Even though it hurt. Even though it burned.
It wasn’t just the Seal. It was Moira, her copper-gold hair lifting on a breeze, laughing as her bicycle ploughed through fallen leaves. Moira in the middle of the night, leaning out of a car window and shouting, lit up like a marquee. Those years we shared the same dorm room and I did the donkey work so she’d drag me along as the plain-Jane friend, those were my years, and even if they had sucked everything out of me so I was stuck as a paralegal in a shady-ass firm full of ambulance-chasers instead of having the stones to get through law school on my own, they were still mine.
She was still my Moira. And this bastard had killed her, chanting in this room while the car bucked and shuddered underneath her and the fuel truck loomed out of the intersection, its brakes failing and the blossom of fire kissing like an angry lover all over her last moments on earth. I saw it, clear as day, the Seal burning through me, and I wasn’t just concentrating.
I was furious.
A thunderclap tore the room apart. The floor underneath me heaved, broken pieces jolting apart and the pressure inside me suddenly easing, bleeding away.
Hannigan’s yell of triumph choked off.
Because Moira’s bleeding hands were clamped around his throat. She crouched on his chest, his arms flailing ineffectually as the snakes of crimson smokefire heaved around them both, and she squeezed.
So did I. But I wasn’t squeezing with anything physical. It was my will, an invisible snake inside my head, and even as Moira howled in satisfaction and Hannigan gurgled his last, the Seal flexed inside me and my dead college room mate’s ghost shredded apart. A burst of cold, clear white light filled the room – the light people talk about when they describe their hearts stopping and the Other Side beckoning.
“Georgie, nooooooo—” Moira screamed, a fading train whistle, but the light winked out. The stone room grumbled, like a subway muttering up through pavement, and the smoke took on a sharper, less perfumed tang. I coughed, choking, and heaved myself up to hands and knees.
“M-M-Moi—” I stammered over her name, because I was sobbing.
Now she was truly gone. And so was he.
Monday morning I called in sick and took the ferry.
It was one of those bright clear winter days where the wind comes off the river like a knife and everything sparkles. I stood on the deck in my Goodwill wool peacoat, my belly against the railing, and the fluttering newspaper was whisked up out of my hands.
Billionaire Dead in Mansion Fire, the headlines screamed. They were calling it a double tragedy. It had been a job and a half pulling enough force through the drained Seal to burn that motherfucking pile down, and I didn’t like doing it. Still, it was the only thing I could think of, if the police weren’t going to come knocking and asking me how I’d strangled him.
Criminals set fires to cover things up all the time. I just had the Seal to make sure it stuck. It was a wonder anything was left of him. The papers didn’t say, but I was fairly sure there would just be charred bones.
The pendant glittered unhappily, cupped in my hand. It was drained now, Hannigan had siphoned off a lot of force, and I’d siphoned off even more. If I was going to do this, now was the time. When it was stronger, I wouldn’t be able to take it off.
Don’t take it off unless you’re ready to die.
Well, I wasn’t ready to die. Not really. But . . . Jesus Christ, living with this thing was not going to make me a happy cupcake.
And . . . Moira.
The wind scoured my face, drying the tears. I held my arm out, stiffly, drew back, and managed a pretty decent throw. It snapped as it left my hand, the chain biting, and beads of blood welled up on my wrist. Sharp darts of light glinted from it as it somersaulted, grabbing at the wind, the chain suddenly tentacles. But I’ve got a good aim, and it hit the choppy water and vanished with a twinkle.
A cloud settled over the sun, the colour and richness of the world stolen away again. I made it home without getting run over, took a bath without drowning, and went to bed because I was too fucking tired to care.
Tuesday morning showed up way too early, the alarm shrieking at me. I smashed the sleep button, rolled over, and spent another ten minutes in dreamland. There was something hard under my cheek.
The alarm shrieked again. I groaned, cursed, and punched it off. Turned my lamp on, every muscle protesting. I was sore all over from being stabbed, suffering seizures, and—
A silver gleam. The lion-dragon snarled slightly, and as soon as I touched the warm metal with a trembling finger it shifted, supple curves gleaming. I let out a small sound like I’d been punched and picked it up by the chain, gingerly, holding it away from me.
The Seal swung in tight circles, muttering at me. You’re not gonna get away that easy, it said, and I was reminded of tagging along after Moira.
Haunting her steps. Now this thing was haunting mine.
It settled against my breastbone like it had never been away, the chain sliding under my hair and the lion-dragon twisting and turning as it rubbed catlike against me. I sat in my bed, listening to the rumble of traffic outside, and hugged my knees. My curtains glowed; I could see every thread in the fabric. Every edge was rich and solid again, not washed-out and dull.
“Moira,” I whispered. “Tell me what to do now.”
And just like that, the answer occurred. Well, why not? I could almost hear her laughing. It was what Moira would have done. At least, my Moira. Not Hannigan’s. Not the gaping hole she’d been or the woman she grew into, but the girl I’d thought I . . . loved.
I had enough saved up, and if the Seal could make Hannigan rich it could do the same for me. But I’d do something different. I’d help people. I’d find the dead, and close their cases. I’d be a goddamn private eye.
I always wanted to be a superhero.
Forget Us Not
Nancy Kilpatrick
You hear only the crunch as your boots crush snow along this narrow street. A plume of carbon dioxide escapes your nostrils, vaporizing, like a ghost vanishing. Where the smaller ploughs have scraped the sidewalks, crystalline banks form glittering, otherworldly mountains and you scale one to cross the street.
It has been nearly a year since Brian died. A powerful wave of grief crashed over you, and then, within an hour of his demise, leaving grief in its wake, numbness flooded you. You are anaesthetized. A voluntary amnesiac. Now, you merely exist, rather than live, opening your eyes each morning with only a mild curiosity as to whether or not this day will be different. But the days are all the same and much of the time you realize that your waking thought is naïve; hope died with your husband. You are as cold as the dead.
Your brain hurts and you yank the parka’s hood down to protect your forehead and daydream about prairie winters. They had been as bad, worse really, longer, that’s for sure, but that cold was “dry”; you are just beginning to grasp what “dry” means. Here, it is damp and the thermostat often reads warmer than it actually is. Still, you owe this city. You needed a big change – change or crawl into a grave yourself. “Change is better than a rest,” Brian always joked; you wonder if you’ll ever truly rest again.
This is the kind of night you remember vividly from childhood. Not the urban landscape, of course. But, from time to time, the present of this place dovetails with recollections of the past. You recognize the silence. That combined with the pristine white leaves you calm on some level. Despite the chill, a small, grim smile turns up the corners of your lips. You intentionally blow a stream of visual air into the night, just to watch it vanish, and think again: how like a spirit departing when the body can no longer contain it!
You reach the mouth of an alleyway close to the corner and a sudden sound cuts the silence, causing you to stop. You pull the furry hood back to listen. Must have been a cat, you think, or it sounded like one. An unhappy cat. Maybe a cat in pain. An image of Ruddie comes to mind and you squeeze closed your eyes for a second and shake your head, not wanting to thi
nk about that.
You glance down the alley but the dim lighting reveals nothing. It’s far too cold just to stand here so you hurry along and turn left at the corner, heading towards boulevard St Laurent.
Within a block, activity blossoms amidst the swirling white. It is normal for people here to wander around in storms and you have gotten used to going out to meet the necessities of life in all kinds of weather and finding shops, bars, restaurants, every place packed. This, you know, is not like Saskatchewan, where home and family is everything. But when family is gone, strangers remain. Brian used to say that strangers are “just friends waiting to happen”.
Traffic moves at a snail’s pace but the slim Montrealers manage a good clip despite icy sidewalks. You imitate their pace, grateful that you learned to ice skate at the age of five and walking the black-ice streets of Saskatoon felt natural. Montreal is so much further south. When your clients complain about the weather, you often tell them, “This is nothing. You should see life when everything is obliterated!”
The bar you favour is in the Plateau area. It is Saturday night, but early, and you will have enough time to drink yourself comatose before the crowds arrive. Drinking has become your hobby, a comfortable pastime, and Saturday is the only night you can indulge because the office is closed on Sunday. Brian used to say, “Never drink alone, Gena. It can’t lead anywhere good.” And you don’t. You drink with a crowd of strangers who, after all this time, are no closer to being friends.
Anton & James is a large resto-bar, cosy at this hour, and you have come here every weekend without fail for nine months. The bartender places your double Scotch, neat, on the oak bar without your asking, smiles and says, “How it’s going?”
“Fine,” you say, as you do every Saturday night, the ritualistic words exchanged as if they are a talisman that will ward off bad luck.
You know the bartender’s name is Rod – it says so on the pin attached to his shirt. He knows your name is Gena – your credit card gives away this vital statistic. That is enough familiarity, although you sometimes wonder what his life outside this bar is like. Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend? Children? Is this his only job? You also wonder if he wonders about you.
The hours pass, the bar begins to fill, the music is cranked for the night, and you have tossed back the remains of your fifth drink. On cue, Rod rings up your tab and discreetly places the bill before you. Your credit card comes out of your coat pocket; within minutes you have punched in your code and left a generous tip on the hand-held credit card machine. You look in your glass but it is empty, stand on rubbery legs, slip into your coat and Rod says, “See you.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
And then you are out the door, trudging back up the street which is now as crowded as midday with laughing, energetic bar and club goers. Briefly you think of stopping for something to eat, but the thought of consuming anything solid evokes a touch of nausea and anyway you have soon turned the corner, shutting out the noise and traffic and clubs and restaurants, and eventually you are on your street.
Even before you reach the mouth of the alley, you hear a single, pitiful yowl. From the corner of your eye a dark form darts across your path. Startled, you jump back, skidding on a patch of ice, arms flailing to regain balance. “OK, OK,” you gasp, “it’s just a cat. Relax.”
You glance up the alley but don’t see the feline kamikaze. The back lanes of this city are full of strays and it breaks your heart that they live outdoors in such frigid weather. It is the one thing about Quebec that you truly detest, how animals are treated. Back home, there are shelters that take in homeless animals for the cold months, neuter them so they won’t procreate and produce more starving strays. Then they try to find homes for the cats and dogs, or at least foster care. Here, there are few shelters and they are all at capacity all the time. This shocking disregard for abandoned pets leaves you horrified. You have always loved animals. You had intended to become a vet, but last year’s events resulted in a change of plan. You cannot bear to think of any creature suffering.
By the time you gingerly climb the iced-up metal staircase that leads to your third-floor apartment, you are relieved to be headed indoors. You have the key in the lock when a ferocious shriek fills the night and causes the hair at the back of your neck to stand on end. It sounds like a cat being murdered. Maybe it is the cat that just raced across your path.
You cannot stop yourself. You hurry down the slippery spiral steps and return to the laneway, picking your way along it, making kissy sounds, calling, “Here, kitty. It’s OK, I just want to help you,” trying to hunt down the poor creature, hoping it’s not injured. If you can catch him or her, you’ll take the cat in for the night, despite the landlord’s “no pets” rule. In the morning, you can get the animal to the vet clinic in the building next to your office for a proper exam and whatever else is needed, then try to find it a home.
But, after four or five passes up and back along the lane, you discover nothing. Maybe, you think, the cat’s in heat. But it is the wrong time of year for that. And that cry was not a cat fight either. The sound was bone-chilling, worse than anything you’ve heard, even from the terrified feral tom that scratched you last month when you tried to pet him. It sounded like a creature being tortured. The thought of it makes your heart beat wildly and your stomach lurch.
It is only later, when you are snuggled in bed, the book you have been attempting to read in your drunken state lying cover-up on the quilt, the vague thought of turning out the light drifting through your mind as you build energy for this gargantuan task before your eyes close for the night, that you hear that screech again. You jolt upright. The cry is almost human. Is a murder taking place? You race to the window and throw it open. Arctic air blasts in, shocking you to wakefulness. Heart thudding, you listen intently but . . . nothing. The street is silent. About to close the window, you see what appears to be a huge dark shadow at the only part of the laneway visible from this angle. The shadow of a cat moves along the wall, but you cannot see the actual animal.
You debate with yourself about getting dressed and going down to hunt for the cat again, but, even inebriated, that strikes you as insane. It is 4 a.m. Tomorrow is your only day off and you have a million chores to do, errands to run. At least it’s alive, you rationalize. You will search for it tomorrow.
As you contemplate climbing back into bed, you think that it is curious not having actually seen the cat, just the shadow, because from here, you should have seen the cat making the shadow. A chill runs through you. You close the window too hard, shivering in the warmth of your bedroom, thinking, yes, you definitely should have seen the cat.
Sunday you are in and out of your apartment half a dozen times, and both coming and going you meticulously search the alleyway. There is no sign of a cat, no paw prints in the snow, no urination marks, no blood or tufts of fur from what might have been a battle. Nothing. The evening is quiet outdoors. Inside, you are trapped in a predictable phone conversation with your mother.
“Gena, I’m worried about you.”
“Mom, don’t be. I’m fine.”
“But you’re there all alone. You haven’t even made friends.”
“I’ve gotten to know Glenn, the part-time accountant I hired last month. And Rod.” You are stretching the truth with both of these men, especially the bartender.
“Are you dating Rod?” your mother wants to know, and you repress a sigh.
“Not exactly. I just see him occasionally.”
Your mother knows not to push you and segues to one of her other favourite subjects. “Well, that’s nice. I’m glad you’re making friends. When are you coming home for a visit? It’s been almost a year.”
“Maybe in the summer.”
“That’s a long ways away, Gena. What about Easter?”
“I’m really busy at the office and January to May is tax time, the busiest months. I’ve got to work six days a week to keep the bills paid.”
“Do you need mo
ney?”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m doing well, the business is growing, but a year isn’t long in accounting and I’m just getting known. I’m trying to build my clientele, get on solid ground. I need to feel secure.”
The pause at the other end alerts you to the fact that your mother is about to launch into her third favourite topic and you brace yourself for the onslaught.
“Your dad and I visited the grave last week.”
You don’t know what to say. What is there to say? But, of course, your mother is waiting for a response. “That was nice of you.”
“We had to re-cover the rose bush – the wind tore the burlap to bits.”
“Thanks.”
“Gena, Brian would want you to have a life.”
“I know, Mom.” You speak too quickly and too sharply and try to think of something to say to ease away from this topic and let you off the phone quickly. You attempt to soften what comes next. “I have a life. I’m doing OK.”
“There’s some sad news. About Ruddie. He died in his sleep last night, on the blanket you bought him. I thought you should know.”
Guilt eats through you like acid. The cat you and Brian loved is dead. You are stunned and something thoughtless erupts from your mouth: “He was an old cat.”
Your mother pauses a second. “Ruddie never stopped missing Brian. Or you.”
The acid guilt you struggle to keep at bay spreads up your chest to your heart. So much guilt! You must get off the phone. Now! “Mom, I’m sorry, I think that’s the doorbell, I have to go. I’ll call soon.”
Before she can respond, you hang up, feeling new guilt pile on top of the old. The moment your caring mother’s voice ceases, unwanted thoughts plague you.
You told yourself that Ruddie would be better off with your parents. He was an old cat, and it would have been heartless to put him through the journey across the country and subject him to a new environment. In Montreal, he would not have been able to roam outside the way he could at home. You knew you would be working a lot, building your business; Ruddie would have been alone all the time . . . But no. That is not the whole story . . .
The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) Page 32