Soul Mate (Book One)

by Richard Crawford

  Not that Mick's a bad guy, but he's not really one of life's winners. The thought is heavy with an irony even I can appreciate. He's made an effort to look neat today; his shirt hangs outside his jeans, not ironed but clean. His hair is washed even if it does look like it's been nibbled by rats. He's thin as a whippet, sort of hunched and consumptive; still, he's not one of those guys you'd cross the street to avoid. I'm letting the side down.

  While I'm pondering this reversal of fortune, a crowd of undergrads in academic gowns go by, pink carnations wilting with the day. They have fragments of glitter in their hair and trails of streamers across their shoulders. A bit drunk they're talking too loud about how they did in today's exam paper.

  Their conversation rips me back a couple of years, at the same moment a shadow, real or metaphorical, looms over the colleges and steals the warmth from the sun. The shadow in my head starts with memories of Danny and gets darker. Vertigo sweeps me up like a wave and I feel myself endlessly falling.

  I shiver and sit up hoping Mickey didn't notice anything.

  Danny's dead. Apprehensive, I listen but the voices are quiet for now. The undergrads are gone. I don't want the ghosts taking over, so I concentrate hard on what's present, what's real.

  The long, leafy sweep of St Giles is choked with cars, but most of the pedestrian commuters have disappeared into pubs or buses. The colleges are closed, studded wooden doors barred for the night like medieval castles. Porters stand by portals within the massive doors, on guard against stray tourists.

  Beneath the trees on St Giles the car-parking slots are full, but the theatregoers are in the restaurants now. St Mary Magdalen's church stands on its island surrounded by gravestones and a forest of bicycles. A few tourists sit on the steps of the Martyrs' Memorial, eating burgers, heads bent over maps of the city. Slim pickings for Mick and his 'Big Issue' sales.

  "How much are you short for a bed tonight?" I ask.

  "Few quid." Mickey glances up and down St Giles. "Perhaps I could try outside the Odeon."

  "There's a guy outside Sainsbury's with a dog. He won't like it if you work his turf."

  Mick nods. He looks a bit forlorn, probably because he can't compete with the dog. He's been clean about six months now, and he needs some sort of break, a chance to get out of the hostel. There's not much I can do about the big picture, but perhaps I can help him out tonight. I shove my hands to the bottom of my pockets, and come up with eight pounds, thirty-seven pence, and a cracked marble. My lucky marble -- that's a joke -- I offer Mickey the money.

  "Will this be enough?"

  He shakes his head. "No way I'm taking that, Tommy, it's all you have."

  I pick out three pound coins and offer him the rest. "Here, I've got enough for a burger. Really, you'd be doing me a favour."

  He looks me in the eye. "T, you're not gonna …. again?"

  I try not to be offended; does he think I was going to rush off and get wasted on a bottle of cider? Does he think I'm that messed up? Mick's not stupid, but his brain's a bit fried and he's had the shit kicked out of him once too often. Or maybe he's right, there's no denying it's a possibility, and if he's heard about last night...

  I manage a smile. "Not if you help me out."

  He looks a bit shamefaced as he takes the money. "Thanks, T. I'll pay you back."

  I shrug it off. It's not like I've given him my life savings. He shoves the Big Issues back in the carrier bag. "What you doing now?" he asks.

  We're about to head over to see if Larry at the kebab van will do us a special deal, when Max appears. One moment he's not there the next he is, like a magic trick. He's all in black today with a wide brimmed hat and a cape round his shoulders. Like Zorro or an escaped Harry Potter extra.

  "Max," Mickey says and grins, pleased to see him.

  "Hey, Max, where d'you leave your broomstick?"

  Max glares at me and I glare back. Then he turns to Mickey and ignores me.

  "Do you want to get something to eat?" he asks.

  Mickey glances between us. "Can Tommy come?"

  "No," Max says, before I can open my mouth to say I don't want to come.

  There's a moment's silence. Mickey looks anxious. Max folds his arms and taps his foot. Somehow, Max always gets his own way. Apart from being a major pain the arse, he's some sort of musical genius. He had a breakdown and I reckon he's still crazy. He reminds me of the gargoyles, always watching, disapproving. He was on the street for a bit but now he's back on track. Still, however much I don't like him, he'll buy Mick a good dinner.

  "See you later," I give Mick a wink, just to piss Max off. "Watch out for Zorro, he wants his hat back."

  "Catch up with you tomorrow, T." Mick says. He pauses but manages not to ask if I will be OK on my own. "And thanks, man."

  I head off before Mickey can feel too guilty.

  It's early so there's time to kill before I retrieve my cardboard mattress and find a doorway to doss in. The shadow is creeping back and it's not a good idea to be alone. The guys will be down by the canal, but they're bound to have cider or beer and I'm not good with temptation.

  The pubs are busy, heaving with after work drinkers, and I'm glad Mick has my money. The chip shop's safe. I get chips and eat them down by the river. It's pretty. The sun sets slowly, casting a pink glow over Oxford's domes and spires. Horses and cows graze on Port Meadow. Swans glide along the river, noses in the air, unimpressed by life. Dog walkers and couples go by, giving me a wide berth, like I might jump up and mug them. Clearly, I spoil the ambience. You get used to it, ends up so you don't care that much anymore.

  Hands tucked behind my head I stare into the night sky and wish it was like an ocean, that there was a place you could go, a beach at the edge of the sky. You could paddle in the velvet black. They say you can see back to the beginning of time. Like everything that happened is out there somewhere, just happening now. The thought makes me feel heavy. All the unexplainable stuff pushes down on me, and the shadow has crept closer. I push it away and wish for a bottle of vodka.

  I'm walking back into town when it starts. The ghosts' call. Like a tug inside my head. For a bit I try to pretend it's not there. Last night never happened. This is just some craziness I need to get over. But the feeling in my head gets stronger, becomes unpleasant, a fish hook in my brain, tugging.

  I stop, sit on a wall and put my head in my hands, like I can squeeze the madness out. The houses are close to the road here. Sounds of televisions, lights behind drawn curtains, smell of food. Real life. I try to concentrate on what's real, but the compulsion pulls me to my feet and spins me round. Like a dog on a leash, the ghosts don't give me a choice. You can't hide from what's inside you, that's what people say. I don't want to think about that, or where I'm going or what's going to happen.

  It's not a long walk.

  Behind a chain link fence and a sign saying 'Keep Out!' the old house waits. The 'For Sale' signs are gone. No one is interested in buying the house after what happened. Half hidden behind pine trees, the boarded windows are scrawled with graffiti and creepers trail from the broken gutter.

  I hang back by the gate. But at midnight the wind rises, rattling broken shutters and chain fence, spinning rubbish round the weed-forested garden. This is when the ghosts call, and there's no escape. It sounds nuts, but it's true. The ghosts call and I have to go.

  The front door hangs off its hinges, green paint flaking like chapped skin. In the hall my feet stick to the floor and scuffle through drifts of rubbish. The air is heavy with damp and something less tangible. Wisps of cold prickle my skin. I shudder at a familiar sense of regret, so deep it scrapes my bones. Other emotions fill my head, loneliness, guilt, anger, each more potent until I lose track of everything except my own guilt. I halt at the bottom of the stairs, but now the compulsion is too strong, moving me like a puppet. I wonder if ghosts ever forgive, or forget.

  The ghosts' room is on the third floor; it has no furniture, just a mattress with a piece of ripped blanke
t; the floor is littered with slips of foil, syringes, empty bottles, old takeout boxes, mouse droppings and patches of dried vomit. The walls are murals of splattered blood and streaked piss.

  I huddle in a corner. The ghosts are sliding through holes in the boarded up windows, squeezing beneath the door; one even comes surfing down the cold chimneystack, a nightmare memory of Santa Claus.

  There's no way to fight them, so I wrap my arms around my head like a child and try not to whimper. Stubble grazes my wrists as my jaw works. I hold still so they won't notice me, but the trembling gets worse and worse. The ghosts slide along walls and drift across the ceiling, soft as smoke. I try to count them.

  They don't have features, bodies or voices. Most people can't see them. If you have the gift, you might feel them; a cold draft, the touch of icy fingers down your spine. Or they're in your head, a sad thought, a burst of unexplained anger. Once a ghost gets inside you, then you'll see them. I watch as a ghost trickles across the floor, searching. One of them will find me soon. There's no way to hide and the others won't let me leave.

  One slithers down the wall close by and I can't help it. I moan. All the ghosts shiver at the sound and turn, blind as moles. I go rigid but it's too late. The ghosts are moving fast now, across the walls and floor, coming for me. The first one slides into my silently screaming mouth, filling my throat. I choke and gulp and it's in me.

  The others are all around me; they settle on my face like layers of paint. I can't breathe. Another ghost fills my mouth. I jerk and kick. My fingers scrabble against the rotting plaster, my head rocks back and hits the wall with a thump. It only takes a few moments. I lie on the floor, twitching and spasming as the ghosts take charge.

  It takes a while for synapses, sensory and motor neurons to respond to new commands. When it's done I'm still here, but now my body belongs to one of the ghosts.

  It takes them a while to get the hang of things. We manage to stand up, one hand pressed hard against the wall. My jaw aches and I want to rub the pain away, but the ghost doesn't notice. We shuffle across the floor and curl clumsy fingers around the doorknob. It's a struggle to manage the stairs; my body is stiff legged and jerky as a marionette. The ghost manages better on the level, but it takes a moment to work out how to bend and squeeze past the door.

  Outside it's dawn. It's always dawn when the ghosts leave the house. I don't know where the night goes but the ghosts won't miss a moment of the day. We stand under the porch, stare at the orange and pink clouds and take deep, deep breaths. I need a piss. It takes a moment for the ghost in charge to notice, then we sigh and stumble down the steps.

  The ghost unzips my pants and we take a piss into the weeds in full view of the road. It's not my choice. There's a hint of amusement from the ghost in charge, like it's a novelty to have a penis. A woman, I guess, and wonder what she was like. She gives my dick a neat shake and tucks it away carefully; our lips curl into a smile as we step through the gate and head towards town. The ghosts always smile at the sun.

  ####

  So it looks like me walking through Oxford, but it's not me anymore. The ghost is in charge and I'm just along for the ride. Trapped inside my head, I feel lost and vulnerable. Everything depends on the care the ghost takes of my body, even simple things like crossing the road make me nervous. Physically it's like being drunk but more detached, when you're drunk things get wobbly and unpredictable but there's some sense of control, now it's like my limbs won't even consider doing what I want. Everything seems far away, that weird distance you get in a fever dream. Inside my head it's crazy scary in a way I can't even describe.

  We walk down the Botley Road, past allotments and cross the river. I know every step of the way but still I feel lost. Ordinary life goes on, ducks waddle along the riverbank. Flocks of cyclists swoop down the Botley Road. The ghost looks around, staring at things. I can't tell if it's because they're familiar or different. The road dips under the railway bridge. Trains thunder overhead and the ghost shivers. We go past the station and the canal, heading into town. I can guess where we are going.

  The ghosts are always, always hungry. I don't have any money and so we have to search for a café I haven't been to before. The ghosts are impatient, but they know what I know, when they care to pay attention. It's best to find somewhere small, out of the way. We go down the hill, past the walls of Christ Church, pale gold in the early morning sun. I find a café in one of the side streets off St Aldates.

  We settle in a booth and the waitress comes to take our order. After a couple of false starts, my voice comes out spluttering and coughing, rough as a blocked lawnmower. The words the ghost uses are not my words. I stumble over them and mutter like an idiot. The waitress is kind, and pretty. She lets me go slow, waits for me to get the words out.

  I want a fry-up but the ghost orders yogurt, fruit and wholegrain cereal. With rye toast and lemon and honey for the tea. I don't know what half the stuff is. While we are waiting, the ghost touches my hair a lot, some sort of nervous gesture, I guess. When the food arrives the ghost stirs honey into the tea and takes dainty spoons of yogurt. The ghost cuts the crusts off the toast and spreads it with preserve. We drink with the cup held between finger and thumb, little finger crooked.

  The waitress is watching me. She smiles, and I want to stop and smile at her but the ghost is only interested in eating. We finish and order a bowl of strawberries. I think this is for the other ghost, but I am not sure. The waitress, her nametag says Suki, fetches the strawberries. We finish and order another bowl though my stomach's gurgling and full. When Suki comes with the order, I manage to smile at her and swallow a burp from all the berries.

  Suki smiles back and says, "I love fresh strawberries." Her uniform shirt is faded pink with a white collar. She has it done up so only the top button is open showing a necklace with a tiny silver charm. Her hair is dark with a streak of henna red, bright against her pale skin. She has a dusting of freckles, no makeup. She has green eyes and the sweetest smile: like she's not the kind of girl who would chew you up and spit you straight back out. I want to talk to her some more. I want to make her laugh. I want to steal a look at her breasts, but the ghost's not interested.

  Suki waits for me to get it together. She's not put off by the sight of me – I'm a mess after sleeping rough. But she doesn't seem to care. I open my mouth and try really hard to say something to her. Nothing comes out. The ghost isn't paying attention and takes a mouthful of tea. I gulp and choke.

  "Hey, are you alright?" Suki pats my back. She has silver rings on her fingers, henna tattoos on her hands and wrists. Her touch sends a shiver through me. A fizzle of reaction. The ghosts don't approve and suddenly everything is too still.

  Suki stares at me. She looks startled and sort of worried.

  I can tell she senses something. The ghosts know it too. "I'm fine," we say, sounding cross. "It just went down the wrong way." It's not what I want to say. I want to grab her hand, get that feeling again. Who is she?

  "OK, then." Suki looks as if she's wants me to say something. Did she feel it too? I try so hard to get the ghost to speak to her so she'll stay a while longer. As she walks away, it's like I'm drowning and help is just out of reach.

  Suki's gone and I'm staring at the empty plate, feeling bad about what comes next. I'm glad when Suki stays out the back. The ghost drinks tea. My fingers play with the spilt sugar, leaving a clumsy message for Suki in the hope it might make a difference. The ghost doesn't seem to notice.

  The ghost finishes and sets the cup down neatly in the saucer. We push out of the booth and head towards the door. I hope no one will notice we haven't paid.

  "Hey." Another waitress, comes up behind us, not Suki, this is an older woman with a shrill voice and frizzy grey hair. "Hey, have you paid?"

  We keep going. The ghost doesn't even look back. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a guy come out of the kitchen. He's big, with wrestler's arms, his stomach bulges over a greasy apron. Somehow I get the ghost to pay
attention. We shove people out of the way, pushing between the tables as fast as we can. We yank the door open and stumble out onto the street.

  The big guy is close behind, fist raised. The ghost is not used to this sort of thing. Not that I run out on tabs all the time. The ghost is scared; panicking so bad we nearly fall down. Then my legs find a rhythm, feet hit the pavement. We take off up St Aldates, past Christ Church, bumping tourists out of the way.

  "I've seen your face," the guy yells. "I won't forget. Don't you come back round here; not if you know what's good for you." He doesn't chase us. Its weird, all I can think about is seeing Suki again. Will she see my message? I don't know why that one moment matters so much, but it does.

  ####

  After a while we slow down. We walk down the High, watched over by the gargoyles. Beneath Magdalen Bridge rafts of empty punts wait on the river. The ghost is nervous, and keeps looking over our shoulder, but there's no one behind us. She stops in front of a shop window and we stare at our reflection. I can tell she's not impressed, and she's got a point. We set off again, the long walk up Headington Hill past the parks full of joggers and dog walkers. I don't know what the ghost wants, and I try not to think about it. Instead I think about Suki, how it was when she touched me, the warmth of her hand through my t-shirt.

  It's mid morning when we reach the house. We stand across the road and stare at it for a while. It's a big redbrick house with a long thin lawn running down to the street, one old tree and a paved drive. The ghost has that home at last feeling, close to tears. We walk up the empty drive. I'm nervous and not just because someone might be home. The ghost comes alive more each moment and the fizz of emotions leaves me lightheaded. It's as if the intensity of her emotion pushes me out. We carry on round the side of the house, through a gate to a large garden with trees, beds of crimson roses and hanging baskets dripping with flowers. We stop to smell the flowers. The ghost goes to the shed, and opens a rusty tin to take out a key and lets us into the house.