Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Hello Spireites!” bellowed the man, using the nickname of the local inhabitants. A lacklustre reply issued from the crowd. Morris the dancer cupped a hand to his ear and repeated, “Hello, Spireites!” This time the crowd got its act together and shouted back more or less in unison.

  “Are you having a good time?” he hollered. Most of the crowd replied in the affirmative, a few contrary, drunken folk decided to disagree.

  “Well, we’ve come to the highlight of the weekend’s festival, and you all know what that means!” A cheer resonated around the confined space of the square. “Just a reminder, that the Beltane Bar and Barbecue Bonfire Ball is down in Queens Park later for anyone who doesn’t have to get up in the morning! Okay, let’s get the climax of the show under way!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd, followed by a settled murmuring and a gentle babble of anticipation. “Light the beacons!” ordered Morris. A group of men emerged from the crowd and entered the cordoned off area carrying flaming torches where they commenced to light the braziers that surrounded the central effigy.

  The wood in each brazier, clearly impregnated with a flammable substance, sprang into instant dazzling life, despite the constant drizzle. A buzz of approval emanated from the crowd. The entire square became flooded in yellow and orange light, giving the impression that the surrounding buildings had become engulfed in flames.

  The effigy of Satan erupted in a lurid glare of red light created by the attached fireworks. From the top of the effigy, mortars shot exploding shells high into the sky, creating a lurid pallet of colours beneath the cloudy sky. The low cloud reflected back the light so that they too seemed to be alive with flame and hue. Emily held on tightly to Beckett as each mortar projectile concluded its upward rush in a shattering explosion, which bounced and surged around the adjacent buildings in a perpetual echo.

  Each subsequent eruption was greeted by a howl of approval from the multitude. Fountains of sparks fell from the effigy and spinning Catherine Wheels dazzled the audience. Rockets blasted high into the endless gloom above their heads, whilst laser lights punched their way into the sky and searchlights danced and bounced off the low clouds.

  Beckett had to concede that he had never seen anything quite like it. The display finally ended with a terrifying mortar discharge, the resultant detonation exorcising the last of the remaining pigeons roosting on nearby buildings.

  The crowd gave one last ecstatic cheer and spontaneously applauded. Even Beckett, who hated clapping at Christmas pantomimes, joined in the round of applause.

  “Tom, that was amazing!” shouted Emily above the din of the crowd. Beckett simply grinned and shook his head in disbelief. Folk immediately began to disperse from the square. Looking at his watch, Beckett noted it was gone nine thirty.

  Emily asked, “you fancy going to the Beltane Bar and Barbecue Bonfire Ball?” Beckett smiled his affirmation; he was enjoying the evening and did not want it to end.

  “Sure thing,” he replied, “I guess it’s a case of follow my leader. We’ll either end up at the bonfire or in some car park. Madame, let me escort you to the BBBBB. Did I say ‘b’ enough times, Doctor? I’d hate to show myself up in front of an educated lady.” Emily punched his arm playfully before re-taking it as they followed the largest stream of adults walking in a general direction back towards the Holmcourt Hotel.

  Mingling with the flowing exodus, they proceeded through a forum created by an office complex and over a worn concrete footbridge that led down into Queens Park. The congress meandered left past the boating lake, where the ducks protested vociferously at having their evening disrupted, and headed towards a Victorian bandstand.

  They could hardly miss the bonfire, already well alight, as it launched glowing embers cavorting into the darkness. A collection of canvass marquees stood on the grass at a circumspect distance from the flames and a funfair at the edge of the park with the habitual crowd pleasers drew in the teenagers, lured like moths by the harsh neon lights and seductive music.

  An assortment of food stalls stood dotted around the park offering succour to the night goers, burgers, hotdogs, hog roast, jacket potatoes to name but a few. Chesterfield certainly knew how to snack on a grand scale.

  Beckett and Emily contentedly strolled through the nocturnal park, the damp air alive with stimuli for all the senses. It was alive with the miasma of take-away fancies. Alive with the sound of riotous folk music as couples danced in the music marquee. Alive with the radiance of the bonfire as it cast unnatural shadows against the canvas backdrops. Alive with the moisture of the soft rain that furnished the night air with a visceral piquancy. Beckett felt very much alive. The festival cast a spell, and if this was enchantment, then he was bewitched.

  Without conscious forethought, Emily and Beckett found themselves in the garish wonderland of the funfair where Emily insisted that he threw at the coconut shy. He tied to protest but she was insistent.

  “I can’t throw, Em, believe me it will be embarrassing, for me and for you.”

  “Don’t put yourself down; you’re not with Cavendish now,” she shouted against the noise of the invasive background music. He was reminded how much less intense the world seemed to be when Cavendish was absent.

  Beckett paid the money and took the three proffered balls. His first throw went high above the middle coconut. He groaned aloud with embarrassment.

  “Come on, Tom, you can do better than that. Two more to go!” cried Emily passionately. His second ball landed on the ground well short of any coconut.

  “Come, on Tom, you can do it!” she encouraged. He looked back at her and drank in the picture of Emily. Why was he acting so out of character? He recognised the unique emotional delight but quashed his admission of the fatal incurable longing, as if conscious effort alone was enough to quell the subconscious allure.

  Beckett simply slung the last ball dismissively. It struck the coconut furthest to the right and knocked it clean to the ground. He watched with fascination as the coconut rolled along the floor, his mouth agape with astonishment and turned to see a delighted Emily leaping on the spot, her arms raised in victory.

  “Well, done, me duck,” said the woman who ran the stall, “what would you like for your lady?” Before Beckett could answer, Emily rushed to his side and pointed at the row of Teddy Bears. “The big one, me duck?” asked the stallholder, already heading for the over-sized stuffed toy.

  “No, that cute small one on the end,” Emily insisted animatedly. The woman took the bear from the shelf and passed it over to an appreciative Emily. She clutched the five-inch bear with both hands, held it to her face, and waved one of its paws at Beckett.

  “Thank you, Uncle Thomas!” she said in her best small bear voice. Thomas Beckett would never forget that image of Emily Spelman, her long dark hair wet and lank in the April rain, clutching a toy bear, looking radiant and incredibly beautiful.

  “Fancy a drink, Tom?” Emily asked.

  “No, I don’t think I do at the moment” he replied pensively. “Do you know what I want to do? I want to dance!” she stated insistently.

  “I don’t dance,” replied Beckett sharply.

  “Of course you do, everyone dances!”

  “Not me, twenty four left feet.”

  “Well, you’re taking me dancing, you’d better put Holmcourt in your pocket; he’ll fall out of mine.”

  “Holmcourt?” he asked quizzically, screwing up his face.

  “Holmcourt Bear, dummy. Come on.” She took his arm and led him off towards the marquee as he stuffed Holmcourt Bear into one of the outside pockets of his parka.

  A Ceilidh band was performing in the music marquee. A set of tables stood at one end, whilst at the opposite extremity the band played on a raised stage. A dozen or so people danced along to the vivacious music whilst men of varying ages stood around the periphery of the tent clutching plastic pints of beer, taping their feet or nodding along to the music. The atmosphere within was heavy with a dankness induced by the dam
p night air and warm moist clothing.

  “Ever done the Gay Gordons?” asked Emily.

  “Never, but I knew a Gordon at school who was definitely odd,” shouted Beckett, his words smothered by the melody of fiddles and accordions.

  “Well now’s your chance!” she cried as she grabbed his hand and led him to the centre of the wooden decked floor.

  Quite what they danced or how they danced was beyond the reckoning of Tom Beckett. Nevertheless, dance they did, well certainly Emily danced. They spun, they twisted, and they bounced as Beckett clung on gamely. At the end of ten minutes, an exhausted Beckett stumbled to the side of the tent where he stood staring devotedly at Emily.

  He was unaware that Mary the clairvoyant, who he had met earlier that day, was standing next to him.

  “She is not yours is she, duck?” suggested Mary, “but I’m working on it.”

  Beckett glanced at petite girl, who was dressed in a green smock and wore a garland of entwined green leaves in her hair, identical to the mobile, which had floated above their restaurant table. Mary’s garland was beginning to wilt at this late hour of the day.

  “You work bloody miracles as well as tell fortunes then,” lamented Beckett miserably as he fought a losing battle to suppress his guilty yearning.

  “Yes, you might say that. Would you like her to be yours?” asked Mary teasingly. Beckett stood mesmerised; his attention fixed on the cavorting Emily.

  “Yes,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  “When the Spire strikes the first chime of midnight, you will belong to her,” Beckett heard Mary’s words but they sounded far-off and he turned to face the enigmatic clairvoyant to confirm she was not a figment of his imagination. However, Mary was nowhere to be seen. Beckett shuddered as if waking from a dream, the music suddenly seemed harsh and caustic following his apparent trance.

  Emily was in great demand and danced for a further five minutes before the band took a break and she was applauded off the dance floor. Her red woollen coat remained fastened and her face shimmered with light perspiration.

  “Tom, that was great! I want to and see the Wiccans next, watch them doing their thing!” Beckett glanced at his watch.

  “And what exactly is their thing?” Beckett asked

  “I don’t know, let’s find out!” Emily tugged at his arm like a child demanding ice cream. As they walked out of the music tent, Beckett dug his heels stubbornly into the wet grass.

  “Hold hard, Emily. Before I do anything, I must go to the loo. You wait here, I shalln’t be a tick.” With these words, Beckett headed off in the direction of the beer tent. Emily stood quietly catching her breath, her eyes drawn towards the leaping flames of the bonfire.

  “What the hell have you been up to?” Emily recoiled from Paul Slingsby as he shouted into her right ear. She felt his left hand take hold of her waist and found herself being tugged sideways towards the journalist so that they were joined at the hip.

  “You’re supposed to be stealing the bloody sword from him, not going out for a night on the piss! What the hell are you thinking of?”

  “Let go of me!” protested Emily angrily, “He’ll be back in a minute.”

  “I don’t think so, have you seen the queues for those loos? Shocking, they never lay enough on,” laughed Slingsby. Emily failed to appreciate the humour in his statement.

  “Have you been following us?” demanded Emily furiously.

  “Course, someone’s got to keep an eye on little Em. I’ve got a lot invested in you. About time you took him back isn’t it?”

  “Listen Paul, there’s something I want to tell you, you see...” Emily was silenced by Slingsby’s right index finger, placed firmly to her lips.

  “Emily, I think before you say anything you’d better remember how much this project means to us.”

  “But...,”

  “Shush now,” whispered Slingsby; he tightened his grip on her waist, pinching her skin. He pushed his upright finger more forcefully against her frightened lips; she could smell the nicotine that stained his finger. “We’ve come too far to back out now. There’s a lot riding on this one so we don’t want any fuck ups at this stage, do we?”

  Even though Emily heard him speaking for the both of them, she knew very well that he was referring to himself. She wondered how much he did have riding on the procurement of this sword. For her it was all about prestige, kudos and career advancement. Yet now she realised that Slingsby must have had far more at stake.

  “I can’t have you back tracking now, Emily, remember all the things I know about you,” accused Slingsby through clenched teeth as he squeezed her waist aggressively. Emily began to wince with the pain. “Paul, you’re hurting me!” she cried.

  “Not as much as I will if you don’t get that fuckin’ sword!” snarled Slingsby.

  Emily grimaced as his grip tightened even more. “I just thought I had better make our position clear,” he hissed. From his pocket, he took out a voice recorder and pressed the play button as he held it to her ear. She appeared distraught as she listened and assimilated the implications of the damning recording.

  “Just bloody well get on with it!” he said with slow and measured menace. Emily had not realised how hard she had been resisting his clinch and as he suddenly relaxed his grip, she staggered away from him, falling inelegantly on the sodden grass. She squatted on her hands and knees in a bid to control her hysterical breathing before slowly pushing her way back to her feet. She looked furtively around but no one took any notice of someone falling over on a night like this. In the meanwhile, Slingsby had departed leaving Emily to stand transfixed, terrified by Slingsby’s words and actions.

  Beckett finally returned but he might as well have found a complete stranger. Emily’s joie de vivre had vanished.

  “Are you alright, Emily?” he asked placing his hands enquiringly on her slumped shoulders. She brusquely ducked away from his hands as she avoided eye contact, hiding her tears from him. Beckett stepped back, smarting from her rebuff.

  “Yes, I’m just tired,” she replied dispassionately. Beckett sighed and checked his watch; it was approaching eleven o’clock, where had the time gone?

  “It’s time we should be going, Emily,” Beckett said reluctantly.

  “Fine,” replied Emily’s lethargically. Beckett sighed again and drew his hand through his wet hair. He had been right; there was an air of enchantment in the air, it had been Christmas Eve for grownups and he and Emily had become caught up in the contagious good-will hysteria that pervaded the town. It was now time to return to the real world. He guessed in ignorance that Emily felt the same, so explaining her abrupt mood swing; that the enchantment for her had also melted away with the April rain.

  Beckett attempted to take her arm but she snatched it away and stepped away from him. He was reflecting upon his own wounded pride as he stared at the standoffish Emily. It was as if a switch had been thrown, she had fallen silent and moody, her smile replaced by an anxious frown.

  For Emily the evening had been an unexpected delight, she had not enjoyed herself so much for many years, and she genuinely relished the company of Tom Beckett. For that, she blamed not the moonlight nor the music but the heady, magical atmosphere that Chesterfield had fashioned. Paul Slingsby had changed all that. His threats had left her in no doubt that she was now utterly compromised. She had been deluding herself all evening and it was with a terrible sense of foreboding that she reconciled herself to what she must do, even though she had no idea how she could bring herself to do it.

  As they drew near the Holmcourt Hotel, Emily spoke up for the first time since leaving the park.

  “Fancy a night cap,” she asked quietly. His immediate reaction was to decline the offer, but on reflection, he realised that he was on the verge of sulking. What he really wanted was to restore the bonhomie of the evening. He was and always would be a dreamer.

  “Sure thing, Emily. Order the drinks, I’m nipping to wash my hands, the soap in those toi
lets was really sticky.”

  He smiled his most disarming smile in the hope of appeasing the troubled Emily, showing her his hands and wiggling his fingers to emphasise the point. As they entered the hotel, they went their separate ways and Emily stalked into the busy bar and ordered two large whiskies, then found a quiet seat in the corner of the lounge.

  She could not believe that Beckett had left her alone with the drinks. The Fates seemed to be conspiring against her, as if controlled by Slingsby. Had Beckett not disappeared again she would not have been given the opportunity to carry out what she realised she must now do,

  What choice did she have? Slingsby had enough dirt to ruin her career and she naively conceded to her fate.

  She began to cry as she took a small plastic bag from her inside coat pocket, which she fervently wished she had dropped whilst dancing.

  She stared at the contents for several long seconds. Her hands shook violently as she steeled herself to drop one tablet from the packet into Beckett’s drink before hurriedly adding a second.

  She felt a surge of panic as the two tablets effervesced in the glass.

  “Stay away a bit longer please, Tom,” she muttered to herself as she willed the bubbles to stop rising in the glass.

  Beckett entered the lounge and she nervously watched him scan the room as he tried to locate her amid the crowd. She pretended not to see him and hastily wiped the tears from her eyes as he approached their table.

  “Sorry about that, a busy night in the loo. It seems as if the men in Chesterfield have synchronised their bladders for last orders,” grinned Beckett. Emily smiled wanly as she handed him his drink.

  “Cheers, Emily!” he said with forced enthusiasm and took a large swig of the neat spirit. He cringed as he swallowed. Again, Emily panicked as she thought he detected the drug.

  “Wow, that’s a fiery brand you chose there.” He paused as he put his glass down. He looked at her.

  “Are you alright?” he asked with genuine concern. He could hardly miss the tears rolling over her flushed cheeks.