My attention is drawn to the upper shelf opposite. I thought it was empty, but something is stirring. A person sits upright, swings his legs to and fro and stretches his arms. A youth with blond curls, dressed incongruously in smart pinstriped trousers and an unironed T-shirt that says: What we think, we become. His feet, dangling above the old woman, are bare. His toes are a refreshingly healthy pink and the toenails are gilded. His smile is cherubic and aimed straight at me. I’m in no doubt he can see me. At last my beseechings are answered. Whoever or whatever is in charge has sent some angelic underling to welcome me into the hereafter. High time too, but what a scruff. Could they spare no one more senior?
What a relief!
‘I can well imagine it must be,’ he says.
He can hear me, or read me somehow. Wonderful! I miss the timbre and power of my matchless voice, and it requires mental effort to converse in this way. Still, needs must.
‘You cannot possibly imagine the frights I’ve been having, young man.’ I form the thoughts frantically and throw them towards him. ‘Something has gone awry, you see, and I appear to be tied to my—’
‘Hush,’ he says. ‘Compose yourself.’
What cheek. Does he know who I am? I’ll give him a piece of my mind as soon as I’m set free. For the time being though, I must be diplomatic. What we think, we become, says his T-shirt. The actor in me is not dead; I gather myself to feel sincere warmth and gratitude. ‘Yes, of course,’ I agree. ‘Clear the airways, eh? So you can beam me up, Scotty?’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘I apologise. You must be weary of that one, dear boy. Let’s introduce ourselves properly. You may not realise that I’m—’
‘Hush,’ he repeats.
How dare he? His face will fall when I tell him. His superiors will be furious when they hear of his cheek. But he has the upper hand here – I have to hold on to my temper. ‘Harold Whittaker,’ I politely persist. ‘Revered actor. One of the greatest, if not the greatest ever. A volcano of talent erupting across stage and screen. For the past fifteen years I’ve been Baron Whittaker of Dorchester. That’s who I am, but please, do call me Harry. And you, you are?’
Let him dare hush me now. I await his apology.
‘Pickles,’ he says. ‘Albert Pickles. But really, don’t worry. “Scotty” will do if it’s easier for you – and I know who you were.’ He reaches down to touch Lord Whittaker’s white head.
The past tense disconcerts me, and for a moment I’m dumb. Then he smiles beatifically, the very least one might expect of an angel, and I find myself experiencing a moment of almost-peace in the midst of my turmoil. For all Scotty’s youth, I have to grant he has presence. I hold myself still and give him my attention. He’s going to release me or explain to me what to do to release myself. I’ll be out of this fix in a jiffy.
The van is bowling along. I’m hearing the roar and grind as we overtake some heavy-goods vehicle. ‘There’s probably no need to worry,’ Scotty says quietly as the racket dies down. ‘I’m told this happens in quite a few cases. You’re stuck for the moment, but you should be able to detach before long. Keep an eye out for people who mean a lot to you.’
‘Because?’
‘Because you can go with them.’
‘Just like that? No fuss or trick to it?’
‘None at all.’
‘Well, that’s marvellous, thank you!’ I’ve warmed to the lad. ‘Such a relief, you have no idea, to know there’s a way out of this.’
‘I’m so glad,’ he responds. ‘I love to help when I can. I’m guessing you just haven’t seen anyone yet that you’d like to be with. Since he died, I mean.’ He nods respectfully at the departed.
I cast my mind back. Not Simon Foyle, obviously, but I soften at the memory of that brown-eyed nurse, Ellen, and the mortuary assistant just now. ‘Women,’ I tell Scotty. ‘Pretty women, they mean a great deal to me, and I’ve been desperate to go with two of them so far, but it just hasn’t worked. I tried, but I didn’t make it across to them. Something needs fixing.’
He leans forward, flexing his toes, as the van swerves from one lane to another, sending the corpses rocking, the dead black arm swinging. Scotty is in need of a shave, I notice, or perhaps trying to grow a beard. ‘These women,’ he says, ‘did you know them when you were alive?’
‘No, but—’
‘Ah, well, in that case...’ He strokes the golden stubble on his dimpled chin. ‘Forgive me, I have to confess I’m a little new to this job. I need to explain the situation more plainly. It’s probably best if I quote you chapter and verse.’
The change in his tone fills me with unease. More guarded than at first, it’s how a doctor might drop and soften his voice if the news were not good.
He recites slowly and carefully. ‘After death, a spirit emerging from its body may attach itself to any qualifying host that approaches within a radius of ten metres, provided that no other spirit is presently attached to that host. If the spirit does not so attach itself it shall remain with the body, or as the body decays or is otherwise recycled, with any part or particle of the body.’
‘But—’
‘Wait. There’s more.’ He squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to remember, before continuing, checking categories off on his fingers. ‘A “qualifying host” is a person, animal, object, artefact or location in whom or in which, before death, the spirit made a significant emotional investment, or...’ He stalls. ‘Or that serves...’ Stalls again. ‘Bother, I always have trouble with this bit. Or that serves, temporarily or permanently...’ He draws breath. ‘Yes, I’ve got it, as a medium for an idea or a message in which, before death, such investment was made. Quite a mouthful, eh?’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Tell me again.’
He obliges, and I listen a second time, struggling to comprehend.
There’s a blare of horns from outside. The legalese has drowned me in bafflement, but an appalling truth stands out. Unless I come across something or someone that I cared about quite considerably, I am facing a waking eternity in an urn.
‘That’s the meat of it,’ he says brightly, ‘and that phrase – significant emotional investment – is the one to remember, because it’s really just more of the same from then on.’
He’s off again, cocky now, rattling off another verse of whatever chapter he’s quoting. ‘The spirit may at any time move from one available qualifying host to another. A person, animal, object, artefact or location that comes newly into existence may qualify if the spirit prior to death made a significant emotional investment in the idea of that person, animal, object, artefact or location or in the idea or message it carries.’
He punches the air. ‘Word-perfect, how about that? But you see what I mean? Grandchildren and great-grandchildren, for example. You can keep on transferring as new generations are born, provided other spirits haven’t got there ahead of you.’
I stare at him, my anxiety rocketing.
‘No descendants?’ he says. ‘Well, just guessing and by no means presuming – but in your case it sounds as if a woman you cared for will do the trick, at least to get you started. Perhaps someone like that will view the body or come to the funeral?’
When still I don’t answer, he adds, a touch nervously. ‘Or a man, of course, that would be perfectly fine, absolutely, please be in no doubt. Or any treasured friend of yours. Or a nephew, a niece?’
The van brakes, and the three corpses shoot forward, feet first. Scotty waits. His smile fades. He seems sorrowful, and there’s a hint of a crease on his seraphic brow. The van picks up speed again.
‘Those other things you mentioned?’ I manage at last. ‘How about them? Objects and so on?’
‘Yes, well,’ he says uncertainly, ‘but you need to think one move ahead. An object can be a bit of a dead end, no pun intended. A person moves around, meets other people, gives you more to see, more options down the line. Still,’ he adds, ‘even so, if an object comes along and that’s your only cho
ice, my advice would be to go for it.’
The bodies slip backwards again as we grind noisily uphill. This whole set-up is ludicrous; I’m scenting a hoax. ‘Chapter and verse, indeed. Where from, may I ask?”
Scotty stares at me a moment, then offers his pink palms in a shrug. ‘The laws of the universe?’ His chuckle is musical. ‘Who knows, the same may apply across every galaxy, but I’m still Earthbound myself. One level up from you, hardly any wiser, only just got my promotion.’
I’m bewildered again. ‘One level up? Are you saying that you were like me?’
‘A separating spirit?’ He bows again to Lord Whittaker, deceased. ‘Yes, that was my great pleasure and fortune. I was a railway clerk in Crewe, man and boy. My job was planning the timetables. My body survived sixty-three years until 1949. My family were around my bed when I died. I went with my dear wife at the start.’
‘Sixty-three? But look at you.’
‘Yes!’ He flexes a bicep, grinning with evident pleasure. ‘It takes some getting used to. It’s a thrill being embodied and young again and knowing the difference this time.’ He wriggles and stretches, making me acutely aware of how much I’m missing my own physicality. ‘Bouncy,’ he says. ‘That’s how I’ve been feeling.’ He demonstrates, but the van lurches and he nearly falls off his shelf. ‘Whoops.’
I go through mental contortions, trying to peer down at whatever I am. ‘Am I young again, too?’
‘Look in a mirror,’ he says, ‘next time you see one. You’ll find you’re not anything at all.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But you can see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you see?’
‘I see who you are. I see into your soul.’
‘But no physical me?’
‘The one you imagine – yes, I see him. Very handsome, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, yes, and then, if I get promoted to your level? Take me through it, dear boy. You started off by haunting your wife?’
His eyes soften. ‘Not haunting exactly. She would imagine we were chatting, you know, and I would offer my thoughts, but she never knew how the thoughts came to her.’ His countenance shines. ‘It was a special time. The best I ever knew. I was sorry it couldn’t go on forever.’
‘Because she died?’
‘My darling wife,’ he says wistfully, ‘died in 1963. I transferred to one of our sons, then to one of his children. Eventually, when that grandchild sadly died recently, everyone nearby that I cared about had a spirit already attached, so I had to let go.’
He pauses and sighs. ‘Letting go is the necessary step after emotional investment. It’s important to understand that. Even after so long, it’s a wrench, harder than you might think. I’m not at all sure that I’ve properly mastered it. Still, it’s only been a few weeks and, on the bright side, now they’ve promoted me I’ve seen my wife again! She’s attached to a dear little girl—’
‘Listen,’ I interrupt, ‘how about I skip all this transferring business, let go now, be like you? I’m willing to try it.’
He rocks backward as his hand shoots to his mouth. ‘Sorry, mustn’t laugh, but you’re a long way from that option. The first task is caring, only then comes letting go.’
He leans across, reaching out to me, cupping me in his hands like a bubble. ‘Take heart, dear soul. Good luck to you. I hope you’ll soon come across someone you cared for.’
Although he’s so close, I’m having trouble seeing him. Is his radiance dimming?
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he says, ‘but lots to do, time I was going.’
Dread of abandonment seizes me. ‘Stay. Please. Don’t leave me.’
The light wavers and fades.
‘Come back to me soon, at least.’
‘It may not be me next time.’
‘But aren’t you my guardian?’
His answer is barely a murmur. ‘I was on call when you prayed. I’ll try to look into your case. I’ll come again if I’m free. Ask for Pickles 64123.’
‘What’s that – a phone number?’
‘My name. There are rather a lot of Pickleses.’
I can scarcely see through the gloom. ‘Six four...?’
‘One two three. Not hard to remember.’
‘So I just need to pray again?’
There’s no answer. The darkness is total. 64123. We’re slowing and turning, pulling to a halt. When the men open up and start hauling the bodies out, the shelf above the old woman is empty. Pickles 64123.
They unload the young black man first and trundle him off, leaving the van doors swinging open. A fat bluebottle buzzes in and around, straight through me – ugh, disgusting – before settling on the old woman’s shoulder. It runs in circles and figures of eight across her withered neck, bristled chin and gaping blue lips. Briefly it takes off, dive-bombs me again, then returns to her, disappearing up her left nostril.
Lily
The first person to realise the Caruthers’ marriage was heading for the rocks had never met Martin or Lily. Mrs Jones happened to be at her daughter’s bedroom window that evening, looking irritably out at the night. She’d come in, without switching the light on, to pick up dirty washing and grab five minutes’ peace, for God’s sake. Downstairs the dog was having a fit of barking, the kids were arguing about whose turn it was on the computer, and her husband for what felt like the ninety-ninth blessed time was shouting at the pair of them to stop shouting. Leaning her head on the glass, catching her breath, she tried not to lose her temper.
The tiny London gardens backed onto each other. With no moon to speak of, the darkness beyond the window was absolute except for a few illuminated rooms opposite, the nearest a stone’s throw away and as vivid as a widescreen TV. Although the hubbub downstairs was abating and her annoyance was passing, Mrs Jones lingered to have a good look. The protective tape had finally come off her neighbour’s new windows, and this was the first time she’d been able to see properly into his kitchen.
Until recently, her neighbour might as well not have existed, hidden from view, year after year, by a thicket of buddleia. But a few months ago the buddleia came down, exposing a dilapidated house, swarming with builders. The constant drilling and pounding and crashing of scaffolding at first drove Mrs Jones mad, but then curiosity took over. She’d lost count of the times she’d come in here on her afternoons off to sneak an envious look at the roofers and bricklayers and garden-designers coming and going. The house quickly sprouted a third storey, clad in synthetic slate. The yellow-brick back-addition with its rotting windows and mossy damp patches morphed into a wall of sliding glass panels that opened on a new Yorkstone patio set off by emerald turf and dwarf shrubs.
Then one day she’d seen him, chatting with an architect, pointing at plans and up at the roof. He was clean-cut, smartly dressed, his smile warm and engaging. No children or dogs were in evidence. No woman either. He was young enough to be single, and she’d allowed herself to imagine knocking ten years off her age and climbing over the fence into his arms. It hurt no one to fantasise.
A loud crash below made her jump. It was followed by silence. Dear heaven, what now? She imagined her family motionless, holding their collective breath, suppressing their giggles, her husband included, one of them hugging the dog to keep him quiet, expecting her to thunder down and say, ‘Who the bloody hell did this?’ whereupon they would all blame each other and tell her not to fuss. Soon she heard muted voices and the sound of the back door opening as they snuck whatever it was they had broken into the rubbish bin. She sighed and turned again to the window, her eyes drawn once more towards her attractive neighbour, lounging tonight against his new granite worktop.
It was bad manners to spy on him, a step further than watching his builders. Briefly she acknowledged this, but her conscience didn’t leap into action. She would have stepped hurriedly away from the window had she chanced to witness old Mrs Briggs next door talking to thin air, or Mr Sanders two gardens
along picking his nose. At least she believed that she would. But this man was just smoking a cigarette. He was unlikely ever to be more than a stranger. She rarely walked on his street; it would be hard to guess at his house number. He was like someone she might eye up on the train, she decided, or might mildly lust after from the window of a bus. He wasn’t naked or talking to himself, and he could close his blinds, couldn’t he? She was out of order, of course, but her daydreaming was harmless.
Not least as it seemed he was, after all, spoken for. A young woman was there, her back to the window, her hand on an iron she’d just returned to its rest. The two of them were captured in freeze-frame: he in his business suit, she in a white top and faded blue jeans; he propped against the worktop, contemplating the floor, she occupied with a pink dress on the ironing board. Apples, or maybe pears, were piled in a yellow fruit bowl on the table. Arum lilies drooped in a vase. Maybe music was playing, or the radio was on, because the two weren’t speaking or laughing or looking at each other. Definitely married.
The wife wasn’t moving, that was the strange thing. It must be a minute now, and still her hand clutched the iron without lifting it, and the dress lay on the board. Her head was bent, maybe in thought. Her brown hair hung in a thick braid to her waist. When at last she flung back her head and said something, Mrs Jones pressed her face to the glass, but all she could hear was the renewed rumpus in the sitting room below: a row breaking out over which channel to watch.
Impassive, leaning against the work surface, examining the tip of his cigarette, the man offered no reply to his wife. Mrs Jones did her best to excuse him. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her speak, or he’d responded with a grunt or a chuckle.
The wife became angry, though. She let go of the iron, turned to yell something at him, and Mrs Jones ducked away in confusion. What had she seen? She crept back to the window. It was awful – the young woman’s left cheek was purple, eye to chin, nose to ear. Had he been hitting her? She narrowed her eyes, trying to see better. The colour wasn’t right for a bruise. A burn would be painful, needing a dressing. It must be a birthmark.
The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker Page 3
