t need to hear an opinion John had kept bottled up for as long as he’d known Nick. Not now, when it had ceased to matter. “He left your mother, not you, and he lost his chance to get to know you, which serves him bloody well right. Your brother’s different. He’s a child, like you were, and he’s lost his dad, just like you did. Could be you’d have a lot to say to each other.”

  He stretched his hand out across the table, palm up, curling the tips of his fingers under the rolled-up cuff of Nick’s shirt and rubbing his knuckles against Nick’s wrist for a moment. That, just that, was enough to have his pulse jumping. He’d missed touching Nick so much in the weeks Nick had been so caught up in his dreams. Missed the casual kisses as they worked together in the kitchen preparing a meal, chatting away about something or nothing, both of them knowing how easily the kisses could turn heated, frantic, until they were fumbling at zips, trying to get to skin, grinning at each other between hard, hungry, frantic kisses. Christ, he’d shoved Nick up against the kitchen table once and gone to his knees to get him off, only to find he was still clutching a carrot in his hand.

  Smiling at the memory of that, and of the expression on Nick’s face as he’d looked down, John let his hand lift to cup Nick’s face, careless for once about who might be looking. Let them look. “And he’ll be lucky to have you in his life,” he said softly. “The same way I am.”

  “I’m the one who’s lucky.” Nick sounded as if he meant it, but his eyes didn’t quite reflect the same openness that they might have a month or two ago, and they clouded over far too quickly. He raised his own hand and caught John’s, then kissed it. “What if he doesn’t show up? My dad, I mean. What if he was happy the way things were and he doesn’t…what if he doesn’t have anything to say to me?” Worse, John thought, would be if Brian had messages to pass on to others but nothing for Nick, but he was certain Nick had thought of that already as well. Nick bit his lip, then sighed and said, as if he were trying to convince himself, “It doesn’t matter. I said goodbye to him a long time ago.”

  There was nothing John could say to that. It was true, but he didn’t think Nick believed it.

  He finished his drink in a long swallow, teeth aching from the chill of it. “That Duncan’s had time to find out what we wanted. We should go.”

  Aye. Go. Before he gave into an impulse he’d been fighting and asked Nick what had gone wrong between them. That was a conversation John really didn’t want to have in public. He had a feeling it was going to go badly but then, the silence wasn’t working either.

  But Nick didn’t move, just continued to sit back in his chair, nearly empty glass in his hand. When John looked at him, he said, “We don’t really talk, do we?”

  “We never had to.” John could see the tables around them, filled with people chattering; animated, smiling faces ‑‑ but how much of what was being said was important, he didn’t know. Not much, probably. It was difficult for him after a lifetime of hiding a lot of what he was thinking and feeling, but he didn’t think it was any easier for Nick, either. “We always ‑‑ I thought we always just…knew.” He smiled wryly. “That sounds like something off a greeting card, doesn’t it? But I’d have put money on us being the one couple on the island who could share what we were feeling because of what we’d been through together. I never thought you’d shut me out the way you did.”

  He’d known that would happen. Known that as soon as they started to talk, it’d all pour out of him. He folded his hands in his lap, fingers tightly interlaced, gripping hard enough to hurt, trying to distract himself from the memory of his bewildered, confused pain, then gave up and put them on the table. It hadn’t helped.

  “I’m sorry. That was the last thing I’d ever want to do.” Nick was watching him. “I couldn’t even really see that I was doing it; everything was too…intense. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I guess I tried not to.” He shifted his chair closer and reached for John’s hand, holding it tightly.

  “I told you.” John stared at him, feeling his temper rise, although he didn’t pull his hand away. “Over and over, I asked what was wrong, tried to get you to talk, to come out for a bit…I thought it was that book of yours, which was bad enough, but it was worse and you still didn’t tell me. I’d have understood. I’d have helped.” He dropped his voice, because it was that or start to yell. “You never gave me the chance. Weeks of it, Nick. Weeks, and me thinking you’d had your fill of me ‑‑” His free hand clenched into a fist and he forced it to relax.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said again. “How many times do you want me to say it? At least I wasn’t running around with someone else behind your back, kissing him and ‑‑ God.” He drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to fight. I really don’t. Please.”

  “I don’t either.” John took a breath that did nothing to help the tightness across his chest. “And if I stay, we will.” He stood, pushing his chair back neatly under the table. “I’m going back to the hotel. I’ll get a taxi, or walk, maybe. I remember the way. You…if you still want me with you tonight, come by for me after you’ve finished being interviewed.”

  He turned away quickly, making his way through the tables without looking back, knowing Nick was probably just watching him go without lifting a finger to stop him.

  Chapter Nine

  Nick tried to go after John, but he was so stunned that the man would get up and walk out on him that he sat there staring for too long; by the time he managed to get to the front door, a sudden crowd of young people had appeared, blocking his way. There was no sign of John by the time he made it out onto the sidewalk. Maybe, he told himself, John just needed a little time by himself.

  It was hard to find Greg Duncan’s hotel. Nick made two wrong turns and ended up halfway back to his own before he realized the mistake he’d made and turned around. He had the piece of paper with Duncan’s room number on it in his pocket and checked it as he waited for the elevator, trying not to wish that John was beside him. He’d learned a long time ago that wishing that things were different didn’t help.

  Greg smiled at him when he opened the door. “Where’s your shadow?” he asked, stepping back to make room for Nick to enter.

  “He’s my partner,” Nick said, emphasizing the word and staying where he was. “If you can’t deal with that, maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

  “Business partner as well? Doesn’t that get a little…smothering?” Greg shook his head. “Sorry. Force of habit. Look; come in, will you? I promise to behave.” He gave Nick a wink. “Until I’ve finished interviewing you, anyway.”

  He had to be kidding, Nick told himself. He went in and Greg shut the door. Over on the table near the mini-fridge was a laptop, Greg’s cell phone, and a bunch of other t
hings piled up ‑‑ papers, notebooks, file folders. “Kind of small for an office,” Nick said, gesturing.

  “Temporary base.” Greg shrugged. “I’m used to it. I’ve got a rented apartment in Boston, but I’m never there. Always on the move, you know? And I can write anywhere.”

  Nick knew exactly. It was how his life had been until he met John, after all.

  “Yeah.” Nick noticed a half-eaten plate of food on top of the dresser. “Oh, did I interrupt your dinner? I thought ‑‑”

  But Greg was already waving away the importance of the food. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It wasn’t that great to begin with, and once it started to get cold…you’d think I’d be used to hotel food by now. I guess you never get used to some things.” He pointed to the padded chairs near the table. “Sit. Can I order something for you? A drink?”

  “No. Thanks.” Nick thought he’d already had enough if he was going to be driving back to pick up John ‑‑ assuming John was even there. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. But he was here now; he might as well get this over with. He sat down in the chair that faced the one in front of the computer. “So what do you want to know?”

  Greg sat down and spread his hands expansively ‑‑ which brought one hand close to a small tape recorder. He cocked an eyebrow at Nick, who shrugged and nodded permission, and then pressed a button. “Everything. What I found out about you was sketchy to say the least and the police wouldn’t give me anything. So let’s start at the beginning. What can you do, how do you do it, and when did it start?”

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled, looking, for the moment at least, genuinely interested and sympathetic. Since he’d made it clear he didn’t believe in psychic powers, Nick couldn’t see that attitude lasting long. It didn’t bother him; he was used to people thinking he was a conman or deluded; including Matthew, to a certain extent, which had always irritated him.

  John’s unquestioning acceptance of his powers had been such a relief after that…

  “It started when I was young. Just a kid.” Nick tried to organize his memories into something that would make sense even though it probably didn’t matter ‑‑ Greg would probably rearrange everything he said. “I saw stuff, heard stuff. I didn’t even know what it was at first, and then I didn’t know that everyone didn’t see it. I guess I was pretty confused. And gradually I started to realize that these…voices, and whatever, were trying to communicate with me. And I couldn’t just leave them when no one else could hear them.” He shifted in his chair, trying to get physically comfortable when it was impossible to be emotionally comfortable. “I don’t know how I do it. I just do.”

  “Is it inherited? Could your father do it?” Greg’s eyes were oddly intent now. “Is that why you came here; to talk to his…spirit?”

  “I don’t have any reason to think he could,” Nick said. “I don’t…I didn’t really know him. He left my mother just after I was born; I met him once when I was in my early teens, but that was it.”

  “Your mother’s dead, isn’t she?” Greg had lost his smile. “That’s public record,” he added, as if to forestall a protest from Nick. “I ran a background check on you, and it came up. Like your other partner dying a couple of years back.” He sighed, a long, slow exhalation. “Death follows you around, doesn’t it? Or do you follow it? How do you make a living from something like this, anyway?”

  Nick swallowed, a little unsettled. “I don’t,” he said. “Anymore. I used to ‑‑ Matthew and I did. Not much of a living, I guess, but enough. If I followed death around I wouldn’t have moved to one of the most remote places in Scotland in an attempt to find some peace.” His voice was sharper than he’d meant it to be.

  “Yeah, about that.” For the first time, Greg’s voice turned skeptical. “What happened there? From the bright lights to the boonies? Aren’t you bored out of your skull?”

  “No,” Nick said truthfully. “I’m not bored at all. I love it. And John’s there. It’s where he grew up; he’d never dream of living anywhere else.”

  “‘Whither thou stayest’?” Greg misquoted, his mouth twisting. “Does he know what you’ve given up? You could have been huge; the way you look; what you can do…we’re talking TV shows, books, interviews on primetime, not just with a hack like me in a cheap hotel room. You weren’t even tempted back then? And now? Now that you’re back where you grew up? Not even a little bit?”

  Nick hesitated. “That’s not what I want,” he said slowly. “I have to help ‑‑ I don’t know how not to ‑‑ but I don’t want publicity for it.” He frowned because that wasn’t quite right either. “I just want people here to know that it might not be too late to say goodbye to their loved ones. That’s all.”

  Greg considered that in silence for a moment and then met Nick’s eyes. “But it is too late. They’re dead. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that there’s any way to communicate with them.” He shivered, the sharp movement looking involuntary. “I saw some of the bodies. They died screaming, terrified ‑‑ and you’re going to lie to the people they left behind, and pass on some bullshit messages of how they’re in a good place, with Uncle Johnny and Aunty May? I know you might think that’s a comfort, but it’s a lie.” His gaze hardened. “Isn’t it?”

  “No,” Nick said. “No, it’s not.” He stood up. “Look, I knew you didn’t believe this when I walked in here, and you’re certainly not the first person who told me they thought I was a liar, but I don’t want to do this. Not now. Well, probably not ever, but definitely not now ‑‑”

  Greg turned off the recorder, his face calm again. “Why? Why not now?” He got to his feet and took a step forward, close enough that Nick was aware of him on a deeper level than was usual, each outward breath Greg took warm on his face. “Why did you come here? Your…partner didn’t want you to, but you did anyway. You say you don’t want the publicity and you’re not trying to persuade me you’re genuine, so why are you here?” His mouth curved in a smile that Nick had to admit was charming. “Well?”

  “I thought maybe people might believe me faster, if they knew,” Nick said, but he was uncertain again, not knowing what his answer was supposed to be. Not knowing what the answer actually was.

  Greg sighed, his smile turning rueful. “Damn. My ego’s crushed, but I’ll survive.” He gestured to the chairs. “Look, sit down, will you? Let’s start over. I was…distracted, before, and a little off-balance.”

  As always, Nick was willing to give a person another chance. “Your ego?” he asked, sitting down.

  Greg sank into his chair and picked up a pen, twirling it slowly between his fingers. His hands were well-cared for, Nick noticed absently, smooth, tanned, with neatly clipped nails. He thought of John’s hands on him, rougher, scarred here and there, mementos of encounters with rock and rope; fishing was far more physical than Nick had realized. At least it was the way John did it. Gentle hands, though, when they had to be, sure and certain.

  Nick dragged his eyes up to Greg’s face and saw that the man was slightly flushed.

  Greg tossed the pen aside and leaned forward, his knees bumping against Nick’s.

  “I thought ‑‑ God, I can’t believe I’m admitting this ‑‑ that maybe you were interested in seeing me. When you turned up alone…” He rolled his eyes. “But I guess I’m a reporter first and foremost, because I couldn’t resist asking you a few questions, and I blew it, didn’t I? Got you pissed off at me when that’s the last thing I wanted.”

  “I’m not.” Nick wasn’t. In fact, he was too stunned at what Greg had just said to think much of anything. “I had no idea. Why can’t you believe that there might be more to the world than you can see or hear? Or is that you don’t want to?” He often suspected that was the case for many people ‑‑ that the thought of ghosts was so disturbing to them that they couldn’t let themselves believe.

  “It’s asking a lot,” Greg protested. “Come on; if I told you there was an invisible pink elephant in the corner over there, what would yo
u think? Would you trust me? Of course you wouldn’t. And in your line of work you must have come across plenty of people who’re taking advantage of people’s grief and gullibility. I don’t get that feeling from you, but it doesn’t mean I’m prepared to accept that you can really do what you say.” His eyes were shrewd. “There’s a rational explanation for everything. Like that name you pulled out of the air, for instance.”

  “Grant? You think so?” Nick could feel the tension in his shoulders and upper arms. “What about the fact that his parents both abandoned him when he was too small to remember either of them? Is there a good explanation for that? How about that he drove a car into a brick wall about four years ago and cracked his spine? They said if it had been a few millimeters higher he would have been paralyzed.”

  “You knew him before he died?” Greg looked startled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ‑‑” Nick shook his head and Greg laughed uncertainly. “You didn’t know him? You just picked all that up from talking to his ghost? Look, I don’t want to be rude but you couldn’t know any of those things. Or you’re just dreaming them up out of thin air.” He tilted his head, his expression serious. “I’m going to need more than that.”

  “I don’t care,” Nick said wearily. “Check his records ‑‑ can’t you do that? See if the crack’s there in his spine. T-6, whatever that means. Do you want me to try to read you? Is that what you’re getting at? It won’t work.” He shook his head again. “I get that sometimes ‑‑ psychic flashes ‑‑ but not on command.”

  “Anyone but you, I’d say that was convenient.” Greg sighed. “It’s no use. I can’t see you as a conman. And trust me, in my line of work you get good at picking up on them. So I’ll go as far as to say I believe you mean it, even though I still can’t get my head around the idea of messages from beyond. How’s that? Good enough for us to stay friendly?”

  “That depends,” Nick said.

  “On what?” Greg was frowning, but more in a curious way than anything else.