Soul Mate (Book One)

by Richard Crawford

  I can't believe it. What is the stupid fuck doing? He can't be here. He can't be me.

  There's no one around and then Ally comes trotting in. He sees me. "Tommy, you're back?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "I've got to shoot to the bank so you can hold the fort." He chucks his jacket on the sofa and heads for the toilets. I'm thinking this isn't the warmest welcome. But in the circumstances, I'm not complaining. I try to tell the ghost to get out of here. The stupid fuck is asking to get busted, but he doesn't seem to get it. I don't understand what he wants; all he'll get from this is trouble.

  The ghost walks across and picks up Ally's jacket. It's way too small for us. But the ghost doesn't try it on. The ghost slips a hand in the pocket and fishes out Ally's wallet. He pulls out the notes and thumbs through them real quick. About five hundred quid. The ghost takes the money, slips the wallet back, drops the jacket where it was. The ghost folds the cash and slips it into the back pocket of our jeans.

  We walk out of the garage. It's taken less than a minute for the ghost to rob Ally's wallet. Holy crap. I'm so dead.

  We walk down the alley, not hurrying but moving just that bit faster. I'm going nuts. If the ghost notices me, he doesn't even twitch. He just keeps walking. I'm waiting for Ally to come roaring after us and kill me. The ghost turns up St Aldates and jogs across the street dodging buses. I can't tell whether he is hurrying because he's worried or just to get across the street.

  I can't believe what happened. I don't even know if it's Ally's money or Ride in Style takings. It doesn't make that much difference. Neither Zach or Ally are guys you get away with robbing from. I try to guess which bank Ally uses. The ghost turns down Queen Street, which is neither good nor bad since there are banks on every street.

  It's early so the crowd's thin. I try to work out how quick Ally will notice the cash is gone. I figure he'll notice I've bailed first and that will piss him off to start with. He might not miss the money until he gets to the bank. Either way the shit is going to hit the fan. Ally's going to make the connection pretty quick. It's not as if he has that high an opinion of me to start with.

  I'd like to look round, check what's going on behind us, but the ghost's not bothered. We head down Queen Street and into M&S. I'm glad we're off the street. I'm not expecting to meet Ally in M&S, but I can't work out what this arsehole, thieving ghost wants in here either.

  We head down the escalator to menswear. The ghost starts looking at jackets. He tries on a couple and chooses a single-breasted khaki jacket from some Italian line. Then the ghost tries on shoes and chooses a pair of black lace ups. He puts a couple of shirts, a pack of boxers and a pack of socks in the basket. He finishes off with a wallet, holdall and toiletries.

  I can't believe it. Does he think he's going on fucking holiday? I'm going crazy, trying to get through to this jerk, but it's no good. The ghost heads for the till and pays, it comes to over two hundred quid of Ally's money. I'm so mad, if I had a baseball bat I'd hit the ghost in the head.

  He gets the tags taken off everything. Before we go, he puts the jacket on over my T and packs the other stuff in the holdall. He checks our reflection in the mirror. I think I look like a dick in the shit coloured jacket, but the ghost seems pleased. He heads for the exit and turns down Queen Street.

  The ghost walks with real purpose now. He doesn't seem worried that he's just robbed a psycho Scotsman who might be round the next corner. Whoever this guy is, I'm guessing he hasn't led a sheltered life. I'm thinking that all the other ghosts have had good motives, even the stupid ones. I start to wonder if this guy could be different. What if I'm trapped with some really bad guy?

  The ghost heads out of town past the castle and down Park End Street. He goes into one of those mailbox, photocopying, printing shops and orders business cards. What the fuck? The ghost cuts a deal with the guy behind the counter and says he'll be back in an hour to get the cards. The ghost goes out and crosses the road towards the business school with its green, stacked cake-tin spire. I realise he's heading for the station.

  I'm seriously freaked out now. None of the ghosts have left town before. The ghost could go anywhere. And worse, it's like he thinks he's here for good. I try to remember the longest time a ghost stayed, but I'm too distracted by what this ghost is going to do next.

  We head past the bike racks and into the station. After looking around the ghost goes into the toilets. He takes the jacket off and hangs it up carefully; then he dumps my T and trainers in the bin. He shaves and tidies us up, doing something weird with my hair so I look like an even bigger dick. He puts on one of the shirts and the lace-up shoes. Then he slips the jacket on and folds the rest of the cash into the wallet. When we're all organised how he wants, the ghost goes out and buys a one-way ticket to Morthbury.

  The ghost heads out of the station and back towards the print shop. On the way he stops off to buy a paper, notepad and pens. He collects the cards and tips the print guy. More of Ally's money gone. Within an hour we're sitting on the platform waiting for the train.

  I can't do anything about it. I can't tell Suki, or anyone, what's going on. I've already missed my bail sign in. I can't find out how Mickey is. I've no idea what the ghost might get me into, but the jerk has only been around a couple of hours and he's already fucking up my life pretty bad.

  I try to calm down a bit. Morthbury is not that far away and it's a quiet little market town. Nothing terrible ever happens there. As far as I know.

  ####

  A weird thing happens on the train. I'm knackered and the motion sends me to sleep. When I wake up I assume the ghost has been out of it too. But then I see he's eaten a packet of cheese and onion crisps and a Twix. I don't remember buying or eating anything. There's no one else close by so it had to be him. It gives me a bad feeling and it's not indigestion.

  We get off the train at Morthbury station. I've never been here but the ghost knows where he is and sets off without hesitating. The station is outside of the town. We go over the river, past the cricket ground with its white pavilion, and climb the hill. The hill's steep and the first houses are set high up on banks with steps at the front. The ghost turns off the road and cuts through the churchyard. It feels like he knows exactly where he is going. The churchyard is quiet, full of lopsided headstones. The old cedar trees hide the sun. I look at the withered flowers and shiver. This is not someplace I want to be. Or maybe it's the ghost.

  We don't hang around. We go out beneath the lychgate into a narrow road that runs downhill. The ghost goes slowly now, looking around. We walk past the older stone houses that sit right on the street. Further down the hill there are some big new brick houses set back from the road. The ghost checks the numbers and stops by a house with a gravelled front and a willow tree. But it's like he's not sure, which is weird after he came straight here. We stand outside for a couple of minutes watching, but the willow tree hides most of the house.

  The ghost starts across the gravel. The holdall swings gently in our hand. The ghost's getting ready for something. I can feel it. He reaches the house and doesn't hesitate. We ring the bell. It's one of those silly singsong bells that seem to chime for half an hour.

  We stand on the doorstep and the ghost tightens his grip on the holdall. After waiting a while he takes a breath and loosens his shoulders. When a woman opens the door, the ghost steps back a pace. I think it's a planned gesture, unthreatening.

  The woman looks nearer sixty than fifty, well maintained in a high-maintenance way. Her hair is dyed blond and cut into a sharp bob, a bit too young for her face. She's tanned and wearing a sundress that shows quite a lot of cleavage. Sunglasses perch on top of her head. Her skin gleams with layers of sunscreen. I'm guessing she was in the garden with a glass of wine. Her lipstick's mostly gone and her mouth's a little slack; but her eyes are hard and suspicious.

  She doesn't speak, just looks at us, impatient.

  "I'm sorry to call unannounced, you may remember me…" The ghost hands her a business card. "My name
is Paul Evans. Your husband contacted me with a request to investigate his case."

  The woman looks at the card and back at us. Her eyes get harder. "My husband died." The door closes a fraction.

  The ghost speaks quickly. "I've recently become aware of that, Mrs Crick. Please accept my sincere condolences." He allows a moment to pass. "I regret that when your husband contacted me, I was unable to help. But I have reviewed the case and I think there are leads I could follow up. I felt I should contact you and receive further instructions."

  It sounds like a shakedown to me. I can't believe she hasn't slammed the door in our face already. But weird stuff happens with the ghosts.

  "I saw your letters among my husband's papers, Mr Evans." She glances over our shoulder at the empty road and then over towards her neighbour's house. "You'd better come in." She steps back.

  The ghost moves through the door, smooth as cream, as if he's coming home. As if it was never in doubt. I don't like it. I can't believe the ghost is some Magnum PI come back to finish off an old case for some dead client. Apart from the anger and the odd lapse, he's an assured, clinical bastard, nothing sentimental about him. But what do I know?

  We go through the hall into the lounge. The house is spacious but surprisingly chintzy and cluttered, heavy curtains, the walls nearly covered with mirrors and pictures. There's a big display case with glass, china and silver. Three big sofas are set round a huge flatscreen TV with lots of video and game playing stuff stacked close by. I'm guessing she doesn't live alone, at least not all the time. There are little tables with photos of what I guess are her grandkids. There's a well stocked drinks table and quite a few tacky souvenirs from Spain.

  The ghost watches her but keeps his distance, like he doesn't want to spook her. She doesn't seem too sensitive, and I get the feeling she can hold her own in most situations. The way she let us in, I'm thinking she's seen trouble before. She knows what she can handle. You don't get that sort of confidence without something to back it up. But he's playing a part too, I'm sure of that. The ghost looks round the house, eyeing everything, furniture, ornaments. Just when I feel like he's casing the joint, the photos catch his attention. We pick one up.

  "Your husband, in happier days," the ghost asks. The guy in the photo stands on a beach; it could be Spain. He is tall, heavy built with thinning hair; there's a scar on his chin and he looks as if he knows how to handle himself.

  She stops; the suspicion's still there but she comes back to stand beside us. After a moment she takes the photo and puts it back in place. "You mean, before those bastards stitched him up?"

  The ghost gives a grunt, almost a laugh, but I feel a burst of that terrible dark anger. "You got that right."

  She stares at him. She's got that look, like she senses something. It takes a bit longer for me to get it. Then it hits me. The ghost is her husband and, either the laugh, or what he said, somehow he's just slipped, big time. She keeps staring, but she can't make sense of it.

  The ghost is having one of his moments. He's breathing hard, confused, caught up in a rush of panic and rage. For a heartbeat, I think he's going to come out and tell her. But then he gets it back under control.

  "Miscarriage of justice," he says, softly, like those are the magic words.

  She steps back from us. Her eyes are hard as glass. "As you must know, Mr Evans, my husband died in prison. He served twelve years for a crime he didn't commit. Every day of that time he knew the real killer was walking free. Free to kill another little girl. Miscarriage of justice doesn't cover it, Mr Evans." She jerks a hand towards the French doors, almost knocking a vase of carnations over. "There's a murderer out there."

  Her husband's a convicted child murderer. If I'm right, then the ghost's a child murderer.

  I feel a lurch of panic. Then I'm dizzy with revulsion. I want to throw up but I can't. The panic gets worse. I'm desperate to have this guy gone. I sort of shove at the ghost and for a heartbeat it's as if I have my body back. Then there's nothing, just a feeling of falling through the darkness. When I come back the ghost has one hand on the back of a chair. We're standing still, breathing fast. I don't know what happened but the ghost is trying to hold it together. I feel him become aware of me. He comes after me, sort of pushing me like he wants me gone. His anger is like a hammer blow and for a heartbeat there's nothing and I'm falling. I come back and the ghost's taking a deep breath, almost gasping. He doesn't come after me again, but he has control.

  "I'm so sorry," the ghost says. His breathing is a bit ragged. "I can't imagine what you have been through."

  Mrs Crick is watching us. Maybe she's impressed by this show of intensity. She shrugs. Her face gives nothing away but her voice is full of bitterness. "Everybody he asked for help didn't want to know." She leaves that out there but the ghost doesn't pick it up. Eventually she says. "Geoff wasn't a saint, but he'd never hurt a child. We had two girls of our own. Do you think I would've stood by him if I thought he could have done something like that?" It's hard to tell what's going on with her, beneath the mask. "So why are you here now?"

  "I'm sorry, Mrs Crick, when I heard from your husband I looked up the press coverage." Our voice stays nice and smooth but the ghost's seriously wound up now. "Perhaps, in the circumstances, it was not the best way to get an understanding of the situation."

  "The press had him convicted before there was any sort of trial. I still remember the headlines," she says. "Crime lord murders child in revenge slaying, that sort of thing. Is that how you usually carry out your investigations, Mr Evans, reading headlines in the papers?"

  "It's simply one avenue of enquiry," we say. I guess the real Evans didn't want to get involved with thugs who murder kids. The thought freaks me out again. But would the ghost get to come back if it was true? I don't want to deal with this, but I'm afraid to let go. It's like I could be swept away by this guy's anger.

  "So, you told Geoff you couldn't help. Why are you here now?"

  "I'm here to offer my services, Mrs Crick." The ghost's so wired we're sweating buckets. "On reflection, I believe your husband was innocent. And that means, as you say, there's a killer out there." He lets that sit for a moment, watching her. Then he says, "Such a serious miscarriage of justice should not be allowed to pass unchallenged. Can you spare me a moment? I'd like to at least talk it through with you."

  He's hooked her. Even I can see it, and he knows her well enough to play her. She thinks she has him sussed; I guess she believes he's after a cut of a big compensation payout. But she can understand that and there's a chance he can give her what she wants. She nods once. "Come through."

  Chapter Eighteen

  We end up sitting at the table in a huge kitchen while Mrs Crick makes tea. The ghost watches her. He's calmed down a bit. But he's still on edge. I guess he hasn't sealed the deal. That makes me wonder what exactly he wants from her.

  I have other problems though. I think our little moment is bothering the ghost nearly as much as it bothers me. He doesn't like that I'm here. I never thought about it like that before, how exactly it works for them. They came, did their stuff, and they went. I can never make them do anything, but I always thought they must know about me, somehow. They understand things when they need to. But it's scaring me with this guy. It feels different. As if the rules have changed. He's not like the other ghosts.

  Mrs Crick's probably the most relaxed of us all. Or she acts as if she's in control, has it all sorted in her head. She thinks she understands just what she's dealing with. But really she has no fucking clue.

  I watch her along with the ghost. She's one confident lady and, I'm guessing, hard as nails. She warms the teapot and then makes the tea. She puts a tea-cosy over the pot and leaves it to brew, then puts biscuits on a plate. A PI turning up and offering to investigate her dead husband's murder conviction is no big deal to her. I wonder what her life has been like.

  When she comes towards us the ghost stops staring at her and looks out into the garden. There's a trampol
ine and a few toys scattered around. She follows our gaze.

  "For my grandchildren," she says. "Something else Geoff missed out on."

  The ghost doesn't want to go there. I can feel it and for a second, I'm almost sorry for the bastard. But it doesn't last. This ghost's scheming and manipulative. I'm betting he's dangerous to be around, for me and for other people. Maybe even for his wife, I don't know specifically, but I feel it in a way I never have before. Or maybe I'm just scared.

  She fetches the tea and pours a cup for us first. The ghost takes it and adds a dab of milk and two spoons of sugar. He stirs absently. The grandkids threw him off. I can feel him trying to pull it together. She watches.

  "Geoff used to take his tea just like that," she says. There's nothing sentimental about her, she's just stating a fact. While the ghost's dealing with that, she goes on, "My husband was impressed by your credentials, Mr Evans. But you're younger than I expected."

  The ghost pulls it together and says smoothly, "Your husband understood that it was hands on experience and track record that counted. And he particularly wanted a fresh eye."

  She pushes the biscuits towards us. The ghost hesitates over a chocolate digestive and takes a custard crème instead. She takes a digestive, puts in on her plate, and wipes her fingers. "So what is your proposal, Mr Evans?"

  The ghost's ready for this. "I'll investigate the case for a twenty percent cut of any settlement, should the case come to a successful conclusion. I will require some up front money for expenses. I will also need information from you and introductions."

  "Ten percent," she says, cool as cucumber. I don't think she even cares about the money. She's just making a point.

  The ghost pulls a face, as if he cares, but he nods pretty quick. "Ten percent. I'll have my office draw up the agreement." He gets out a pad and pencil. "In the meantime, it would be helpful for me to run through a few things. If that's alright?" I think he hopes she'll say no. This has to be for show. I can't imagine there's anything she can tell him.