A Private Haunting

by Tom McCulloch

  No one could get that right. You could understand it. Too many cynical memories of tearful parental appeals followed by an arrest three days later. He imagined his own parents. His father dignified but strained. And his mother silent, there but not there, as when Jonas would creep downstairs to watch her sitting in the dark, tiny in her big fluffy dressing gown, wondering why she did this, stared into space, something out there only she could see.

  At least Jonas could picture his parents turning up to make the damn appeal. When Axel ran away to Aegir’s Isle his parents didn’t bother. No press conference in an over-lit room. Perhaps the police realised that the furious face of Axel’s father was unlikely to bring the lost lad a-running. He came round to Jonas’s house, stagger-drunk at midday, moaning about missing shifts to look for that little bastard and when I find him I’ll put him through the wall.

  Axel lasted four nights before his tinned food ran out and his uselessness with a rod caught up. He went home and Jonas didn’t see him for weeks, the bruises still visible when he did.

  Poor Axel. His bruised face slowly pixillated, Jonas falling into a jumpy half-sleep full of faces and voices he couldn’t make out. Then a gunshot. He sat bolt upright but realised it was the slam of a door. It was just after five. For a long moment there was silence and he was sure Fletcher was just outside his room. Then footsteps, going down the stairs. Jonas let himself breathe but still tiptoed to the bathroom. A sound from the garden made him peer out the window.

  Fletcher was standing in the middle of the lawn with his back to the house. Over and over he slowly pulled his outstretched arms towards himself with steady, noisy breaths, through the teeth like a hissing animal. He was wearing nothing but a pair of white briefs, which disappeared into the crack of his arse when he dropped into a series of rapid press-ups.

  Jonas sat down on the toilet. He watched the bright morning sun glinting off the bath taps, the stranger’s hiss-hissing drifting in with the birdsong. Here it was, another day in paradise.

  Then anger, up like a flare, replacing the incredulity. In a few moments Jonas was across the landing and in Fletcher’s room, except it wasn’t his room, it was Jonas’s and these belongings had no place in this space. A sand-coloured rucksack had been propped against the wall, stitched-on battalion patches he had seen on news reports; soldiers with sunglasses, soldiers kicking down doors, soldiers on alert in dusty, God-forsaken desert villages.

  Although God was surely with Fletcher. Beside the neatly rolled sleeping mat and folded trousers was a leather-bound Bible. The marker was at Deuteronomy: 22 and Jonas scanned the page until if a man is found lying with the wife of another man then they both shall die. He thought about Mary, the stranger some Old Testament absolutist come to warn and –

  ‘It’s a lot of nonsense, eh?’

  Jonas spun round. Fletcher stood in the doorway sweating. He was holding the one-eyed doll.

  ‘The Bible. It’s not mine, by the way. My aunt’s. This is what she left me when she died. How about that, the last action of a true psychopath. What about you? You a believer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll come.’ He moved past Jonas and put the doll beside his rucksack.

  ‘I take it you’re leaving today.’

  Fletcher scratched his beard and smiled. ‘What did you do back in Norway? Stand-up comedy?’

  Jonas felt suddenly un-tethered, a kite, further and further away, now a speck in the distance.

  ‘Comes a time, amigo,’ the stranger continued.

  ‘I want them checked.’ And aware of the slight edge of panic in his voice, a breathlessness.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Those papers. How do I know you are who you say you are? Adam Fletcher. You could be anyone. You could have made it all up. How do I know you didn’t steal them? Or forge them?’

  ‘Forge them? Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘This isn’t your house! You want me to drag you round to the police station?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why don’t – ’

  ‘I’ve been here for seven years, this is my home!’

  ‘No. It’s my home.’ Fletcher rummaged in the rucksack and brought out the envelope. ‘You saw that. You want to read it again? I mean, you’re Norwegian, can you not read English?’

  ‘Just do it then.’ Out it popped. Unbidden, but the feeling of defeat was so sudden.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get the police.’

  ‘You really want that?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  Fletcher stared at him, wild-eyed. ‘Fuck’s sake!’

  And Jonas suddenly wondered about the police, decided to say it. ‘Why haven’t you gone to them already?’

  Fletcher looked to the ceiling and shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you want to? What’s your story?’

  Then Fletcher’s hand was on his throat. ‘Why the hell did you have to be here? Un... bel... ievable.’ The grip tightened momentarily before he dropped his hand and Jonas staggered back.

  ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘You don’t know the half, mate.’ Fletcher walked to the window and leaned on the sill, head bowed. ‘No cops. But you’re going to leave.’ A semi-detached voice, completely sure of itself.

  Downstairs, Jonas sat in the sun room. Tightly clasped hands but still the trembling. The house has always been full of him, he thought. The ghost-presence sensed but never seen.

  A few minutes later Mark phoned. All breathless can’t believe it, can’t believe it and the police are holding a briefing at eleven and can you help, make some phone calls, get as many people to the hall as possible? Jonas said sure and immediately left the house, wandering the streets and then the shop, buying things he didn’t really need, anything to put it off.

  The stranger was still moving around upstairs. Jonas stopped listening and took the bag of groceries through to the kitchen. He stared at his mobile, thinking about the people he had to call and made toast instead. When he finished he made some more. And then another two slices.

  Eventually, he made the calls, shared speculation he really didn’t want to, the same gabbled disbelief over and again, as dream-like as watching the stranger appear in the kitchen, make a cafetière of coffee and then lie sunbathing in the back garden. Red shorts and Ray-Bans.

  Twelve calls later Jonas was done. He stared at the screen until the screensaver went black and moved his gaze back to the garden. After a while Fletcher came in and started opening cupboards. Eventually, he found a glass which he filled with water and slowly drank. Both stared. Neither spoke. When Fletcher had drained the glass he went back outside.

  Jonas watched him. He thought about the one-eyed doll and why the stranger took it to his room.

  And felt sick.

  * * *

  The Hub’s Got Talent decorations were still up, black drapes and unmoving mirror-balls, a yawning stage and expectant ghost-light, like a mid-afternoon theatre echoing with the last performance.

  Over sixty people milled around, subdued as the dimness in the hall. They watched the police and media set up, little clusters with low voices, turning to the rasp of the runners as someone opened the curtains. Some were angry and some disbelieving but most were simply tense, not knowing what reaction was most appropriate and not wanting to get it wrong.

  Jonas felt for them. He wasn’t a leader, never had been. But a doer, that was different. So he circulated, offering a hand on the shoulder, for comfort, the Viking, whom some knew and most didn’t, smiling a smile that sought to be reassuring and ignoring the puzzled looks that said we’ll talk about you later and did you see that, the way he looked me right in the eye?

  The police briefed the hall, two detectives behind a table on the stage, a cluster of microphones and three TV cameras tripod-mounted stage left and right, cameramen bent to the lens.

  The detectives seemed edgy. Nothing like the tired cops in a TV show. No hint of hangover or existenti
al despair, just two fifty-odd, bank manager-ish men with flat voices that would talk with reassuring mundanity about fixed-term mortgages and self-assessment tax returns. Except it was the finding of Lacey’s purse which made this a high-risk enquiry, the ongoing search in the nature park and an appeal for information, however unimportant it may seem.

  ‘We’re very grateful for the community’s cooperation,’ they said. People glanced around and frowned, like why do you think it would be any different? But maybe it was, in other places.

  The detectives finished. Not much to say and little to go on. They seemed apprehensive as they asked for any questions, as if nervous about what odd pose a thousand photographs would catch them in as they bounced from one shouted question to the next.

  A thump on Jonas’s shoulder. He turned to Eggers and Eggers was smug, smugly intense.

  ‘I know how this works, they’re gonna make a list of people and talk to them one by one at their homes, not here, imagine that, traipsing off one by one to be asked questions, fuck me that’d be full-on, what if everyone got exactly fifteen minutes then someone else, say you, Jonas, were in there for twenty-five? People would notice, they’d think you’d done something.’

  The media ran out of different ways to ask the same questions that still had no answers. They turned their attention to the locals, absent-mindedly scribbling down the same comments, eyes seeking the next person, the next, that elusive bombshell quote. Apart from the police, hardly anyone had left the hall. People wanted to talk and speculate, as if to do so was to make very clear, very publically, that they, personally, had nothing to hide.

  But Jonas of the bushcraft eye. He could see the moorings straining hard. Just beyond the communality and camaraderie everyone was looking at each other that little bit more closely. Because how can we all be in it together when only I can have certainty about having nothing to do with Lacey Lewis’s disappearance? You, my friend, you I know nothing about.

  So Jonas left the hall and headed down the street to the supermarket. He loaded up with beer, wine, and lemonade, wheeling the trolley back to circulate with drinks that some took and some refused, the lemonade going first and only slowly the beer and wine, as if to be the first to start boozing was to undermine the gravity of the situation but hey, it’s a stressful time, take off that edge, as at a wake, that mysterious watershed when it is realised by everyone at exactly the same time that they can now crack a relieved smile and get safely drunk.

  Mary spoke to him, setting butterflies dancing in his stomach that he tried not to think about. She said he was doing a good thing. Eggers too gave a grim, appreciative smile. He downed a Staropramen and opened another. Two more and he shouted for quiet, raising his bottle. Here’s to you, Lacey, we’ll see you soon enough.

  Ah Jack, Jackie Eggers. The immersive man. Li Po would approve. If you’re going to watch naked women on your laptop, do it shamelessly. If you believe that a disappeared teenager will return, then shout that certainty to the whole world. For a while the volume level increased, the alcohol loosening the tension. The afternoon teetered on the edge of enjoyment until a tremor of discomfort travelled round the hall and reminded everyone of the context.

  People started looking at Jonas’s tray with distaste. But he was only trying to help, doing his good thing. That was the thing about misjudgement, nobody liked to admit it. Much better to pin it on some sap, who couldn’t read the situation, who kept on circulating, an OCD waiter with a goofy grin, Mary now with a gentle hand and a look that said that’s enough now.

  He watched her wander round the hall. Pats on the shoulder, a few cuddles. She’d lived here all her life. Liked because she was known. Maybe under all the fuss that blows through our days like skeleton leaves that’s all we need. To be known. No one wants to be the headstone name disappearing under lichen. Even Jonas, the cultivator of non-attachment.

  It was after three. Jonas thought of Lacey and the stranger and if you could ever decide you truly knew someone. He did not want to leave this village. He saw his possessions piled on the street and a squad car pulled up because of course there would be police, whatever the stranger said, police looking for details, asking questions Jonas didn’t hear.

  Seventeen

  Fletcher studied the girl’s picture in The Sun then put the paper down on the grass. It was a pity she had to disappear.

  It was simpler to see the world as a film, a series of more or less believable set-pieces but all of them still fabrications. If everything was made up then there was no need to get involved. A mind-frenzy may still arise, it depended on the actual absurdity you were facing. Like finding a Norwegian hippy in your house and realising he had no intention of leaving.

  He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. For five hours he’d been lying on a sun lounger found in the shed. The hot sun had stunned him like forty mg of paroxetine, the anger he woke with now broken up. Fletcher liked the heat, even the furnace of Iraq and Afghanistan. He didn’t mind the rash, the hot prickle in the crotch and armpits. All that viscous junk, oozing out like oil. It made him want to abuse himself, just so he could feel the purge.

  He’d positioned the sun lounger very carefully. Given the height of the fence, it was impossible for anyone on the ground floor of the two houses adjacent to End Point and the one facing it to see into the garden. The first floors offered the only vantages. He could do little about the view of the immediate neighbour but the line of sight from the top windows of the next house along could be cut off by moving the sun lounger closer to the fence. Doing so had the disadvantage of opening a view from the house facing End Point, although the rhododendrons and cypresses at the bottom of the garden partially obscured it. He could obscure it slightly more by moving the lounger away from the fence, though not too far to re-open the view from the upper floor of the second house along. It was all a satisfying question of geometry. When Fletcher finished, he was sure that the only eyes that could spy on him were those of the young family next door. He’d already seen a young woman at the bedroom window. She stared at him after shouting at her kids, playing in the garden below.

  They were still splashing and yelping. As he pictured the paddling pool the sun suddenly swelled, bringing a surge of connection that made every detail of that moment in time simultaneously ultra-clear.

  ‘What a great day! I get it from my grandfather, this sun-worshipping. First ray of sun it was off with the t-shirt. Know what he died of...? Heart attack. On the bog. You were expecting me to say skin cancer, yeah? You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, always better to wait.’

  Fletcher turned. Mortensen was staring at him from the sun room. ‘Am I burning? I kinda drift away and forget. Maybe I’ll be the one to get skin cancer but I doubt it. Do you ever get the feeling you know what you’re going to die from? I reckon it’s going to be something – ’

  ‘You’re still here.’

  ‘Seriously, bro, who’s writing your dialogue? Hard to find the words though. Maybe the goodie should get angry, I take it you’re the goodie? A fight scene’s good for drama. You want a fight?’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘How’d it go at the hall? You work with kids, Jonas. Think the cops will come knocking?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Fletcher stood up very quickly. ‘This should be easy. Don’t make it difficult.’

  ‘You want me out? Then go get the police.’

  ‘What, you still think I’m lying?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a parasite.’

  ‘Then go to the police.’

  Fletcher raised his face to the sun, looking for another shot of tranquillity. He let his fists unclench. If he wasn’t going to the police, then he didn’t want GBH to make it an option for the Norwegian either.

  ‘Jonas?’

  Fletcher recognised Mary’s voice inside the house. Jonas had almost winced.

  ‘Jonas?’

  ‘Looks like your girlfriend’s here.’

  ‘
She’s not – ’

  He smirked, watching Jonas try to settle a calmer look on his face as Mary appeared behind him.

  ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t know you had company. I knocked at the door but no one answered so I just…’

  ‘That’s ok,’ said Jonas.

  Fletcher watched their smiles become uncomfortable. Mary’s eyebrows raised a questioning centimetre.

  ‘This is... Adam,’ said Jonas, and another pause. ‘My cousin. My aunt married an Englishman.’

  ‘It’s why you came here,’ said Fletcher. ‘Isn’t it, Jonas, why you came to End Point? Family connections and all that. The pleasure’s all mine, Mary. Get her a beer, cuz, one for me too.’

  Jonas stared dumbly. While he was getting the beer, Fletcher got two camping chairs from the shed.

  ‘Cheers.’ He took a bottle from Jonas and sat down on the lounger, legs spread. He’d positioned the camp chairs to face him. If she wanted, Mary could reach out and touch his thigh.

  They sat in silence, Jonas picking at the label on his bottle and Mary looking round at the houses. When she caught his eye Fletcher smiled. ‘Hot eh?’ He loved the sun, fuckin loved it.

  ‘Certainly is.’

  ‘How do you know my cousin then? He’s never mentioned you but he’s always been a secretive bastard.’

  ‘C’mon, Adam – ’

  ‘I’m the cleaner.’

  ‘The cleaner?’

  ‘Well. A friend too, I mean – ’

  ‘You’ve got a cleaner?’

  ‘It’s nothing you – ’

  ‘Helluva house to keep clean, isn’t it, Mary? I mean, if it was my house I’d take better care of it. Some people have no domestic sense. Know what I mean, Jonas, some people don’t have any – ’

  ‘I thought you were leaving?’

  Fletcher wrinkled his nose. ‘You’re absolutely right. Stay out here any longer and I’ll fry like a sardine. Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. We should have a barbecue. I could go some sardines, something nice and fishy. Fancy it, Jonas? Let’s get something fishy on the barbie.’