Part of a photo was underneath this. George looked like a brute of a man. Something in his eyes belying his smile. Something smarmy and ultimately unlikeable was the impression I got from the black and white photo, which was now in sepia tones due to the fading of the paper’s colour. The young woman, presumably Karen, looked stunning. Considering the time the photo was taken, she looked modern in her appearance. Long brown hair and eyes that were soft, almost sad, maybe telling something of an underlying emotion at having to marry the slimy fellow beside her.
Beneath this section were the deaths. “William John Dingle.” I scanned back up the page. Hadn’t someone else called Dingle just got married? I saw it there again. “Dennis Dingle and Dorothy Watkins.”
“Weird.” I said aloud, commenting on the strange coincidence. I wondered if they were related to the poor fellow that had died. “Taken too soon.” The short paragraph detailed.
I realised whilst I had been studying the newspaper cuttings that I hadn’t heard another sound from the tall-boy. I stood up fully and gave it another kick with the side of my foot. There was no sound forthcoming. I bent down to try and lift the wardrobe back onto its feet. I squeezed my fingers underneath the side nearest me, close to the top of the cupboard, and lifted. It was heavy but not unmanageable and once it was moving I was able to get myself in front of it to push it fully back into an upright position.
The draws set in the base had moved out slightly, each one from the bottom up progressively further out than the others in a reversed step configuration. I pushed them back into place.
I surveyed the cupboard and there didn’t appear to be anything untoward. I nervously moved towards the doors and pulled them open quickly, being sure to make my grip on them as solid as possible should I need to thrust them closed again. The inside was empty save for the rail that had become dislodged in the fall and was stuck diagonally across the back of the wardrobe, wedged in-between the panelling and edges of the cupboard.
I pulled it at one end but it wouldn’t budge. I grabbed hold of the middle of the wooden pole and pulled again. This time it was released, but somewhat quicker than I expected. It snapped with the force that I’d exerted on it. One piece fell noisily to the bottom of the cupboard but the piece that was remaining in my hand slipped and the broken, splintered edge of it plunged into the palm of my hand as I reacted to not letting it fall. Blood immediately gushed forth and I screamed in pain. In seconds my hand was dripping claret corpuscles onto the bottom of the wardrobe innards. I pulled the damaged pole from my hand, wincing as the rough edge rasped against the torn skin. I held my damaged hand in my good one and ran to the bathroom. I pushed the wound directly under the tap and turned on the water. As the cool liquid splashed onto the gash, I gnashed my teeth together in pain.
“Fuuuuuck!” I yelled out loud. It was agony. Once the wound was relatively clean, I examined it, pulling out two more splinters which had remained attached to the soft inner flesh. I rinsed it again trying to push the edges of the wound together to stop the bleeding. I grabbed the towel I’d previously used to clear up the sticky mess from the wardrobe and wrapped it around my hand as tightly as I could. I gripped it as hard as I could to try and keep pressure on the gaping hole to stop the bleeding.
I pushed the lid of the toilet down and sat on it. I was breathing heavily. I felt done in. Exhausted.
“This was all I needed just before my interview.” I said to myself.
I waited for several minutes until my breathing had calmed and I felt the injury was slightly healed. I pulled the towel away from my hand gently and saw the edges of skin along the one-inch long wound had started to become meshed together. It was looking far better than I expected for such a short space of time to have passed. It wasn’t fully healed and I was careful to ensure I didn’t flatten my palm fully which, had I done so, would have reopened the wound. I discarded the towel and turned my hand over to check the back of it. As I did so, one of the spherical droplets that I’d seen earlier rolled across the back of my hand. It had come from the towel, I surmised.
‘I couldn’t have rinsed them all away’ I thought. I turned my hand over quickly to prevent it from falling to the floor and it rolled into the centre of my palm. When it came into contact with my scar tissue, it burst and the gel within it appeared to melt into the wounded area of my skin. I gently tapped the area but there was no stickiness, no gel or anything to suggest it had ever been there.
“Weird.” I said aloud. I checked the bleeding had stopped before I turned my attention to the bloody mess that stained the inside of the sink bowl, and turned the taps on full, sloshing the water around the porcelain to rinse the blood away.
After cleaning the sink bowl, I checked my hand once more. The bleeding had stopped completely and the wound looked like barely a scratch.
I returned to bed, ensuring the tall-boy was “secure” as I did so.
I lay in bed, the throbbing in my hand keeping me awake for what seemed like hours. I must have drifted off eventually, despite the pain, because when I next awoke there was bright sunshine invading the room. I immediately leapt up, fearing I was late. I looked at the clock. It was showing 02:15 and, curiously, the display was flashing. The display would flash following a power-cut and I put it down to this for the state the clock-radio was in. I pressed the TIME SET button on the device to stop the clock from flashing. As I removed my hand, I brushed the RADIO ON button and the wireless burst into life.
A male presenter was speaking. In my half-awake state, I heard him say something which forced me to stand bolt upright.
“You can tell the mark of a man by his shoes.” The presenter said.
“You can indeed Darren.” A second voice said, followed by laughter from both presenters before the second presenter continued.
“And coming up on the Darren Gamblen breakfast show today, an interview with hypnotherapist, James Holmes, but, before then, this is Transvision Vamp.” The sound of “I Want Your Love” started blaring out of the clock-radio’s speaker.
I stood, staring at the clock-radio. This was too much of a coincidence. I’d heard that phrase in my sleep, at the charity shop and now on the radio. ‘What the hell was going on?’ I wondered.
“I must be going mad. “ I said to myself aloud. “Just coincidence.” I tried to convince myself.
“Shit!” I said. “Time!” I scrabbled across the bed and room to the sideboard to check my watch. I couldn’t afford to be late for my interview.
I grabbed my watch. It was 08:15. I had better get a move on. I had less than two hours to get dressed and arrive there. Even though the journey should only take an hour, I didn’t want to cut it too fine and turn up all flustered, or worse, late. I had to be there by 10:00.
I rushed to the bathroom and splashed water onto my face. I sat on the toilet and tried to piss as I simultaneously brushed my teeth. Nothing came though so I wiped myself and returned to the sink to spit out the accumulated froth of toothpaste and saliva that had gathered in my mouth from the brushing.
As I looked up from the sink, I screamed. In the mirror, reflected back at me, was the figure of a man. Smartly dressed in a suit and waistcoat, identical to the one I’d gotten from the charity shop, and looking right at me. And smiling. I blinked and the image was gone.
‘Was I seeing things now as well as hearing them?’ I thought. I looked around the room, feeling foolish for doing so when it was obvious I was the only one present.
“Jesus.” I said, placing my hands on the edge of the sink and examining the mirror. “Stress.” I told myself. So much was relying on the interview, I figured I was just experiencing a high degree of stress in relation to it.
“Calm down.” I told myself. I took several deep breaths and after convincing myself that nothing, or no-one, was there with me, I moved into the bedroom. I put on my underwear and then, after switching the clock-radio off, went downstairs to complete getting dressed in the lounge, where my suit, shirt
and tie were left hanging.
I pushed open the lounge door but, again, something appeared to be stopping it from opening fully. I squeezed around as before and found the suit and shirt on the floor once more.
“For fuck’s sake!” I said.
I lifted it from the floor and dusted it off. As I held the hanger holding it above me, to ensure it was as clean as possible, the sleeves of the jacket rested on my shoulders. As I pulled it away, the sleeves brushed my neck and it felt as if hands followed behind them, one of which felt as if it touched the bottom of my left ear lobe. I yelped involuntarily as I experienced the contact, but when the sleeves fell in front of me, there was nothing protruding from them.
I quickly hung the suit on the top of the door and went into the kitchen. I poured some cereal into a bowl, along with some milk, grabbed a spoon and walked back into the living room. The suit was no longer on the back of the door. I dropped the cereal bowl as I saw that it was lying, flat on the floor behind the door, the sleeves crossed over the chest. If there had been a body inside it, it would have looked much like someone lying in state.
Reaching down and grabbing the hanger again, I lifted the entire suit back up. I laid it down over the back of a chair this time and looked at the mess of cereal and milk strewn across
The Ghost of Clothes Page 6
