by Alex Boast
Contents
The City of This: Him:
The Men in the Snow
The Fall
Piss and Wine
The Tin Can Man
The Cracks in the Statue:
The Declaration of Sin-Dependence:
The Bird Feeders:
The Man Behind You:
The Dark Arm: A British Ghost Story
Surrender: A Short British Ghost Story
The City of This: The collected British Ghost Stories
Of Alex Boast
Text Copyright (c) 2019 Alexander M Boast All Rights Reserved
Thank you to Hannah Lewis, who designed the cover, and everyone else who helped contribute to my writing or the website.
This is for you.
For the first time, based on a true story
The City of This: Him:
Mobile banking app is taking ages to start up.
4G’s shit in this part of London.
I tap some ash onto the pavement as I wait, exhaling grey smoke into a greyer sky.
The raindrops still wet on the bench are soaking through the bottom of my jeans, as my tears soak the top.
‘Come on…come on,’
There it is.
It’s in.
My blood diamonds. My dirty money. The keys to this city.
This city of lonely ghosts.
The city of…this.
My £17,000 severance package just landed and the man everyone hates only got to nibble on some of it. Is my life over, or has it just started?
They told me I was redundant, unnecessary, pointless, but that’s ok I was going to quit anyway, right?
It’s a hard thing for a bloke in his mid-twenties to hear, but the joke is on them because they still have to go to work and I can blow all my free money instead of letting it rot a hole in my head and my wallet.
Blow it on her: M155 F8N2C.
‘Daddy, what is that man doing?’ asks a little boy of maybe around four, his blonde ringlets blowing in the December chill.
‘That young man, Damian, is killing himself. Don’t ever do what he does’, the father, wearing corduroy and elbow patches replies as he scoops up the child and brusquely walks away from me, crunching the leaves of Clapham Common underfoot.
‘You don’t know how right you are, buddy!’ I want to shout after him as I flick my third chain-smoked cigarette into a freezing brown puddle.
It’s nearly Christmas, I’m sure I’m not the only person considering a more permanent new year’s resolution.
I know how it’ll end, don’t you?
Face down on the floor of a pub toilet, miles from home, friends and comfort. Reaching for something nobody can see.
But I don’t want that just yet.
There might be 437 numbers in my contacts list, but there’s just one at the moment I want sat next to me, holding my hand and telling me that this’ll be over soon.
I am scared, and ironically, thanks to my current emaciated, wasted appearance, a source of fear in others.
Everyone except her.
Family? Oh, don’t even get me started. I’ve haunted them, a ghost lingering in their many hallways for years, never brave enough to enter the room.
I look around and compare where I might have been to where I am right now.
It’s a beautiful mess; a vivid, living, freezing dichotomy.
For every leafy tree there’s a discarded bottle of piss, fag butts and empty crisp packets.
There’s a large, well-fed cat with a glossy black coat watching me through the window of a warm, tall house, and a mangy fox with half a tail getting ever closer as it paws through filthy rubbish and less savoury cast-offs.
There’s the man and his son, and there’s me.
Somewhere out there, nearby probably, she’s here too.
I think I’d like to have a future with her. Last time I saw her was Monday, but she’d dressed and drank like it was Friday.
Like nothing mattered.
Maybe there’s a future after all.
Her:
His suffering didn’t end, it just spread to me.
He had too much love.
It wouldn’t all fit in his burdened heart.
And so it spread, too.
To his lips, his eyes, mind and soul.
Just like the disease that was ravaging his body.
Even now when I look at his dead face, I can see that he knew the end was coming.
There was a weariness about him that was so sad to look at, but the way he eventually met his demise was so courageous it made me find it hard for the first time.
I didn’t want to; but I had to.
It’s my job.
If it helps, which I’m sure it doesn’t, I wished I didn’t have to move him on; on to the next place.
I loved him, and I’m grateful to his memory, which is why it’s important to tell his story. When we met for the second time, he thought it would be the first of many.
I’m sorry.
I’ll never forget you.
Thank you.
Him:
We’d had this incredible date y’see. After meeting on the internet and uniting on the sticky wooden floors of the Common’s dirtiest, ugliest dive bar.
Dinner for two – greasy chicken wings with potato wedges - alcohol for eight.
I’d started to get grumpy and morose as we watched the clouds become dark pinky-purple bruises in the sky; she’d come to life and shown me that there’s more to it than misery with an infectious enthusiasm and gratitude towards the universe that I loathed.
She hadn’t been a smoker until she met me, but she was a natural. It suited her, the way the smoke coiled around her the same way her hair did.
She hadn’t met someone so “excitingly challenging” either. She was determined to cheer me up and lift me out of my in-between-things lifestyle: interviewing, hitting the gym, and hitting the bars even harder. Or so she seemed.
That’s why it’s SO upsetting she hasn’t messaged to set another date yet.
I’d walked home that night after several cocktails grinning like a circus clown, overjoyed to have received a peck on the cheek upon parting and the promise of more time spent together. I hardly noticed the broken glass, cautious looks from passers-by and police sirens as I practically skipped back to my top-floor flat in the hidden backstreets of this popular town.
I passed something large and obstructive outside the house as I walked up the front garden towards the door. As it was covered in a sheet, I thought maybe a bicycle? It’s half covered by the overgrown hedges lining our front (and only) Garden’s perimeter so I elect to leave it for now, drink some water and get an early 4AM night.
A bicycle it was not.
One of my two housemates had let me know that on the way back from the gym he found it, having hardly noticed on the way out.
There was a note addressed to me, stating that as the only musical member of the family, the Piano belonged to me now. The note wasn’t signed by anyone, and I couldn’t think of whom it might have belonged to in my hung-over state.
It was a heavy wooden Yamaha Clavinova; Cherrywood finish, 88 keys, two headphone inputs and various abilities, complete with the stool, had been bequeathed unto me by an unknown family member. It was covered in dust but there were clear indentations where the instrument had received much attention from fingers both little and large over its long life. It was a very early model, clearly much older than myself.
Recognising the strangeness of the situation I whipped out my phone and dialled my mother’s number whilst my two housemates – strong young men who loved to lift heavy things – huffed and grunted as they carried our new prize up the winding, carpeted staircase to my room in our third floor fl
at, nearly tripping several times on the growing mountain of unread, unopened letters and cards.
No answer.
Unsurprising really: I’d failed to attend the family Christmas lunch again. 25 years in a row. “Next year”, I tell myself.
I chained a few cigarettes together into a fifteen minute meditation, clicking the filter to inject some menthol into the harshness towards the end, and wonder whether it’s smoke or my breathe I can see melting into the frozen air around me.
The Benson & Hedges Dual is a thing of beauty for a discerning audience. Can’t really smoke anything else, and as I lit a fresh one I wondered if M155 was lighting up one of her own wherever she lives, looking at her phone and wondering whether to call me.
I stared long and hard at the face of my Sony smartphone and tried to will it into action as my cigarette smoked itself out.
No idea how long it was before I realise everything’s gone quiet and head inside.
The lads had left the piano in a great spot, so that immediately upon entering my room – the biggest, best room in the house – you’re greeted by the piano with its lid lifted, inviting you to play. My tired guitar sits in its stand on the top right-hand corner of its spacious roof. I’ve been playing guitar for over ten years, and am hoping the Piano won’t be too difficult for me, given my preference for string instruments; two Ukuleles decorate my windowsill; a novelty Union Jack uke, and a beautiful, painted decorative one from Bali I had received as a gift.
The piano rounds off the rest of the room quite well. It’s resting against the far wall facing the door, and to its left is my wardrobe. To the right, the rest of the room.
There’s the bed, taking up majority of space. It looks more tired than the person that sleeps in it. It’s covered in blankets, unmade, and with a little electric heater lurking dangerously under some of the cotton duvets, fighting a losing battle against the elements.
The room is freezing thanks to a giant, heavy sash window that doesn’t close quite properly. If it rains, the whole right hand side of the bed will gets soaked.
It rains often.
Facing the bed at the opposite end, next to the piano, is a large three-drawer chest on the top of which rests the Playstation, television, and PC with which I am so enamoured – much of my time between things has been spent sat here on the damp bed, crying tears that threaten to freeze before they reach my chin, slaying monsters from Lovecraftian universes instead of working on my CV or swiping through dating apps.
On the bed sit a few cuddly toy animals. My constant – and for the most part only – companions in the months it’s been since I lost my job. There’s the badger, a capybara, a moose and, much bigger than the rest, a chicken and a crocodile.
They’ve seen rather a lot of me recently. Lying on the floor, trousers half down, too drunk to untie shoelaces and brimming with impotent rage.
Conversely, suited and booted having had a big breakfast and smashed a 90 minute workout, beard trimmed and hair smart ready to run another daily gauntlet of interviews from Paddington to Pimlico.
The interviews have been going nowhere. One, an events management company, had been so unorganised the interviewer had quit and I was now going for their role. It was such shambles I walked out and straight into a nearby bar.
It was quiet, even for eleven thirty AM and the sweet girl behind the bar took one look at me, said ‘it’s on the house’, as she poured out a vodka tonic with an air of understanding.
Didn’t make it home for about twelve straight hours after that and had to be carried up the stairs by one of my housemates. He could only find one of my shoes; he let me know when I woke up at five PM the next day.
Right now, as I sat there thinking about it, I was glad I wasn’t drunk.
I’ve not been keeping any alcohol in the house since I met her, so instead I push the sash window up and light a smoke, inhaling for ten straight seconds.
The smell of tobacco is a familiar comfort as I shiver there looking at the piano and realise the flat is totally silent. It’s one of those conversions where an entrepreneurial landlord has converted his house into no less than three, three-bedroom flat apartment hybrid abominations.
I’d demanded the biggest room for reasons I can’t quite remember, and we’d not been here long. The kitchen and bathroom were both dwarfed by a lounge that I’d conceded to my housemates who were far more sociable than I, spending most of my time in my room whilst they had various gym friends over for FIFA or Rocket League marathons.
The piano provided ample distraction from the silence.
Once I’d plugged it in, dusted it down, figured out the pedals don’t work and adjusted the volume to a barely-audible pitch I started to tinker with it.
I’d played a little over the years, normally deferring to my guitar because frankly I’m better at it. There’ll be an electric keyboard of mine in a loft somewhere, dying of neglect.
I’ve put my laptop with some sheet music loaded up on the roof of the piano to the left, so that I can look at it as I play, settling for some easy melodies as I only know three chords.
It isn’t coming naturally, and as I push the heavy white keys down with more intensity and feel the frustration rise within me I cast a glance at my guitar and wonder if it’s possible to do both. People have done it, so surely I can.
The ashtray is full and the room is swimming in a menthol haze by the time I give up and move a few feet to bed, shutting my eyes but opening my mind, still listening to angry thoughts as I try to sleep.
I don’t like the piano. It’s heavy, cumbersome, old and makes me sound terrible.
It has to go. I’ll ask the guys to take it out to the street in the morning.
I have to get up and go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
It isn’t unusual I’ll go back and forth a couple of times as I have a weaker bladder than most and a penchant for caffeine and alcohol during the day.
I’m not sure what time it is, but the house is pitch dark on the inside and I can’t hear either of my housemates, so it must be the early hours of the morning. The walk to the bathroom is only a couple of metres, so I don’t want to turn on the lights until I get to there in case I disturb anybody.
Stealthily, I slip out of my room onto the dark wooden floorboards of the hallway in-between mine and Ross’ room, making no sound.
As I take a big step forward towards the bathroom, I can feel the cold empty space to my left where the stairs create a heat sink and shiver, even though my feet are sweating, and the sound of my foot peeling itself off the floorboards as I take a step breaks the silence, and I reach into the bathroom through a gap in the sliding door and pull the light cord.
I’m about to do my business when I hear something else, just faintly.
The piano. It’s playing.
I’d tested the recording features earlier, but I had not saved anything, so I strained my ears to listen.
Ever so gently, a couple of the keys were being pressed down one at a time, and in the same order. Now I’m no expert but there’s just three notes being played, working their way up the keyboard, over and over and over.
I watch the hairs on my arms begin a raise.
There’s no particular tune or melody, just the same three notes. As the pedals don’t work it sounds odd, staccato. The first note, a lonely, deep D2, leads straight into the next key, an E flat.
For a few seconds, there’s a brief pause and a cold draught invades the hallway, blown all the way from the front door of the house it seems to pass right through me and the thick cotton of my dressing gown, filling me with dread.
Right before the A hits and I scream and throw myself down the stairs and out of the house, where I spend hours smoking outside until the sun comes up.
Once the sun is fully in the sky and I’m confident its light is invading the house, I muster the courage to enter. Even though I keep a coat full of cigarette packets and lighters stashed in one of the bins at the front for times li
ke these, I’m still frozen to the core and it’ll take a long time in the shower to warm me through.
My feet are the colour of the whites in your eyes, and my teeth are chattering. The moisture in my hair feels cold on my scalp even though I’ve got the hood of the coat pulled up and close around me.
My mouth is disgusting, and I spit a brown glob of horror into the road before I venture inside, quietly vowing to give up smoking as I lurch, wheezing up the stairs, praying any of our neighbours will not choose this moment to come outside.
