by Sam Schenk
“Is it somewhere in the old testament that you can head out as soon as your partner does?” asked Greg.
“No, but it might well be in some version of the new one. No one need claim a piece of advice that makes sense for all. Besides, the people that remained are as diverse as the population. As many creeds as there are, there is a voice from each in my head. ” Lipman turned to Greg as the chessboard reset to it’s beginning state. “You helped a lost soul find peace, whatever comes next. You should celebrate victories, even ones more insignificant than this.”
“Until next time, Lipman.”
“L’chaim.” The ghost threw his hand up.
Greg dove back into his body.
Breath came to him suddenly. His heart heaved. Blood rushed through his veins. Sensation returned to his eyes, brain, fingers and toes. It was cold, his body was soaked through from the windchill. Greg tested small movements first, followed by stretching his arms and legs. When he felt comfortable standing, he did a few squats. Finally, he stretched his arms above his head. His eyes hovered on the place where Lipman had been sitting. Greg wondered if he still watched, waiting for the graveyard to be left to the dead again.
Greg began a customary lap around the lower graveyard to clear his head. It took time to remember that he really was alive, after being surrounded by the veil’s atmosphere for a while. Even in the physical world, cloudy expulsions from the veil sifted freely into the graveyard. When he was in his body, he had access to the same level of power.
When Maddie left, he’d practically slept rough here.
The same chill slithered through him again. A surge of loneliness clenched at his gut, as raw as that first night alone. His pride and a locked cupboard had kept his fingers away from the phone. The edges of his eyes felt tight and heavy, ready to let loose with tears that he wished he could blame the wind for.
It passed as quickly as it had come on, leaving him staring into a cracked stone in front of him. What was going on?
Greg altered course to the upper graveyard, trying to shake it off. As he stepped onto the pedestrian access which crossed the highway, cars hurtled through the wind below. He measured the distance across the crevice for a moment, comparing the bottom of the upper graveyard and the top of the lower with his eyes — trying to imagine the shape the graveyard had once taken. There had been outrage at the suggestion to disrupt the graveyard in favour of the highway, but in the end, the powers that be had won out, as they usually did. Progress swept away much of history, but usually, it had enough respect to leave the dead in peace.
Even in the upper graveyard, where graves were organised into rows or sections, most of the markers were only remembrances now. Away from the main walkways, some were too close together, others at odd angles. The mind did circles when it tried to rationalise the shape of a body underneath. Earthquakes were responsible for some of the shifting, but others had clearly been moved, their contents now situated in the vault.
Not everyone had been dragged back from the world beyond, but the older ghosts were more active than the modern ones. Some were dressed in stiff colonial attire, or homemade suits and shifts, going about their business as though they were still alive, pretending that this was their world, like Lipman and Robert. Others were degrading, like Elizabeth.
Even thinking about her caused Greg to shudder. Miserable, lonely, dirty, and cold, he wrapped his hands around his upper arms against the chill that flowed into his body from the wind and outward from his spirit. He hadn’t thought of Maddie in months… not really, anyway. And now, her memory hovered over him like an open wound. He had only saved one soul since she left. It seemed like an eternity ago.
Greg worked his way back down to his gym bag in the lower graveyard, packed up, and found his way onto Bolton Street. Facing uphill towards home, Lipman’s advice didn’t seem too bad after all. Something about the long walk didn’t feel appealing yet.
The Terrace, just downhill, was deserted of its corporate patrons at this hour on a Wednesday. He found himself down a pedestrian access wandering towards the CBD, where the streets were just as deserted, but the occasional speaker could be heard from late-night joints upstairs. Finding the route to none of them without having to travel up and down alleys, Greg decided to give it up and cab home. Then, he noticed a pair of welcoming doors were opened to reveal a staircase upwards, with bright chalk signage inviting patrons in.
Chapter Two
Greg trundled up the broad staircase to a speakeasy-themed, shabby chic joint — all wood floors, sparse wall decorations. Besides the bar, there were abundant heaters and comfortable looking chairs haphazardly placed around. It was one of those places that tended to be reinvented every few years, bigger than he remembered. Maddie wouldn’t be caught dead here; the dress code was lax, and the cocktails were simple.
He firmly closed the door against the draft that drifted in with him. He grabbed his usual: a craft beer, the bottle textured with bumps and branded after the tuatara, with a large reptilian eye on the side, then collapsed into one of the chairs closest to a heater. The texture on the open bottle massaged the calluses on his palm, and the bubbles were a welcome relief to his parched throat. Warmth began to return to his body. Finally, the weariness of the otherworld began to dissolve.
When he’d been sitting long enough to think of something other than the chill in his bones, the attentive bartender opened a tab for a second beer, and a third. The smooth music in the background had stopped. Applause. Was the music live? Greg found himself drawn to a crowd of people hidden a fair way behind the bar. A smooth American accent was speaking down the mic. Greg threw his leg over a barstool in front of a bench, in good view of the band. His hand stuck to the wood when he put his drink down.
“We’re ‘The Alternatives’,” the speaker explained, “visiting from good ole’ Nawlins, Lusiana. Gon’ be in town for a few weeks playin’ here an’ there. Y’all check out the website for details. It’s updatin’ every day. Appreciate you folks spendin’ the evenin’ with us.”
When the man had set the mic back on its stand, Greg took a look at the band. He wasn’t sure where Nawlins or Lusiana was at the best of times, but he assumed it was at least somewhere close to America. He could hear Maddie’s voice in the back of his head.
“Wouldn’t you like to go here?” Maddie had leaned over his shoulder, her breasts pressing into his back.
A couple relaxing in a hot spring up a mountain gleamed out from her phone. There was snow in the background. He guessed it was supposed to look peaceful.
“Looks cold. Is that down south?”
“No, silly, it’s in Japan.”
“I’m sure we have one of those here, and I haven’t been.”
“You’re no fun,” Maddie complained.
“I can be lots of fun.” Greg grinned. He flipped her over his shoulder and into his lap.
“My phone!” Maddie yelped. It went flying across the room.
“I’ll get it fixed.”
Maddie slapped his shoulder playfully, but reached around his neck to bring him down for a kiss.
Greg shook the memory away, but the ache still stuck in his gut. Had his encounter with Elizabeth unstuck these types of feelings permanently? The thought made him queasy. He took another sip of his drink and returned his attention to the band, who were tuning down to start again. They were a four-piece: the speaker was a singer/guitarist. He was joined by a second rhythm guitarist, a drummer, a saxophonist, and a bassist.
The bassist was a beautiful man — rich dark skin, his prominent cheeks ruddy from the spotlights shining down on him. His eyes were nearly black, and his charcoal hair was gelled hard and swept back. When he surveyed the crowd, there was a feeling of generosity around his slight smile. When the band kicked off, the bassist swayed along with his part, emphasizing the motion every time his fingers plucked the strings, his eyes closed. He riffed through funky slap interludes, supported by a light rhythm from the drummer. Even though the volume o
f the instruments was skillfully balanced together, the melody hovered around his walking basslines. He shared grins and glances with his fellows as they played off against each other, tried an experimental blues or bluegrass riff, or wandered into a solo.
Greg couldn’t keep his toe from tapping, his head from bobbing along with the beat. There was something about it that dug its way through the memories his brain was trying to bring up, through the sound of the crowd as they swayed and clapped and chatted amongst each other. Every time there was a solo, the appreciative crowd clapped to help the drummer or rhythm guitarist keep time. But they couldn’t keep up with that bassist. The thrumming heat from his magical hands spelled the crowd into silence. The cheers when he finished echoed through the whole bar.
Time passed. Greg lost track of it. The set was long with minimal pauses. He drank several more beers. Eventually, he opened his eyes to join in with appreciative whistles, taps on the bar, glasses in the air.
Finally, the lead guitarist passed his companions a final grin. He wiped away his sweat-stained fringe and took a hearty slug from a beer balanced on one of the speakers nearby. Taking to the front of the stage, he took a bow and gestured generously to his fellows amidst unending applause.
“Y’all are great to play for! Worth the trip ‘round the world for sure! We couldn’t ask for a better opening night. But, I think if we don’t get movin’, they’re going to kick us off the stage! We’ll be hanging out for a few. For those of y’all who’ve passed a good time, we wouldn’t be opposed to being bought a drink!. I’m Jay, this is Eric on rhythm guitar, Noah on drums, and Donny on bass. We are the ‘Alternatives’. Hope to see y’all next time! Good night!”
The crowd began to disperse to different parts of the bar, some in groups, some singles. A few musos went up to admire the band’s kit. Greg refreshed his drink. The bassist’s melody lines were still buzzing in his head as he waited for his turn. He wished he could talk about it with someone. Through the mist across his senses, he began to feel loss and misery creep in again, and let his chin fall to his chest.
Just as he’d gotten through the line, an unhurried American accent addressed him from the side.
“You look like you could do with something hard, friend.”
Greg looked side on as the bassist, Donny, took up a stool next to him. Greg got a good look into those gentle dark eyes, accented by thick eyebrows.
Greg swallowed, struggling to keep his gaze soft. “I’m celebrating.” He managed.
“Oh yeah? That’s not the face of a person who’s having a good time. Mind some company?” Donny offered his hand. When Greg took it, he could feel calluses on the musician’s fingertips, the strong, warm grip against his thumb, but otherwise, his hands were soft. “Name’s Brandon, Donny to my friends.”
“And your millions of fans.”
Donny grinned. “More like thousands, but we’re working on that.”
“I’m Greg.” He cleared his throat. “What’re you having?”
“How’s the gin ‘round here?”
“I’m not exactly a connoisseur, and this isn’t the best pub for it.” Greg shrugged in the barkeeper’s direction.
The barkeep held up a fat bottle with a cork. “Made just out of town. Tonic with that?”
Greg looked back at Donny.
“Neat thanks, two ice cubes.”
“And another beer,” Greg added.
The bartender measured out a double, then passed both drinks down the bar. Donny caught them. When Greg reached over to take his beer by the neck, the edge of his hand brushed the bassist’s. He felt electricity shoot down his arm. They locked eyes.
Donny’s easy smile broke the tension. He clinked the edge of the low ball against the bottom of the beer. “Cheers friend. To your celebration.”
Greg raised the beer.
Donny’s eyes were closed when Greg finished a long swallow, and he was swirling the gin around in the ice.
“Is it good?” Greg asked.
“Perfect.” Donny sighed. As Greg raised the beer to his lips again, he thought he caught Donny’s eyes scanning past his collar.
Damnit, man, if you blush, you’re a lost cause for sure. Greg’s eyes caught on Donny’s jaw before he cleared his throat and averted his eyes. “Glad to hear.”
Donny savoured another sip of gin, tilting up on the back legs of his stool. Greg took in the length of his torso, started to imagine what it looked like under his clothes.
“You never said what you were celebrating.”
Greg turned back to his beer. “I saved someone today.”
Donny sat up straight again, the front legs of his stool tapping back onto the wood floor. “Damn man, that’s not a celebration, that’s a whole party.”
Greg managed a small smile. “It is, isn’t it? Somehow, the win isn’t sticking with me. You know that feeling, right? When you do something good, but you’re just too tired to appreciate it? Your set though, it’s got me feeling like this won’t last forever. Thanks for being here.”
A smile cracked its way into the corner of Donny’s mouth. “That’s the best compliment that any musician could ask for. Thank you.” He stood, and clapped Greg on the shoulder. The electricity in that man’s hands was more powerful than any spell in Greg’s repertoire. It was all Greg could do to keep himself together.
If Donny was aware of his power, he didn’t acknowledge it. He slid his hand down past Greg’s shoulder and squeezed his upper arm sympathetically. “Look, Greg, seems like you’ve had a bit of a hard time. We’re going to be in town for a few weeks. I’m based at the backpackers. Let me give you my number. You can either text me or follow the band’s social media. We’ll be announcing where we’re performing day to day there. If you don’t turn up, guaranteed I’ll be calling you to check-in, y’hear?”
Greg’s innards did a flip, but before he could register what he was doing, he had his phone out, unlocked. He passed it to Donny. “Those walking bass lines are really something else.”
“Thanks. They’re only matched by my pick up lines.”
Donny grinned and returned the phone to Greg with a flick of the wrist. Greg sent him a text to confirm: just his first name and the name of the bar.
Donny patted the audible vibration in his back jeans pocket. “All set up then. I’ll see you in the next few days, handsome. And hey, if you’re going to celebrate, do it N’awlins style, alright?”
Greg must have looked confused because Donny leaned in conspiratorially. “Wild and crazy, friend. Like your house is going to get wiped out by a hurricane tomorrow.”
Greg raised his beer as Donny went to rejoin his bandmates near the heaters. He watched as they laughed and shared their shouted drinks, chatted with the crowd. He couldn’t help but smile at the atmosphere. The bar was warm, alive, filled with the smells of beer and perfume, moving with the activity of its clientele. He finished his drink, set it on the bar, and summoned an Uber.
Before descending into the cold again, he caught Donny’s eye a final time and gave him a quick wave with two fingers. The bassist raised a freshly refilled glass to him in return, put his thumb and pinky against the side of his face. “Call me,” he mouthed.
Greg nodded and hopped down the stairs to meet his ride.
Chapter Three
The house music chosen by Greg’s YouTube randomiser app to wake him the next morning was upbeat and bassy, the kind you can’t feel annoyed with even when you’re hungover. Greg stretched his arms above his head and gazed at the fading moonlight still streaming through his window. He’d slept in his clothes, but no matter. He swapped out his earbuds to their charger and flipped the song onto the home sound system. It followed him through his daily routine — a few rounds of pushups, pullups on the door bar, shower, shave, a quick manual dip of the candles dripping into their wax vats in the lounge corner, a check of their timer to make sure the mechanism was going to dip them automatically throughout the day. Then there was juice, a multivitamin, painki
llers, and a protein shake on the way out the door.
It was all going well until he reached for his keys, hanging on a crooked metal hook embedded in scrap wood by the door. The setting was slightly off centre to the wall, which irked him, but he’d avoided paying attention to it. Despite the music, feeling clean and fresh for the morning, his back slouched and mind dampened. Hand clenched around the keys, he remembered Maddie’s lean physique, her ass taunt as she determinedly smashed the nails into the wall.
“If I have to come home from work early because you forgot your keys, Greg, I swear, I’ll lose my shit.”
Her red-haired anger never had the intended effect, or did it? He wrapped his arms around her from behind, and her initial protests dissolved into morning passion.
Greg found himself twisted inside. The sight of every unaltered piece of artwork amping up the pressure as his wandering eyes moved past. Practically nothing had changed since she’d left.
A witch’s home should be the centre of their power, but Old Karori Road would never be that for Greg. Sure, there was the odd spell in the corner, salt scattered across thresholds, his candles, and his collection of crystals stored safely away from the rare visitor that traipsed up the hill for a beer. Everything here was something that they had collected while they were together. It would have been nine years this month.
It was too distracting for Greg to put his whole self into his craft.
He willed his hand to move. His hand strained as he removed the keys, slung his gym bag over his shoulder and took himself through the front door. It closed with a solid wooden clunk behind him. Time to get rid of the damn key hook, he decided abruptly. He grimaced at having to remember all day. Worth it, maybe?
The morning air was crisp. Greg took a deep breath of it, then hopped up onto the barrier, judging the distance between the pathways that zigzagged from his porch to the street. He had no idea why the inefficient pathway had ever been constructed, but despite the temptation, he hadn’t taken a sledgehammer to it yet. He counted down in his head, then hurdled, three, four, five pathways until he reached the base.
