Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  “I know, I know. I just really can’t believe that any of this is happening. Just the other day my life was ordinary.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But now…”

  “I know what you’re saying, but this man clearly needs closure, even if it means upsetting him.” She hesitated, and then continued. “What if it was Nicky?” She looked at him with worried eyes. “Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Look, why don’t I come with you for moral support?”

  His face lit up with elation. “Really? You’d do that?”

  She nodded. “I don’t mind. I’ll have to cancel some clients, but…”

  Deflated, he shook his head. “No, I’ll go by myself. I don’t want you to cancel clients and lose money. It’s not fair to you or them.”

  “Listen, this is more important.”

  “I know, but I can’t let you do it. And besides, I think it would be better as a one-to-one chat. It might be a little intimidating with the two of us standing at his door.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Karen glanced at her watch and then stood. “Look, I need to get back to work now, so let me know how it goes. And if you need anything, just give me a call.”

  Richard stood and led her out of the living room to the front door. “Thanks for everything, Karen. I’ll keep you posted. If he hasn’t beaten me to death first.”

  She smiled as she stepped outside. “Good luck. Just stay calm and empathize, put yourself in his place. You’ll be fine.”

  “All right. I’ll try.”

  He waved to Karen as she crossed the road to her car. When she finally drove off, he closed the door and leaned against the porch wall, exhaling.

  What the hell are you about to do, Gardener?

  You’re bloody crazy.

  Several wrong turns later, Richard managed to locate Riverside Park and the home of Carl Jones. He parked the car a few meters away and sat with the engine off, trying to pluck up the courage to knock on the front door. What in God’s name are you doing? That was the thought resounding continuously in his head. He tried to block out the words but couldn’t. Instead, he was forced to ignore them.

  Holding onto the steering wheel tightly, as if hanging frantically off a cliff edge, he thought of Nicky—and if indeed Christina was Carl’s wife—how awful must it be to lose the woman you love. The idea filled him with despair. But that was exactly the emotion he needed to find the motivation to go through with this. Like Karen said, he had to empathize with him. Carl had lost someone very important to him, and Richard had found her. Carl needed to know the truth, no matter how terrible and heart-wrenching. Closure would hopefully end both their miseries. Carl would be able to move on, and Richard would get his life back—and his house.

  After almost thirty minutes, he grudgingly climbed out of the car. He marched across the road, toward the semi-detached house, breathing profusely, his heart pounding heavily against his chest, his palms sweaty.

  Come on, Rich, you’ve been through worse things than this. Pull it together.

  But he hadn’t been through worse things than this. Nothing came close. And shutting out that factor was imperative if he had any hope of speaking to Carl.

  As he walked through the small metal gate, past the small front lawn, toward the house, the front door suddenly swung open before Richard even had the chance to knock. Standing in the doorway was a man, late-thirties, slightly overweight, with short brown hair. His face was clearly wrinkled from age and stress; his eyes were dark and reddened. He had obviously been waiting for Richard’s arrival.

  “Hi, you must be Carl,” Richard said, apprehensively walking up to him and holding out a hand. “I’m Richard.”

  Reluctantly, Carl took his hand and shook it. “So what do you know about Christina?” he asked, defensively and straight-to-the-point.

  “I assume that she’s your wife, yes?” Richard asked, trying to disguise the tension that plagued his entire body.

  “My girlfriend,” he corrected with a distrustful tone in his voice. “She’s been missing for almost a year.”

  Richard nodded. “Oh, right. I wasn’t sure.”

  “Look, let’s cut to the chase,” Carl said abruptly. “Do you know where she is? Since our phone call, I came seriously close to calling the police, but I stopped myself. So, if you know something significant, then don’t piss me about. Tell me what you know.”

  Richard could sense in his tone that Carl was terrified to ask if his girlfriend was in fact dead. He knew that he needed to just blurt it out, but couldn’t. His heart was calling for him to say the truth, yet his head was screaming: Run home, you idiot! Run home!

  “Well? Do you know something or what?” Carl snapped.

  Richard had no choice but to speak. “I live with my wife over in Clifton. We’ve lived there for about six months. And lately—” He braced himself. “—I’ve been seeing a woman in my house.”

  Frowning in irritation, Carl said, “You’re saying that you’ve been seeing my Christina over at your house?”

  He nodded. “Yes. For the last couple of weeks. And—”

  “Wait, let me get this straight,” Carl interrupted. His expression changed from a look of frustration to wild rage. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve been sleeping with my girlfriend, while I’ve been worried sick for the past year?”

  Grimacing in confusion, Richard added, “No, I…” Then he realized how his words had sounded. “Look, I didn’t mean ‘seeing her’ like sleeping with her or anything. I meant she’s—”

  “She’s what?” he snapped, cutting him off again. “What are you on about?”

  Richard sighed, then quietly, without making eye contact, said, “She’s dead.”

  Silence gripped both men. Richard glanced at Carl; his face appeared calm. But suddenly Carl reached forward, grabbed Richard by his collar, and forced him up against the wall of the house. “What are you trying to do to me?” Carl screamed, spitting as he spoke. “You’re talking about the woman I love! What is wrong with you? Why would you say this to me?”

  Richard grasped Carl’s wrists, trying to prize them away from him without success. “Look, I swear to God.” He struggled with the words. “Christina’s spirit is in my house. I know how it sounds, but believe me, it’s the truth. I didn’t know who she was until I saw your poster up in the supermarket. I’m telling you the truth. Do you really think I would want to put myself through all this if I didn’t think you needed to know?”

  “You’re just some nutcase who gets his kicks out of hurting other people! You have no idea the hell I’ve been through! Do you!”

  “Look, I thought you needed closure. I’m married, and I know I would want someone to do the same for me. Please.”

  Carl wrenched him away from the wall and threw him onto the small lawn. Richard rolled, landing on his back. Getting to his feet immediately, he stepped back, palms held out in defense. “Please, Carl, the last thing I wanted to do was upset you, but I had to come. I saw someone in my house. A woman.”

  “You’re a lying bastard!” Carl yelled, his fists held up and clenched tightly together like a boxer.

  “I’m not lying. I swear on my life. I swear on my wife’s life. She told me her name was Christina Long. I thought I was just seeing things until I saw your poster. I don’t know what happened to her. All I know is that she’s in my house and she clearly wants to get a message to you. Please believe me. I’m not some lunatic. I’m a manager over at TSH Computers. I’m just an ordinary guy. Like you. I didn’t really believe in this sort of thing before the other day, but now—”

  “Get the hell away from my house before I beat the shit out of you! I swear to God!” He turned, reached into his porch, and pulled out a baseball bat from an umbrella holder.

  Richard felt his eyes spring wide open as he backed away across the lawn, toward the
gate. “All right, I’m going. Put the bat down.”

  “You’ve got five seconds to get your ass off my lawn. One…”

  Richard turned and leaped over the small wall to the side of the gate, then sprinted down the street toward his car. He frantically climbed in, watching Carl stand, angry, with the bat still firmly in his grasp.

  Richard released a long breath and started the engine, skidding off away from Riverside Park. Not looking back. Not for a second. Too focused on the road ahead.

  That couldn’t have gone any worse, he thought as he flew down Crandale Avenue, ignoring the speed restrictions.

  As he headed home, he could feel the sweat copiously run down his face and into his eyes. He wiped it away with a sleeve. “Bloody hell,” he muttered in relief, but at the same time, he was still stunned by what had just happened. In spite of everything, a part of him had believed that he would be able to get through to Carl—that he would have, at the very least, invited Richard inside to hear him out.

  The last thing he expected was to be almost beaten to death by a man brandishing a baseball bat.

  Richard pulled up outside his house. Nicky’s car was parked just up from the house. Dread slowly built in the pit of his stomach. What was he going to tell her? She would never understand, no matter what the evidence.

  How do I ever expect to convince Carl that the spirit of his dead girlfriend haunts my house when I can’t convince my own trusting wife?

  Climbing out of the car, he slowly walked over to his house, apprehensive about facing his wife. He entered the house, trying to pretend that everything was normal. He wiped away another build-up of sweat from his forehead before walking into the living room. Nicky was sitting on the couch watching TV. Her face lit up when she saw him. “Hi, babe,” she said, picking up the remote control and muting the sound. “Where’ve you been?”

  Forcing a smile, he calmly replied, “Just to the supermarket.”

  “I know that, I’ve already seen the shopping in the fridge. Where’ve you been since then?”

  “Oh, urrr…” he stuttered, realizing his mistake. “Just been out for a drive, trying to clear my head a little.”

  With a concerned frown she added, “What’s wrong with your head?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing much. Just a headache. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Take some painkillers.”

  “I will. Going to take a shower and then we’ll have something to eat. Okay, babe?”

  “All right, take your time—I’m not that hungry yet anyway.”

  He forced another smile and turned to leave. Just as he was about to walk out into the hallway, Nicky asked, “Why have you got mud on your ass?”

  Richard’s heart almost stopped in shock. It had completely slipped his mind that his jeans would be dirty after his collision with Carl’s lawn. He turned back to her, not meeting her eyes, and touched the dirt, as if discovering it for the first time. “Shit, forgot about that. I slipped earlier getting out of the car.”

  “Where were you to slip?” she asked, suspicious.

  “I just got out of the car to get some fresh air down by the park and slipped.” He looked directly at her, noticing her large, untrusting scowl. “Look, I’m not having an affair if that’s what you’re thinking. I haven’t been having sex with someone in the bloody mud. I just slipped, that’s all.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Then why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, his tone raised.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’ve done something wrong?”

  “Well, you can’t blame me. You’re the one who’s come home, looking all hot and bothered, with mud all over your jeans. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Why can’t you just take what I say at face-value? Why does there always have to be some conspiracy with you?”

  “I do take what you say at face-value—but not when you’re acting all weird.”

  Richard wanted desperately to just come clean and tell her exactly what had happened, if only to stop her interrogation. But the truth would only lead to even more questions, and right now, a full-on cross-examination was the last thing he wanted. “Look, I’m going up for a shower. I can’t be bothered with all this.”

  He stormed out of the room and headed upstairs. Nicky didn’t follow.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Richard dried his hair with the hairdryer. Looking up, he saw Nicky standing in the doorway with a concerned look on her face. He turned the hairdryer off.

  “All right?” he said, half-hearted, still worried about coming clean.

  “I’m all right,” she replied, her tone uneasy. “How about you?”

  He reached down and unplugged the hairdryer. “I’m fine.”

  “Look.” She walked over to the bed and sat beside him. “There’s something wrong. I know you too well, Rich.”

  Looking down at the carpet, he sighed. “Nic, I’ve tried to talk to you about it, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  Grimacing in perplexity, she shuffled to face him. “What do you mean? When?”

  “You know what I mean. We’ve been arguing about it all week.”

  Her eyes opened wide in puzzlement and shock as she stood up. “Please don’t tell me that this is about that bloody ghost?”

  He looked up at her and gave an eye gesture to suggest that she was right.

  “Rich, this is getting out of control. If it’s bothering you this much then maybe you should see someone about it.”

  He shot up from the bed, anger soaring through his body. “See who, Nic? A bloody ghostbuster?”

  “Don’t be stupid—you know what I mean.”

  “What—a psychiatrist? No way!”

  “Well, you have to do something. You can’t go on like this. You haven’t been right since you hit your head.”

  Richard stormed over to his bedside cabinet and picked up a folded piece of paper. “I wasn’t going to show you this, but…”

  “But what?” she asked as he handed it over to her. She opened the paper; it was the Christina Long “missing” poster from the supermarket. “What’s this?”

  “Read what it says.”

  She read it silently, taking a few seconds to finish. Glancing back up at him, she frowned. “Who’s Christina Long?”

  “Who’d yer think?”

  She shrugged, then looked at him, almost in disgust as she realized exactly who it was. “Please don’t tell me that you think this is your ghost?”

  “It is her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because it’s the same woman from the photo.”

  She took another look at the picture. “She may just look similar to her, but—”

  “It is her!” he snapped. “She looks exactly the same. And she has the same bloody name: Christina Long.”

  “And where did you find out her name?” she asked, almost mockingly.

  “I had a dream.”

  She shook her head. “A dream! Oh, this just gets better and better.”

  Richard felt his face flush with frustration. “This is exactly why I’m so pissed off. I can’t tell you anything.”

  “That’s not true—you can tell me anything. Just don’t expect me to believe that this poor missing woman is now haunting our house, for Christ’s sake.”

  “She is. Ask Karen if you don’t believe me.”

  “Oh, I will be,” she said, bitterly. “And I’ll be telling her exactly what I think about her filling your mind with all of this rubbish.”

  “Don’t blame Karen. It’s not her fault.”

  “Yes it is. She’s the one who’s been fueling the fire.”

  Exhaling loudly in irritation, he sat back down. “Look, I’m not making any of this up.” His voice began to calm. “When you found me sleeping in the spare room the other day, I had a dream. The woman I saw in the kitchen and in our bedroom spoke to me. She said her name was Christina Long. At first I thought it was maybe
a name I’d subconsciously heard somewhere else. But then, when I went shopping today, there she was, pinned to the bloody notice board.”

  “Okay, it is weird, I admit, but you may have seen it there before. The poster says she’s been missing since last June. You could have walked past it a million times and seen the name without even realizing it.”

  He shook his head. “When was the last time I went food shopping, Nic?”

  Shrugging, she replied, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “That’s because I haven’t been shopping for years. You know as well as I do that the closest I’ve been to shopping is going down the road to the corner shop.”

  “All right, I get your point, but…”

  “But nothing. There is no other explanation. This is the real thing. This woman is in our house. And I’m not crazy.”

  “I never said you were,” she assured him, clearly trying to settle the mood. “I was just concerned. I mean you come home all suspiciously, with mud on your ass.” She paused for a moment, frowning. “So where did the mud really come from?”

  Richard’s stomach started to somersault. He knew full well how his wife would treat the news of his meeting with Carl. His lying eyes—his tell-tale eyes—looked down at the carpet. He swallowed hard, like dry-swallowing a pill. “I told you, I slipped,” he answered, without conviction.

  “I know when you’re lying. So tell me the truth,” she demanded. “You’ve already said that it’s got something to do with this missing woman. So tell me—what really happened?”

  He hesitated, still with his eyes cast down to the floor like a guilty child.

  “Come on, you can tell me. I won’t get mad. I promise.”

  Richard knew that she would, but he said it anyway. “I went to see Carl Jones.”

  “Who’s Carl Jones?” Then her jaw dropped as she plainly remembered exactly who Carl Jones was. “Please tell me you didn’t visit this woman’s grieving husband.”

  His silence spoke volumes.

  “Jesus Christ, Rich, what’s the matter with you?”

  He turned to her, this time looking her straight in the eyes. “I had to, all right. He needed to know the truth.”

  “Needed to know what? That his wife is now a bloody ghost in our house? What the hell’s the matter with you?”