Phantoms

by Marie O'Regan

  He sat in the chair for a long time, looking out through the window, towards the sea, where the sunshine sparkled on the moving water. After a while, he dozed, and when he woke the light had changed; the brilliant sunshine had been replaced with a soft greyness, and the sky was full of clouds.

  Fraser’s watch told him it was late afternoon. He went downstairs to the bar and ordered a steak and chips. It wasn’t really dinnertime, but he had only himself to please, after all. While he was eating, there was another squall of rain; the windows rattled as it passed over. By the time he had finished, however, the rain had stopped.

  As the day waned, Fraser thought he might go out and stretch his legs for a bit. He would be travelling for most of the following day, after all. The wake must have finished by now; there was no way that he could reasonably be expected to go back. If he ran into anyone, he could intimate that the whole thing had been too much for him to bear.

  It was not quite twilight when he followed the path that ran across the links and down to the beach. The shadows were long and the light had that high degree of contrast that one sometimes sees around an eclipse. The tide was coming in and much of the beach was covered, but it was still possible to walk along the strip of sand that was left. Fraser went west, increasing the distance between himself and the town. He picked his way over rocks, skirting pools and slippery piles of seaweed. He would never come back to Elie after this; he might as well take a good look at what he’d never see again.

  At the end of the beach, a worn and winding path ascended to the rocks. Fraser saw a square of white standing out against the stone: a noticeboard. He remembered that the chain walk began around the corner, out of sight of the beach.

  The chain walk was a peculiarity of the location. Originally constructed in about 1920, it was composed of sections of steel chain strung along the most inaccessible parts of the rocks, over a distance of about half a kilometre. By clinging to the chains and using additional footholds cut into the stone, people could make their way along the entire distance. Why they would want to do such a thing was a mystery to Fraser. He had done the chain walk a couple of times in his younger days – once to impress Ishbel when he had first met her – and he couldn’t recall anything particularly useful about the route. It didn’t lead to anything and you couldn’t safely bathe from the rocks there. Certainly, it didn’t rouse enough nostalgia to tempt him to try it now. He turned away, thinking that it was time to walk back to the inn.

  For the first few paces he was climbing over rocks, keeping an eye on his footing, but as he raised his head and looked east, towards the town he saw something that made him stand still.

  Someone was coming along the beach towards him – and he thought he knew who it was. Fraser was filled with dismay.

  Kirsty.

  She was too far away for him to see her face clearly, but he was pretty sure it was Ishbel’s sister. The robust figure, swathes of black clothing hanging like drapes from the upper slopes of her ample chest; the big bun of hair perched like a knob on the top of her head; the arms swinging in a determined manner as she walked towards him: yes, it had to be Kirsty. And she was pissed off at him, he could tell that at a glance. She had Things To Say, and she was determined to say them.

  She probably had a right to be angry, Fraser knew. He’d left the wake indecently early, without saying all the things she’d have wanted him to say, about Ishbel’s beautiful personality and kind heart and all the rest of it. Since then, she had quite possibly drowned her grief in a few glasses of wine, removing any inhibitions she might have had about reading her sister’s partner the riot act. There would be no stopping her.

  Except he didn’t have to stand here and listen. With the tide this far in, and the beach narrowed to a thin strip of sand, there was no hope of getting past Kirsty, but he could still get away from her if he went the other way. If he went along the chain walk.

  Kirsty wouldn’t manage it; he was sure of that. A sedentary person, she wasn’t very nimble at the best of times, and she had hobbled herself further with stacked heel shoes. There was no way she could follow him along the rocks, even with the help of the chain.

  Fraser was confident he could manage it himself, though. He turned his back on Kirsty, pretending he hadn’t spotted her at all. It was possible that she called out his name, but the word dissolved into the sound of the waves unfurling on the shore; it could safely be ignored. He projected nonchalance as he walked away from her, weaving his way with ease between the rocks.

  In a short time, he had reached the point at which the path – such as it was – turned a corner around the rocks, disappearing out of the view of anyone on the beach. He glanced briefly at the noticeboard with its warning to proceed with care, and then it was behind him and he was clambering over the pitted grey surface of the rocks.

  The first thing that struck Fraser was that the chain walk was more intimidating than he remembered. He was older, of course, than he had been the last time he had attempted it, and less fit, but also the tide was in. The waves were rolling into the first inlet with some force, the grey-green water lapping at the footholds cut into the rockface. He didn’t think he’d done the chain walk when the water was this high.

  He stared at the roiling water, considering his options. If he went back, he would have to face Kirsty. The phrase “the devil and the deep blue sea” had never had such urgent meaning for him.

  In the end, he waited for perhaps five minutes, hoping that his pursuer would give up, and then he made his way carefully back to the corner and peered around it.

  Kirsty was making her way over the rocks towards him. She was moving slowly – much more slowly than Fraser had – with her arms out to steady herself. But she was still coming. It was really impossible that she could attempt the chain walk in those boots, but it was equally impossible for Fraser to go back the way he had come without confronting her. He ducked back behind the rock, cursing under his breath.

  There was nothing for it. He clambered over the rocks again, steeling himself for the unnerving step onto the chain walk. The steel links were, at any rate, reassuringly thick and heavy, and the bright gleam of the metal showed that they were fairly new and well maintained. He grasped the first part of the chain and began to climb.

  The first short ascent felt alarmingly exposed. The chain ran almost vertically up a rocky outcrop, close enough to the corner of it that the empty air and the dizzying drop to the surging water below were always at his shoulder. When he got to the top he crouched on the rock, not trusting himself to stand up. His palms were sweating.

  From here the chains descended a little and ran horizontally along the side of the inlet. The level section looked straightforward enough, Fraser saw with relief. He started along it with renewed confidence.

  Very quickly, he realised his mistake. The rock bulged outwards and the chain was just a little too low and a little too slack: with his feet on the holds and his hands on the metal links he was leaning too far backwards to balance properly. The constant crash and ebb of the waves below him kept distracting him from watching where to put his hands and feet. He couldn’t stop looking down and wondering whether the next swell of water would be high enough to wash him right off the rock.

  He took another clumsy step to the left, and as he did so a wave swept into the inlet, foamed over the rocks at the end and then ebbed as swiftly. As the water seethed through the multitude of pebbles on the floor of the inlet, Fraser heard a single word, pronounced with lingering sibilance amongst the hissing of the waves.

  Fra-s-s-s-er.

  His foot slipped, his leg swung out into thin air, and for a sickening instant he thought he was going to fall right into the water, his body cringing at the imminent plunge. He grappled with the chain, hanging on by sheer panic, fists and elbows hooking over the slick-wet metal. The links dug painfully into his triceps. He grunted, arms shaking with the effort of taking his entire weight.

  When he had recovered enough balance to stan
d on the footholds again, he took a moment to catch his breath. His gaze kept sliding to the green-grey water that sucked so greedily at his heels.

  I imagined it, he said to himself. Nobody said my name. It was just the sound of the waves. Or it was that silly cow Kirsty calling from the other side of the rocks.

  All the same, it had rattled him. He couldn’t risk another shock like that. He fought his way to the end of the inlet, where the section of chain ran out, and hopped down onto the rocks. Here it was possible to walk across the gap without going into the water. After that, he would have to climb onto a large ridged rock and from there step onto the rockface on the other side, where a new section of chain would guide him up and round the rocks.

  Fraser paused on the ridged rock before he stepped across. It wasn’t a big step. He wouldn’t have thought twice about it in most circumstances. It was just that the water slopping back and forth below him kept snagging his gaze. He felt irrationally nervous about falling in. In and out, went the waves, in and out, like breathing. The movement of the water was deliberate but uneven, organic, as though it was the motion of a living thing.

  He was committed now, though. He took a deep breath and stretched one foot out across the gap. When it touched stone on the other side, he moved his weight onto it and grabbed the tail end of the chain, which dangled from the first bolt. A second later he had both feet on the rockface and both fists tight around the metal links. He climbed rapidly, putting distance between himself and the seawater.

  When he got to the top, Fraser sat down on the rock. He looked back towards the beginning of the chain walk. He could not see Kirsty from where he sat.

  He had better make up his mind whether to keep going forward or go back and risk meeting her. The sun was low in the sky. He couldn’t imagine trying to complete the chain walk once it became dark. He hauled himself to his feet, turned towards the setting sun and set off across the rocks.

  After scuttling crab-like across another outcrop cut with footholds, and tackling an uncomfortable climb over some large stones, Fraser followed the route along a stretch of shingle beach. He kept well away from the water’s edge.

  Once, a great wave came rolling in and broke against a rock. For a few moments, the air was full of sparkling droplets, before they pattered down onto the pebbles. The falling water disturbed Fraser, though he could not have said why. He moved a little further up the beach. The air had a moist tang of salt in it, and he licked his lips as though he had tasted something repellent.

  The next section of chain, which ran up a wall of stone and down the other side, led onto a strange open plain of jagged rocks and shallow pools choked with brown weed. In the dying sunlight, it looked alien, a scene from another planet. Fraser started across it, taking care to keep his shoes dry. Was that the end of the chain walk? No; he spotted another length of steel links dangling from a rocky saddle ahead of him. A metal post marked the highest point of the chain.

  As he walked towards it, amongst the distant susurration of the sea, he heard his own name whispered.

  Fra-s-s-s-er.

  He broke his stride for an instant, stiffening, and then he put his head down and walked on.

  Nothing, he said to himself. Nothing but imagination. His throat was tight and his heart thumping. He kept moving. To react visibly would be to accept.

  It was a relief to reach the bottom of the chain and begin the ascent. Every metre – every centimetre – that he put between himself and the level of the water eased the feeling of urgent repulsion he had towards it. In spite of the growing weariness in his limbs, he went up as fast as he could. When he got to the top, he clung to the metal post, panting.

  Imagination, Fraser told himself again. If you are a suggestible person, the hissing of the surf can sound like any word with a sibilant in it. Any word at all.

  But as he sat there, something else suggested itself – something that insinuated its way into his thoughts in spite of all resistance.

  The rain pouring down into the open grave, surrounding the cardboard coffin, saturating it. The wet soil heaped onto it, covering it: everything so sodden – a slurry, really. In his mind’s eye the sun came out and scorched the newly turned earth, and from the grave there rose thin exploratory tendrils of water vapour, curling towards the sky until they evaporated. Water droplets, invisibly small, drifting into the sky.

  He thought of air cooling, of clouds forming, and at last, rain falling. Which way had the wind been blowing that afternoon? Fraser didn’t know; he had been indoors the whole time. He supposed it didn’t matter; the rain that came down along the coastline here would end up in the ocean anyway. He pictured the burn in St Monan’s, the next settlement east of Elie, running straight down into the sea, the fast-flowing water carrying—

  Carrying what? Fraser asked himself fiercely. He realised he was thinking of something for which he could find no better word than contamination. He rested his forehead on the cool metal of the post, closing his eyes briefly. This is crap. This is stress – or some kind of a minor breakdown.

  He decided that when he got back to the inn he was going to pack up and leave. He didn’t care about paying for a night’s accommodation he wouldn’t be using, nor about the long drive home. If he had to, he could stop somewhere in one of those cheap travellers’ hotels that studded the motorway network like carbuncles. Anything to get away from Elie – and Ishbel’s family. It served them right that he had left the wake early; he didn’t deserve this persecution.

  I wasn’t cruel to her, he thought to himself once more. I did more than most men would have.

  His hands were becoming chilled from contact with the chain’s cold metal and the cool evening air, and he could already feel stiffness setting in from the unwonted exertion. Time to move.

  He looked down the other side of the rocky saddle and his heart sank. It looked like the longest section yet; the height was enough to make him feel slightly vertiginous. The first part had rough steps hewn into the rock; after that, the chain descended vertically almost to the level of the water. He could have wept. He bit back a curse.

  There was nothing for it, though. Much as he would have liked to put off climbing down, the longer he left it, the more difficult it would be. If his fingers actually became numb, there was a real risk of falling off. Fraser grimaced. He forced himself to get up, turned to face the rock and began to descend, gripping the chain tightly.

  Below him, at the bottom of the rockface, there was another inlet, bigger than the first. Along this channel, the seawater also foamed and sucked, and in the shivering of a thousand tumbled pebbles Fraser heard his name whispered over and over again.

  He paused halfway down the chain, fighting back dread. He was determined not to hear it. He would not hear it. There was no other option but to go on; if he went back he would have to face the other inlet, and he was tired now. His confidence in his ability to haul himself along that first section without slipping off was all but drained. Doggedly, he continued to descend.

  At the bottom, his limbs trembling, he clambered over a rocky bulge and found another horizontal section of chain. Below the carved footholds, the water slopped and surged. The dying light of the sun made strange patterns on its surface; frail arabesques like handfuls of fine hair turned on the current.

  I cannot, said Fraser to himself as he looked at the chain stretching ahead of him. But – I must. He almost wept.

  He grasped the cold links and stepped onto the first of the footholds. A wave came rolling up the inlet, and for a moment he froze. He squeezed his eyes tight shut for a second, cringing, and then opened them again. The water had passed within centimetres of his heels, but his feet were dry. He inched to his left with painful slowness.

  Before he had gone far, he spotted the end of the chain. There was a cavern beyond it, a high but narrow opening like a doorway set into the cliff. Its inner recesses were deep in shadow. The effect was undoubtedly sinister, but it was not the dark heart of the cave that filled F
raser with cold horror. It was the water washing gently back and forth across the entrance of it. It was not deep enough to drown him, he could see that. But he would get wet, and that he could not bear. He would have endured anything, anything at all, rather than let that glossy moisture suck at him. His flesh shrank from it.

  Fraser stopped moving along the chain. He tried to think clearly about what to do, but his thoughts shimmered and danced like raindrops on water.

  Fra-s-s-s-er, sang the waves that moved sinuously against the rock below his shoes. A swell of water more daring than the others rose up and washed over his feet and ankles.

  Cold. So cold. His wet feet were instantly numb, so numb that they might have ceased to exist altogether; he had no sense of them. He was afraid to look down, thinking he might find that he was un-becoming, dissolving into the briny water.

  With no sensation below his lower calves it was hard to maintain his position. He could feel his knees scraping against the rough surface of the rock but below them nothing; his feet were as useless as the dead white feet of a corpse. Since he could not feel them, he could not draw them up out of reach of the water when the next wave came up and took them off at the knees. With horrible inevitability, he slid off the foothold.

  He still didn’t fall into the water; his hands clung desperately to the chain. He fought to put his elbows over it. He was still clinging there, grunting and sobbing and fighting with the chain, when a great wave came, a glossy protrusion of water that overtopped the high tide mark on the rocks and swamped him easily. He lost his grip on the metal links; the scream was drowned in his throat, sound converted to bubbles.