by Nick Moseley
Turning away from the window, Trev attempted to subtly position himself so that he was blocking Ian and Annabel’s view of the garden.
As he did so, his gaze travelled back down the hallway and alighted on the figure of the black-clad woman he had seen in the mirror at SmoothMove, who was now standing in the doorway to the lounge, watching him.
Already on edge from his experience in the spare bedroom, Trev underwent a whole-body spasm that resulted in his right foot shooting out from under him. He fell, catching his head on the work-surface with an echoing thump.
‘Oh my God, are you all right?’ shrieked Annabel, rushing over to him.
‘Trev?’ said Sarah. ‘Trev, can you hear me?’
‘Nnngh,’ said Trev, his vision swimming.
‘The man next door’s standing out in his garden with an inflatable sheep,’ said Ian in a slow voice.
‘What happened? Trev?’ persisted Sarah.
‘I’m OK,’ said Trev woozily. ‘Slipped.’
‘Let’s help him up,’ said Annabel.
‘It’s wearing a pink bow,’ continued Ian.
‘I’ve never liked these laminate floors,’ said Annabel, as they helped Trev onto one of the dining chairs. ‘My friend Samantha has the right idea, she’s used carpet tiles–’
‘His head’s not bleeding, but it looks like he hurt his hand,’ said Sarah, ignoring her. ‘I’ll see if there’s any ice in the freezer for an ice-pack.’
‘And red lipstick,’ finished Ian. Although he hadn’t felt moved enough to comment on his girlfriend’s interior design ideas, the subject of ovine fashion seemed to have galvanised him.
Sarah found some ice, which she wrapped in a tea-towel and handed to the grateful Trev. He pressed it to the back of his throbbing head.
‘I’m all right,’ he said, blinking his watering eyes enough to see their worried expressions. He also noted that the ghostly woman had vanished from the hallway. ‘I’ll just have a sit down for five minutes. Sarah, would you mind showing Annabel and Ian the upstairs, please?’
Sarah looked a little apprehensive, but dug deep and found a convincing smile. ‘Sure,’ she said, brightly. ‘If you’d like to come with me?’
Annabel had to drag Ian away from the window to get him to go upstairs, and in doing so got a clear view of the sheep-wielding neighbour herself. Her expression as she passed Trev wasn’t encouraging, and within a few minutes he heard the group coming back downstairs, confirming his fears. He distinctly heard Ian say ‘A pink bow! That’s just weird.’
‘Thanks then!’ called Annabel, peering back at Trev from the hallway. Ian gave him a vague nod. Trev summoned a half-hearted wave in response. He listened to Sarah seeing them out before she came back to the kitchen, red-faced.
‘Sorry about that. I should’ve thrown it over the other side, or hidden it,’ she said. ‘I just sort of panicked a bit. I didn’t want you to walk into the kitchen with the buyers and find me standing there with it.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ grunted Trev, though in truth he was annoyed with her. Without the sheep’s untimely appearance, the sympathy vote from his fall might well have worked in his favour. ‘The first rule of estate agency is: beware of the neighbours. Trust me, if you stay in this business long enough you’ll lose a fair few sales due to freaky behaviour by the people next door.’
‘It wasn’t really his fault though,’ protested Sarah. ‘I threw it over there.’
‘That’s the second rule,’ said Trev, getting up from his chair with a sigh. ‘Be careful where you throw inflatable sheep.’
Five
The rest of the day passed without further incident, though Trev’s splitting headache made it difficult to concentrate on either his work or his usual winding-up of Barry. There was little customer activity during the afternoon, and, mindful of Trev’s injury, Helen asked if he’d like to take the rest of the day off.
Trev declined. He didn’t fancy being at home, alone, with all that time to think.
Keen to keep himself busy, he instead applied himself to the teetering pile of paperwork that had accumulated in his in-tray. It had been there so long he was mildly surprised to find that the bottom layer hadn’t yet turned to coal. It took him a couple of hours to get it all squared away, during which time the office was quiet. Trev usually kept up a flow of banter with his colleagues, but on this occasion he was too preoccupied. Barry was so pleased at not having to suffer an afternoon’s worth of Trev’s put-downs that he was almost polite to the acne-ridden I.T. technician who turned up to look at his computer.
‘It’s another virus,’ mumbled the lad, who looked to Trev to be about twelve years old. He also appeared to have been dressed by his mother. Possibly in a darkened room. ‘You really ought to install a firewall on here, Mr. Clark.’
‘I’ve already got one on there!’ replied an exasperated Barry. ‘The latest version, too. I just don’t understand how this keeps happening!’
Trev was suddenly struck by a severe coughing fit.
Tempering Barry’s good humour was the fact that Sarah sat with Helen all afternoon, getting training on SmoothMove’s computer system. Gavin often boasted that his company’s computers were “state-of-the-art”. What he failed to mention was that they were “state-of-the-art” for the era when computers filled an entire room and were powered by steam. On several occasions Trev heard Sarah say ‘Now why’s it done that?’ or ‘Has it locked up again?’ followed by Helen tutting, assuring Sarah it wasn’t her fault and pressing CTRL-ALT-DEL with an expression of weary resignation.
When Trev’s paperwork was finally done, he rang around a few of the local solicitors who were working on conveyancing for SmoothMove and got updates. He felt rather pleased with himself; not only had he cleared a backlog of work that he’d been putting off dealing with for bloody ages, he’d also been able to push the morning’s strange events to the back of his mind.
He knew, though, that he couldn’t hope to suppress the memories indefinitely. He would have to come up with some kind of plausible explanation for what had happened, or before long those memories would sneak out of the mental corral in which he had trapped them and start popping up when it was most inconvenient. He might develop a phobia of shadows. Or of disapproving-faced women in black clothes.
Or he might start telling everyone that he was Genghis Khan, before attempting to pillage The Lost Temple of Many Treasures, which was located in his sock drawer and only visible to him.
None of these possibilities appealed much.
Right, he thought. Time to work this out. First things first - those things I saw were not ghosts. Ghosts are things seen by substance abusers, attention-seeking old ladies and the insane. Ghosts DO NOT EXIST.
This was a good start. Trev always felt safe with a large helping of scepticism laced with scorn.
However, I did see them. So what were they?
This was shakier ground. If what he had seen were hallucinations, then that was worrying in itself. He certainly didn’t think he was going crazy, but then again, hadn’t he read somewhere that mad people didn’t realise they were mad?
So... if he didn’t think he was insane, it meant he probably was? Best to leave that bit of logic well alone, he felt.
Maybe someone spiked my coffee this morning at the Hot Cuisine?
Aha! That was a good one. Trev couldn’t imagine why anyone would bother to spike Ollie Pound’s coffee – there was a good chance that doing so would actually have made it less toxic – but the pieces fitted. He hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary until he’d drunk half a mug’s worth of the stuff.
Thinking about it, he realised he hadn’t seen anything weird all afternoon. Maybe the effects had worn off, or maybe the blow to the head he’d taken had done the trick. Either way, he at least had an explanation to cling to.
He was savouring this thought when his telephone rang. Staring into the middle distance he picked up the receiver.
‘Good afternoon, SmoothM
ove Estate Agents; Trev speaking,’ he said.
‘Hello, it’s mum,’ said the voice on the other end.
‘Oh, hello.’ Trev hated it when his mother called him at work. She always phoned to remind him of some little detail that he hadn’t actually forgotten, then tried to start a tiresome conversation. Trev immediately began thinking of an excuse to end the phone call as soon as he could.
Trev’s relationship with his parents might best have been described as “troubled”. For starters, they’d seen fit to have him christened Trevor. Shortening it to Trev softened the blow, but not by much, and they hadn’t even given him a middle name that he could use instead. It really summed up their half-arsed approach to parenting.
Trev often wondered why his parents had bothered having him at all. They’d both been lawyers and they’d both been workaholics, which meant Trev spent most of his formative years being looked after by other people, most often his maternal grandfather. He’d lost count of the number of times his parents had cancelled outings, birthday parties and holidays at the last minute to accommodate more work and had shunted him off to Granddad’s. Granddad wasn’t a bad old boy, but his idea of a fun day for his grandson was letting him help alphabetise his book collection. And Granddad had a lot of books.
The only plus side was that Trev had always done very well for birthday and Christmas presents, though he knew that was only because his parents were seeking to buy themselves out of their guilt.
‘I’m just ringing to remind you that you promised you’d drop in on Granddad this evening,’ said his mum.
‘Oh yeah,’ replied Trev, his heart sinking. For once she’d reminded him of something that had genuinely slipped his mind. He rolled his eyes. Even after all these years, they were still sending him off to his Granddad’s. It was all he needed after the day he’d had.
‘Don’t forget to thank him for your birthday present.’
‘I won’t, don’t worry,’ sighed Trev. The present had been a big hardback book about the history of Brackenford. Trev hadn’t even bothered to open the damn thing, although he had used it to prop open the kitchen door.
‘So how’s business today?’ she asked. Trev pictured her settling herself down in her favourite armchair, hoping for a long chat. He knew that she had a lot of time to spare and bored easily; Trev’s dad wasn’t at home much, which was how his wife liked it. Both of them had worked long hours all their lives to ensure a financially-sound retirement, only to find that now they could spend more time together, they really didn’t care for each other’s company very much.
Trev’s dad played a lot of golf and squash. Trev’s mum spent a large amount of time arranging coffee mornings and making pointless phone calls to her son.
If she’s trying to make up for lost time, thought Trev with no small amount of bitterness, she’s way too late.
‘Quiet today,’ Trev admitted. ‘Did a viewing this morning, don’t think it’ll come to anything though.’
‘That’s a shame. I was talking to Mrs. Fellowes this morning, you know, her husband runs the little hardware shop on Lambton Road,’ said Trev’s mum. Trev pinched the bridge of his nose. For some reason his mum had always assumed that he would be interested in a blow-by-blow account of each and every one of her coffee mornings.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Oh, sorry mum, got to go. Some customers have come into the office.’
‘Liar,’ said Barry, loudly. Trev nailed him with a stare that promised a painful death if he said anything else.
‘Oh dear,’ said Trev’s mum in a disappointed voice.
‘Yes, never mind. I’ll speak to you soon,’ said Trev. ‘Bye.’ He put the phone down before she could object.
‘You ought to be nicer to your poor old mum,’ said Barry, grinning.
‘She’s hard work. Unlike your mum, of course - she’s easy,’ snapped Trev. Barry’s grin vanished.
‘Bastard,’ he said, half-rising from his chair.
‘Stop it, you two,’ said Helen. The look on her face carried sufficient warning to make Barry sit down again. She gave Trev an equal dose before returning her attention to Sarah. Barry settled for glaring at Trev, who shrugged and turned back to his computer.
They didn’t exchange a word for the remaining hour and a half of the day. Phil returned quite late, and immediately picked up on the tense atmosphere. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Helen, who nodded toward Trev and Barry and shook her head. Phil sighed and sat down at his desk to upload the digital photos he’d taken on the day’s valuations.
Closing time took its time arriving, and when it finally did Trev bade a curt ‘goodbye’ to Helen, Sarah and Phil and left without even looking at Barry.
He stomped off up the High Street in a foul mood. He knew he shouldn’t have made that crack about Barry’s mother; it had been an unnecessarily low blow. Although he teased Barry a great deal, he didn’t usually stoop to that kind of insult. The bald git had just caught him at the end of a really bad day, that was all. He frowned. He was going to have to apologise, and Trev wasn’t good at apologies, especially to Barry. He knew, though, if he didn’t apologise then Helen, Phil and Sarah would all think he was a complete cock. Assuming they didn’t already, which was likely. The thought served only to further blacken his mood.
‘Spare any change, mate?’ said a voice. Trev glanced to his left to see a homeless man huddled in a shop doorway. He had a polystyrene cup in front of him, in which a few forlorn coppers lay.
‘Get a job,’ snapped Trev, without thinking. The man’s bearded face clouded with anger and Trev hurried off before he could get nasty.
After he had traversed a short distance with no sign of pursuit, Trev slowed back to his usual walking pace and made a conscious effort to calm down. He had to watch his mouth. You had to be very careful about who you were rude to in Brackenford. People who were too cocky tended to find themselves unexpectedly sampling the delights of hospital food, often through a straw. Or sometimes intravenously.
The thought of food made Trev's stomach gurgle, and he took a detour into a supermarket for a sandwich. Munching as he walked, he sighed inwardly and for a moment pondered calling ahead and re-scheduling his visit to Granddad's. It took only a further moment to dismiss the idea, because knew he couldn’t risk upsetting Granddad. The old bugger was bound to tell Trev’s mum and then Trev would get his ear severely bent.
He looked at his watch, wishing that he’d gone back to his flat first to get his car. It didn’t take long to walk to Granddad’s house from SmoothMove, but it would be a bit of a trek back home again. Oh well. He could always call a taxi.
He lengthened his stride.
Trev’s Granddad lived in a two-bedroom terraced house not unlike the one on Fancourt Street. By the time Trev got there it was beginning to get dark. He rang the bell and stepped back from the door.
Granddad opened the door promptly, as usual. He was a thin, sprightly man who wore his seventy-eight years well. He had a neat, pointed beard which matched his white eyebrows and contrasted with his completely smooth pate. Blue eyes peered out from a weathered face and regarded his grandson through small round glasses; were it not for the beard, Trev had always thought, his Granddad could’ve passed himself off as Mahatma Gandhi.
‘Hello, Trevor,’ he said in a deep, pleasant voice. He stood aside so that Trev could enter.
‘Evening, Granddad,’ Trev replied, doing his best to smile. He wiped his feet and hung his jacket on the coat-rack in the hallway before following the old man through to the lounge.
The first thought of any visitor to Granddad’s lounge was that they had somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up at the library. There were floor-to-ceiling bookcases against all four walls, each of them crammed to capacity. Stacks of stray books were scattered here and there, many with scraps of paper tucked between their pages as makeshift bookmarks. Others had yellow Post-It notes stuck to their covers, Granddad’s tiny, neat handwriting detailing page references or interesting facts.
Many of the books were on local history, but by no means all. Almost all of them, however, were factual. Granddad had little time for what he called ‘story books’.
There were two chairs in the room. One was a worn armchair that was squeezed into the gap between two of the bookcases. The other was a big leather swivel chair that sat behind an antique writing desk in the centre of the lounge. Trev cleared a few books off the armchair and sat down, eliciting a symphony of squeaks from the tired springs.
Granddad seated himself in the swivel chair and regarded Trev across the desk, which was strewn with books and papers. When Trev visited Granddad he always got the feeling that he was at a job interview; one that was going extremely badly.
‘So, how are you? Haven’t seen you in ages,’ said Granddad. Trev noted the unspoken rebuke in the second sentence.
‘I’m fine, been really busy with work though,’ he replied. He shifted in the chair, which squealed in protest.
‘Well I thought you must’ve been,’ said Granddad, with just the right amount of sadness to cause Trev maximum guilt. ‘But still,’ he continued, after a pause to ensure the full effect. He reached into one of the desk’s many drawers, producing a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers. ‘Drink?’
Trev nodded. Most people’s grandparents habitually drank tea, but not Granddad. As he often said: ‘I’m in my seventies. Why would I drink something that’ll make me need the loo more often?’ In fact, Trev couldn’t remember ever seeing his Granddad drink anything other than Scotch, although he had never seen the old boy drunk. Trev supposed he had built up some kind of immunity.