Twisted Little Things and Other Stories (33 page)

Taking a deep breath, I sip from my mug and decide to wait it out for a while longer. She'll emerge when she's good and ready. She probably just needs to freshen up. Still, I check my watch and see that it's now 10.11pm. I really
should
think about bed soon.

Nineteen minutes later, when I check my watch again and see that it's precisely 10.30pm, I realize I can't just sit out here like this anymore. I peer into the boat again and see that the bathroom door is still shut. Whatever's going on with this girl, I think it's time to go check she's alright.

Three

“Hello?” I call out, as I knock gingerly on the bathroom door. “Um... Are you okay in there?”

I wait.

No reply.

“I didn't catch your name earlier,” I continue, “but... Well, it's just, you've been in there for a while now, and I was wondering if there's a problem. You haven't fallen down the hole, have you?”

Again, I wait.

Silence.

I pause for a moment, before stepping over to the sofa and switching the radio off. Now the entire barge is silent, and I realize there's not even the slightest sound coming from the other side of the bathroom door. I step closer, but it's almost as if the girl isn't in there at all. Of course, there's only one way in and out of the barge, so I know for a fact that she can't have left.

I reach down to try the door handle, but at the last moment I hold back. As strange as this situation might seem, I can't exactly start barging in on a young lady while she's using my facilities.

“Um...”

I knock again, a little louder this time.

“Young woman? I just wanted to make sure you're okay in there. Can you... Can you just let me know I shouldn't be worrying? It's just... You've been in there for going on half an hour now, which seems like an awfully long time, even for a female.”

I wait.

Silence.

“I don't want to intrude,” I continue, “but obviously I'm starting to wonder if you need help.”

I glance back toward the sofa and see that her backpack is still in place. Even if she'd somehow made it out without me having seen her, I doubt she'd leave her belongings behind like that, so it's pretty clear she's still in the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, I look down at the handle again and realize I kind of
need
to make sure she's okay. After all, this is my boat, and I have a duty of care while she's on-board.

“Okay,” I say finally, “so here's the thing. I'm worried about you, so I'm going to very slowly and cautiously open the door.”

No reply.

Taking hold of the handle, I pause for a moment before starting to slide the door open.

A fraction of a second later, something pushes against the door from the other side, slamming it shut again.

“Young woman?” I call out. “Are you... Can you hear me?”

I wait, and this time there's a very faint grunting sound coming from the bathroom. I can hear her breathing, although she sounds as if she's struggling a little. When I try the door again, I realize that she seems to be forcing it shut from the other side.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. “Listen, you asked to use my facilities and that was fine, but now I'm starting to think that -”

“Who the hell is Baxter?” she shouts suddenly, her voice filled with fear.

I hesitate for a moment.

“I heard you talking to someone named Baxter!” she continues. “You told me you were alone here, and then just after I came into the bathroom I heard you talking to someone! You said the name Baxter!”

“Well, he...”

I pause, before realizing what must have happened. I can't help smiling as I think of the poor girl cowering all this time in the bathroom, convinced that she's been lured into some kind of trap.

“Is that what you think's been going on?” I ask, with a sigh of relief. “Baxter's my dog. Well, he was, until a little while ago. I just...” I pause, wondering how exactly I can tell her what happened without making myself seem like a complete lunatic. Finally, I realize there's no way around the cold, honest truth. “Sometimes I forget he's not here,” I continue. “I know how that must sound, but I just get these little lapses, and I think I even...”

My voice trails off for a moment, and I look back toward the sofa, where Baxter's favorite red rubber bone is still resting on one of the pillows.

“Sometimes,” I mutter, “when I'm not paying attention, I think I even hear him.”

For a moment, I simply stare at the bone, and I remember how that crazy little dog used to go nuts any time he thought I was getting ready for playtime. I'm well into my seventies, and I should have family and friends all around me, but instead I've spent the past few years floating along on this old barge, with only a dog for company. I guess that's pretty sad, and now even
he's
gone.

Hearing the door slide open, I turn to see the girl's suspicious expression.

“He's a...” She pauses. “He's a dog?”

“He was,” I reply. “A cairn.”

“Huh.”

“So that's who I was talking to.”

She hesitates, but I can already tell that she's at least a
little
less alarmed. Maybe she doesn't find it so hard to believe that I'm a silly old duffer.

“That's cool,” she says finally, forcing a smile. “I just... When I was in there, and I heard you suddenly talking to someone else, I panicked a little.”

“I suppose I understand,” I tell her. “I made some tea, if you'd like it before you head off again.”

Again, she seems a little reluctant.

“Sure,” she mutters, “I'll just... I mean, I just need to use the bathroom first.”

“I thought you just -”

“I didn't get a chance,” she adds. “I've spent the past half hour trying to get the window loose so I could crawl out.”

Looking past her, I see that two of the screws have indeed been removed from the window panel.

“I'll put them back,” she continues. “I promise, I'm fine now. I guess... I mean, you hear stories, don't you? About canals and towpaths late at night.”

“You sure do,” I reply, taking a step back. “Well, I'll be out here, and you take your time. I'm very sorry I gave you a scare.”

She smiles politely as she slides the door shut again, although I have no doubt that she thinks I'm crazy. Hell, she might even be right. As I turn and make my way back to the kitchen table, I can't help thinking that perhaps I'm even more of a loose nut than I realized. It's one thing to miss your dog, but it's quite another to forget that he's gone and to start chatting away to him. By the time I sit back on the sofa and take another sip of tea, I'm starting to wonder whether I've begun to lose my marbles. My parents both suffered from dementia when then were around my age, and until tonight I was always proud of myself for staying fairly sharp.

Maybe I've been fooling myself.

Maybe I'm losing my mind.

Suddenly I hear the toilet flushing, followed by the sound of water running from the bathroom sink. I take a deep breath, relieved that a hint of normality is returning, and a moment later the door slides open, allowing the girl to slip out. She still looks a little cautious, and she glances back toward the darker end of the barge, as if she's worried there might yet turn out to be a third person on-board. When she turns back to me, she seems a little embarrassed.

“All good?” I ask, before wincing.

Dumb question.

“It's great, thanks,” she murmurs, coming closer but stopping when she reaches the table. She looks down at the cup of tea, and I can tell that she's not sure whether to drink.

“It's probably cold anyway,” I say with a faint smile. “I can make you another, if you prefer.”

She hesitates, before reaching down and taking the cup in her left hand.

“No,” she stammers, “it's fine. I don't mind it cold.”

With that, she puts the cup to her lips and takes a sip.

“It's just right,” she adds.

“I didn't catch your name earlier,” I tell her.

Again, she pauses. Did I just go too far?

“Angie,” she says after a moment. “Angela, but... People have called me Angie since, like, as long as I can remember.”

“Well, Angie,” I reply, reaching out a hand for her to shake, “my name is Robert.”

Yet again, she seems to pause for a few seconds, as if she has to think every little move through before she does anything. Finally, however, she reaches out and shakes my hand.

“So Angie,” I continue, “if you don't mind me asking, what's a young lady such as yourself doing out all alone on the towpath so late at night? Shouldn't a girl your age be off a a disco or a rave?”

“It's not that late,” she says, a little defensively. “And I hate parties.”

Checking my watch, I see that she's right. It's 10.47pm, which I suppose isn't late at all for someone so young. For me, though, it's well past my usual bedtime. By now, I should have taken Baxter out for his last wee of the night, and then we should be settling down in the bed at the bow of the boat. Well, that's what I used to do when I still had Baxter, anyway. These days, I just slip into bed when I get tired. There's not really much of an evening routine anymore.

“I was looking for ghosts,” Angie says suddenly.

I stare at her for a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

“I'm a ghost-hunter,” she continues. “I mean... It's just a hobby, or it's just... It's something I do sometimes, when I want to get out of the house, which I want to do most nights. I go looking for ghosts.”

“You do, huh?”

She nods.

“Ever found any?”

She stares at me without answering.

“Just kidding,” I say with a faint smile. “I'm not sure you'll have much luck on this stretch of water. We're out in the wilderness here, halfway between one village and the next. Wouldn't you be better off going somewhere a little more built-up? Somewhere there have been more people?”

“I've tried that,” she says cautiously, eyeing me with a hint of suspicion, “but I never...”

Her voice trails off.

“You never what?” I ask, before finishing the last of the tea.

I wait, but now she's watching me rather intently, almost as if she's worried again.

“You know,” I continue, “in my day, young ladies had better things to do with their time than go traipsing through the countryside, looking for ghosts. There's nothing in it, you know. I've been motoring up and down these canals for longer than I care to remember, and I assure you I've never spotted anything remotely supernatural. The world is fantastic enough as it is, without going hunting after things that don't exist. Why don't you take up something more realistic, like butterfly hunting or rambling?”

Again, she seems to be watching me with a keen eye. In fact,
watching
might not be the right word; it's more like she's studying me.

“Let me guess,” I say with a sigh, starting to find the whole thing rather amusing, “you've never quite managed to catch any evidence on camera, have you? Your camera always malfunctions, or the film doesn't work. There's always an excuse. Well, let me enlighten you. The truth is, there's no evidence around. You're on a wild goose chase, and there are better things you could be doing with your time.”

Taking the two cups, I carry them to the counter and stick the kettle on again. The girl's silence is rather infuriating, but I suppose like most young people these days she doesn't like to have her bubble burst. Then again, perhaps I'm just being an old crank. If she wants to go wandering around in the middle of the night, who am I to tell her she's wasting her time? It's not as if I'm some expert on how to live a happy and meaningful life. In fact, as the kettle boils and I pour two more cups, I can't help thinking that I shouldn't take the whole thing so seriously.

“One of the stories is about an old man,” she says suddenly.

I turn to her. “Eh?”

She steps over to her backpack and unties the top, and then she roots around for a moment before pulling out a battered old paperback.

“Ghosts of the English Countryside,” I read from the front page. “Sounds like fun. Made-up nonsense, but harmless enough.”

She flips to the back of the book and checks the index, before searching for a page near the middle. The book looks well-thumbed, and I wouldn't be surprised if she more or less knew it inside out.

“I bet someone had a laugh coming up with all
that
rubbish,” I mutter, pouring two more teas and then carrying the cups to the table. I set them down and wait for the girl to say something, but now she's engrossed in the book. “Is that what you're doing, then? Going off searching for all the ghosts mentioned in that thing?”

She continues to look down at the book for a moment, before flicking back to the previous page. A few seconds later, she looks at me again, and now there's a hint of fear in her eyes.

“What?” I ask, trying not to feel nervous. “What's wrong?”

“One of the most common ghost sightings on this stretch,” she says cautiously, “is...”

She pauses.

I wait.

“Is an old man,” she continues. Her eyes flick down to the book for a moment, and then back to me. “Several people have claimed to see the ghost of an old man who still makes his way up and down the canal on his barge. He's said to be someone who used to live out here on the canal, but who died more than thirty years ago.”

“Is that right?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, I certainly haven't bumped into any ghostly old man. I can promise you that.”