Eleven New Ghost Stories (34 page)

I found myself diverted down a
series of quiet suburban streets, the last place anyone would
expect an act of violence and death. Saxon Road was no different;
old Georgian houses, now split into flats.

The rain was coming down thick.
I drove slowly, looking carefully between parked cars and trees and
lampposts. Where was she? Was she even there?

Then, as I approached the road’s
end, I saw her. I could not see her face, but knew it was her – it
had to be. She was dressed in a thigh-length white coat, with a
long cream-coloured dress with a ragged floral trim. Her head was
shielded by her hood – her arms were folded, hugging herself for
warmth. She stood under a street sign pointing to Selhurst Station.
I stopped in the middle of the road, got out of the car, and ran to
her.

“Catherine,” I yelled.

Startled, she turned to me.

It really was her. Her skin was
pale, her eyes marked by smudged mascara. She was soaked,
absolutely dripping with water; it was as if she’d been there
forever.

“Catherine,” I said again. I ran
right up to her; too close, she took a step back in hesitation.

“Who are you?” she said,
frightened.

“I got your… ” I didn’t know how
to explain it, explain how I’d come to be there. So I said, feeling
like some romantic hero from a movie: “I’ve come to take you
home.”

She stared at me, her mouth hung
open, unsure what words to say. But then in the distance, we heard
the sound of tyres screeching across a road.

It was pouring down after all,
hazardous conditions to be driving in. Yet, in that moment, to us
both, it must’ve seemed like fate – like time running out...

She looked towards the sound and
then back to me. And then she said, after a deep breath: “Take me
home.”

I nodded. I dashed back to the
driver’s seat, quickly leaning over to open the passenger side
door.

With a slow but determined walk,
she came to join me inside. She really was soaking; her clothes
squelched against the seat. I did my best not to stare at her as
she sat down. It wasn’t until I had turned the keys in the ignition
and had started to drive away that she pulled down her hood and
showed her face.

I could see it only in the
passing glow of the street lights – she looked tired; there were
bags beneath her eyes. She was thin, her cheekbones prominent,
unlike they were in the photographs in the paper – taken no doubt
in happier times.

Yet she was beautiful. Maybe it
was the all-white look, soaked blonde locks and ice-white
complexion that made her look like an angel. Like someone who did
not belong in this world with the rest of us.

A word did not pass between us
as I drove. She stared blankly ahead, barely changing in her
expression. And I, I could think of nothing to say to her. I kept
glancing across at her, looking for signs of thought or feeling on
her face, but she remained blank. How was I to find the words, find
the words to describe how I felt? This bizarre mix of sadness,
guilt and joy that she was here, here now with me, and safe. I was
so confused; I barely paused to consider that all this was
impossible, that what was occurring to me, to us, was a bona-fide
miracle.

I parked in front of my flat,
leapt out of my seat, passed around the front of my car and opened
up her door. She stood like a woman in shock; her handbag clutched
unnaturally in front of her like a child with a teddy bear.

I skipped to the front door and
unlocked it swiftly. I held the door open as she squeezed by. She
was briefly more animated, looking around at the walls and the
fixtures before saying slowly:

“This is not my home…”

Breathing heavily, I said
“That’s because you don’t live here any more.” She stared at me
icily – maybe that had been too blunt. “You’ve been away a long
time,” I said awkwardly.

Her icy stare gave away to one
of sadness, recognition that what I had said was somehow true. With
head bowed, she walked inside and slowly ascended the stairs. I
followed closely behind and brushed in front of her when we reached
the landing.

“Let me take your coat,” I said.
I hung it up on the kitchen door and showed her into the living
room. I felt ashamed of its disgusting state: the pile of dirty
plates, the loose take-away packaging, and the scattering of empty
cans and bottles. I did a very quick sweep of the room – gathering
whatever rubbish I could and then darted into the kitchen and
stuffed the lot in the dustbin, recycling be damned.

I came back into the living room
and found her sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, her back
straight and her hands crossed on her lap.

“Can I get you something?” I
said like a hopeless fool. “Something warm maybe?”

She looked up at me accusingly:
“Who are you?”

I had fashioned a footstool out
of a plastic carry crate I hadn’t put away after I moved in. I put
a cushion on it and pulled it across the floor until I was sat in
front of her.

“My name is Johnny, I got your
phone call.”

She opened her mouth to respond,
but withdrew the words before speaking them.

“Do you know how long you’ve
been out there?”

“W…what are you talking about?”
her face twisted, confused. “What’s going on?” she pleaded.

“I don’t know how… I can’t
explain,” I said, words just pouring out. “But I’ve been getting
your calls for weeks. And I found out what happened; I know what
happened to you. And when you spoke to me, when you finally
answered me, I had to come, and I knew just where to find you. I
had to save you.”

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about,” she said with panic, shuffling back into the sofa
cushions in discomfort. “Where’s Mum? I want to speak to my
mum!”

“I’m here to help you.”

“You can’t help me,” she sobbed.
She started to cry. If there was one thing I had plenty of, it was
take-away napkins – within seconds I had handed her a tissue.

“Everything’s going to be
ok.”

“It’s not ok. It’s never going
to be ok. I loved him,” she cried. “I really loved him, but he’s
destroying himself and I can’t watch him do that. I just
can’t.”

I took the chance and lifted
myself from the box stool and onto the sofa next to her.

“Do you know what it’s like to
love someone so much it hurts? That it tears you up to watch them
kill themselves, so much, but you can’t just leave them.”

I reached out to hug her, but
her head was sobbing into my shoulder first. Streams of tears
running down her face, her whole body trembling with grief. I held
her; I held her tight.

She wept. I cried too –
unavoidably thinking now of my own former lover. She who had taken
my love selfishly and had not returned my affection. She who had
betrayed me, betrayed my trust.

“You can’t just take on other
people’s problems,” I spluttered. “You have to have something for
yourself. You’ve got to keep some of yourself for you, or else
you’ve got nothing. If you give too much you just come out empty.
You’re a person too. You can’t live your life like a… like a… like
a dry sponge, you’ve got to soak up some love for yourself.”

There was a moment of silence.
She lifted her head to look at me. Our eyes locked on to each
other, both in recognition of what might quite possibly constitute
the worst metaphor ever uttered outside of a sixth-form college
poetry class.

It broke the tension. We both
paused to laugh.

“You know what I mean,” I said
sheepishly.

She looked into my eyes again.
Her eyes suddenly seemed large, magnetic. I could feel her looking
into me, right into me; the movement of her eyes was felt in the
back of my skull. I don’t know who made the first move, but our
lips were suddenly locked, her arms were around my neck, her hands
running through the hair on the back of my head.

It was all so spontaneous,
smooth and uninhibited, like an edited motion picture love scene. I
pulled off her soggy shirt and she lifted off my stained T-shirt.
We fell back on the sofa; she gently caressed my back as I rolled
her over slightly to unhook her bra.

We made love for a long time I
think. It all seemed so slow, I can’t remember it without blurred
edges, a kind of surreal out-of-focus montage. It doesn’t seem real
now. I don’t remember the feeling of sweat on my back, or the sound
of her moans. I don’t think I even thought for a moment about
contraception – and I was normally so courteous about that.

And then, at the moment of
climax… it wasn’t like a fade to black, it was like a fade to
white. Some great trippy hippy freakout. I must’ve fallen asleep
then. You never remember falling asleep, but yet that’s the bit I
remember most – fade out. And then sleep. Sleep like I have never
had before or since. Uninterrupted, un-disturbed; I did not dream.
I remember not dreaming. There was nothing more to say, nothing
more to think. I was… whole I suppose. And for the briefest of
moments, absolutely content.

I awoke sometime the next
afternoon. I lay in my pants on my living room floor, smelling
badly of sweat and with more than the slightest hint of a headache.
My body ached; I pulled myself up – I was alone.

The cushions from the sofa were
on the floor. I stood up slowly and looked around. I checked the
bathroom, the toilet, the bedroom and the car. She was gone.

In fact there was no real sign
she had even been there at all. I surveyed my home carefully. Her
coat was not on the kitchen door; there were no wet drips on the
carpet, no muddy footprints, even the car seat she had soaked into
was dry. And the living room was as much of a tip as it had ever
been.

But I knew I had not dreamt it.
I had had no dreams. She had been there. I felt her, smelt her,
touched her. And I was so sorry that she was gone.

I waited dutifully until
eight-thirty for her call. I did not eat, I did not drink, I did
not wash. I cleaned the place up out of boredom. I took the bin
out, did my recycling, crushed the pizza boxes and cans.

But her call never came.

I put on clean clothes and did
my washing up. Even Hoovered the place at 20 minutes to midnight.
But she didn’t call, and she never called again.

I was sad at first that she was
gone, but I knew that, and I apologise if this sounds corny, but
that she was now in a better place. I can’t say that I had expected
her to call again.

Having saved her, in my own way,
I thought it only sensible that I should now save myself. On the
following Monday I met with my boss and admitted to him that I had
become an alcoholic. That this had affected my performance and that
I was very sorry. He could fire me if he so wished, but I would be
grateful if he would give me one more chance. He seemed impressed
by my honesty, but I can’t honestly say whether he’ll really allow
me to continue beyond the end of my probation. I started to visit
alcoholics anonymous for a while, just to show my willingness to
change – although I didn’t really think that I was a real addict,
just acting-out.

I went on a diet, just briefly;
a reduction in take-aways made a big impact. And I started to
exercise on a semi-regular basis. I’d be lying if I said that my
bizarre encounter completely changed everything. But it had made me
start to care about myself again, and to care about what happened
to me.

I had not completely had my fill
of unexpected phone calls though. A week or two after my strange
encounter I had a call from her – my ex. I was surprised to hear
her voice; we had had no communication since I had left our home.
She had heard some concerning things about me from my “friends”.
I’d forgotten that she cared. We talked for a little while, caught
up as it were. I was amiable, if not a little difficult. But in
truth it was actually good to hear from her. I did miss her, in
spite of not wanting ever to see or hear from her again.

She invited me out for a drink
sometime, said she’d missed me. I declined as politely as possible.
I didn’t really want to see her. Besides, I had only a day or so
before heard rumour that her and him were no longer an item. And I
did not want to be her crutch – I was better than that. Of course
she may have simply only wanted to be friendly. I didn’t wish to
find out either way. Better just to let some things go
completely.

There was also one more phone
call of note – an uncomfortable epilogue for this story.

It was late in the evening when
the phone rang. I picked it up without fear, knowing that it could
never be her.

But someone was breathing
heavily on the other end of the line. It was out-of-breath, nervous
breathing. It was unsettling, and creepy. It carried on for just a
few seconds when, just as I was about to say something myself,
there was a sudden unexpected whisper. It said: “…thank you…”

And then the line went dead.

You could jump to a conclusion
and assume that this was some ghostly final acknowledgement of
gratitude from beyond the grave…

But the time was
eight-thirty-two pm…

And it was a man’s voice.

I supposed whether you’re in the
right or you’re the wronged, we all have our chance to suffer.