Ghost House (Soul Mate - Book One)

by Richard Crawford

  We're outside and walking down the street. The ghost holds onto the fences and takes little nervous steps and I'm glad there's no one around. I try to tell the ghost this body's different to what she remembers. I try to help her get the hang of it but I'm not getting through. She's too freaked. She's sort of distracted. I think she expected to be in a woman.

  After a block the ghost stops holding onto the fences but she's still taking silly little steps. And she's talking to herself.

  "Oh dear, none of this is familiar. I wonder where we are."

  Or perhaps she's talking to me, but if that's it then she's not listening when I try to get through to her. We keep walking until she sees a café and then we stop. She takes her coffee with too much cream and sugar and I don't like it. We give a little giggle as she orders the third pancake and the waitress gives me a dirty look. I'm glad there is money in my pocket to pay.

  I think of Suki while the ghost eats. She'll think I just disappeared on her. Jess will say 'told you so' and 'what did you expect from such a loser?' Suki will hate me unless I find a way to explain the ghosts that doesn't sound like a crazy excuse.

  More than ever I know that I have to find a way to get through to the ghosts. I'll do what they want, just let me speak. Let me explain.

  The ghost is finished. We pay and leave a tip. I need to piss and that causes a problem. In the end we sort of dart into the gents and hide in a stall. It takes the ghost a while to even touch the zipper but I need to pee bad and she realizes she has to deal.

  "Oh deary, dear," she says and takes a piece of toilet paper and dabs cautiously at my dick. Like it's going to bite her or something. It's ten minutes before we get out of the toilet and I'm freaking out. It's like having a toddler drive your new car.

  The ghost gets on better after breakfast. She recognizes a few landmarks and soon we're heading across town. It feels as if we have a purpose now. I wish I knew what it was.

  We get to a narrow little street, rows of terraced houses with pocket-handkerchief gardens. The ghost gives a little sigh. We come to a halt in front of a house with a 'For Sale' sign stuck in the garden. It's one of the few houses that still has a little patch of lawn rather than concrete for parking. There are clumps of flowers in the beds but the grass needs cutting and the beds are overgrown.

  "Oh dear," says the ghost and starts pulling weeds.

  I can't believe she's come back to weed the garden. She's ruining my life for weeds.

  The other ghosts don't like it. I'm guessing this is not why she's here. Somehow the other ghosts get through to her and we're leaving the weeds and looking round for something to wipe our hands. Just as we step out of the garden, a lady comes out of a house down the road. The ghost turns and hurries up to her.

  "Excuse me," says the ghost. "I'm looking for Mr Edwards, he used to live at number twelve?" My voice comes out real weird.

  The lady hovers inside her garden gate clearly not keen to talk to a strange guy. "I'm afraid Mrs Edwards died a few weeks ago," she says.

  "Yes, yes, dear, I know all that. But can you tell me where Mr Edwards went, it's awfully important?" As if the words weren't bad enough my voice has gone all Dame Edna. I'm terrified we'll stop saying Mr Edwards and start talking about my husband.

  The woman takes a step back and does a double take. She stares hard at me to see if I'm taking the piss.

  I know the ghost needs to get a grip or the woman's not telling us anything. But the ghost isn't getting it. We're standing like an old lady, all neat, feet together, with our fingers laced, head poked forward, smiling eagerly at her.

  The woman backs off another pace. "Sorry, I can't help you," she says and she's back inside with the front door closed before the ghost recovers.

  "Oh dear." We stand in the street wringing our hands and I have an awful feeling the ghost's going to start crying.

  The other ghosts are getting restless again.

  I'm cross, but I'm also a little bit sorry for the ghost. They don't usually get it this wrong. The old girl knows what we look like. I try to find a way to make her understand the game she needs to play. But we just stand there snuffling a bit. Then the ghost sees a postman coming down the street and she perks up and stops sniffing.

  We hurry towards him; the ghost takes little mincing steps. "Excuse me, young man."

  The postman stops and looks at me. He's probably ten years older than I am. I guess postmen are used to weird shit, because after looking for a while he just says, "Yes?"

  "I'm trying to find Mr Edwards; he used to live at number twelve." The ghost waves a hand towards the house. "Do you know where he went, it is important?" We still sound a bit Dame Edna but the posty seems to take it in his stride, or maybe it's just that he's worried he has bad news for us.

  "His wife died a few weeks ago. He went into a home," he says in the quiet voice people use for bad news.

  "Yes, dear, I know that, but which one?"

  The postman's looking around for hidden cameras in case this is a windup. He takes a step to one side sort of keeping his distance from us. But he's got nowhere to go, and I can see from the look on his face he has decided his best bet is to play along and hope he can get rid of us. "St Andrew's Nursing Home," he says. "Over on Carling Road."

  "Thank you, dear," we say and the ghost reaches out to squeeze his hand, but the postman moves away too fast.

  The ghost feels pleased. She says, "Carling Road," out loud and I'm praying she knows the way and we don't have to ask directions. She lifts her shoulders and crooks an arm as though she has a handbag put over it, and we're off.

  Part of me hopes Carling Road is close by, another part dreads what we'll find when we get there.

  It turns out Carling Road is not that far away. St Andrew's is a big detached house with pointed gables. It's an old house that has been extended. We stand at the glass doors and press the buzzer. The ghost seems different now we're here. We stand with arms bent, hands crossed as though we had a handbag but the ghost is focussed.

  A girl in a uniform appears on the other side of the glass and taps in a code. The door opens. The ghost smiles at the girl and I hope we don't look too creepy.

  "I'm here to see Mr Edwards." The way the ghost says it is a bit too determined.

  The girl looks us up and down. "Are you a relative?"

  The ghost is ready for this. "Yes, I'm his nephew, John Horwood."

  "If you'd like to sign in I'll get a senior to take you through." The girl leaves us in the reception area and goes through another door that locks behind her. All these locked doors freak me out. The ghost signs us in as J Horwood and we sit down beside a huge flower display. It's so big it looks like it came off a coffin. I guess it probably did.

  The girl comes back with a tall woman in a nurse's uniform. She sails up to us. "Mr Horwood?"

  We get up and nod at her.

  "We haven't seen you here before? It's nice for Mr Edwards to have visitors." It's not that she's disapproving. But it upsets the ghost.

  We follow the nurse through the door and along carpeted, strangely silent corridors. The nurse chats on about how Mr Edwards is. I'm not listening. There's something about this place that gives me the creeps. Too many potential ghosts.

  We come to a room and the nurse lets us in. The old man in the bed is asleep, or something. He's shaved and laid out neat as a pin. A drip slides into one arm, a catheter bag hangs from the metal cot sides of the bed. He's wrapped up in blankets and a foil cover like a Christmas turkey. The ghost makes a little gulping sound and the nurse pats our arm in sympathy.

  She pulls a chair over by the bed. "Take your time," she says.

  The ghost grips on to the cot sides and I know she's trying not to cry. We give a little moan.

  "Can I get you anything?" The nurse hovers by the door, uncertain what to make of us.

  "No, thank you, dear." The ghost doesn't look up. We can't take our eyes off the old man in the bed.

  "Just let me know if you need anyt
hing," the nurse says and goes out closing the door softly.

  As soon as she's gone the ghost leans over the bed. We kiss the old man's dry, papery cheek. As our eyes fill with tears, the ghost strokes his wispy grey hair and whispers. "It's all right, my darling. There's nothing to be afraid of."

  The old man doesn't move. Close to, you can hear how the breath rattles in his throat. The ghost takes hold of his hand and strokes it.

  We sit down beside the bed. The ghost holds his hand and talks. I feel weird, like I'm not even here. All I can feel is this emptiness. We tell the old man how sorry we are. Sorry that we left him alone and never came back. We tell him we couldn't help it and we're so sorry. We hope he wasn't afraid. We tell him we should have made sure there was someone else to take care of him. It was selfish to want to be the only one. We cry.

  We keep holding his hand and talking. The nurses look at us a bit strange but they let us stay. I suppose we're not doing any harm. The old man doesn't seem to mind.

  We talk so much my throat hurts. The nurses give us tea and sandwiches. Then one of the nurses touches our shoulder. The ghost finally looks up.

  "I'm afraid you'll have to go," the nurse says. "You can always come back."

  The ghost nods and our eyes fill with tears. The ghost doesn't want to leave. I know she can't come back and I'm sorry. I'm afraid too. It's hard to remember what I want. The nurse goes out, telling us just five more minutes.

  We get up out of the chair and lean over the bed, still holding on to his hand. "I can't come back, my darling." We whisper it so close to his ear his hair tickles my lips. "But I'll be waiting for you." We stroke his face and bend to kiss his lips. "There's nothing to be afraid of," we say. It's sort of hard to breathe. The ghost lets go of the old man's hand.

  We're walking across the room and out the door without looking back. I'm sort of surprised. As the nurse lets us out through the locked doors, we don't say anything. The nurse looks a bit confused. I stand in the sunlight and try to remember who I am.

  I realise there's a new ghost in charge.

  ####

  This ghost is different. I know it's a man, but the only thing I get from him is this sense of emptiness.

  The ghost walks west into the setting sun, heading out of town. We walk slow with a funny halting rhythm, and I realise the ghost has a limp. Had a limp. The ghost is so quiet inside my head, so not there, and I don't like it. It's as if there's no ghost, just me, out of control, walking to I don't know where.

  It's getting dark when we come to a bridge over a dual carriageway. The ghost walks into the middle and stands at the parapet looking down at the cars as they whiz beneath the bridge. Headlights slide across the concrete under the bridge. The graffiti flashes with the lights. The ghost strokes a hand along the warm stone.

  The feeling of emptiness gets worse. The ghost leans way out over the parapet. Our hands curl around the stone and hang on. A death grip. I think the ghost is going to fall, or jump.

  I'm screaming inside my head. Screaming for the ghost not to do it. Our fingers are white; the concrete digs into my ribs. I'm holding on so hard. I don't know if it's me or the ghost. Wind from the lorries balloons under my shirt and whips my hair against my face so hard it stings.

  The ghost laughs out loud and lets go of the stone. We sort of collapse on the path. The ghost is laughing. Some guy hurries by, crossing the road to avoid us. After a while the ghost gets up. We start walking back the way we came and the ghost is smiling like something funny happened. But I know something bad is happening, something I should understand, but I can't work it out.

  My heart is racing and don't know whether this is the ghost or me. I'm scared. Every time we stumble, every time a lorry goes by. Every time we cross the road I'm praying the ghost looks right and left. I'm praying the ghost cares about me. And I know the ghost doesn't care. At least not in a good way. And I start to have this terrible feeling.

  The ghost stops at an off-licence and buys a cheap bottle of vodka. We come to a multi-storey car park and the ghost takes the lift to the top floor. The ghost walks across the concrete to the parapet. We stand and look out across the city. It's dark now and the lights of cars weave in streams below. We stand in the dark with the smell of oil and diesel. The ghost unscrews the bottle and raises it, a sort of toast to the city, or to me, I don't know. The bottle teases my lips. The touch of oblivion. It's just out of reach and suddenly I want it. I try to tip the bottle. The ghost smiles, like it's a victory. Vodka trickles across my tongue and I swallow. I keep swallowing. The lights of cars wink and dazzle far below. The ghost raises the bottle again. I swallow or I drown in vodka.

  And I think I know who the ghost is.

  Danny.....

  ####

  I've lost three days.

  It's another ghost that brings me back.

  This ghost is an old guy who wants to know that someone is feeding his dog. He saves me. Or perhaps it's that my money's all gone.

  The dog's fine. As far as I can tell the dog's living the highlife with the ghost's son and his family. The dog looks good. The dog's getting a meal everyday, a Bonio at bedtime, someone to pat him on the head, take him for walks, somewhere warm to sleep.

  When the last ghost is satisfied that his dog is OK, it's only me again. It's late. I'm still a bit drunk. The ghost hangover is worse. I shouldn't go looking for her, but I can't wait. She's like an anchor. The one thing I know I want. And I don't want to be alone. I don't want to think about what happened. What it might mean. I can't be alone.

  The towpath's dark. I stumble over flowerpots and bicycles. I can't find the boat. Some guy swears at me when I knock on the wrong door. Between the ghosts and the vodka I'm more drunk than I'd realised. This is a bad idea, but I can't go without seeing her.

  I see the boat, a familiar shape up ahead, lights glowing in the dark. This is a bad idea. But it's all I can think of to do. I bang on the door.

  It's Suki who opens it. She stares out into the darkness and says, "Tommy, thank god." She stands back so I can come inside. Her face changes when she can see me better.

  I'm so stupid; I'm still hoping it's going to be all right.

  Then she says, "It's been four days, we've been so worried."

  Jess is sitting at the table, stringing beads. She looks up at me, one glance, and says, "He's pissed. I told you, Suke, you can't trust addicts. Chuck him out now."

  I stand in the tiny kitchen and look from Jess to Suki. "Five minutes." I'm speaking to Suki like Jess isn't there. "I've got something I have to tell you."

  Suki looks up at me and shakes her head. "I'm really glad you're all right, Tommy. But you can't disappear for four days and then just turn up here." She hesitates. "Like this."

  "Please," I say. "Just five minutes." I say it even knowing this is a story that will take all night. If she'll hear it.

  "I'm not leaving her alone with you. Not when I can smell the booze from here." Jess stares me in the eyes like I'm a serial killer or something. "And what have you got to say that's going to make a difference? I've got to hear this."

  I want to shout back at her, tell her she's being a bitch. My mouth even opens. I sort of splutter, "You....." It's only then I realise how out of it I am. I gulp and shut my mouth. I look to Suki. "Please," it's all I can trust myself to say.

  It hangs out there for a moment. Then Suki looks over her shoulder at Jess. Suki doesn't say anything but beads rattle like machine gun fire as Jess gets up from the table.

  Jess glares at me. Her stare is so mean, I step back a pace and bump into the cupboards. What's her deal?

  She scoops up an armful of stuff from the table. But she can't leave without another shot. "He's going to spin you a line, you know what they're like, Suke. Don't listen to his crap." She waits a moment and then shrugs. "I'll be in my room."

  We don't move until the door slams, then Suki sort of sighs. "Sit down. I'll get you some coffee."

  She keeps her distance as we pass, not eas
y in the tiny kitchen. I go and sit on the sofa and try to get my head together. I'm looking for the right words, but whatever way I start it's going to sound nuts. I decide I'll start with sorry. That should work okay.

  I don't notice Suki standing in front of me until she shoves a mug of coffee under my nose and says, "Here." She sounds tired. She sits at the table, still keeping her distance. And she waits.

  For some reason her silence is worse than Jess's screaming. It's good just to be here, just to look at her but I've got to say something. "I'm sorry." It comes out sort of lame.

  "Sorry?" She waits for a moment and then says, "Four days, Tommy." She doesn't ask what happened, what I've been doing, apparently that's not even in question.

  "I know. I never meant to mess you about but it's sort of complicated."

  She sighs. "It's not just me, Tommy, Maria got you that job. She had to answer for it when you didn't turn up."

  The way she keeps using my name is bad. Like she's had this conversation before and she needs to keep straight in her head which loser she's dealing with now. I remember the feel of her in my arms and know we're moving further away from that moment. Even if she forgives me I'm back to being some loser she helped out. Not even a success story.

  She stares into her coffee. "Perhaps I shouldn't have got you the job."

  I just look at her, thinking, go on, say it.

  And she does, "I'm sorry, Tommy, I never thought that having money might make it worse."

  "You're so sure that's what happened?" I've no right to be angry with her; perhaps it's the booze. I gulp the coffee but it doesn't help. My head feels like it's going to burst. Despite what I'm telling her, if I had a bottle I'd probably be taking a drink.

  "What happened, Tommy?" she says it sort of patiently and that makes me madder.

  With nothing left to lose, I snap at her. "I didn't just bail on you. I didn't have a choice. It was the ghosts."

  "Pardon," she says. "Did you say ghosts?"