by Alan Millard
‘Excuse me for interrupting,’ I said. ‘I tried to talk to someone downstairs but no one paid any attention.’
‘Moron,’ he muttered again and carried on scribbling.
‘I hope you aren’t referring to me,’ I snapped. I was at the end of my tether but still he refused to look up. I was ready to climb on the desk and stamp all over his work but managed to restrained myself. ‘Right,’ I shouted, ‘if this is what to expect from your organisation I for one will be cancelling my order and this I assure you isn’t the last you’ll be hearing from me.’ I stormed from the room, ran down the stairs and without knowing where I was going found myself half a mile from the offices walking blindly through town in a state of sheer desperation. Not in the mood to sit on a bus I decided to walk home. Walking would give me time to think and work out what to do next.
I trudged to the top of the town, passed the turnings that led to my old home and Priscilla’s house and stopped at the Hundredstone gardens to catch my breath. I found a bench and looked at the view. As it happened there wasn’t much to see. The mist still covered most of the Somerset plain but away in distance Glastonbury Tor poked its head above the fog like a tropical island rising out of the sea. Someone had once told me that, on a clear day with a telescope when the sun was shining, he’d seen the towers of Wells Cathedral which was easily twenty miles away. As soon as the thought of Wells Cathedral crossed my mind I wished it hadn’t. It brought back unwanted memories of Tom showing his mother and Emma around the cathedral expounding his crazy ideas about the fruit thief carvings and portents of things to come evoked in the Chapter House. Even so in my present state of despair I’d have welcomed anything Mrs. Kandinsky might have had to offer by way of direction whatever her sources.
Feeling the chill I decided to make a move before the fog worsened. Walking down the hill to the cottage I mused on all that had happened and began to consider the possibility that I might be dead. It seemed unlikely when I was feeling just as I’d always felt. I was in possession of my senses. I could breathe, see, smell, hear, touch and feel the cold! I’d turned the ignition key in my car, sat on a bus, walked through town, opened doors and banged on glass. My mind was as active as ever. I could read the paper, make decisions and act upon them. Ghosts if they existed were insubstantial, ethereal beings. They wore white sheets, appeared and disappeared at will, haunted and walked through walls. But the more I considered the day’s events the more concerned I became. I recalled Mrs Trott and the woman she was talking to, the garage salesman, the Mumfords, the bus driver, the people in town, the paper’s employees behind the hatch and the group at the editor’s meeting. Seemingly none of them had seen me.
I tried to convince myself that in every case there would be a perfectly rational explanation. Mrs. Trott was engrossed in a private conversation. The salesman might have been on the point of sealing a deal. The Mumfords had probably had a row and weren’t in a mood to talk to anyone. The bus driver was concentrating on the fog and the people at the Gazette were up to their eyes in work. Such thoughts consoled me for the moment. I arrived home exhausted and spent the rest of the day in a daze too tired to think or do anything other than doze in front of the television until it was time for bed.
Surprisingly I slept well and woke determined to put the events of the previous day behind me. Feeling hungry I ate more than usual which was in itself reassuring since ghosts would have no need for food. The riddle of the obituary still played on my mind. I thought about trying to phone the Gazette again but lacked the courage. If the same thing happened it would only distress me and stir up fresh doubts. The bizarre chance of my being dead was something I hadn’t the slightest intention of testing. If there had been a mistake someone during the day, most likely the vicar, would knock the door. No one had called at the cottage to lay me out or collect my corpse. Today I felt content to remain invisible. I’d walk to the shop in the fog, collect my papers and slip away without being noticed.
The plan worked well. There was no one about on the way to the shop. I was in and out in a flash. There was more than enough in the Saturday paper to keep me engaged for most of the day. The supplements and magazine which I normally ditch I read from cover to cover. I worked my way through the crosswords including the jumbo. I studied the travel and sports pages, took a break for lunch and after a short nap lit the fire and listened to the afternoon play on the radio. When the play was over I read for an hour then had some tea and watched television all night. My only concern was that nobody called or gave me a ring. If they had it might have settled the question of whether I’d died or not. Knowing one way or the other was something I couldn’t put off indefinitely. I’d hidden away for a day without resolving anything. Sunday would give me the chance to discover the truth. I’d go to the eight o’clock service, sit next to the Mumfords and know for certain if yesterday’s nightmare would be repeated or not.
I woke several times in the night disturbed by unpleasant dreams. In one of them Howard was playing a ghastly piece of music which he said was written by Bach but which sounded as though it had been composed by the devil himself. I rose at six and at quarter to eight I heard the plaintive peal of a single bell with its twelve rings (one for each of the apostles) calling the faithful to communion. I left as late as I could and walked up the gravelled path to the second peal of bells muffled by fog (thirty two, one for each year of Christ’s short life).
It was damp and cold in the church with no hint of the warm, cheerful atmosphere I’d enjoyed at the Christmas Eve mass. There was no organ music, only the sombre chanting of words set out for Holy Communion in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer. The opening prayer was half way through as I sat in my usual place next to Jack Mumford and his wife. Too late for the beginning of the collect I joined in with the closing words. I glanced at Jack but his eyes were closed so I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t acknowledge me. The service continued with the collect for the Queen and its edict for we humble subjects to serve honour and humbly obey her, a phrase which I imagined must have pleased King James in those dark, troubled times and was obviously designed to keep we dissenters in our place. The Collect for the day, the Creed, prayers for the Church Militant on Earth etcetera all followed in their ordained order with Jack concentrating on every word. I managed to go along with most of it until we reached the prayer preceding the general Confession. After all that had happened on the previous Friday I was not in love and charity with my neighbours nor did I intend to lead a new life if it resembled my present sorry state. Quite suddenly as sometimes happens I found myself arguing inwardly with every word in the prayer book. I was in a critical frame of mind. While everyone around me seemed devoutly faithful I was full of doubts questioning everything. Whereas someone usually caught my eye and gave me a friendly smile which lifted my spirits, today they were all more than usually grave and absorbed in the service. When it came to the general Confession I couldn’t bewail my manifold sins and wickedness nor could I honestly earnestly repent and promise never to err again. With every sentence my doubts grew and I wondered if we’d all been brainwashed into worshipping a deity that didn’t exist.
Not wanting to receive the bread and wine I stood in the aisle to let the Mumfords pass then sat back down in my pew. I flicked haphazardly through the prayer book turning the pages in the unlikely hope of finding something of comfort and consolation. I eventually came across Psalm 69 which exactly reflected my feelings.
Save me, O God; for the waters are come in, even unto my soul. I stick fast in the deep mire, where no ground is; I am come into deep waters, so that the floods run over me. I am weary of crying; my throat is dry...
Drowning in my own self pity I stood for the Mumfords to sit when they returned from communion and sat through the closing prayers without taking any of them in. Just before the Blessing the vicar came to the front to announce the notices. By this time I’d had enough. Without staying to hear what he’d have to say I
vacated the pew and walked out.
Back in the cottage I made coffee and entered into a process of self-examination in an effort to understand why I’d reacted so rebelliously in church. I could hear people talking as they passed by the cottage on their way home from the service and vainly supposed they were talking about me and my sudden departure. My real reason for leaving early had more to do with my sense of isolation than anything else. They were more interested in their worship than they were in me. The lack of human contact had rekindled doubts about my existence or lack of it. Rather than wait until the end of the service when I’d have known for certain whether or not people were aware of my presence, I’d left in order to avoid the possibility of discovering the truth. The anger I’d projected on to my Maker had more to do with doubts about my own existence than His. The only way to resolve the matter was to go to the ten o’clock service where I’d know for certain if I were here in the flesh or not.
The pleasure of attending the later service was entirely different from the misery of the earlier one. The church was packed with people from far and wide thanks to the reputation of the vicar whose popularity extended far beyond the confines of the village. The ancient heating system was now pumping out warmth missing at the earlier service. Most of the pews were already filled by the time I arrived. I sat at the back entranced by the organ music and choir’s introit, Lead me Lord. Any doubts that I’d had about the existence of God were swept away by the singing of the hymns, the lively responses of the congregation, the modern translation and John Rutter’s setting of the anthem, For the Beauty of the Earth. The vicar’s sermon, based on St. Paul’s letter to the Philippians, Rejoice in the Lord always, was particularly uplifting. When the time came for the vicar to read the notices I was more than ready to listen. He walked towards the front of the church and, clearing his voice, spoke gently but solemnly.
‘My friends,’ he said, ‘it might seem there is little to rejoice about in the sad news of William Hall, better known to most of us as Bill.’ I sat dumfounded not wanting to hear another word but nonetheless listened in utter amazement and disbelief. ‘Bill passed away last week,’ he continued, ‘thankfully peacefully in his sleep, a blessing for which we can rejoice. He’d been unwell for several months and we pray that at last he will rest in peace reunited with his wife, Wendy. The funeral service will be held here on Friday, December 19th at 2 pm. Bill will be sadly missed by us all but especially by the bell ringing team along with many of you here today. Bill served the church in various ways, not least by looking after the grounds. Let us take moment of silence to remember him as we bow our heads in prayer rejoicing in all he did and giving thanks for his life amongst us.’
As everyone bowed their heads I was filled with conflicting emotions. Anger, horror, panic, fear, remorse and disbelief welled up within me all at once. I wanted to stand and scream ‘Can’t you see me? I’m here, not dead. I’m as much alive as the rest of you.’ I pinched myself to confirm that I was sentient. From my pew at the back I studied the faces of everyone filing out as the organist played a slow, subdued piece of music in keeping with the sad announcement. I heard one man whisper to his wife, ‘Who was Bill Hall?’ I couldn’t catch her reply but judging from the blank look on her face it seemed that she, like him, had no idea.
The vicar meanwhile stood in the porch bidding farewells. As soon as he’d shaken the last hand he strolled back into the church and sat in the pew right next to me. I spoke but he didn’t look or answer which came as no surprise. I’d wanted to know about my condition and now I knew. I felt alive but was not, or not in any conventional way. I had all my senses but nothing made sense.
Feeling despondent I walked around to the graveyard and stood gazing down at the plot which for now was occupied only by Wendy but soon would be hosting me along with her. At least I still had the funeral plan sorted and paid for thanks to Wendy. Whoever dealt with my affairs would know what to do. I collapsed on to my knees at the footstone and started to sob uncontrollably. ‘What the hell is happening?’ I cried out loud pleading for answers but getting none. All I heard was the shrill song of a nearby robin claiming his own patch of territory. Desperate to make some sense of it all I decided to visit the town library first thing in the morning and look up Purgatory to see if it might explain something about my own position.
Not wanting to go back indoors I dried my eyes and made for the mead where the fog still lingered. I paced by the river watching the mist swirl in wisps above the water, spill over the bank and drift aimlessly on to the mead. Alone and as desolate as the scene that surrounded me I walked until I was tired out. Back at the cottage I went to bed. Exhausted and drained of emotion I slept all afternoon and night and woke at dawn accepting the altered circumstances in which I found myself.
For breakfast I cooked fried egg and bacon and was thinking of going for a walk when I heard people talking outside the door. Next came the sound of a key in the lock and without being invited the vicar with Arthur Dawes barged into the room. Sitting in full view but unseen by them I listened in on their conversation.
‘It feels indecent,’ said Arthur, ‘poking around through a dead man’s belongings.’
‘I’m sure Bill wouldn’t have minded,’ the vicar said reassuringly. ‘He was lucky to have a friend like you willing to sort out his affairs.’
‘And lucky that you kept his spare key or we’d have had to break in.’
‘How did you know to contact me?’
‘I saw the notice in the Gazette. It mentioned the church so that’s where I started. I’d no idea Bill was living here till you told me. Poor Bill. Mind you, he didn’t look well the last time I saw him.’
‘He didn’t but that was Bill. He was never one to give in.’
It was so frustrating to hear them without being able to tell them I’d always felt well and still did. I longed to speak out but knew there was little point.
‘So you were the one to find him,’ said Arthur, ‘That must have been a shock.’
‘Indeed it was. The car was parked on the church drive so I assumed he’d be home. I knocked on the door but no one answered. When I fetched the spare key to let myself in I found him in bed. He’d probably passed away in the night. Later that day I notified the Gazette hoping someone would get in touch.’
‘I’m glad you did. So you say there was definitely a funeral plan. Have you any idea where it is?’
‘Sadly not though I’m sure he’d have kept it somewhere safe.’
‘And the keys to the car?’
‘They must be here too. All I can suggest is that we search and hope we come across them.’
I knew where everything was though I hoped they wouldn’t discover the car keys because, if it worked, I intended to use it. Before I could grab them Arthur caught sight of them on the window sill and put them in his trouser pocket. ‘That’s one thing sorted,’ he said to the vicar. ‘I’ll take the car and keep it till someone claims it. If they don’t you can sell it and put the proceeds towards the bell.’ They then set about searching, found the funeral plan and left locking the door behind them.
After they’d gone I reassessed my position. On a practical level I no longer had my car though I had a spare key to the cottage which was just as well since I couldn’t walk through walls like normal ghosts. I then thought about my condition and wondered if I might be in purgatory. I’d no idea what it was but I’d check it out in the library. I remembered seeing a documentary about quarks, string theory, quantum mechanics and the like, most of it double Dutch to me. I recalled something about there being an infinite number of parallel universes all co-existing, unaware of each other. If that were the case it would account for the existence of two bodies, my own and the body the vicar had found, and explain why mine was invisible to this world.
I thought about Paul wandering around the reservoir still in good health but presumably in his own paralle
l body. Our circumstances were similar in many ways though different in others. He’d been seen to appear then vanish whereas I was invisible all the time. He was doomed to walk forever in the same location but I was free to go where I wanted. He had no need for sustenance. I still had to eat and drink and do everything the so-called living did to stay alive.
Thinking about my plight compared with Paul’s I began to see its advantages. Knowing my other body was gone for good and accepting the fact I could celebrate my new body rather than rueing its loss. I could do things I’d never done before, enjoy free bus rides, listen to gossip, go to church and join the bell ringing team. I could shop without having to pay and draw my own beer at the pub. The list of things I could do was endless. All that I needed to know was whether the objects I touched would be seen. Would the shopping basket or beer mug be noticed floating in the air of its own accord or would whatever I touched become invisible like me? That could be tested.
On the following day I set off for town. Acceptance of my condition had raised my spirits to some extent. How long I’d remain in this happier state was yet to be seen. There were several people waiting at the bus stop so I went to the front of the queue and took a seat ignoring the driver. I got off at the library, found the reference section and chose a couple of books, Purgatory: Explained by the Lives and Legends of the Saints by F X Schouppe and The Treatise on Purgatory by St. Catherine of Genoa. Two people were sitting at a table separated by an empty chair, a female student copying notes from a book on education and an elderly man perusing a magazine. Plonking my books on the table I sat between them and started turning the pages as noisily as possible. Neither noticed me which suggested that whatever I held in my hand would become invisible. This boded well for pulling pints at the pub without being seen but it raised other questions. If I rang the church bell would the rope disappear from view and what would the bell ringers make of it? It was too confusing to think about.
