Sciron

by David Rashleigh

  Within a few minutes, the carriage was almost full. Jack’s heart sank as the prospect of a quiet journey receded with the arrival of a gargantuan couple with a gaggle of noisy children. The woman, her unwashed hair scraped back into a flaccid ponytail, was bellowing obscenities into her phone whilst simultaneously berating one of her brood for some minor misdemeanour. Clearly oblivious to the spirit of the quiet zone, the male was generously sharing the contents of his personal stereo with everybody. Jack couldn’t help wondering whether the man was stone deaf, given the volume at which the “music” was playing.

  Since this large, in both senses of the word, family hadn’t reserved any seats, they found themselves scattered around the carriage. To Jack’s horror, the woman spotted the empty seat next to him and, without a word, sat in it. The stench of body odour made Jack gag, but he was stuck. His natural reticence, the curse of the English gentleman, would not allow him to get up and move seats, not that there were any more seats to be had. His nerves were frayed by the woman’s phone ringing again, the loud jarring ringtone obviously designed to cause as much offence as possible.

  When the woman’s conversation informed him that the family were bound for Blackpool, and would therefore be on the train until Preston, Jack resigned himself to his fate. Fine Army officer you are, he thought to himself. But at the same time he recognised that his unwelcome neighbour was unlikely to respond to reasoned requests for peace and quiet, a view reinforced by her foul-mouthed tirade at a bespectacled six-year-old who was happily creating body art on his younger sister with a biro.

  A few minutes later (although it seemed far longer to Jack) the train began to move out of the station. The woman celebrated this fact by opening a large packet of crisps and beginning to stuff them unceremoniously into her mouth. The smell of cheese and onion partially masked her natural scent, but that was of little consolation to Jack. As the train gathered speed, an announcement by the “train manager to all customers” informed him that the first stop for the train would be Milton Keynes, in approximately half an hour. Jack determined at that point to leave the train there and catch the next one, however long he may have to wait. Even an hour or so in Milton Keynes had to be preferable to two hours next to this ghastly woman. The decision made, Jack’s mind moved on to wondering what had happened to “guards and passengers” on trains.

  Thirty minutes later, Jack was standing on the platform at Milton Keynes Central station. The grey skies were emitting a fine drizzle that matched the soulless concrete of the station buildings and Jack’s increasingly foul mood. He had extricated himself from his seat after politely informing his neighbour that this was his stop. Her reaction had been a look of exasperated indignation: rolling her eyes as if Jack had suggested relieving her of her second crisp packet. Jack’s demeanour was not helped by the total absence of anybody on the platform to tell him when the next train to Preston might be. Making his way up the stairs to the main concourse, he was aghast to discover that the next direct train would be in two hours’ time. He had the option of waiting half an hour and changing at Crewe, which at least got him to Preston only one hour later than the original train. By this time, Jack was thoroughly dejected and feeling just a little foolish. All because he had not been paying attention as he reversed out of his drive! This thought reminded him of the reason for his absent-mindedness, and mental images of Janice lightened his mood slightly. Old fool, he reflected, she’ll not be interested in you. But he was still thinking about her as be boarded the somewhat less crowded Liverpool-bound train to continue his journey.

  Monday Afternoon

  The weather front that was the cause of the miserable conditions in Milton Keynes had yet to reach Preston, but to those that recognise the signs its approach was signalled by a thin layer of high cloud that had begun to mask the lowering sun. Kevin Anderson, not being one of those who could, simply muttered under his breath that it had turned cold again. He had just walked out of the Bridge Inn, the hostelry located adjacent to the eighteenth-century Penwortham Bridge that joined that town to Preston. Having run out of money, Kevin used the bridge to cross the river towards George Williams’ house.

  Kevin was a regular visitor to that house, the only regular visitor, in fact. The Victorian semi-detached house had seen better days, although Kevin did his best to help the old man out by doing odd jobs such as clearing out the gutters and exterior painting. Kevin knocked on the door that he had painted the previous summer and waited for George to answer.

  “Afternoon, Grandad,” said Kevin, brightly. George grunted an inaudible reply and motioned for him to come in. The hallway was windowless and dim; the house smelled of that peculiar odour that Kevin would always associate with his genuine grandparents.

  “Kettle’s on. Make us a brew.” George was in one of his moods, thought Kevin. He had noticed that, despite being generally grumpy, George occasionally descended into a far blacker disposition. Today was one of those days, and Kevin was never sure whether to ask him about it or just ignore his demeanour. Today, however, Kevin had drunk just enough to suppress his inhibitions, and besides, he really did care about the old bloke in his own way.

  “What’s the matter, Grandad? Somebody died?” Kevin wasn’t known for his tact, but George’s reaction wiped the smile from his face.

  “Yes,” he hissed. “A very long time ago, but I keep getting the feeling he’s come back.”

  ***

  On his arrival in Preston, Jack realised that he had another problem. He had booked a room in the Holiday Inn Express that he had stayed in on his previous visit, which was located just off the M6 some miles to the south of the centre of Preston. Additionally, he had arrived during rush hour and there were no taxis at the station’s front entrance. Jack found himself wandering up the slope out of the station, unsure what to do next. Get a grip, he thought, chastising himself for his indecision. At the top of the incline, he looked around and saw that the city centre appeared to be to his right. Setting off in that direction, he realised that he had not eaten since breakfast and was suddenly very hungry. Fortunately it was only a few minutes before he came across a small cafe bar on the opposite side of the road and, making his way between the stationary vehicles waiting at the traffic lights, went inside.

  Perusing the menu, he decided upon pasta carbonara and garlic bread washed down with a large glass of Chianti. As his meal was being prepared, Jack called over the waitress to ask if he could borrow their phone book. Finding the number of his hotel, he rang to see whether he could cancel his booking. Having been informed that he would have to pay for that night regardless, he decided that he would get a taxi out to the hotel after he had eaten and see about hiring a car in the morning.

  His food arrived, and Jack wolfed it down hungrily. He was careful not to drink the wine that had preceded the meal, knowing that it would have gone straight to his head. The cafe bar was busy, but his table’s location in the back corner ensured that he was not unduly disturbed by the to-ing and fro-ing of other customers. Having finished his meal, he asked the waitress to arrange for a taxi to take him out to his hotel, and ordered another glass of wine while he waited.

  ***

  Kevin Anderson was confused. “What d’ya mean, he’s come back? Like a ghost or summat?”

  “No idea. It’s just that...oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m going senile or something.” There was a tiredness in George’s voice that was so pronounced even Kevin noticed it. The old man was normally so fired up when he was lecturing to his cabal in the club that it came as a shock to the normally thoroughly insensitive younger man. Perplexed by what he had heard, Kevin scuttled into George’s kitchen to make them both a brew. On his return, two steaming mugs grasped in his large hands, George was standing in his front room staring out of the window.

  “Ever done something that you regret, Kevin? I mean, really regret?”

  The old man’s question did nothing to ease his visitor’s bewilderment. Before he could string together a coherent r
esponse, George continued.

  “Long time ago, I did something that I believed to be right. Direct action, they call it now. Trouble is, somebody got in the way. Wasn’t my fault, he wasn’t supposed to be there. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.” The tiredness was gone now, replaced by barely suppressed anger.

  The old man turned toward Kevin. “But I had to do it, didn’t I? It was for the cause! Sixty-five years I’ve lived with it! So why now? Why is he coming back now?” There was an edge of hysteria in his voice now, his face was florid and his hands had begun to shake. Kevin was stood in front of him, mouth agape, his eyes flicking between George and the front window, as if there was an answer to his confusion outside. Eventually, the pain of the hot mugs fought its way through to his overloaded brain, forcing him to put them down on the occasional table next to the old man’s armchair.

  The movement seemed to diffuse the tension. George slumped into his armchair, his chin on his chest. After a moment, he lifted his eyes and looked at Kevin.

  “Sit down, lad.” Kevin duly obliged, taking a surreptitious peek out of the window as he did so.

  “What did they teach you about the war at school? Do you think that we won it?”

  “Well, er... o’ course we did. Didn’t we?”

  “No, lad. The Great Patriotic War was won with the blood of millions of workers. Good Communists, every one of them. The Red Army won the war, lad, not the British, or the Americans, who both hid behind cowardly terror bombing.” He paused for a moment, enjoying the rapt attention of his pupil. “But the Red Army didn’t get involved until the Nazis turned on them. They had a pact, you see, an agreement that they wouldn’t attack each other. Comrade Stalin was as good as his word, but the Nazis real target was the Soviet Union, and the destruction of international socialism.”

  George paused again as he could see the confusion in Kevin’s face.

  “Which war we talkin’ ‘bout? I thought that you was talkin’ about world war two. What’s this...what you called it?” Kevin’s forehead was furrowed with concentration as he attempted to understand what the old man was saying.

  “The Great Patriotic War, lad. That’s what the Soviets called it. Anyway, at first, we in the Communist party decided that we would do nothing to help the war effort as long as Stalin and Hitler were allies. We just organised peace marches and made sure that the workers weren’t being exploited any more than usual.”

  George stopped once more, sighing deeply and holding his head in his hands. Kevin slurped noisily at his tea, earning himself a withering look of reproach from his elder companion.

  “Then, one day, a Comrade told us that the British government were going to supply arms to the Finns. These arms were going to support an invasion of the Soviet Union, sponsored by Churchill with his hatred for socialism. They had a ship disguised as a Swedish vessel, because the Swedes were neutral, which was coming into Preston docks for a cargo of ammunition. Well, we just had to stop it, don’t you see? We had to!”

  ***

  To Katie, the visitations were becoming familiar, almost routine. Steve still hadn’t returned from work: the lengthening days meant that they could catch up on jobs that had been delayed or cancelled due to bad weather. Joshua was still up and about, running around the flat in his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas.

  “Man coming, Mummy,” he said just as Katie began to sense the sadness that accompanied the apparition whenever he put in an appearance. The sight of him still had the power to shock, however, and when the gaunt figure manifested in the hallway Katie’s heart skipped a beat and her unborn child squirmed in response to the flow of adrenaline that resulted.

  She’s gone, isn’t she? My Dorothy...where am I?

  “Yes, I think that she is. It’s been a long time, Jack. Your baby is an old man now. You’ve been gone a long time.” Katie couldn’t know for sure, but in her heart she believed that the ghost was, or had been, Jack Rimmer’s father.

  The baby...I have a son?

  The haggard face was transformed at the news, eyebrows lifting, softening the expression from total misery to a hopeful pleading. Katie had a sudden feeling of self-doubt. What was she playing at? What would happen if she were wrong? She decided to change the subject.

  “What happened to you, Jack? You said that somebody hit you. Who was it?” There was a pause, punctuated by Joshua’s greeting of “Hello, man!” as he toddled from the living room to his bedroom for a different toy. The sadness returned to the phantom’s face as his eyes seemed to bore into Katie’s inner being.

  It was... my friend? No...it can’t have been...he’s...somebody on the pole, cutting the wires...that’s why the lamp’s out...train...danger!

  “What train? I don’t understand! What do you mean, on the pole?” Katie could already feel his presence receding, as if the effort of manifestation had drained whatever energy he needed to appear. She realised that she had been given another piece of the puzzle, not that it made any sense to her. Fear had given way to frustration, firstly with the enigma of how the man died, but also an increasing feeling that she may never be rid of the spectre unless...what? That was another problem: how to lay the ghost to rest, to give him peace.

  Casting these thoughts aside for the moment, Katie went to the kitchen. Having put the kettle on, she found the pad that she used for compiling shopping lists and wrote down everything that she could remember. Being bent over writing left her with backache, and she grimaced as she straightened herself, hands on her hips, with her fingers pressing into the small of her back. Hearing Steve come through the door, she took a second cup from the cupboard and listened with unalloyed pleasure as her husband greeted their son by lifting him above his head, making the boy shriek with delight.

  A minute or so later, he came into the kitchen as Katie poured steaming water into the cups. Placing his arms tenderly around her waist, he nuzzled her neck before speaking.

  “Perfect timing. I’m gasping! Got another garden finished off, so we can move on to that big landscaping job off Factory Lane tomorrow. There’s good money in that one, should come in handy when number two puts in an appearance! Speaking of putting in appearances, has our friend Jack been back?”

  “Which one? Living or dead?” Katie smiled grimly, continuing before her husband could react. “As a matter of fact, yes. The dead one, that is. He told me something about a pole, a lamp and a train.”

  “Eh? What...oh...I’m too tired for this. Our other friend is supposed to be coming tomorrow, isn’t he? We’ll have to figure it all out then.”

  ***

  That other friend was, at that moment, sat in his hotel room trying, unsuccessfully, to arrange a hire car for the following day. It had become clear by this point that he would be delayed in getting started the next morning while he rang round the local car hire depots. Instead, he turned his attention to the online archives of the local newspaper. These would clearly only cover a limited period, but Jack considered the effort worthwhile, if only to see if there was a particular event that may have triggered the Mellings’ experiences.

  Jack used various combinations of key words in the search facility but each was either too vague, throwing up hundreds of related articles, or so specific that the phrase “Your search generated no hits” began to grate on Jack’s nerves. By eleven thirty, he was considering giving up for the night when his latest series of words, which were becoming increasingly convoluted and obscure, gave only eight potential articles. At last, thought Jack, something worth looking at.

  Of course, it was the seventh article that finally showed some promise. The search criteria meant that the first six all contained stories describing personal tragedy, from the unmitigated devastation of a parent at the loss of a child to an unexplained suicide, each distilled into a microcosm of individual calamity rendered inconsequential by the hackneyed clichés of junior reporters. Jack knew from experience that the press, local or national, rarely reported either accurately or completely, and he supposed that what he wa
s reading would be no different. That seventh piece seemed to be what he was looking for, although, rather than providing unambiguous answers, it posed a series of questions that Jack knew meant yet more research on his part.

  Briefly scanning the final story, Jack confirmed its irrelevance to his quest before re-reading the article that had attracted his interest. Certain that he now had part of what he was looking for, he saved the story on to his laptop, then shut it down and retired for the night.

  Tuesday Morning

  Joshua was in tears. Katie had found him tearing pages from the phone book and putting them in his mouth: his lips and fingers were now grey and there were small fingerprints all over the living room wall. His face was at once both distraught and comical, and his mother was having difficulty keeping a straight face as she gently castigated him.

  Their discussion was interrupted by the ringing of the door bell. Katie opened the door to find a haggard-looking Jack Rimmer waiting: she was immediately struck by the similarity between her current visitor and the spectral one.