by Lucy Banks
Finally, he drifts to the door and stays there, sensing the child keenly searching for him in the dark. Georgie gurgles, raises his legs upwards, then thumps them down in protest. The ghost sighs.
Children are insatiable, he realises, and for a moment, is thankful he never had the chance to be a father. He is not sure he would have been terribly good at it, not after seeing the reality of what is involved; the endless crying, the eagerness for stimulation, the refusal to be satisfied. Or perhaps that’s just you, little man, he thinks, as he gazes across the room. Maybe you’re harder work than most.
As he passes back through the door, Georgie’s moans immediately rise to a wailing crescendo; first uncertain, testing the air with their potency, then rising in volume to a full-throated screech. The ghost winces and glances instinctively down the corridor, towards the master bedroom.
“It’s your turn now, Arthur” he mutters, gliding closer, trying to ignore the lusty bellows behind him. “I’ve already done my fair share for this night.”
At first, he believes they will not emerge, that they will wilfully ignore their son until he resigns himself to his lonely fate. Then finally, with a tumultuous rustling of bedsheets and muttered expletives, he hears heavy feet, plodding across an unseen floor. A moment later, Arthur emerges, hollow-eyed, hair sticking unflatteringly towards the ceiling like a cleaning brush.
Then she follows, a few seconds after. As ever, the sight of her pulls the ghost inwards, shrinking him in upon himself, like melting ice.
Eleanor.
Admittedly, his former wife is not looking her best. Her eyes are red and swollen, her mouth pinched. He wonders if she’s been weeping about something, and for a moment, dares to hope it’s about him. She does, on occasion, when she believes no one else is with her.
But I’m always with you, he thinks fiercely, following her up the hallway. Except in that bedroom. I cannot enter there, not even if I wanted to. Even the thought of it rips into him, a visceral, violent ache that almost brings him to the floor.
Eleanor and Arthur both pause outside Georgie’s door, studying one another’s expression in a manner that the ghost finds disconcertingly intimate. How well they understand one another, he thinks savagely, lingering beside them both, wishing he had fists to strike out with. Were they always like this? Was I simply too blind to notice it?
Finally, Arthur taps on the door frame, a fraught gesture. The ghost notices his wedding band, gleaming dully in the dark. “I do wish you’d let me arrange for a nanny to help you,” he whispers, agitation clear from every clipped word.
“I said you didn’t have to get up with me, Arthur. Go back to bed if you like.”
“I can’t sleep with that intolerable noise going on.”
Eleanor tuts. “Well, go and drink more whiskey then. That should do it.”
Or why not stop bickering and go and attend to your child? the ghost thinks, though he cannot deny the pleasure of seeing them argue. You’d settle Georgie far more quickly if you actually went in to comfort him.
“Just hire a nanny. That’s all I ask,” Arthur retorts darkly, then pushes the door open. The ghost can see that the baby’s face is ruddy and damp from the howling, his expression unnervingly livid, more like an adult than a helpless child.
Eleanor reaches down, then places the child to her shoulder. Immediately, he settles, nestling his head against her neck.
She is a natural mother, he thinks, though it hurts him to do so. I cannot deny that she was born to do this.
She shushes Georgie, rocking gently to and fro until the baby calms, only uttering the occasional haphazard sniffle. Arthur sighs impatiently, leaning against the wall, looking every bit the exhausted, defeated new father.
“What now?” he says finally, arms folded.
“I wait until he’s fully asleep, then put him back down again.” The mocking tone is unmistakable.
“I mean what about the future? We cannot continue like this.”
Eleanor sighs, stroking Georgie’s hair. “Very well. Get a nanny if it will bring you joy. Get whatever you want.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The ghost stiffens. He’s noticed fractiousness between them before, but this seems more earnest, less trivial. Suddenly, it feels inappropriate to be here, listening to their private conversation, despite their treachery towards him. He wonders if he should leave.
“What did you mean, then?” Eleanor places Georgie gently into his cot, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
Arthur sighs, then rubs his cheek. It’s a gesture the ghost remembers well, the helpless stroke of the face, a sign that he’d rather avoid confrontation if possible.
“Let’s have this conversation another time,” he says finally, inching the door back open.
“No,” Eleanor says, joining him. “Now is as good a time as any.” Her tone permits no refusal. The ghost should know, she used it on him enough times. I’d feel sorry for Arthur, he thinks, were I not so filled with fury at him.
“I scarcely know where to start,” Arthur mutters, as they return to the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind them. “You know that things haven’t been easy for us.”
The ghost notices that Eleanor’s hand strays involuntarily to her own wedding ring, twirling it nervously round her finger. It must have cost far more than the one I purchased for her, the ghost thinks gloomily. Though she didn’t seem to object to my ring at the time.
“It isn’t surprising, is it?” she replies, jaw taut with emotion. “I did tell you, when you proposed, that it would take me a while to recover myself.”
“For heaven’s sake, Eleanor, you’re not the only one who misses him!” Arthur’s voice breaks, and for a moment, the ghost is moved, before remembering himself again. “You lost your husband, but I lost my brother and greatest friend!”
“Shh, do keep your voice down. The last thing we want is for Georgie to awaken again.”
Arthur breathes deeply, re-establishing himself in the present. “Very well,” he says finally. “I just—”
“—Just what?”
“I just want to make you happy. I want to make Georgie happy too, believe it or not.”
Eleanor shakes her head. “I wish I could believe you.”
“I do my best, you know.”
“I know. But,” she pauses, fighting to find the right words. “But I can’t help thinking that you resent him—”
“Eleanor, that’s unfair. Come now, I’ve made every effort to shower that boy with everything a child could possibly want.”
“Apart from love?”
“Surely you can understand why it’s so difficult for me?”
“Arthur, I’ve been understanding. But the boy needs a father.”
The ghost couldn’t agree more. During his time in this house, lurking in the shadows, watching his wife and brother commence their romance in his absence, he’s been frequently surprised by Arthur’s lack of fondness for his son. Presumably guilt, he thinks again. Because he knows he had no right to produce a child so soon after his brother’s death, especially not with his widow. Still, it’s harsh on poor Georgie. No child deserves to feel unwanted.
Eleanor and Arthur reach the master bedroom. The door is already ajar, and the ghost cannot resist the pull of what lies within. Natural curiosity overcomes him, and he peers through the dark, just able to make out the shine of the brass bed-knobs, the generous mass of the mattress made for two. He retreats, planning to leave them for the night, to conceal himself in some other part of the house until morning comes. He’s heard enough of their conversation tonight, and certainly none of it makes his pain any easier to endure.
It’s time for silence, he thinks, exhausted. These thoughts are too much for any man to bear, alive or dead. As he moves away, he presumes that they will return to their bedroom, to the blissful abyss of sleep. But Arthur’s words, cutting through the quiet, bring him to a halt by the stairs.
/> “I didn’t know what it would be like to take on a dead man’s son.”
What? The ghost turns. Each moment seems slower, time running in reverse, twisting the air around him, warping everything in its past. What do you mean by that, brother?
Eleanor swallows hard, then closes her eyes. “You were the one who suggested marrying me so soon. It was you who offered to be a father to Georgie. I never asked you to be.”
She closes the bedroom door behind her, leaving Arthur outside, staring dully at the polished surface, which is barely inches from his nose. The ghost can only watch in mute, anguished amazement, and try to grasp what has just been said. Slowly, he turns to Georgie’s bedroom door, an innocuous, inoffensive slab of wood, the only thing standing between them both.
Georgie is mine?
The very idea swells in his head, blocking out all other thought. Arthur, even Eleanor, are both forgotten. Because Georgie is his.
I am a father, he thinks, with a sense of elation. It is something to cling to, a tiny bud of happiness amongst all this death and desperation.
Then, as he looks down at the misty, shapeless form of his existence, he realises the futility of his situation. He will never be a father, because being a parent requires the individual to be alive. He is merely a memory of one; no more, and no less. Georgie will never know him, can never know him. In time, he won’t even be able to detect him as a ghostly presence, much less anything else. And all the while, he’ll believe that Arthur is his father.
They will be happy, he thinks, looking miserably around him, at the sumptuous staircase, the elegant sash-windows, letting moonlight fall upon the floorboards below. Then, it is time for me to leave this house. I cannot stay any longer.
TWENTY-THREE
— 1878 —
I HELD MY breath for as long as I could, despite everything. It is human instinct to do so, and regardless of my knowledge that this river would be my coffin, I was unable to stop my body from resisting it with everything it had.
The surface was undetectable, the bottom of the Thames, invisible. I was floating in endless water, buoyed and bounced along by the current, and my limbs had become stone. Most painful of all; I had lost Eleanor. I’d had to lose Eleanor. I prayed, with the last remnants of oxygen available to me, that she would somehow survive this. But I suspected she too would be pulled down. The banks were too distant, the water too cold. She wasn’t a strong swimmer at the best of times. There was very little chance that she could have made it.
I love you, my darling, I thought, as I involuntarily inhaled.
I’d heard rumours about death by drowning, tales of how it was a comforting, peaceful way to pass on; that the mind comprehended nothing of what was happening, only conjured pleasant hallucinations for the victim. It wasn’t such for me. The water burned like hot coals through my throat, which was already constricting in protest, straight into my lungs.
Then the burning commenced in earnest.
I may have attempted to scream, down there in the dark. Certainly, my mouth was stretched in horror, incomprehension that such a thing could be happening to me, when only fifteen minutes earlier, I’d been enjoying a delightful evening with my wife. It was staggering that the world could turn so swiftly, that I could be flipped from contentment to desperation in so little time.
More water poured in. My lungs pulsed and spasmed in protest. All attempts at movement were pointless, for my arms and legs were no longer my own; only heavy, useless pillars by my sides. Was I sinking? Perhaps. Or perhaps bobbing upwards, tugged by the ceaseless current? Either way, it didn’t much matter. Thought was becoming more difficult, but I was aware of the fact that I was dying, and that nothing could save me now.
Other forms passed me in the depths, bodies no doubt, of those who’d died before me. If they were corpses, then the Thames was filled with them. And if that is so, what a terrible, terrible thing this is.
My eyes were closing. My mind was closing. Yet still I clung to the image of her. Please let her survive. And let her know how much I loved her.
With that last thought, my heart ceased to beat.
And I ceased to be.
He is in the water, and he is not. This is the first thought he has, as he starts to see again, and become aware of his surroundings.
Where was I? he wonders, dimly aware of having just lost a sense of calm, of almost unbearable peace. And why am I here? How long have I been like this?
So many questions, none of them answerable. He turns, this way and that, confused by the world around him. It is undoubtedly water, though dark and filthy. He can see excrement bobbing past his eyes, and worse, the shapes of bodies, clothes blossoming around them like floating shrouds.
Why am I not wet? he wonders. None of this makes sense. Yet if this is a dream, it is the most peculiar dream he’s ever had, because it feels so real. But it cannot be, his senses are not functioning as they should. He feels no wetness on his skin, and has no discomfort being down here, regardless of the lack of air.
Something dreadful has happened, he realises suddenly.
Fear prickles him, raw as an electric shock. Something is not right. A terrible event occurred, he is sure of it, but he cannot recollect what. His head snaps downwards, pulled by an urge he has no control over.
There’s a man’s body below him, though far too still to be alive. He focuses only on the man’s billowing shirt, the lifeless stretch of the fingers, because he is too frightened to look any higher. He does not want to see the man’s face, knows that if he does, he will see something that will change him forever. But of course, morbid curiosity overcomes him eventually; that all-too-human inability to ignore something, even when it’s liable to cause terrible damage.
And so, he looks.
The dead man’s face is only visible for a moment or so, before the body tumbles further into the darkness, losing itself in the clutching weeds. But the moment is all that is required.
He chokes. The ghost chokes. And all the while, thinks, so now I know the truth.
For a time, he simply floats, staring at the strange, incomprehensible world around him, willing his mind to remain empty. He waits, drifting along, unable to comprehend the truth of it all. For surely, if he is dead, there must be something more than this, somewhere for him to progress to?
Life did not prepare me for this, he thinks, and the first swell of despair washes through him. And every word those vicars mumbled in their Sunday services was a lie.
He sobs, for a few minutes, or an eternity. Time has warped and frayed, or maybe it’s his sanity that’s shattered, because of the devastation of knowing that he has ceased to be.
Thoughts clamour for attention, each more horrible than the last.
I am dead.
But I am not in Heaven.
I’ve lost everything.
I don’t know what this means.
And lastly, most painfully, where is Eleanor?
If she was dead, wouldn’t she be down here too, scrabbling in the depths like him? Come to mention it, why are there no other ghosts surrounding him? The water is mired with corpses, yet no other spirits lurk down here, or at least, not any that he can see.
I’m the only sentient creature here, he realises, bleakly scanning the murk. I have died, and now I’m completely alone.
Minutes, hours pass. The ghost becomes dimly aware of a hulking mass above him; a monstrous weight that blocks out the feeble light of the moon. He floats closer, marvelling, yet also repulsed by how easy it is to glide through the river. The water offers no resistance, nor can he feel it wetting his skin. It is even difficult to imagine how the coldness would feel, now he’s without a body. Surely I won’t forget these things so soon, he thinks, with something close to panic. Or am I changing already? Is this what it means to be dead, to lose one’s mind entirely?
He knows he must calm himself, recover rational thought, and consider the most sensible course of action. The b
ulk above him widens as he closes in, confusing in its incongruousness. That’s a window, he realises, edging closer, peering through the glass. It’s a row of windows.
The force of the memory sends him spinning, propelled backwards by horror. It’s the saloon of the Princess Alice. And far, far worse, it is overflowing with people; or things that were once people, before the Thames seeped into their screaming mouths. The bodies are wedged like potatoes in a sack, pressed inelegantly against the windows, all wrapped around one another. So many lives. It is hideous, all this needless, avoidable death.
He forces himself to look, just in case she should be amongst them, mouth twisted in horror, eyes whitening in death, but thankfully, there’s no sign of her. Eleanor wouldn’t be inside, he tells himself, remembering how her hand had slipped from his. She was swimming for the riverbank. If her body is down here, she would be in amongst the weeds, or floating near the surface. I must keep searching.
All the time he flits back and forth, he’s aware of movement above. The occasional plank of wood slices cleanly through the water, which he soon realises is an oar. Nearer the surface, he can even detect the occasional shout, muffled by the river around him. A rescue mission. Not that there is any point. There’s no one left alive anymore. The Thames has swallowed up hundreds of victims, and the men above stand no chance of finding anyone to rescue.
Sorrow hits him, as deftly as the paddling oars above. I considered myself like those living creatures up there, he thinks, reaching closer for the surface. But I’m not any longer. Why did this have to happen? Why me? What sort of God would allow this to pass?
Desperately, he breaks the surface, half-expecting water to fly from his rising body. The lack of physical impact disturbs him, reminding him again of his nothingness. It is a nightmare, and one that he prays will end soon. For it cannot always be like this, he thinks, raising his eyes to the moon. No divine entity would let his creatures suffer so much in the afterlife, would it?
