Walking with Ghosts

by Baker, John

  ‘That’s not true, Joni,’ Marie said. ‘I saw Edward Blake in your room. The guy’s got his own key.’

  Joni turned her head. She said, ‘Leave me out of it, OK?’ She turned completely around and took a step back into the room. She said, ‘Look at my face. How much more of this d’you think I can take?’

  Marie took her arm, and led her back to the chair, made her sit in it. ‘Listen to me, Joni, that’s all I’m asking you. Listen to me for ten minutes, then if you still want to be left out of it I’ll let you go. What if you could walk away with five hundred, instead of fifty pounds?’

  ‘And be beaten black-and-blue, probably killed? The cash’d be no good to me if I was dead.’

  ‘No,’ Marie said. ‘I think there’s a way you could end up with five hundred and a guarantee that you get no more aggro from Edward Blake.’

  Joni took a deep breath, squinted up at Marie. ‘Ten minutes?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s all I want.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got five,’ said Joni. ‘Then I’m gonna find somewhere to lay down.’

  It was shopping for the make-up that jogged Marie’s memory. The black pencil, watching Janet buy the black pencil, she suddenly felt herself tremble. Make-up. There was a connection. She couldn’t remember what it was, but somewhere the investigation had thrown up that connection. Back at the office she dug out Simon Cod’s list of substances found in or around the allotment shed. Cyanide, Dettol, glycerine, greasepaint, hops, horse manure, lead, greasepaint! That was it. Greasepaint in a garden shed. The other substances, yes. She could think of a reason for all of them being there. But not greasepaint. Not specifically greasepaint. Unless some mad gardener used it to paint the base of his shrubs, keep the slugs away. She mentioned it to Celia, when she arrived at the office.

  ‘I’m not the keenest gardener in town,’ Celia assured her. ‘But I never heard of anyone using greasepaint in a garden. The only people who use it, as far as I’m aware, are those connected to the art of acting. Try the theatre, the local amateur dramatic groups.’

  ‘I think I’ll do just that,’ said Marie. ‘See if we can turn up someone who might have access to greasepaint and who also had some connection to India Blake.’

  24

  There is a flat in Notting Hill Gate. No one answers the door so you walk in. Diana is sitting cross-legged in the centre of the floor; she is wan, undernourished, black rings around her eyes. She looks through you. Behind her at the window is a tall, bare-chested youth. His hair is long and unwashed. He gives you a broad smile and places a large cowboy hat on his head.

  ‘Diana.’

  She looks up at you. ‘ ’Lo, Dora.’

  You move towards her but she scrambles to her feet and links arms with the cowboy. ‘Friend of yours, Di?’ he says in a hopeless imitation of a southern twang.

  ‘A relative,’ says Diana.

  And you agree, Dora. You imitate her. ‘Yes, a relative.’

  The cowboy extends his hand. ‘Well, Dora, come right on in,’ he says. ‘It ain’t often as we git kinsfolk calling in.’

  You take his hand. It is wet, wet and cold. Diana has got herself behind him. She tries to keep him between you, whenever he moves, she moves with him.

  ‘Ahm Capt’n America,’ he tells you. ‘Me an’ Di wuz just goin’ out.’ You can go along with them if you want, Dora. It is nothing special, a visit to some friends along the road.

  ‘No,’ says Diana.

  ‘OK. I wanted to see you. To see that you’re alive. To say that you can come home whenever you want.’

  She nods her head, but still hides behind the cowboy.

  He grins at you. ‘That’s real nice, Dora,’ he says. ‘But if you really want to help Di, you could lay some bread on us before you fly away.’

  You leave fifty pounds and promise to send more before you stumble blindly out of the flat into the street outside. You leave the tube at Bayswater to vomit. You cannot stomach it, Dora. You cannot stomach life, and circumstances, motherhood and rejection, guilt and history. You spew it up on the tiles of the Bayswater underground.

  Back in York Billy has packed his case. He has two things to say to you. Nelson Mandela has been released from prison. Billy has got himself a room on the other side of town.

  When he closes the door they have all gone. Arthur, Diana, and Billy. Lady Day sings ‘Where Is The Sun?’ You watch the pear tree putting forth its bright green leaves. It is the same every year. A mindless celebration of the coming spring.

  25

  At first light William was up and about. He finished setting up the candles in the first-floor front room. Using two fingers as a measure he spaced them out on every surface in the room. The pelmets, the desk, and the rest of the furniture were festooned with candles. He didn’t light them, but he checked in the right drawer of the desk to make sure the box of matches and tapers were there. He sat on the chair and felt the quiet and peace his father must have felt when he was in his study alone, a study that was identical to this one in every detail.

  He left the room and entered the stark contrast of the rest of the house as he walked down the uncarpeted staircase to the ground-floor kitchen. It was cold and grimy in there, but William didn’t mind, he spent only a little time in the room twice a day. He melted butter in the pan and fried a couple of eggs. When they were almost ready he pushed them to one side and fried a thick slice of bread in the remains of the butter. He put the fried bread on a plate and arranged the eggs on top of the bread. Then he carried the plate up to his attic room and ate the food while sitting on a cushion on the floor.

  It was a ritual. William had the same breakfast in the same way every day. If a person ate food like that, regularly, arranged in the same way, in the same surroundings, the food was more nourishing. A person’s body digested it Properly, because a person’s body didn’t have to adjust. It knew what was coming and what it would have to do to deal with it.

  Next a cup of coffee. Then a shit. Ritual completed.

  Now the day could begin.

  After breakfast William changed the sheets on his bed and put them in a black holdall with his underwear and shirts and set off for the launderette. Fridays he used the launderette on Bootham. Wednesdays he went to the one on Clarence Street, and Mondays he walked to Clifton Green. He’d learned to use different launderettes when he was in London. If you used the same one every time people started talking to you. Being familiar. They wanted to know things: where you live, what you do for a living. William didn’t like that kind of thing. You couldn’t be too careful. Disaster might be waiting around the next corner.

  What if it happened to William? That he was destroyed, like his father had been destroyed? Who would be the avenger then? Who would keep his father alive?

  When he got back to the house in St Mary’s, Charles Hopper was waiting for him. Hopper was secretary of the Fulford Players, one of the local amateur groups which hired William to do their make-up. A busybody.

  William discouraged people coming to the house. He never invited anyone in. He had no telephone, and when a professional or amateur group, sometimes a magazine or photographer needed his skills as a make-up artist, they knew to drop him a postcard and he’d contact them the next day. Most of his clients respected his privacy. One or the other might think his behaviour a little eccentric, but he was good at his job, and eccentricity was a trait not unknown in his profession.

  Hopper was different. Charles Hopper never sent William a card, he came round to the house. The other people who used William’s services sent a cheque in payment through the post. Hopper brought it round by hand. He’d sometimes look over William’s shoulder as he stood at the door, really intrigued by William’s house, and how William lived. Charles Hopper would love to be invited inside, but William would never give him the satisfaction.

  As he approached along St Mary’s, William reflected that the Fulford Players didn’t owe him money, and they also, as far as he was aware, were not ready to begin a
new production. So what could Hopper want?

  ‘William.’ Hopper extended his hand. He had a flattened nose. William thought that was funny, that a busybody, a nosey-parker, should have a flattened nose. Perhaps someone had given it to him. He’d stuck it in somewhere it shouldn’t have been, and got it flattened. But if that was the case he hadn’t learned anything from the experience. And you had to, or you were destroyed. You had to look long and hard at every single experience in life, find out what it meant, learn a lesson from it.

  William put his holdall on the step and gave Hopper his hand. The last few metres along the street he’d moved into sociable mode. He had a smile on his face, and he’d relaxed his shoulders, shortened his stride. ‘Charles,’ he said. ‘You were lucky to catch me. I’ve been to the launderette, and I’ve got to go out again, I’m afraid. Hope it isn’t something that won’t keep.’

  ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes,’ Hopper said. ‘You might be able to help solve a murder.’

  William kept the smile on his face. The pace of his heart moved up a notch, and he increased the depth of his breathing to get it down again. ‘Murder,’ he said. ‘Sounds rather dramatic, Charles.’

  ‘Yes, doesn’t it. I had a call from a private detective last evening. A woman, would you believe? Working for an insurance company. About India Blake.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Charles. ‘I’m getting there. You remember India Blake, the woman who was killed in the allotment. They found her—’

  ‘Yes,’ William told him. ‘It was in the papers, back in July.’

  ‘Good memory. I thought it was May, but yes, you’re right, it was in July they found the body.’

  ‘Charles, I don’t have a lot of time.’ William glanced at his watch. ‘Can you get to the point.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m rambling again. This woman, the private detective, was looking for someone who knew India Blake and had a connection with the theatre. Would that description fit any of our members? I said I’d enquire, but I’m sure if any of our members knew her we’d have heard about it.’

  William took his key out of his pocket and picked up the holdall. ‘I’m sorry, Charles, I’ve got to get on. I don’t know why you’re telling me all this.’

  ‘I’m telling you in case you knew the woman, or you know anyone else who might have known her.’

  ‘But why should I, Charles? Why did you choose to come to my house instead of any of your members? You said the detective was enquiring about your members.’

  ‘Yes, she was. But when I asked her what she meant by a connection with the theatre, she said she was looking for someone who knew India Blake who might have access to greasepaint.’

  William let his breath go. ‘And you told her that I did all the make-up for the group.’

  Charles shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t even think about you at the time. It was only later, when I got to thinking about it. That’s why I came round. I didn’t think you’d know her, India Blake, I mean. But you must know other people, the suppliers you buy greasepaint from, the other make-up artists. What I thought was, I should put you and this detective woman together. Maybe you can help solve the murder.’

  William unlocked his front door and pushed it open. ‘You haven’t told her about me already, Charles?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I wouldn’t do that without asking you first.’

  William turned towards Charles and gave him the warmest smile he could raise. He felt a trickle of saliva at the corner of his mouth and wiped it away with the side of his hand. ‘You’d better come up,’ he said. ‘This sounds more important than my other appointment.’

  26

  Alice Trimble came in from next door to sit with Dora. Sam had sat up with her since before dawn. They had talked about Geordie and Janet and how they would begin the day as single people but end it as a married couple.

  There was a sense in which Janet wouldn’t have minded if they got married or not. As far as she was concerned they were married already. But that would never be enough for Geordie. Sam wondered if anything would ever be enough for Geordie. He’d known complete rejection, by his family and by society at large, and he’d known the horror of that when he was still really a child. It had marked him. If the whole fucking tribe had taken a knife and opened Geordie up from gullet to groin, cleaned him out and sewed him back up again the cut wouldn’t have been deeper. If fate had been twisted slightly, this way or that, Geordie could have gone screaming mad from his experiences. He might have turned to the bottle or some other drug, or he might have decided to wreak vengeance with physical violence on himself or others.

  The point where that might happen had passed now. Janet was a great slice of redemption in Geordie’s fate, because she was able to see beyond his damage, through to the core of him. She was able to drip-feed him tiny doses of confidence and dignity, and he was able to accept them and build on them. More importantly, he was able to return them to her. To love her. The deprived and neglected kid, half starved, who had walked into Sam’s life just a few short years before had almost disappeared now. When he stood next to Janet at the civil ceremony today there would be no lack of magic, no lack of absolute spiritual intensity. If there was a god, or anything resembling a guiding hand in the universe, He, She, It, and the whole host of accompanying angels would be belting out a tune to celebrate that small part of Geordie, that tiny piece of all of us, which is big enough to carry us through.

  ‘What are you talking about here,’ Dora had said. ‘Spirit, the soul, will-power, some primitive instinct of survival?’

  Sam had tried to think of an answer for several fractions of a second, but caught himself doing it. ‘Gimme a break, Dora. I’m a PI. Ask me about distressed damsels, something I can get my teeth into. Philosophy’s for the clever guys. All I know is people usually give themselves to God when the Devil wants nothing more to do with them.’

  She’d given him that smile he suspected he couldn’t live without. Then, shaking her head she’d said, ‘Sam Turner, master of disguise.’

  Since no man could show any just cause why they might not lawfully be joined together, the deed was done. Tricky moment there for Sam, though. He was next to Janet’s mother, and she did a real good shuffle, like she was going to stand up and tell the whole room that this detective kid just wasn’t good enough for her daughter. Fortunately, she didn’t do it, so Sam’s two and a half year record for not hitting a woman remained intact.

  Janet was a dream. She’d concentrated on the outside, the blue silk dress, her hair and make-up, the small bouquet of Sweet Fairy miniature roses, but she was as if lit from inside. There was a real warm glow going on somewhere deep within her, and it showed in her face, her eyes, the way she walked and talked, even the way she sat there, next to Geordie, listening to the registrar.

  But if Janet was composed and serene, Geordie was a mumbling wreck. Sam had seen the kid in some pretty tough situations since they’d been working together. But even the time when Geordie had got himself shot he’d not acted up as badly as he did during his wedding ceremony. When he was asked if he wanted this woman, he looked at the registrar with incomprehension for several seconds before blurting out: ‘Pie Glue.’

  After the ceremony they had a photo session in the garden behind the register office. The photographer was a Norwegian woman Sam had met socially, and he smiled to himself as she tried and failed to squeeze a civilized expression out of Janet’s mother. There was one group shot with the whole gang: Geordie and Janet at the centre, and arraigned around them were Sam, Celia, Marie and J.D. ‘If that one turns out we’ll have a blow-up for the office wall,’ Sam told the photographer.

  The reception was at George Forester’s house. Forester was one of the solicitors who retained Sam’s firm for routine jobs, and he and his wife were childless and had a soft spot for Geordie. A couple of their neighbours had prepared a buffet, and J.D. had brought his band along to provide the m
usic. When they first arrived there was a couple in tennis whites on the court in the Foresters’ garden. The French windows were thrown open and as people arrived they gravitated towards the buffet and took food and drink outside on the lawn.

  J.D. began rolling up joints as soon as he arrived, and before the buffet was half demolished everyone was stoned.

  Janet’s mother was sitting on a chair by the temporary stage eating a salmon paste sandwich as if it contained anthrax. She wasn’t stoned. Celia was standing next to Sam under a sun umbrella by the tennis court. ‘I’m not sure this is my kind of scene,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not stoned?’ Sam asked.

  Celia smiled and shook her head. ‘No more than usual. You?’

  ‘No,’ Sam said. ‘But you, me and the mother-in-law are the only ones who’re not totally Out of it.’

  The couple in tennis whites were falling around and giggling on the court. They were both from the university, she a lecturer in the English department and he some kind of technician in physics. ‘It gives you a nervous breakdown,’ she said, dropping her racket.

  The technician hooted. ‘It’s giving me one. What is it?’

  ‘Dunno. Temple balls something.’

  ‘Balls? Didn’t think they allowed them in temples.’

  They both thought that was seriously funny.

  Sam took Celia’s arm. ‘Shall we mingle?’ he said. ‘I can’t stand all the hooting.’

  As they moved away the couple on the court were prostrate, their rackets abandoned for the day.

  The taxi driver who had brought Geordie and Janet from the register office hadn’t managed to get away. He’d had a plate of sandwiches and some trifle, refused wine because he was driving, but accepted a couple of tokes from J.D.’s magic stash. Now he was facing the wrong way in his cab. All alone in there. Giggling.

  ‘I’m going to have a try with Janet’s mother,’ Celia said. ‘She looks lonely over there. Coming?’