Haunts

by Stephen Jones

“Yeah,” said the man, “I manslaughtered Janet. I’m sorry.” He took a long pull at his beer, and David thought this pause in the conversation might give him a second chance to flee, but no, too late, he was off again. “I’m a bad man. I think I was better with Tracey, you know, in spite of everything, we were a unit. Do you know what I mean? Together, we made sense.”

  “I do know what you mean,” said David.

  “And now I’ve lost her. And I’ve lost myself too, because she was the best part of me. I don’t have any friends. Can you forgive me?”

  “I forgive you,” said David.

  “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  “I do forgive you,” said David.

  “I won’t ask you to be a friend. I don’t deserve your friendship. Just your forgiveness.”

  “I do, I forgive you,” said David.

  “Thank you,” said the man. “Thank you. I feel. Whew. I feel at peace.” He smiled, stuck out his hand. It was big and meaty, at odds with how small his body was. David took it. “I’m Alex,” said the man.

  “David,” said David.

  “I know.”

  *

  The numbness kept returning to his lips, and David didn’t know what he should do about that. He’d wake in the morning and feel them with his fingers and they didn’t seem to belong to him; he had to smack them together for a couple of minutes just to get some life back into them.

  When he ate his breakfast cereal the spoon would feel strange in his mouth, the flakes would feel strange, the strangeness made him a bit nauseous. One breakfast they felt so thick and swollen it was as if he’d been anaesthetized at a dentist’s. It made him drool. He’d bite his tongue.

  David didn’t want to go to a doctor, and nearly cancelled the appointment at the last minute. The doctor didn’t even want to examine the lips, which was annoying. Was David diabetic? David said that he wasn’t. Had he an allergy to shellfish? David assured the doctor he’d been nowhere near a shellfish. Sometimes numb lips, the doctor said, were the first symptoms of migraine headaches, had he had any migraines? No. “Hmm,” said the doctor. Then he asked the clincher. He asked if there’d been any trauma in his life recently, any reason he might feel depressed. David admitted his wife had just been killed. “Aha!” said the doctor, and he actually looked pleased. He told David that numb lips were a classic form of stress, of panic attack, of something psychosomatic—he had really nothing to worry about, it’d all come out in the wash when he cheered up. David asked if from now on every single little ailment he ever felt was in some way going to be related to the death of his wife, and the doctor just sort of blinked. “Watch and see if it spreads to other parts of your face,” the doctor said. “If it does, I’ll put you down for a CAT scan.”

  One night the numbness of his lips woke David up. He’d been woken by pain before—never by the opposite of it, by pure lack of sensation. He lay there. He ran his tongue over the lips and felt nothing. Smacked them together, nothing.

  But no, not nothing.

  He felt himself lean forward, just a little—he twitched the lips, he puckered. And there it was. Right next to them. And it was soft and yielding. It was fleshy. It was another pair of lips.

  At this he started; he jolted forward in alarm, and thought suddenly that by doing so he’d head-bang whoever was kissing him, and he cried out in expectation of the pain. But there wasn’t any, and there was no head to collide with—and his own head kept on rocketing forward at great speed and there was nothing there to stop it, until his own spine yanked it back like a seat belt—and he was breathing fast, panicked, and he slowed that breath down, swallowed, lay his head back upon the pillow. Relaxed. Relaxed… Twitched those lips forward again.

  He was kissed for his effort.

  It was very gentle, very sweet, and there was just the faint taste of lipstick.

  “Janet?” he whispered, and wished he hadn’t, because he’d chased her away, the spell was broken.

  He spent the next hour or so trying to chase those lips, puckering out at the darkened room to no avail. He must have fallen asleep at some point.

  The next morning his lips were numb again, but this time he didn’t much try to get the feeling back. So he’d drool during breakfast, so what? And during the day he’d keep prodding at the lips, pressing down on them with his fingers hard—staring at them in the mirror and flexing them slowly. He’d close his eyes and make little moues towards a lover who wasn’t there.

  He went to bed early that night. “Janet,” he said to the darkness. He didn’t know how to summon her. He didn’t know how to let her know he was ready.

  Beneath the sheets his hands balled up into tight fists of frustration.

  He dozed, slept in fits and starts. And she came to him at last; he woke and she was there, he could feel her, her breath against his mouth, she was so very very close—and he wasn’t going to say a word, he’d learned his lesson, he wasn’t going to move a muscle. Or not just any muscle, he’d choose the muscle carefully—and he pressed his lips forward. Pressed them onto hers. And he couldn’t be sure at first, but there, there was that taste of lipstick, a little bit of something sweet and slippery—and Janet had never been much of one for make-up, but he was glad of it now, just so he could taste something and be sure he wasn’t pretending.

  He extended his tongue-—very slowly, carefully. And it went into a place that was warmer and wetter. Pushed it out as far as it would go—it quivered in the hot breath of his dead lover.

  She stayed all night. Sometimes he’d sleep, just for a while— and he’d wake with a start, with the certainty that she’d have crept away, that he’d have lost her once more. But she was always there, that softness, that tickle close to his skin, that body heat, those lips, those lips.

  *

  The next morning he found the numbness had spread. It was no longer just his lips, the chin had no feeling, his cheeks felt odd and tingling. He called the doctor for an appointment. This time he did cancel at the last minute.

  Because he realized she didn’t come to him at all—no, she never left—she was always there, she was always just a few delicate millimeters away from his face. He could smell her, and taste, and touch, and feel, God, and all it required was concentration and just a little bit of forward momentum. And he went to bed with her. He’d cuddle the pillow and pretend his arms were around her body, and he’d make love to her, and he’d make love to himself.

  It took three days of this sort of thing before he began to think that this might be unhealthy. And he determined he had to get out of the house, interact with the living again. Alex had left four messages on the answering machine, asking him to call. So he did.

  *

  “I’m glad you came,” said Alex. “I wasn’t sure you would. But this means that we’re friends now, right? We’re proper friends.”

  He’d bought them both a glass of house red. “Because I could tell you weren’t really enjoying the beer, I’m not entirely insensitive!” The pub was quiet; nothing but Alex’s voice and the occasional burp from the fruit machine. Alex wasn’t dressed in uniform now, and he’d lost any authority it might have given him; he just looked like a small sad man with a paunch.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I’m doing okay. I think I’m doing better,” said David. “I think I’m adjusting.”

  “Adjusting. Yeah. Good for you. Yeah, we should all be adjusting, yeah.”

  Alex finished his drink. David offered to buy him another. There was still time for one more round before they had to get to the cinema.

  “No, no,” said Alex. “I’m not letting you put your hand in your pocket. All the drinks are on me. I owe you, remember?”

  David hadn’t been out to see a movie in years. The last time had been with Janet in Marbella. It had been a fantastic holiday, they’d laughed so much. And the weather had been mostly glorious. But the sudden downpour had taken them by surprise, and they had taken refuge in the cinema
. They arrived in the middle of an action movie in which Bruce Willis killed lots of people, his wisecracks were dubbed into Spanish. They could just about follow the plot, it wasn’t too difficult, and David would whisper to Janet his own suggestions for what an English translation of the dialogue might be, and sometimes they were very funny, and even when they weren’t Janet would laugh.

  Alex insisted on paying for the tickets. It was for some romcom, David hadn’t thought it’d be to Alex’s taste. Alex said, “Do you want some popcorn?”, and David didn’t. “You’ve got to have popcorn!” said Alex, “my treat!”, and bought David a big tub overflowing with the stuff. David picked at it through the trailers, but it didn’t taste of anything. “You probably need more salt,” said Alan, “here, we’ll swap.” He gave David his popcorn. But it didn’t make any difference, David still couldn’t taste a thing.

  The movie had lots of jokes, but they weren’t necessarily very good jokes. Alex would lean across to David and tell him his own punchlines. He’d lean in very close, and David could smell the hot breath on his face—but for all that, he still wouldn’t whisper quietly enough. People kept on glaring at Alex and shushing him. He ignored them.

  After the movie Alex suggested they should go off for another drink; David said he was tired; Alex wouldn’t hear of it.

  The pub was much busier now, and Alex had to shout for David to hear him over the noise. Alex brought to the table an entire bottle of wine, and poured glasses for himself and his friend. It wasn’t an especially nice wine, normally it’d have been too acidic for David, he preferred something smooth. But he drank it anyway, and he could barely taste it.

  “That stuff you were saying,” shouted Alex, “about adjusting. Yeah. I can see the value in it. Because, what do they say? Because life goes on. They do say that, don’t they?”

  “Cheers,” said David.

  “It’s funny how things work out,” shouted Alex. “Because we wouldn’t even be friends. If our wives hadn’t killed each other. But you’re a great friend. I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had!”

  “Thanks,” said David.

  “It wasn’t such a tragedy. If it brought us together.”

  “No.”

  “And with no blame on either side! And why should there be? Just a, just an accident of circumstance. My wife killed your wife. But then again, your wife killed my wife, didn’t she?”

  “Wait a moment,” said David.

  “I’m just saying. There had to be a car for Tracey to hit. And your wife was the one driving it. And yeah, my wife is a little more to blame than your wife. I don’t dispute that. But accident of circumstance, yeah? That day, my wife was the one who happened to be drink-driving. The next day, it might have been yours drink-driving. Let’s not get too fussed about blame.”

  “My wife didn’t ever go drink-driving,” said David.

  “No, I know, hey, I’m just saying. What I’m saying is, we’re the same. Right? Right!” He clinked his glass against David’s, frowned. “No need to get nasty about it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Is this seat taken?” said one girl, and “Is it taken?” said her prettier friend. “Do you mind if we join you?” The pub was heaving now, there were no spare tables.

  “No, that’s fine,” said David.

  “Fine,” said Alex.

  The girls’ presence seemed to throw Alex off his stride; they chattered together for a minute or so, and then he said, “We went to the cinema.”

  “Oh… yes?” ventured a girl.

  “We saw this movie. It wasn’t very good.”

  “It was all right,” said David.

  “Oh, you say it’s all right now, but you were sighing and humphing all the way through it,” said Alex.

  “Goodness,” said a girl. And, “What was it?” said the other.

  David told them.

  “It hasn’t had very good reviews,” said the uglier girl to David. “And it’s a shame, because I think she was very funny when she was in Friends, I just don’t know whether she’s choosing the right projects, and of course she’s getting older now, so maybe she’s not getting the offers she once had …”

  “He is taken, you know,” said Alex.

  “Sorry?”

  “My friend. He is taken.”

  “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Oh, we’re not gay,” sneered Alex. “I bet you think we are. But we were married to women. They’re dead now. But we still keep them in our hearts, we’ll never betray them. We’d do anything for them! Show us some fucking respect, we’re fucking mourning!”

  By now Alex was on his feet, and the girls were backing into the crowd, and David was dragging his friend out of the pub.

  “Get your hands off me, David, I swear to God, I’ll fucking glass them, what do they think, they think we can’t find wives as good as ours?”

  “Now calm down,” said David. “Come on.”

  Alex threw him off; David flinched. And Alex looked at him in surprise. “I’d never hurt you,” he said. “I’m hurt you think I would.”

  “All right,” said David. “Just breathe.”

  Alex took a couple of gulps of night air, and began to sob. Dry sobs, they made his little fat body heave with the effort. “I’ve ruined the evening,” he said. “And we were having a brilliant evening. It’s the drink. I shouldn’t, for her sake, I mean, when you bear in mind. What she. But I’ve been so down, mate. I miss her. I miss her really bad.”

  “I know,” said David.

  “I don’t want to be out with you. I don’t know you. I want to be with her.”

  “I understand,” said David.

  And a look of relief washed over Alex’s face, and his eyes lit up, and even his tongue came out for a second, he looked like a little puppy dog so eager to please. “Next time I won’t drink. Promise. Just fizzy water. Yeah?” David didn’t say anything. Alex’s face creased up. “I need her,” he said. “And you understand.”

  And his breath was all over David again, and it made him think of Janet, and how close her breath could be, that he wanted to be home with her right now. And he didn’t agree to see Alex again, but he nodded, and that was enough.

  *

  The trick, David soon realized, was not to think about it too much.

  Someone had told him once—it may have been a medical student, someone he met in the university bar—about the way the brain can screen out unwanted objects it doesn’t want us to see. The nose is the best example. We all see the nose—he told David, and David thought he was very drunk, and wondered why he was bothering him—we all see the nose all the time. It’s a big pointy thing sticking straight out the center of our face, of course we can see it. And if we think about it too much, this permanent obstruction getting in the way of what we want to look at, always there in our peripheral vision, it’d make us feel claustrophobic. It’d drive us nuts. So the brain refuses to acknowledge it. Ignores it, tries to make us look through it, makes it seem transparent.

  David assumed he was a medical student, but he supposed that was just because he was talking about brains and noses and body parts, he supposed he could have been anyone really. And he really wished the student had shut up, he hadn’t wanted to think about such things, now he’d been alerted to it he couldn’t stop seeing his own nose for days.

  And David now had to play the same game with Janet. Because it was obvious to him now—she wasn’t just in front of his face, she was growing herself onto his face. She was there all the time, always in his peripheral vision, just like a nose—but now there was another nose to contend with, and much more besides. Staring out at her as she stared back at him. He could feel the bristles on his chin flattened against her chin. Her hair tickling his cheeks. Her lipsticked lips. When he breathed, he did so first through his mouth and then through her mouth and then out through the back of her head. Sometimes, when he tried to focus upon any specific object, when he really had to sharpen his eyes and concentrate, he fancied he w
as having to do so by peering through her forehead, her skull, her very brain. But, like the nose, he tried not to think about it, he didn’t think about it; like the nose, he found a way of keeping the obstruction in the corner of his eye. Or else, he knew, he really would go nuts.

  He wondered why she was there. He wondered why he was so special. And then he wondered whether maybe he wasn’t special at all—maybe this is what happened to all the poor widowers, maybe they all ended up haunted by a dead wife’s face. Maybe they just chose never to talk about it.

  Her company made him happy, most of the time. Sometimes the claustrophobia would be too much. Her head right against his head, no room, no space of his own, a wife always there bearing down on him, he couldn’t breathe. That’s when she would help him. She’d suck in big lungfuls of air, then blow them back into his mouth. She’d give him what he needed. She’d take care of him. She’d breathe for both of them.

  It did occur to him that those lungfuls of air she was sucking must have been his air to begin with. But that made him feel a little churlish.

  Her mouth would move against his perfectly; when he yawned, she yawned in unison; when he chewed, she chewed; when he forced his mouth into a scowl, a grimace, an artificial grin, just to see, just to test her, yes, she’d do it too. He’d say, “I love you,” when he went to sleep at night, and her lips would whisper back the same words to him, in an instant, he didn’t even have to wait.

  Having her this way was better than nothing.

  He didn’t like to eat much. He didn’t like the way it looked, the concentration he needed to change the way it looked: he had to take his fork and push the food through the back of her head, past her tongue, past her teeth, past her lips, before it could reach his own. Everything he ate seemed now second-hand. She’d sucked all the taste out of it all. Sometimes the food was merely stale. Sometimes it seemed like dirt. Like earth.

  All he could really taste properly was that lipstick, her lipstick, creamy and gloopy and clamping down on him hard.

  One night, as he was brushing his teeth, he felt something wriggling in his mouth. He assumed it was Janet’s tongue, it often found its way in there. But out with the gobbet of soil-mint toothpaste he also spat out a worm. It wasn’t a very big worm, to be fair, but seeing it there in the sink was still alarming. David stared at it. He gave it a jab with the end of his toothbrush, and it writhed at the touch. “But what are you doing there?” he said. And, ”But she was cremated!” The worm looked at him, or so David thought, it was frankly rather hard to tell; it twitched, and that might have been a shrug—hey, I’m a worm, what would I know? And then it slid itself down the plug-hole.