I fell back down; cracked my knee on the concrete. I turned on my side; saw that face, the empty eyes… It was crawling after me; it was unstoppable, I couldn’t stop it.
I had no choice. I pulled myself back up, standing on my other leg. I saw the patio table – the stone table next to the barbecue. I had no choice; I leapt up onto the table. I looked back. It screamed again; it came running at me. I had no choice – I jumped.
It was going to tear me to shreds. Nothing I could’ve done. I cleared the balcony rail. He wasn’t going to get me; I wasn’t going to let him take me. I jumped and I fell.
I thought this was it. I was done for. Fucked.
But I was lucky. I’ve always been lucky. There was another balcony below mine. Small one, but it was there. I fell through the garden table; you know, like the ones they have at pubs. It broke my fall. Most of it. I tell you the people who lived there; you should’ve seen their faces. Scared shitless.
They called the ambulance. Got to hand it to them boys, they was there quick. They thought I was mental. I probably sounded like I was fucking mental. But I knew I’d got away with it. I knew there was nothing he could do to me now.
As they put me in the ambulance I caught sight of him. Standing, waiting down across the road. I didn’t say anything; I just stared at him and smiled. There was nothing he could do to me now.
Because I did it. I faced him down. I looked evil in the eye, and I survived. I’m a survivor; I’ll take anything on.
He leaves me alone now. Sometimes I hear him – the drip, drip, drip. See him standing in the rain, waiting behind the glass. But he knows he can’t scare me anymore. I risked it all. I faced death and I came out of it. He’s not getting in here. He can’t get me in here.
I’m a survivor. I’m going to get better and show him he can’t do anything to me. I’m just resting; my people, they know that. And I’m going to walk again too; I don’t care what they say. You can’t keep this man down. I’m like a force of nature. You can’t stop me. You can’t hold me back.
THE STORM WALKER
I was out driving the first time I saw her. Sunlight was breaking through the clouds; there had been a terrible storm and parts of the road were flooded.
She was soaked through to the skin, water dripping off her. I’d never picked up a hitch-hiker in my life, but I found myself thinking that I should stop and see if I could give her a lift into the village. It was as if the city thinking was already leaving me and I was starting to think like a human being again. Or maybe I just wanted the company. She was dragging an umbrella turned inside-out; she looked so tragic.
She accepted with a nod, a slight smile and a mumble of thanks. She really was absolutely drenched. The second she sat down I started to worry about the state of the seat and mud getting all over the mat.
She was heading back to _______, same as me. I asked her if the rain had taken her by surprise, and she said:
“I always take my walk in the afternoon; I don’t let the weather stop me.” She meant it too. There was a look of aged formidability in her face; the type that people of a certain age get when they go militant against the weaknesses of getting older and aren’t going to let anyone tell them that they can’t do this or that anymore. But when she took off her hoods and glasses she was younger than she first appeared. Early-to-mid 50s rather than late 60s – she was overweight, not tall, and pale, sallow, tired-looking.
“Have you lived around here long?” I asked, hoping to build a conversation.
She was polite, but brusque: “All my life,” she answered. After a pause, she followed with “You must be new; haven’t seen your face before.”
“Yes, I moved here about two weeks ago.”
“Not from Scotland?”
“No,” I smirked, everyone kept saying that.
“From London I suppose?”
“Sort of, not originally, but that’s where I was living.”
“We get a lot of your sort around here now.” She said this in a mildly disapproving way, but less so than some folk I’d spoken to. It was true, the village was isolated but well-off, a haven for middle-class families wishing to “get away from it all”. Although only a few seemed to be English.
“Not a bit quiet for you?”
“That’s sort of what I wanted.”
“Never saw the point of cities. Too cramped and cooped up. You get proper air out here.”
The conversation continued this way for a few miles – stops and starts and awkward silences.
“You married?”
I thought for a second, and just answered “no”. Later I thought I saw her looking down at my hands; if she caught sight of my ring, she must have chosen not to pry about it.
“Most folk move out here now to raise kids. Not so many years ago all the kids seemed to leave. Now the parents seem keen to drag them back again.” I thought I could see a hint of a smile; I thought maybe she was starting to ease up a little, but then I asked:
“Do you work around here?”
“No,” she said, becoming more hard-faced. “Can’t work because of my back.” She used an end-of-subject tone.
I chose not to pry either. But she’d been a good five or six miles out of the village; she obviously couldn’t be that unhealthy. Although she could well have given herself pneumonia in this weather. I’d been foolish taking the car out in that downpour. As I thought about it I realised she must’ve been crazy to go out at all. It must’ve been at least a 10-mile round journey for her. What on earth was she thinking?
“You take a long walk every day?” I just had to ask.
“Not always, sometimes.” She corrected herself and said “Most days. You must have a job in _____.”
“Oh no. Well, not yet.” I answered. “I really just wanted to get away from it for a while; I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.”
“And what did you do before?”
“I was a psychiatric nurse.”
“Oh well, you should have no trouble finding work. Plenty of fools around here.” There wasn’t even the tiniest hint of a smile; she wasn’t making a joke.
As I approached the village she gave me directions to where to drop her off, rather presumptuously assuming I was happy to take her home. It was a pleasant terraced house, well looked-after, small garden at the front, just like mine.
“I appreciate your help,” she said, getting out. “Safe journey now.” I watched as she walked slowly up to her front door and let herself in. Most folk around here barely bothered to lock their doors, but she spent several moments unlocking bolts and letting herself in.
I realised suddenly that I hadn’t caught her name. And she hadn’t asked for mine either. I looked over at the passenger seat and scowled; I’d have to spend time cleaning it. Muddy footprints were all over the mat.
I drove home, which was about a mile or so on the other side of the village. Well, more probably it was a town; it just felt like a village, and everyone called it one.
There were no answerphone messages when I got back, which was a relief. The phone was my only point of contact now; I’d decided to give up my mobile. Not that it would probably work out in ______ anyway. I’d probably get the internet put in eventually, but I had no idea how long I was going to stay.
The old lady who owned the place seemed to know nothing about letting. I’d paid her for two months’ rent and she said we’d ‘see how it goes’. I think she let it normally for holidays, so she probably rarely had tenants off-season. Not that I could think why there’d be much demand for it as a holiday home, although I suppose for hikers, climbers, and outdoor types it would have quite a bit of appeal. Hills, mountains, woodlands and streams could be found in almost all directions.
It was a good job it was a holiday home, otherwise it would’ve been empty. I only had two suitcases, everything else I had was in storage. I was putting my past-life to one side and just thinking about me and what I wanted to do next. And there’d be no rush; there was no need fo
r a rush. I’d just go on and see how I felt and how things unfolded.
I didn’t have much to do at first. I enjoyed reading, I took a little to hiking, but the weather was generally too miserable and it was starting to turn cold. I went to the cinema, the first time in years. They had this quaint little town hall cinema; they pulled down a little screen and had their own projector. They played Casablanca and To Have and Have Not on a double-bill. All the pensioners were there; they looked at me like I was from another planet. Clearly they didn’t get newcomers often.
I thought about painting, but I wasn’t very good at it and gave up a bit too easily. I thought I needed to meet some people and make some friends. I volunteered at the local pet rescue charity shop. It hadn’t been open long and Joyce, the manager, was pretty much doing everything herself.
They had strange ways, some of the folk around there. They wouldn’t volunteer to help, but they’d sort of ask about it and if you just happened to ask them if they’d like to, then maybe they could probably just about find some time to come in once or twice a week, or more.
They used to look at Joyce like she was an alien too. She was Jamaican – she used to joke she was the only black woman for 50 miles. Although it could’ve been her size too. She was a good 6 foot tall and big-bodied. She used to tower over the little old folk. They were nice people really, just used to things being always the same.
We did have a laugh. She was irrepressible – you could hear her laugh in the pharmacy next door. And things were starting to get busy after a few slow months. ______ is a strange place, there was no high-street as such. Just odd little pockets of shops here and there, as if people kept trying to set one up, but kept giving up.
We talked a lot; she didn’t know many people either, but was much better at making friends. She was just one of those people: big, open and bubbly; everyone felt like she was their friend.
I confided in her a little. Told her about my husband’s death without giving away too many of the details. I just told her about the cancer and left it at that. She didn’t ask too many questions. She understood that I was trying to move on with my life and we concentrated more on happy things. She kept telling me she was going to set me up with someone. I laughed and joked about it, but that was really the last thing I wanted and did my best to let her know without being nasty about it. Difficult to know who she could set me up with anyway; the only single types they seemed to have around _____ were little old men.
I’d been working there a week or two when the lady I’d picked up appeared at the shop counter. I hadn’t seen her come in; I’d been talking to Horace, a sweet old man from up the road who liked to talk, and talk, and talk…
“Hello,” I said with familiarity. She returned the greeting with only a hint of fondness. She placed a red umbrella on the counter.
“For your walks?” I said, attempting conversation again.
She didn’t answer. “How much is that?”
“Three pounds for umbrellas”.
“And those as well?” She moved the umbrella; there were two gloves on the counter, children’s woolly gloves. They were pink with little yellow flowers on.
“Oh, they’re a pound. Four in total.”
She held out a fiver and I took it. Just when I thought she’d forgotten who I was, she said “Are you settling in all right?” She said it almost like an obligation, a chore.
“Yes, I’m settling in fine, thank you,” I answered, while passing her her change.
“Good,” she said, giving the smallest of smiles and a nod.
“Would you like a bag?”
“No thank you.” She picked up the umbrella and stuffed the gloves into her coat pocket. “Good afternoon”.
I smiled and she started to amble towards the door. Just as she was passing the women’s jacket stand, the clouds seemed to burst outside and it started to rain. She stopped and stood watching it.
“Good job you bought the umbrella,” I said. She didn’t say anything. After a moment she just carried on. She went out the door and walked away in the rain. She didn’t even open the umbrella.
She was strange, but in my profession, I’d seen a lot worse. She probably just had trouble talking to people; it doesn’t necessarily get any easier when you get older. It was probably quite hard for her to even try. I felt quite touched that she was trying; it was so easy for folk getting older to just give up.
The rain killed custom for the afternoon; the street was dead after three o’clock. We closed at four. Joyce had spent the afternoon going through a large donation and not a good one. Unfortunately, the pet rescue store was much closer than the dump. There was so much rubbish it would take two rubbish collections to get it all taken away.
While she cashed up, I started to take the sacks out. They were heavy; I managed two at a time, but only just. The rain was still falling hard. I dragged them out through the side door and towards the metal skip bin. There was a girl playing in the alley, jumping joyously in the puddles. It made me smile.
I put the rubbish bags down and unlocked the bin lid. After I threw it open, I got one bag in fine. But I caught the other on the bin’s side and it tore. Some items fell out – a broken bead necklace slipped out and scattered beads in all directions when it hit the ground. I swore.
“You’re not throwing away toys are you?”
I looked up, slightly embarrassed, at the young girl. She was maybe six or seven, not very old. And she was dressed in a faded blue duffle coat; vintage, but worn and old. Some of the buttons were missing. She was looking at a wooden toy train that had also dropped through the tear.
I put the bag down. “It’s broken dear,” I said. “The wheels have all come off.” She stared at me, saying nothing. I smiled at her; she didn’t move. Her face was frozen in a sulking expression, eyes downcast, lips curling downward. She was white, frighteningly pale; she looked almost albino, like she was freezing.
Feeling a bit spooked, I picked up the second rubbish sack and got it in the bin. As I bent down to pick up the train, I noticed she was gone. Vanished, without a sound.
It was very strange. I tried to pick up some of the scattered beads but gave up quickly and went back inside. I didn’t think much about the pale girl until later, when I started to wonder what on earth she was doing behind a charity shop in an alley leading to a row of garages? There didn’t seem to be anyone else there. Who was she with? And where did she go?
One of the first things Joyce had found out from me when I started was where I lived. This was so she could find out whether I would be able to give her a lift home after work. Joyce didn’t drive; she could probably walk it, but she had an amazing ability of avoiding any kind of hard work. When I was there she always managed to find some reason why it was better for me to do any lifting. I brought in the donation bags, she just did the sorting. And that way she could grab anything she liked first.
Her house, which was only supposed to be just around the corner from mine, was actually a good mile and a half away. Just past the outskirts of ______, nestled amongst some trees. She called it Grandma’s House, because it looked like it had come right out of a fairy tale. It had a long winding path and a tiny rock wall fence, and a little red gate. It was a single storey bungalow, with a thatched roof; you could just imagine a big bad wolf hiding behind the door.
Anyway, we were a short distance away from there, stuck waiting to cross the bridge over the river because of a tractor, when I saw that woman again. The rain was starting to clear now, but she had her umbrella, the one she bought from me, still open. Her head was hung down, she looked positively miserable. It had been over two hours since I’d served her. Had she really been out all that time?
“It’s that woman again,” I said, thinking out loud.
“What’s that?” said Joyce.
“That woman, I gave her a lift the other day. She was out in the middle of nowhere soaked to the skin, walking. Now she’s doing it again.”
“You gave her a lift
? Crazy Rose?”
“You what?”
“Crazy Rose – her there with the umbrella. You gave her a lift?”
“What’s crazy about her? She seemed ok.” But pretty odd.
“Don’t ask me. That’s just what they call her. I’ve heard the ladies talk about her. They stay well clear.”
“She didn’t seem that crazy.”
“Well you’d be the expert. But the women around here, they don’t like to go near her.”
I dropped Joyce off at her mysterious cottage. Apparently she shared it with another lady called Francesca, oft mentioned but as yet unseen by any of the volunteers. Tongues were starting to wag. Gossip spreads like wild fire in isolated places like ______. But frankly, who cares?
Yes, village life could be pretty insular. I wondered whether I could ever really get used to it. I was enjoying the slower pace, but could I ever get used to a life where the biggest news story was whether a Jamaican woman was a lesbian or whether a woman who liked to walk in the rain was a nutcase?
Honestly, if they thought she was crazy… they’d never seen crazy – real crazy. I wondered whether I could really go back to that life. So few ever seemed to get better; you knew which ones you’d see again. I felt like I’d done enough for the betterment of mankind. And that’s if they’d have me back anyway.
There were still no answerphone messages. I wondered if that was a good thing, but I certainly felt that no news was better.
Nothing much happened for a few days. In between my shifts at the shop, I read some so-so chick-lit, did a bit of driving, took a long walk when the weather wasn’t so bad. I think I may have even done a jigsaw; the days were so empty. So meaningless.
Then one evening – it wasn’t very late – I was driving to the Co-op for my weekly shop when I saw “Crazy Rose” walking along the street, weighed down by heavy shopping bags. It was a crowded residential street. I passed her, on the opposite side of the road, and then pulled in between parked cars to let another car go by in the opposite direction.
Eleven New Ghost Stories Page 9
