Half Life

by Heather Atkinson

  Then I see it, the most hideous monstrosity it has ever been my misfortune to clap eyes on. A great twisted lump of metal on a stand, spindly limbs sticking out of each side, from which dangle little silver spangles. I have no idea what it is but it offends me.

  My sympathy evaporates in an instant. Kate’s had enough peace. It starts tonight.

  Rather than fall asleep on the couch Kate actually retires to bed and I wait until she’s sound asleep before beginning. Slowly I stomp up the stairs, my footsteps loud on the oak staircase. Then I silently glide back to the bottom and repeat the process. Just as I reach the top the door to the master bedroom opens a crack and Kate’s worried white face peers out. Of course she can’t see me although I’m stood just a few feet from her. In her hand I notice one of those tiny telephones that people seem to carry with them everywhere these days. Her logical rational mind probably thinks I’m an intruder and she’s got it ready to call the police. I push the flicker of guilt aside and glide back down to the bottom again. She remains at the door, waiting to see if the noise will occur again and when it doesn’t she shuts it and I hear the turn of the key in the lock.

  I give her some time to drift back off to sleep before stomping upstairs again. This time she flings the door open wide, some sort of bat in hand, ready to strike. Slowly she lowers her arm when she sees nothing. Careful to keep myself invisible I rush towards the door, my footsteps making an incredible racket in the stillness of the night and with a gasp she slams the door shut in my face. I knock on the door, three raps in rapid succession. The door remains shut so I kick it open, locks not proving an obstacle to me and it hits the wall hard and rebounds with a bang. Kate is stood in the middle of the room still wielding her bat white as a sheet and her jaw hanging open. As she still can’t see me she kicks the door shut, jumps on the bed and pulls the covers tight around her. I regard the quivering shape with regret before silently leaving. She’s had enough for one night.

  It’s working, Kate’s getting nervous. I have to give her her due, she’s tougher than all the men who have passed through here. Not only that, she used to be a non-believer but now she’s convinced of the existence of the paranormal. I’ve kept up the ghostly footsteps routine for the past few nights and she’s tetchy and on edge. She positively snarled at the postman this morning for not putting the letters through the slot all the way. I actually felt sorry for the poor man, these modern women can be very formidable. Saying that they were in my day too. I think of Clara, my wife and shudder. Love of my life, ha, that’s a jest.

  Anyway, back to Kate. Despite her unease there are none of the usual frantic phone calls enquiring about other properties in the area, no sign that she’s going to pack up and leave any time soon. Time to up my game and let her see me.

  She falls asleep on the couch after lunch, my nocturnal mischief depriving her of sleep. She really is lovely with smooth caramel skin and long sweeping eyelashes. No, I must not think this way.

  Just when she starts to stir I lean right over her so my face will be the first thing she sees when she wakes. Kate’s eyes widen and she screams before leaping up and running for the door. I watch triumphantly as she yanks it open and races outside. Halfway down the garden path she freezes and turns back round.

  Oh dear. She looks very angry. Jaw set and hands balled into fists she stomps back up the path and inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Hastily I make myself invisible.

  “Thomas Galbraith,” she yells. “I know it’s you, I’ve seen your picture. If you think I’m going to get scared and leave like the others then you’ve another thing coming. I let one man drive me out of my home and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it happen again. This is my home now, not yours, mine. I paid for it fair and square. I am not leaving, got it?”

  She is so awe-inspiring I decide to remain silent. With that she stomps upstairs, leaving me a little bemused.

  I’m completely at a loss and have to admit a begrudging respect for Kate. It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’ve been stomping up and down the stairs for a good hour now but my efforts have been in vain because I don’t seem to have disturbed her in the least.

  Creeping into her bedroom I find her fast asleep with a mask covering her eyes and plugs in her ears. Incensed to see her so relaxed I yank the bedclothes off her, another favoured trick of mine and when I see her lithe body encased in a skimpy black nightgown I hastily replace them. This doesn’t disturb her either so I quietly go downstairs and wait for her to rise.

  At eight o’clock she descends the stairs annoyingly bright eyed and sleep refreshed. As she potters about in the kitchen preparing breakfast I creep up behind her and envelop her in a cold spot. Without flinching she reaches into the jar of flour on the worktop and hurls a handful in my face. Her eyes widen slightly when my ghostly powdered face is revealed to her but she must recover from the shock quickly because I can hear her laughing as I run upstairs, completely humiliated.

  When I’ve sufficiently recuperated from my embarrassment I return downstairs ready to inflict much more insidious torments on my nemesis, only to find she’s gone out. So I decide to pull my usual furniture moving trick instead. I shove the couches backwards against the walls and upend the coffee table. Just as I start to shift a large set of shelves an horrific wail sets up. Despite the fact I’m dead my ears are still surprisingly sensitive and I clamp my hands over them. I have no idea what this hideous noise is or how to make it stop.

  An hour later, just when I think I’m about to go insane from the dreadful din Kate walks through the door. With a smug smile she jabs at the buttons set into the wall by the front door and mercifully it stops.

  “In case you don’t know Thomas Galbraith,” Kate calls to the air, “that’s called a burglar alarm. I set it every time I go out. If anything moves inside the house, like furniture then it will go off and only I know how to make it stop. So unless you like that noise, I suggest you leave my stuff alone.”

  Fed up with being continually outmanoeuvred I wait quietly and invisibly while she unpacks her shopping, humming happily to herself as she puts the items away into cupboards. Then she retreats to the couch with a glass of wine and a book. I wait for the perfect moment, until she is absorbed in the fantasy world and is oblivious to everything around her. All is perfectly still and quiet. Then I rush about the room, turning on all the electrical appliances. After years of observation I have learnt how to work most modern day devices. To my satisfaction Kate jumps when the stereo bursts into life, Beethoven’s Symphony number nine in D Minor playing out at full volume. She sits bolt upright, perplexed as the television comes on, the telephone starts to ring incessantly and all the lights switch on and off. I stand revelling in victory as she leaps to her feet and hurries from the room. At last I’ve finally managed to rattle her.

  She pulls open the little door to the space beneath the stairs, ducks inside and all the appliances die at once. Kate returns to the sitting room and now she’s the one who looks triumphant while I’m baffled.

  “Pitiful attempt Thomas Galbraith,” she calls cheerfully, retaking her seat and picking up her book.

  I press the light switch, which clicks impotently and I hear her snigger.

  Ducking inside the little cupboard beneath the stairs I’m confronted by a box on the wall containing a bewildering array of red switches. I know this is the root of the problem but I have no idea what to do. I’m tempted to flip the lot but I know electricity can start fires and I have no wish to burn this house down so I graciously concede defeat and stalk upstairs to sulk. As I roam the rooms I come across that disgusting metal object again and I glare at it. Needing to vent my annoyance I lay into it with everything I’ve got, which can be considerable when I wish it to be. I rip the ridiculous slivers of silver dangling from it and scatter them across the room. Then I grab the limbs and bend them out of shape. I’m so consumed by the task that it takes me a moment to realise I’ve got an audience. Kate is stood in the doorway watching
and looking very amused.

  “You can see me?” I say, stunned.

  “Ever since I woke up on the couch and you were stood over me. It was very funny watching you creep about, thinking you were invisible.”

  Once again I’m completely humiliated. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You seemed to be having so much fun I didn’t want to spoil it.”

  “How is this possible? You should only be able to see me if I want you to.”

  “I have no idea. This is the first time I’ve met a ghost. I used to have an invisible friend when I was a child, she was called Dorothy but that’s hardly the same thing. May I ask, what are you doing to that sculpture?”

  “Is that what it is? It’s quite repulsive.”

  “I agree. I’ve always hated the bloody thing.”

  “Then why do you have it?”

  Her expression darkens. “It belonged to my pig of an ex-fiancé. It was his pride and joy so I took it to annoy him. He paid ten thousand pounds for it.”

  “What?” I exclaim. “For this obscenity?”

  “Unbelievable isn’t it? It’s by some famous and - if you ask me - overrated artist.”

  “This is the product of a disturbed mind. What is it supposed to be?”

  “It’s meant to represent love.”

  I look at the item sadly. “Art is not what it once was.”

  “You’re not wrong there.” She picks up the hammer she’d been using yesterday to hang some pictures with such a determined look in her eye that I actually take a step back. “Come on, let’s finish the job.”

  Together we lay into the thing gleefully until it’s just a battered lump of metal lying on the floor. Panting, Kate lets the hammer drop and beams.

  “That was so much fun.”

  “It was,” I agree.

  “I’ll get someone in to take it away. There are people who pay good money for worthless lumps of metal.”

  “Like your ex-fiancé?” I smile.

  “Yes,” she laughs. “I need a drink after all that exercise.”

  I follow her downstairs into the kitchen where she pours herself a glass of water and drinks it eagerly.

  “So how is it that you look so real?” she says. “You look like someone who’s, well…alive.”

  “Practice. I draw on the energy around me, from people, the appliances. But I still don’t know how you can see me so easily.”

  “You can touch things. Are you solid?”

  “It feels like it to me.”

  She indicates my arm. “May I?”

  I’m uncertain. After decades alone the thought of intimacy is unnerving.

  “Alright,” I say reluctantly.

  She grasps my arm and we stare at one another in amazement. “You feel real. A little cold but real.”

  “I can feel you too,” I reply, stunned. “Are you not scared?”

  “No. I don’t want to offend you but you’re not very scary. Apart from the footsteps on the stairs thing, that was creepy but once I knew it was you I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

  I’m rendered speechless. She releases my arm and I’m disappointed. It had been nice to feel living warmth again.

  “We need to discuss our living situation,” she says. “It can’t go on like this. Why are you being so mean to me?”

  Her forthrightness makes me ashamed of my behaviour, which suddenly seems petty and childish.

  “Sorry about that but you have to understand, I created this house and it’s so hard seeing strangers march in here and take it over. At first I didn’t mind you too much, then I saw that sculpture.”

  “I can understand that,” she says kindly. “But I really love this house, I’m happy here and after the year I’ve had you can’t know how much that means to me. Do you think you could learn to tolerate my presence?”

  She asks so sweetly and it’s so pleasant having someone to talk to that I acquiesce at once.

  “I suppose I could. It will take some getting used to though. I’ve been alone for so long.”

  “Why are you still here?” she asks gently but probingly, the journalist in her coming to the fore. “You do know what year it is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, twenty twelve and I don’t know,” I say, looking at the floor.

  Kate sees I’m uncomfortable so she moves swiftly on. “So, we’re going to try and live with each other?”

  “Why not. Let’s give it a go.”

  She smiles and nods. I wait for her to finish making a cup of tea before following her back into the sitting room.

  “So,” she begins, taking a seat on the couch, “if we’re to live together I need to know a little about you. I’m not the type of woman to shack up with strange men.”

  “What’s to know?” I sigh. “I’m here all the time. Alone. End of story.”

  “You can’t leave this house?”

  “I can go out into the garden but no further than that. It takes a tremendous amount of energy.”

  “That’s awful but I meant tell me about your life. What was it like here in the late eighteen hundreds?”

  Eagerly I launch into a description of my time, which has remained very vivid in my mind. She seems genuinely interested and questions me relentlessly. I talk for so long that I feel quite drained by the time I’ve finished.

  “I love history,” she enthuses, “and the Victorian era is particularly fascinating.”

  I can see in her eyes that she’s itching to ask me about my death and the afterlife but sensing now is not the time she’s attempting to contain herself. I’m glad because I’m so tired and have no wish to discuss it. With a sigh I sink back into the sofa and I see her eyes widen.

  “What’s wrong?” I say.

  “You’re fading. I can practically see through you. And when you sat on the couch it sank down beneath you. Now the cushion is plumped up as though there’s no weight on it.”

  “Not to worry,” I murmur. “I’m just a little tired. After a rest I’ll be right as rain.”

  “Oh good. Well if you don’t mind, while you rest I’ll watch some television. My favourite programme’s about to start.”

  “By all means.”

  Normally I despise the talking box but I’m so exhausted I’m left with little choice but to watch and find myself drawn into a rather compelling story. It’s what people today call a ‘soap opera’ and this one revolves around the residents of a particular street in an English town. I remain riveted all the way through it and by the end I’m thoroughly restored.

  “I knew that man with the moustache was the father of that blond girl’s baby,” I say.

  “I didn’t. I thought it was the man with the black hair,” she smiles.

  I beam back at my companion. That’s a nice word for her. Not trespasser but companion. Suddenly my half life isn’t so bleak.

  “I don’t watch much television,” she says. “Mainly the news and documentaries. I prefer to read.”

  “Who’s your favourite author?”

  “I like the classics. Henry James, Dumas, the Brontes, Poe, Oscar Wilde, Fitzgerald and Hemingway.”

  “Me too,” I smile. “Although I’m not familiar with the last two.”

  We discuss literature at length, after which it’s late and we’re both tired.

  “I’ll think I’ll go to bed,” she says, rising and stretching. “You seem too good to be true Thomas Galbraith. Are you real or am I losing my mind?”

  “I’m as real as a ghost can be and please, call me Tom.”

  “I will. Goodnight Tom.”

  “Goodnight Kate.”

  Surprisingly enough we quickly settle into a comfortable routine. I even learn how to make her a cup of her adored tea after observing her for a few days. My first attempt was a disaster. As tea leaves were used in my day I put dried herbs in the mug instead and Kate gagged when she took a sip. Once she’d stopped laughing she showed me where she keeps those funny little bags, which admittedly are much more convenient.

&
nbsp; We chat while she has breakfast then I wait in the house until she returns home. Kate’s given me permission to look through her books and it’s nice having something to occupy my mind. Then she returns and we talk about our day, hers being much more interesting than mine. She’s writing freelance for a major magazine, which she’s enjoying because it’s not as highly pressured as her old job and she has much more freedom. Sometimes her work means she has to spend the odd night away from home and I confess I miss her terribly. Without her the house is cold and silent, how it was before she came. I also find that when she’s not here I’m not as substantial, less able to have any effect on the physical world. This has never happened before and I worry what would happen to me should she decide to leave. After knowing friendship again the thought of being alone again is daunting.

  Once Kate’s eaten her evening meal we settle down in front of the television to watch our favourite show, which I’m quite addicted to. I know the name of every character in it now and their history. Then she turns the television off and we talk or read in companionable silence until she retires to bed.

  Sometimes the garish Sally will burst in, often accompanied by her husband Simon, disrupting our harmony and I stay out of the way. Kate has requested I don’t frighten her friend again and I respect her wish but Sally still looks about herself nervously whenever she’s here, jumping at imagined noises The next morning our cosy little routine is repeated and I admit I enjoy it. Kate’s mother Georgia is a frequent visitor too, her father having died when she was a teenager. I don’t mind her so much. She has the same quiet dignity about her that Kate has so when she visits I simply leave them alone to talk. Often I go upstairs to gaze out at the sea, which is clearly visible from the back of the house. This view is why I chose to build this house here and when I was alive I would go down to the beach there almost every day to sit quietly and think. It just breaks my heart that I can now only look upon it from a window.

  “I’m taking a walk down to the beach,” Kate says one Sunday morning. “Want to come?”