Ghosts and Lightning

by Trevor Byrne

  Paula nods, carefully drapin a red bra over the arm o the chair.

  —There’s loads o ways, like, of approachin paranormal situations like this, says Pajo. —Like, a séance, a Ouija board, a –

  —Psychologist, I say.

  —Shurrup Denny, says Paula.

  Pajo looks at me, then at Paula, and then carefully writes somethin on his pad.

  —Wha yeh writin? I say.

  —Notes. Just for like … reference.

  He taps his head knowingly and I shake mine.

  —Don’t mind him Pajo, says Paula. —He has no sense o wonder at all.

  —Wha? I say. I don’t know why I’m even risin to this; I know Paula’s just tryin to annoy me. —I do have a sense o wonder, I say. —I just don’t believe in fuckin ghosts, that’s all. It doesn’t make any —

  —What’s the big deal, then? says Paula. —Why are yeh so freaked? Yer more freaked than me and you haven’t even heard anythin.

  —Yeah, it’s not because, like … I’m not afraid, though. It’s psychological, isn’t it? It’s in yer head.

  —Yer sayin more about yer own psychology than mine, Denny, says Paula, and she makes that annoyin ‘crazy’ gesture, pointing her index finger at her temple and makin little circles. Paula’s referrin to the fact I was foolish enough to tell her that me worst fear is goin mad. Not that I expect to go mental or anythin, it’s just … it’s freaky, the way yer head works. I mean, if yer mad, ghosts and monsters, they exist; they’re real, or they might as well be. I have an auntie, Denise, me ma’s youngest sister, and she’s schizophrenic. She sees demons in mirrors and all sorts. Me cousin Martin, her eldest, told one time that Denise attacked him with the bread knife cos she said he was hidin horns under his Nike cap. I mean, fair enough, he is always wearin baseball caps, but as far as I know it’s to hide his recedin hairline, not fuckin horns. And then Denise saw that film Child’s Play on Sky Movies and convinced herself that dolls had evil spirits inside them and burned all o her daughter Susan’s Barbies in a bonfire out the back garden. They say madness runs in some families so sometimes I worry that Paula might be losin it. And then I start to convince meself that I might be the one goin mad cos I’m thinkin about it all too much, obsessin on it.

  Which reminds me — stop fuckin thinkin about it, Denny.

  Pajo flips onto a new page in his pad. —So go on, Paula, he says. —What is it, exactly?

  He’s bein kind o hesitant, which isn’t unusual for Pajo, but I can tell he’s enjoyin this. He’s mad into this kind o thing; life after death, ghosts, yetis, any and all religions. Basically, anythin there’s fuck all proof for, Pajo’ll believe it. Almost like he’s definin himself against the world in some way.

  Paula looks up at the ceilin, to where her and Teresa’s bedroom is, and then back to Pajo.

  —It’s … well, as far as I’m concerned, there’s a presence in the house. She looks at me. —A definite presence. Definitely.

  —D’yeh know she was drinkin vodka when I came back at half two today, Pajo? I say.

  —Ignore him, she says to Pajo. —There’s definitely somethin. A hundred per cent.

  —Have yeh seen anythin? says Pajo.

  —No. I … no, I haven’t seen anythin. Just, like, felt somethin. And heard it as well. That’s the worst. It’s under the beds.

  —Did it say somethin? asks Pajo. —Or was it just noises?

  —Said somethin.

  —Is it a fella or a girl?

  —Now this is the freakiest bit. This is fuckin … it’s a fella. It’s male, like, but it’s pretendin to be a girl. It’s puttin on a girl’s voice. How fuckin mad is that?

  Too fuckin mad if yeh ask me. The ghost of a man pretendin to be a girl, hidin under Paula’s bed. For fuck sake.

  And this goes on for an hour or so. Madder and madder. Wild speculation and wilder interpretations. Pajo says he’ll have to look some stuff up, consult charts and websites and all kinds o shite, but they’ve agreed on it — they’re gonna do it, they’re gonna have a séance. And they want me and some of our mates to be there. It’ll help attract the spirit’s attention, accordin to Pajo; a bigger group, more energy to feed off.

  Pajo packs up his books and pad and heads off. Me and Paula sit there for a while. I need to be distracted. Paula heads upstairs. I turn on the telly and watch Takeshi’s Castle.

  *

  Next mornin there’s a scream from upstairs and I drop me spoon into the bowl o Cheerios I’ve only just started and hop over the bollixed vacuum cleaner and skid into the hall and grab me brother Gino’s hurley, then it’s up the stairs three at a time and I bash open Paula’s door and there she is, standin in her Snoopy nightdress with her back to the window in the middle of a pile o clothes and shoes with her hand to her mouth, shakin.

  —Wha the fuck’s goin on?

  Paula looks at me and then looks at the wardrobe and I get a horrible tingle shootin up me spine.

  —Wha, Paula? Stop fuckin around will yeh.

  —Oh Jaysis Denny. Look behind the wardrobe.

  I step into the room, the bed unmade with a pair o jeans laid across it and the telly in the corner babblin low down, Jeremy Kyle pronouncin judgement on a scaldy lookin fella in a denim shirt. There’s a vodka bottle on the window ledge, the sun behind it, and a few crumpled Bulmers cans. Dolls everywhere. Them weird porcelain ones with real-lookin eyes and hair.

  Paula inches along the wall towards me.

  —Fuck sake Paula, I say, me heart hammerin. I glance at the wardrobe. I can feel sweat on me back.

  —Get it Denny. Oh Jesus. Get it out. The bleedin size o the thing.

  I edge cautiously forward. I don’t want to but I do. There’s some grinnin horror waitin for me and I’m edgin me way closer to it. Like in a fuckin film or somethin. A wizened, crouched old man with a little girl’s voice. Jesus. I grip the hurley two-handed.

  —Wha is it, Paula? Fuckin hell.

  —Just get it!

  I turn and look back at her.

  —I swear to fuckin god, Paula, if it’s –

  —I was pickin up me jeans. Icky ick. A bird or somethin. Jesus. A bat.

  I stop and look at her. —A fuckin bat? Wha the fuck are yeh on about?

  —A bat. Some mad flyin thing.

  —I thought yeh were bein fuckin murdered by the … yeh tryin to give me a bleedin heart attack?

  —Shurrup. Get it.

  Paula scurries behind me on tiptoe and out the door. She pulls it almost shut, half her face visible.

  I stop about six feet from the wardrobe. Me heart’s goin ninety now. The doors are open and there’s knickers and socks and all sorts spillin out. A pile o cardboard boxes are stacked haphazardly at the back and there’s a china doll in a blue dress with a massive skull fracture sittin on top, smilin. I avoid eye-contact with it.

  Paula sticks her arm into the room and points, her eye wide open. —Behind it, she says. —It’s hidin. Grab that torch there. Shine it at it.

  I set the battered old hurley down against Paula’s bed. The torch is a chunky yellow Bob the Builder toy.

  —Where’d yeh get this?

  —Ant’ny left it here.

  Anthony’s me mate Maggit’s son. I pick the torch up and crane me neck forward, tryin to see round the back o the wardrobe. There’s somethin black stickin out, about half an inch. The tips o somethin’s wings, I think. I’ve never seen a bat before. Well. I saw a few in the zoo. They were mad-lookin, stalkin upside-down across the ceilin.

  —That’s it, says Paula. —Shine the torch.

  —For wha? Why?

  Paula doesn’t answer. I don’t know why the fuck I’m doin it — the bedroom light’s already on — but I lift the torch and point it at the little wing-tips and click the ON button, and immediately the wharrever-it-is scuttles back behind the wardrobe.

  I turn and look at Paula. —Did yeh see that?

  —Sicko!

  I turn back to the wardrobe and I’m just about to take
another step towards it when the wings poke into view again.

  —Fuck, I say. —Lookit that.

  —I am lookin. Shine it again. It doesn’t like the light.

  —It’s not a fuckin mogwai, Paula, I say. But I point the torch at it anyway, feelin a strange combination of freaked-out-ness and curiosity, and click the button.

  It scuttles out o view again.

  —That’s mad, I say.

  —Kill it!

  —I think it’s a moth.

  —The size o the thing, Denny! It must be a bat or somethin. Don’t they suck yer blood?

  —Shh.

  Paula points in again, her hand waggin up and down. —It’s too brainy to be a moth. Moths wouldn’t hide, would they? They’re stupid.

  I step over a shoebox and press me face against the wall and peer along the gap at the back o the wardrobe. It’s dark and greasy, clogged with hairballs and wadded up socks and all sorts and I can see the fat black shape o the bat or moth or wharrever the fuck it is, scuttlin about in the gloom.

  —How many legs do moths have? I say. —This thing has loads.

  —Dunno. The bastard’s fuckin trespassin anyway. Killim. It’s his own fault.

  —I think it’s a moth. Fuckin huge though.

  —He was in me jeans the dirty fuckin bastard. Icky icky. He’s fuckin dead Denny I’m tellin yeh. He’s gettin it sooner or later.

  I toss the torch onto the bed. —I can’t get him when he’s behind there and me Cheerios are goin soggy. I’ll get him after.

  I back out o the room and start down the stairs. Paula softly shuts the bedroom door and grabs her housecoat from the banisters and hurries down after me.

  *

  —What’s with the fuckin giant insects everywhere? says Paula.

  I rinse me bowl under the warm tap and set it down on the drainin board, a token effort at cleanin up. The sun’s spillin into the kitchen, watery and lemon-coloured. Looks like it’s gonna be a pretty nice day. Cold like, but dry and clear.

  —Wha giant insects?

  —That moth upstairs. And that big spider yeh showed us over the back door. Probably more.

  I shrug. —Dunno. Spiders are arachnids, anyway. Dunno wha moths are.

  —Dirty fuckin tresspassin pervos, that’s wha. I’m gettin a spray. This place is a bug hutch.

  —Spider provider, I say, smilin.

  —Alien ant farm, says Paula.

  She clinks her spoon against the steamin teacup and lifts it to her mouth. Takes a little sip. —I got a fuckin fright, she says. —Serious, he flew right up at me. Yeh can smile all yeh want but I’m tellin yeh it’s not nice, flyin into yer face. What’s the point o moths?

  —Dunno.

  —They’ve no point. They’re pointless. Kill the lot o them.

  —I thought someone was murderin yeh yeh mad fuck. Or yer fuckin ghost was after yeh.

  Paula shakes her head. —No, she says, like she needs to confirm it. —Just that moth. Bastard.

  —I’ll sort it out after.

  —Never openin them windows again. He must o flew in.

  —Yill get over it.

  Paula sets down her tea and digs out a lump o butter and tries to spread it on her toast but all she does is bludgeon the bread into raggedy bits.

  —This butter’s solid.

  —I know. We should get Low-Low next time. It’s softer.

  —Yeah. We should.

  Paula squashes the butter back into the tub and takes a bite o the dry toast. It’s half nine in the mornin. Nothin’s changed. She sits there, starin through the patio doors at the back garden. Nothin’s gonna change, either. Her legs are crossed and one hand’s restin on her stomach. She looks tired and sad. Her hair’s hangin limp around her shoulders. If it wasn’t for the moth she probably wouldn’t be up till after twelve.

  —We have the place the way it is, Paula, I say. —We’re gonna have to do somethin. Paula says nothin.

  —I honestly do think yer drinkin too much, I say.

  Again, nothin. I hate when she does that. Ignores me. Makes yeh feel like a kid. Yid swear we were still in our teens, like, and I was askin her to turn off Sweet Valley High for Zig and Zag and she’d be sittin there brushin her hair, pretendin she can’t hear me. Always been that way. Sometimes things are cool, or they seem like they are, and then … ah sure who the fuck am I kiddin? She’s me sister. I’m her brother. It’s just the way things are, isn’t it? In an age when to be deeply philosophical is José Mourinho sayin sometimes yeh get three points and sometimes yeh get none, but then again sometimes yeh get one, maybe I’m overanalysin things.

  —What’s the story with that … like, this under the bed stuff? I say. —Is it for real or what?

  —Yeh just want me to humour yeh, Denny. I’m not gonna. Yeh know I’m not.

  —Yer mad.

  —Wouldn’t have it any other way.

  *

  I was seventeen and Paula was eighteen when she told me she was gay. She didn’t make a big deal of it or anythin, just came straight out with it.

  —I’m gay, Denny.

  Just straight up, like. I was eatin a battered sausage and I nearly choked. It took me a few seconds to get it down, then I skilfully re-routed the conversation:

  —Eh, did yeh get these in J.J.’s or out o the van?

  —Denny?

  —Wha?

  —I’m a lesbian.

  Paula never bothered with skirtin round issues. It still sounded weird hearin her say ‘lesbian’ though. Gay was bad enough, but lesbian was a hundred times worse. It sounded like a medical condition.

  —Since when? I said.

  —Since always, Denny.

  She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose. She was wearin a denim jacket and jeans, her hair newly dyed a bright, shiny purple.

  —Have yeh got a smoke? I said.

  —You don’t smoke.

  —I do.

  Me own confession was a bit less drastic than Paula’s but that was all I had. She rummaged through her handbag.

  —I’ve only two left, she said, but she tossed me one anyway. I put it to me lips and lit up, inhaled shallowly. Me ma was out at me mad aunty Denise’s. She wasn’t that mad at that time, though. Me ma would’ve killed me if she saw me smokin.

  —Are yeh sure? I said.

  Obviously that was a stupid thing to say. It was like somethin a character on The Wonder Years would blurt out. But that was the only reference point I had, the telly. Me ma and da never talked about lesbians. Not to me, anyway.

  —Am I sure? Yeh fuckin serious?

  Paula shook her head and turned her attention to Richard Whiteley. There was hurt in the look, though, mixed with the nonchalance, the defiance.

  —I don’t mean it like that, Paula. I just mean, like —

  — Just leave it Denny.

  She was still staring at Countdown. Paula hated Countdown, she said it was a show for nerds. Carol Vorderman was doin a sum. I fancied Carol Vorderman, a bit. She looks nicer the older she gets. I wanted to retrieve the situation, though. I didn’t want to fuck things up.

  —Have yeh got a girlfriend?

  Paula stubbed out her cigarette. The way she did the stubbin, it was a statement: she bludgeoned the cigarette butt, a tiny act of violence.

  She lit another cigarette and pursed her lips.

  —I’m not messin, I said. —Just wonderin, yeh know? Seriously.

  Fuck. It was dead embarrassin. Me sister was a … wha had Maggit called them? Dykes? I took a drag on me cigarette to calm down. Smoke curled in front o me eyes.

  —Have yeh?

  —I do as a matter o fact.

  Paula’s eyes were still on the screen. Maybe she was someone I knew, this girl? That would’ve been a bit weird. I didn’t know any lesbians (except Paula, of course, and it seemed like I didn’t know her at all), but maybe there was another surprise comin. Maybe it was someone I went to school with. Maybe someone off the road?
<
br />   —Who?

  —Yeh wouldn’t know her.

  —Well go on so.

  —Her name’s Teresa.

  —Where’s she from?

  —Town.

  —What’s she like?

  Paula rolled her eyes, then looked at her cigarette.

  —She’s nice, she said. —I like her.

  I nodded. Wha the fuck else was I supposed to do? Congratulate her? And then somethin occurred to me.

  —Wha about Harry?

  —Wha about him?

  —Does he know?

  —About Teresa or me bein a lesbian?

  —I don’t know. Either.

  —No, I don’t think so.

  I broke off a bit o me sausage. I could feel the grease coolin on me fingers.

  —Maybe he has an idea, she said. —I don’t know. I don’t fuckin care either. He’s a fuckin prick anyway.

  —Took yeh long enough to say it.

  I hated Harry Cummins. He was a leery bigheaded gimp and he’d taken a lend o Wrestlemania XII off me and never brought it back up. Bret Hart versus Shawn Michaels was on that one, the Iron Man match. I fuckin love that match. People’ll tell yeh it’s crap, that it goes on for over an hour and nothin happens in it, but that’s why I love it — the slow build, all the holds and jockeyin. I was fuckin ragin Shawn Michaels won though. He fuckin loves himself.

  —Well it’s said now, said Paula. —I’m finished with him as of tonight. I told him. He can go fuck himself for all I care.

  —Yer well shot of him.

  —Yeah.

  —The bleedin head on him. Fuckin knock a wall down with that head. He should hire his head out to builders, demolish a few walls.

  Paula laughed.

  —His head’s somethin else, isn’t it? I said. —Fuckin mallethead. It was deadly gettin to slag Harry off. Even before that night I knew Paula wasn’t really mad into him, but she’d still never let yeh say boo about him. Even down to the videos I lent him: I’d say it to Paula and she’d look at me like I had two noses; for some reason Harry Cummins wasn’t to be discommoded. Even if he robbed brand new wrestlin videos on yeh. Well, second-hand from Chapters, but they were new to me.

  Paula turned to me. —Giz a bit o that sausage.

  —Yeh can have it. I’m not hungry.