Breach of Faith (24 page)

I looked at Isobel in shock, feeling all the blood drain from my face, then abruptly stood up, shoving my chair back so hard it tipped over, almost knocking a waiter off his feet. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

Isobel stood and reached out, her hands fluttering centimetres from me. “Kate –”

I stepped back, glaring furiously at Isobel, and somehow managing to avoid both my chair and the waiter who was desperately trying to right it. “You’re telling me Angus’s dead? Is this some kind of joke?” My voice broke and I turned away. “That’s not funny.”

Steaming out of the restaurant, the tears began to bubble over. I didn’t know what game Isobel was playing but it was hurtful and infantile. I heard my name being called and quickened my steps. If I had to face her again, I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions.

“Kate! Wait, please.”

“Go away, Isobel.”

“Kate, I’m sorry I upset you but it’s true.”

I felt Isobel’s hand on my arm and turned angrily to face her. “So how come I saw him the other day? I don’t understand why you’re being such a bitch.”

Isobel sighed heavily, “I don’t know what to tell you, Kate. You can’t have seen him the other day because he’s gone; dead and buried. Maybe you saw someone who looked like him, or maybe your mind was playing tricks on you. Either way, there’s no chance that you saw Angus Paterson in the last three months.”

I shook Isobel’s hand off my arm.

Isobel shook her head sadly. “He’s dead, Kate. If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.” She gestured down the hill with her head, towards a church barely visible beyond the trees. “He’s buried just down there.”

13 January

I slid through the gate and gazed pensively at the rows of stone markers as I wandered through the overgrown graveyard.

Beloved son …

… remembered forever …

… in God’s hands …

“Eliza Beresford,” I murmured, staring sadly at the inscription in front of me. “Born May eighteenth, nineteen-ten. Died June first, nineteen-twelve; poor little thing.”

It had changed a bit since I was last here. The large stretch of neatly kept ground behind the church building had been relatively empty when I was growing up, the main focus of the area being the five or six rows of identical white markers, lined up, one after the other.

The War Graves.

Year after year I had come up here, plastic poppy clutched in my hand, to commemorate Armistice Day and show respect for the dead.

And every year, I had put my poppy on the same grave.

Knowing I was delaying the real reason for being here and knowing I was doing it on purpose, I changed direction and rather than making my way towards the newest graves, I meandered instead through the curved, white stones.

“Second row,” I murmured, “eleventh one along.” I’d chosen the second row, all those years ago, because everyone else tended just to lean forward and plonk their poppy down on the closest grave, forgetting the soldiers commemorated in rows further back.

“Clarkie,” I whispered, running my fingers gently along the top of his stone. “Long time, no see. Sorry I left you for so long.” Crouching down, I kissed the tip of my finger, bringing the digit softly down to touch the C in his name.

I stared at the cold, white stone for a moment longer before a flash of movement caught my eye and I stumbled to my feet, peering at a small group of trees at the far end of the graveyard. A young man wearing a long, dull coloured, woollen coat was smoking a cigarette beside a huge oak tree and as I shaded my eyes to see the indistinct figure better, he raised his arm and waved.

In the blink of an eye he was gone. I studied the small copse but it was as if he had never been. I glanced back over my shoulder, but the church grounds were devoid of any living human, except myself. A shiver ran up my spine and I wrapped my arms around myself.

“Clarkie.”

A sharp gust of wind tugged me and I laughed nervously, glancing around once more. Deliberately ignoring the memorial stone at my feet, I turned and hurried away.

The newest graves were over by the fence, I could tell they were recent additions because of their rawness, they had a patchy bareness, where the winter weather had discouraged grass and weed growth. In direct contrast to the dull and dirty surroundings, many also held a profusion of brightly coloured flowers, a seemingly incongruous addition to the sobriety surrounding the small mounds of earth.

My inner monologue was assuring me Isobel had made a mistake.

Maybe she’s thinking of someone else.

Maybe she’s been given some dodgy information.

Maybe she’s making it up, because she hates you.

Shut up. I stopped in front of one of the graves. Go away.

Maybe she’s totally crazy, hiding behind a tree, giggling so hard her tiny brain will fall out of her ear and be eaten by a cockroach, while she watches you fall hook, line and sinker for her sad little prank.

Resisting the urge to check, I stared instead at the words in front of me, dreading what I might see. “In loving memory of Angus Paterson,” I read, as the baby began to stir and I rubbed absently at my small bulge. “Tragedy has many faces, but love has just one. Go with God, our beloved son. Ripped from our lives, so young and bright. Don’t be afraid, love, walk into the light.” I gulped and closed my eyes briefly, “gone but not forgotten.”

Opening my eyes, I gazed solemnly at the gravestone. There was just one more thing.

“Born fifteenth February, that’s a pretty big coincidence,” I muttered thoughtfully. “I’m sure Angus’s birthday is the day after Valentine’s Day too.”

“It is. Or, at least, it was.”

The familiar voice made me jump and I spun around. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” Without meaning to, I took a small step away from him.

Angus held out his hand, “don’t be afraid, Kate.”

“I’m not afraid,” I lied, “I just want to know who the bloody hell you are. Are you Angus’s brother? And why are you doing this to me? Why are you pretending to be him?”

“Kate, I’m not pretending.” He was staring at the gravestone. “I still get a shock when I see that.” He turned solemn eyes to me, “it’s a bizarre feeling, you know, being at your own funeral. Wanting to comfort all those people who love you, hating their tears and not being able to do anything about it. That was the hardest part of dying.”

“Stop!” Instinctively, I put my hands up in front of me, to fend off the words I didn’t want to hear. “Stop this. It’s not funny.”

“At least the pain’s gone,” he continued. A sudden clarity came into his eyes as he stared intently at me. “How can I convince you?”

“Well, how about walking through a wall or two,” I replied sarcastically, that’s what ghosts do, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No, I’m sure it’s not. Funny that.”

Angus sighed and I could sense his exasperation, “Kate, I only exist because of you. I use your energy to manifest myself into something seemingly real, with presence and form. For all intents and purposes, to you, I am real. As the energy diminishes then so do I but I can’t just turn it on and off at will. And, before you ask, no, I can’t levitate.”

“Mind reader, are you?” I muttered.

Angus chuckled and gestured towards a nearby bench, “can we sit down?”

“I don’t know,
can
you?” I asked sarcastically. “I didn’t realise ghosts got tired.”

Angus shook his head impatiently, “not tired, but I do use up less energy when I sit down. Don’t ask me why.”

“Which means what?”

“Which means that I have more time with you. More time to explain.”

Following Angus over to the bench, I sat down beside him, careful not to touch him. I was feeling confused, it was so surreal, so bizarre. Was he really a ghost? The rational side of my brain laughed this idea off at once.

There’s no such thing as ghosts.

Well, if not then who is he? There was no doubting the validity of Angus’s death, the proof was staring me in the face. I glanced towards the gravestone with his name on it, where a bunch of slightly wilted flowers coloured the dull grey and brown site, and a tear trickled down my cheek.

Pointedly ignoring the man seated beside me, I continued my attempt to unravel the situation. It wasn’t just his identity that puzzled me, what about his motives? What was in it for him? Looking at him out of the corner of my eye, I contemplated my next move.

“Well,” I ventured at last, turning to face Angus, “the way I see it, I don’t think you’re going to hurt me so I’ve got a few options open to me.”

Angus nodded, visibly relaxing, “of course I won’t hurt you, Kate. If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would have done it by now?”

I shrugged, “what would I know?”

Angus reached out, his fingers stopping just short of my arm, “talk to me, Kate. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I took a deep breath, “option one; I could believe every word you’re telling me. Although, why you’ve chosen to haunt me, I don’t know.” I held up my hand, cutting off what he was about to say. “Option two; what if I don’t believe, what then? You haven’t shown me any proof and as you say, to me you are real, I’ve touched you, hugged you, so if you’re not Angus’s ghost, who the bloody hell are you? And why are you pretending to be him? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Angus gave me a little half smile but didn’t try to speak this time.

I sighed, “or I could just forget this ever happened. Walk away right now.”

I looked away but I could still feel Angus’s gaze boring into the side of my head.

“What are you going to do, Kate?”

I closed my eyes, tired and dejected. “I wouldn’t have a bloody clue.”

13 January

I was silent for a time. I could feel Angus’s presence beside me, which confused me even more. Did ghosts really have a presence? My eyes were drawn towards the small copse of trees at the far end where I was sure I had seen Clarkie. But Clarkie was long dead, one of the many victims of World War One. So how could that be?

And why is it that I could believe in the ghost of a soldier but not in the ghost of an old friend?

“Let’s say that I believe you.” I waggled my finger in Angus’s face. “That doesn’t mean I really do believe you; it’s just hypothetical, you understand?”

Angus nodded.

“Tell me why,” I demanded.

Angus scratched his head, “why what?”

Exasperated, I scowled, “Why me? And why are you here and not …” I shrugged then gestured towards the sky, “… up there?”

Angus tilted his head back and I could see his eyes following the passage of the clouds, scudding across the winter blue background. Resisting the urge to gaze up there too, I cleared my throat impatiently, “well?”

Not taking his eyes from the fluffy, grey and white clouds, Angus hesitated. “To be honest, I don’t have the faintest idea why I’m not … up there.” He turned back to me, obviously confused. “I assumed I was here to help you.”

“Help me? How?”

Again, he paused. I could tell it wasn’t just a delaying tactic and waited while he collected his thoughts. “I died almost instantly, you know,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “But the pain … the pain seemed to last forever. And then … BANG!” he clapped his hands together sharply making me jump, “it was gone and I knew I was dead.”

He stared down at the nearby gravestone, the stark writing standing out against the pale background. Gesturing towards the wilting flowers he turned back to me. “Mum brought those a couple of days ago. My sister wrote the inscription.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

Angus nodded. “She took my death really bad. I don’t know if you remember but we were really close.” He shook his head and smiled grimly, “sorry, I’m getting side-tracked. Where was I? Oh yes … BANG!” He clapped his hands again.

“Stop doing that.”

Angus looked apologetic but confusion was still hovering. “After that, well, I expected something to happen; a long tunnel filled with angels, or a staircase leading to heaven. There has to be something, doesn’t there? Some kind of sign?”

“So what did you see?”

Angus shrugged, “nothing at all, except no-one could see me anymore. I felt lost and just sort of drifted around. The days would merge into one another, sometimes never-ending, like time had stopped. Other times a whole week would go by in the blink of an eye. I never had to eat or drink … I haven’t changed my clothes or had a shower in months.”

I turned my nose up, “pooh, stinky.”

Angus grinned, “it was all starting to piss me off and I was worried this was it, my final existence; Limbo. Not a nice thought.”

“I can imagine.”

“Anyway, one day in December I woke up.”

“Woke up? I didn’t realise ghosts slept.”

“I don’t really think I was asleep, as such, it just felt like that. You know how sometimes you can wake up really suddenly and you go from asleep to wide awake in an instant? Well, it was like that. One second I’d been drifting aimlessly the next second I felt like I’d woken from a deep sleep, refreshed, raring to go.”