“You don’t open the store in the mornings?” I asked, searching for something to say. Bianca was so incredibly cool, I felt nervous just being in her presence. What was I doing in her flat in my frumpy sweater and jeans. Why did I think I could be friends with someone so awesome?
“There’s no point.” Bianca pushed a steaming cup into my bands. “People don’t wake up at 8 in the morning and think, ‘I think I’ll get tattooed today.’ Although I’ll open up for an appointment if a client requests it.”
“Is that for protection, in case of a zombie apocalypse?” I joked, pointing to a battered-looking cricket bat leaning up against a guitar amp in the corner.
Bianca laughed. “No, I play a little with the local club on the weekends. I’ve got to try and do a little physical activity, otherwise I’d never see the sun.”
“That’s cool. Hey, is this one yours?” I pointed at a painting of a red fox sitting under the shade of a gnarled oak tree, staring out into the forest. Its snout pointed to the heavens as if it had caught the scent of something intriguing, and a glint of mischief reflected in its eyes. What stood out about the painting was the way the artist have lovingly portrayed the dappled light falling through the canopy above. It danced across the fox’s fur, so that the creature almost appeared to move.
“Oh, no,” Bianca said. “I’m nowhere near that good. That’s an original Ryan Raynard.”
“Who’s he?” I asked, squinting at the sweeping brush strokes the artist had used to render the trees.
“Crookshollow’s own world-renowned artist,” Bianca said. “He lives in a giant manor house at the end of Holly Avenue. He used to be a total recluse, hadn’t even left his house in ten years, until he met this girl, Alex Kline, a few months back. Now, they seem to be at a different event or opening or party every week. The London society pages are going crazy about them, calling them the Posh and Becks of the art world. Alex is a friend of mine, and a fine artist in her own right. We did a show at the Tunbridge Gallery in town last year. It was her first show, and she gave me this to say thanks for including her.”
“Sounds wild,” I examined.
“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Bianca gave me a sly smile, as if there was a whole lot more to the story she wasn’t yet ready to reveal. “Perhaps you might meet them some time, if you stay in town.”
“I’m only here for another week or so. Just until I finish going through Alice Marshell’s things and hand the estate over to her executor.” If he isn’t convicted of fraud first, I reminded myself.
“Oh, that’s a shame. I know it doesn’t seem like much compared to London, but Crookshollow can be pretty wild.”
“Don’t worry, I know.” I said. “I’ve met some pretty interesting characters. There was this woman in town the other day, who sold me some amazing clothes and a couple of books about ghosts—”
“Clara?”
“How’d you know?”
“She can’t get rid of those books fast enough. Everyone in Crookshollow has got a copy, but she’s still got ten crates out the back of her shop. I hope you didn’t pay more than five quid for them, because if you did, you got ripped off.”
I laughed. “So you know Clara?”
“Everyone does. She’s a pretty important figure in Crookshollow. She’s actually Ryan’s mother. She’s our foremost expert on supernatural phenomena. She does tarot readings at the fair every year, and she’s scarily accurate. Many people are convinced she’s a witch. You do know that Crookshollow is the most haunted village in England?”
I laughed. “I’ve heard a rumour. So she’s the real deal, then?”
“I don’t believe in fate or hocus pocus or any bullshit, right? I just know what I see. But I’m telling you, if Clara says it, it’s probably true. Why, what did she say to you?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just about this guy—” I remembered what Clara had said in the shop the other day. Sometimes love can endure beyond the veil of death. Was it really possible that she knew more about my situation than I thought?
“Not Allan, your white-haired hottie from the other night?”
“No, not him. Although he did kiss me goodnight.”
“Score.” Bianca collapsed against the back of the sofa and sipped her tea. “I know Allan a little. He and Eric slept on my couch a few nights when they came back to Crookshollow for a visit. He's a cool guy. You know, no offense or anything, but I wouldn’t have picked him as your type. We don’t know each other very well, but you strike me as more of a white shirt and black tie at the opera kind of girl. Not a bourbon and mosh pit girl.”
“That’s what most people think. Hell, that’s what I’ve always thought. But I’m starting to see that maybe that isn’t the case. I’m spreading my wings, as it were. But I don’t want to talk about myself. I’m boring. What made you decide to become a tattoo artist?”
Bianca shrugged. “I always wanted to be an artist. And when I was a teenager, I started hanging out with the bad crowd. I got my first ink at fifteen.” She pointed to a grinning Cheshire cat on her arm. “Totally illegal, mind you, and not the best design. But I was dating a tattoo artist at the time, and I would hang out in the shop after school and draw on all their paper. My parents thought I was just drinking and doing drugs, which, to be fair, I was. But I was also watching these artists make a living from their art, and I wanted to as well. So I basically bugged the shop’s owner incessantly until he gave me an apprentiship.”
“You learned through an apprentiship?”
“Yeah, that’s the best way. It was hard, but fun. I had to do a lot of bad tattoos before I got the hang of it. Why? Are you looking to give it a try?”
“No,” I said. The word came out louder and harsher than I thought. Bianca looked at me curiously. I could feel my face growing hot. “I mean, no, thank you. I’d be too afraid of hurting someone. And don’t you already have an apprentice?”
“Bobby just told me he’s accepted a job at a shop in New York City, so I’ve got an opening.” Bianca smiled. “I’m just saying, if you ever change your mind.”
“Um … that’s … very nice, but I already have this job. And this fancy law degree, which I should probably get some use out of—”
Bianca laughed. “Relax, Elinor. I’m not trying to get you to quit your job to live the bohemian life of a tattooist. Like I said, you don’t seem like the type. Besides, you can’t be a tattoo artist without having a bit of ink yourself.”
“That’s probably true.” I handed Bianca my sketchbook. “Speaking of which, I brought this to show you.”
As soon as Bianca opened the book, I regretted my decision. I wished I could snatch it back off her, but I didn’t want to be rude to my new friend.
“Wow,” Bianca exclaimed as she turned the page. “These are quite good.”
“Yeah?” I mumbled, my cheeks burning. My stomach clenched in a tight knot.
“Absolutely. These are yours?”
I nodded glumly.
“You’ve got talent, girl. I particularly like this one of the gnarly tree. Or this one of the raven. Are you thinking one of these for a tattoo?”
“Yes, actually. I want something really big on my back.”
“You sure you don’t want to get a tiny rose on your ankle, maybe a couple of Chinese characters? A SpongeBob on your forehead? Just to get a feeling for it before you commit to a big piece?”
“I’m sure. Besides, I heard you don’t do cartoon characters.” I grinned, some of my nerves disappearing. “My problem is that I can’t decide which one of these to choose.”
We chatted for another hour or so. I was surprised at how easily the words flowed with Bianca. Normally, I’d feel nervous sitting beside someone so pretty and cool as her, but we just seemed to click instantly. We hugged goodbye as though we’d been friends for years.
“Are you going to be there on Saturday?” she asked.
“Where?”
“At Eric’s funeral. It would be pretty hard to
avoid, seems as how it’s at Marshell House, but I figured you might not want to stick around with all the morose goths.”
“Oh, no. I mean … er, yes. I am going to be there. Actually Allan—that’s the white-haired guy—asked me to accompany him. He used to play drums in Eric’s band.”
“I know. I’ve met him once before. He and Eric came to Crookshollow once for a couple of weeks before going to record their latest album. They both slept on my couch. Allan snores, by the way.” Bianca grinned. “A funeral’s a pretty weird place for a date, but hey, I’m not judging. He is the drummer in a goth band. I’ll see you there, yes? We can sit at the back with your snogalicious date and tell inappropriate jokes to keep each other from tearing up.”
I grinned at her use of the word snogalicious. “Absolutely.” So it was settled, then. I’d have to attend Eric’s funeral. I hoped I’d be able to hold it together. I couldn’t have Bianca guessing the real reason for my fascination with Eric.
I left Bianca to open up her shop, and walked back toward Marshell House, wondering what I was going to do about Eric. Would he still be in the office after slamming the door at me this morning—
I stopped dead. A woman behind me had to swerve her pram to avoid a collision. She yelled something colourful at me, but I was too stunned to reply.
The door slammed.
My heart pounded against my chest. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed it at the time. I’d been so angry with him I hadn’t even realised. Eric had slammed the door. He’d actually become solid enough to move something in the house, something much more substantial than the door lock, and I hadn’t been in contact with him. I remembered the smash I’d heard earlier that morning, of something shattering against the floor upstairs. Could Eric have moved an object and broken it? Was he becoming more solid, more real? How was that possible? What did that even mean?
I started to run. I couldn’t wait to see him again, to talk to him. If Eric could touch things other than me, then that meant … I didn’t know what that meant. But it had to be good, right? I had to see him.
I pulled open the door. “Eric?” I called. “Where are you?”
No answer.
The door to the study was open. I poked my head inside. No one there. “Eric?” I called again.
I heard another crash from upstairs. I vaulted the staircase two at a time, desperate to find him. “Eric, what’s going on?”
He wasn’t in any of the rooms. That meant he must be in the attic. I pulled the door open and crept up the staircase. I burst in the room just in time to see him fling an old wooden rocking chair across the room. I cringed as the chair smashed against a large wooden wardrobe and clattered to the floor, two of the spindles broken off.
“Eric!” I cried. He whirled around, his eyes blazing. The front of his black shirt was coated in dust from the attic furniture.
“What do you want?” he snarled.
“You’re touching things.” I said. “You’re throwing things. What’s happening to you?”
“What does it matter to you?” Eric shot back. “You made your choice. You’ve got Allan, a Ghost Symphony musician who’s actually alive. What do you need me for?”
“I’m not here to talk about Allan.” I said. “I came up because I heard a crash. I see you’re upset, but I think I might have something to help you—” I cringed as he overturned a wooden chest. The lid flipped open and a giant stack of old photo albums and film canisters cascaded across the floor.
“It’s got to be in here somewhere,” Eric started fishing through another box, throwing magazines and old records in every direction.
“What?” I ducked as an ancient toaster flew past my head.
“My violin!” Eric yelled. “I need Isolde, and she’s in the this house somewhere, but I can’t find her. I have nothing, Elinor, and I’m going fucking mental. I lost my life, and I lost my family, and I lost you. That violin is the most precious thing in the world to me, and I fucking lost her, too.”
“Eric, please. It will show up. But getting frustrated and destroying things isn’t going to help. If you come downstairs, I can show you these books—”
“Books? How are books going to help me? I’m dead.” Eric rose up to his full height. His eyes looked sunken, haunted. His black curls hung in lank strings around his drawn features. “I’m a ghost. Books can’t help me now.”
“They will if they’re about ghosts. I found something and I think it might—”
“Please, leave me.” Eric closed his eyes. His voice was no longer angry. Now it was lifeless, defeated. That was worse. He sounded as if he had completely given up.
“I haven’t abandoned you, you know. No matter what you want to believe.” I was angry at him now, angry that he was hiding up here like a petulant child while I was trying to solve his murder and get his life back for him. “I’ve been working and reading and investigating and asking questions and trying to figure this thing out. But what have you done, Eric? Have you given up? We have a chance … the slimmest chance that we could be together, and I’m trying to figure out how to make it so, but you just want to sit up here and sulk and be all morose and melancholy. Well, it’s pathetic, and I am through. I’m through wasting energy on a man that doesn’t appreciate who I am and what I’ve done for him, a man who won’t fight to be with me. If that’s who you are, then you’re not the man I thought you were.”
Eric turned away from me, and stared out one of the small, low windows down into the back garden, where the marquee was being set up for Saturday. “Just go, Elinor. I don’t want your help anymore. Please, just go.”
Tears brimmed in my eyes. I blinked at them angrily. This was the last time I spilled tears for Eric Marshell. Without another word I turned, and fled the attic.
Eric
As soon as I heard Elinor’s footsteps clattering down the stairs, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.
“Elinor, wait—” I dashed after her, but the hallway door slammed shut with a defiant clang. The sound was like a gunshot, jolting me out of my angry stupor. I paused at the top of the stairwell and listened. Her footsteps moved down the hall, down the stairs, and into the study below. I heard the door click shut and the muffled sounds of music blaring.
You’re not the man I thought you were. Her words echoed inside my head. I seethed with anger, but it was because deep down, I knew she was speaking the truth. I’d enlisted Elinor to help me, and she was doing an amazing job. She’d been the one to connect Helen Manning to the ticket and the car crash. And if what she’d said before was true, she’d clearly been doing some research about my strange new-found ability to touch and manipulate objects randomly. She might’ve been on to something, but once again, I pushed her away instead of just listening to her. I was so convinced that everything was as bad as it could possibly be, I couldn’t even believe there was a possibility we could have a chance at a happy ending.
Clearly she believed that, and Elinor wasn’t the type to believe something without significant evidence in its favour. We could have had a chance, if I had just trusted her, if I had just allowed her to put that brilliant mind of hers to work.
But instead, I had been a dick, and ruined things. But this time, I wasn’t sure I could fix them.
I reached out to shut the attic door, but my hand fell through the doorknob. I was a ghost once more. Downstairs, the music blared louder. I strained my ghostly ears to hear what she was playing. Something about the rhythm sounded awfully familiar.
I froze when I heard a familiar melody, ringing clearly. I know that song. I know that song because I wrote it.
Elinor was listening to Ghost Symphony. She was listening to my music. Maybe, just maybe, I had a chance after all. If I didn’t fuck things up again.
Elinor
I sat up in the study and worked until the early hours of the morning, the Ghost Symphony albums on repeat in the background. I lost myself in the morose lyrics and haunting melodies, and I found the hours drifted by pleasantly. Ever
y time I got up to make a new cup of tea, Clara’s ghost books stared at me from the end table. My fingers itched to turn the pages, find the section on shades, and see if there was any more information. But each time I stopped myself. I wasn’t helping Eric any more. I was done.
My resolution to stop working on Eric’s case left me with a new feeling of calm. It hurt to know he was upstairs and I couldn’t go to him, but it gave me a new feeling of control over my emotions. I had made all the effort, and he’d rewarded me with suspicion and jealousy. I was through with that shit. I had pulled off the Band-aid, and now I was free.
The next morning I returned from a walk to the shop to find Duncan in the kitchen, and the house full of catering staff and florists and sound technicians and a bunch of carpenters assembling some kind of stage in the middle of the marquee. I exchanged a few awkward pleasantries with Duncan, but he was quite busy with the preparations and I didn’t really want to be drawn into a discussion about Alice’s estate with him, lest gave away the fact I’d discovered his little deception. So instead, I took my tea and toast out onto the back porch, along with the paper I’d purchased from the shop. I wiped away a spider’s web from the corner of the table and settled down to read the entertainment pages. There’s nothing like the sordid tales of B-list celebrities and reality TV stars to make you feel better about your own life.
I was pleasantly surprised to see Damon Sputnik on the cover page. I’d been so preoccupied with Eric’s drama and the fraud and the funeral and everything else going on in Crookshollow that I had barely even lusted after him. Well, it was time to make up for lost time.
In the picture Damon was standing behind his sound desk, his face bent in concentration as he spun out a tune. He wore black jeans and a blue vest that showed off his muscular arms and bold tattoos, his freshly shaved head gleamed with sweat. I licked my lips. Damon really was quite attractive, with that pouty mouth, smouldering eyes and broad, muscular shoulders. He was similar to Eric in many ways—they were both musicians at the top of their chosen genres, both arrogant, both creative and petulant and both excellent kissers. But Damon Sputnik wasn’t dead. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get back to London again to see if I had a chance with him. Maybe the easy confidence I felt around Eric would rub off on me around Damon? Maybe I’d come back a completely different person, and he’d fall at my feet? Maybe we could double-date with Cindy and her new man ...
The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts) Page 19