Laying a Ghost

by Jane Davitt

  Then Michael got close enough for John to see his face clearly for the first time and a concern too long-standing to be forgotten overnight had him closing the gap between them in long strides. “Michael? What in God’s name happened to you, man?”

  He gripped Michael’s arms, staring anxiously at a cut and bruised face with one eye all but shut. No, Michael wouldn’t be looking for a fight today, but John wanted to know who’d started the one that had left Michael this marked up. And it would’ve been more than one man he’d have been up against; he’d seen Michael fight before but never finish as anything but the winner, and usually with no more than scraped knuckles or a bloody nose.

  Michael winced away from the hand John couldn’t help but reach toward his face. “Och, don’t touch me. I’ve had Sheila holding ice packs to my eye half the night, and it still hurts like fire.” His good eye searched John’s. “What the bloody hell do you think happened?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” John’s resentment rose again. “I left, remember? I don’t know who you and your friends went after once I wasn’t around; I’m just glad they hit back. It’s what I should’ve done to you myself, but I’d had a bellyful of that place by then.” He drew himself up and jabbed his finger into Michael’s chest. “I can tell you something, though ‑‑ you’ll not be laughing at me again without me blacking your other eye, by God, you won’t.”

  He was trembling with the force of his emotion, his hands curled into fists because this was Michael, dammit, Michael, and the last time they’d fought, it’d been over a comic they’d both wanted and they’d made up a week later and cut their fingers with John’s penknife, swearing in blood that they’d never ‑‑

  “I didn’t know you,” John said quietly. “I just didn’t know you.” He turned and spat into the sand and met Michael’s gaze squarely as he wiped his mouth. “I bloody well do now.”

  The heel of Michael’s hand shot out and shoved at John’s shoulder, pushing him back a step. “Bastard,” Michael hissed as John stared at him in shock. “Said it yourself, didn’t you? You left. But let me ask you this: Before you did, did you see me laughing? At all? I can answer that for you, you know ... no. Some of those other blokes were, yeah, and about two minutes after you left, I took them to task for it.” Michael looked a bit rueful then, brushing the backs of his knuckles across his mouth. “About two minutes after that, there were about four of them thumping me.”

  “You ‑‑ you looked at me and you were smiling ‑‑ and I’d been sitting there listening to them go on about me, and I thought ‑‑” John ran out of ways to excuse himself and settled for a quiet, heartfelt, “Oh, fuck.”

  Michael snorted and John went on, “I’m sorry, Michael. Sorry I doubted you and sorry you got hurt on my account.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, glancing up apologetically at Michael’s ruined face. The sight of it didn’t bother him that much; he’d have taken worse for Michael and not regretted doing it, and he knew ‑‑ now he knew ‑‑ that the same held good for Michael. “Yesterday was ... not a good day, you know? Thinking I’d lost you on top of my mother and ‑‑ well, let’s just say it did more than the whiskey to get me fighting mad.”

  “Aye.” Michael nodded. “So she knows, then?”

  “And not because I told her, although believe me I tried.” John sighed. “She turned up at Nick’s house yesterday morning and caught us in the middle of ... well, it could have been worse, I suppose.” At least they hadn’t been doing much more than kissing. If she’d turned up at his own place last night she’d have got an eyeful of more.

  “She’s not an unreasonable woman, but it’s still a bit hard to take.” Michael jerked his head. “Sent your Nick off to the car, I see. Worried that I’d thump him?”

  John gave him a sidelong look and saw the traces of a smile. “Aye. I was petrified, but then I recalled what Sheila told you she’d do if you laid a finger on him and stopped worrying.” He cleared his throat. “And did Geordie ban you then?” he asked.

  Michael nodded and gestured in the direction of the car and they started walking slowly across the hard-packed sand. “Me and all the other blokes. You know him, though; won’t be more than a week before he’s forgotten that we’re not meant to be in there, and he likes the business too much to keep us away in any case.”

  John nodded, scuffing at the sand with his foot. “It was Moira. Stupid cow took a fancy to Nick, and then caught us outside ‑‑”

  “Christ, can you two not keep your hands off each other when there’s people about?” Michael demanded, sounding genuinely annoyed. “Last I heard, you were wanting to keep it quiet, but you’ve only yourself to blame for it getting out, the way you’ve been carrying on.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” John said indignantly. “What, do you think I left my own mother’s birthday party for a quick shag in an alley with a man I was planning on spending the night with anyway? You know me better than that! Nick was upset over something, something bad, and I was trying to calm him down.”

  “Upset over what? Does he want you to do something you don’t want to? If he’s manipulating you ‑‑”

  “He’s not. He wouldn’t.” John tried not to get angry over what Michael was thinking, tried to remind himself that it was because Michael was his friend and didn’t want to see him hurt. “No, it was ...”

  He trailed off, feeling that it wasn’t fair to tell Nick’s secrets. Nick was sitting on the boot of the car, hands resting in the empty air between his knees and looking out to sea, but as they began to get closer he turned and looked at them.

  The wind was ruffling his dark hair and he had a small, anxious frown on his face. John felt his throat constrict with frustrated anger and love because he didn’t want Nick looking like that. He wanted him happy, with those green eyes of his lit up with it and his mouth curved in a smile.

  He swung around and put his hand on Michael’s arm, halting him. “What have people being saying about him?” Michael opened his mouth to reply and John shook his head impatiently, guessing what he was about to say. “Besides that. Besides being gay and damned to hell for seducing and corrupting me. Sandy. Has he been talking?”

  Michael looked confused. “No. Nothing that I’ve heard, at any rate. It went round that Nick had too much to drink the other night and got sick, but now I think people figure that was just an excuse for the two of you to ...” He glanced down, embarrassed.

  “For the love of God, I’m thirty-one, not some randy seventeen-year-old!” John snapped. “Dirty-minded gits, always willing to think the worst of folk.” He bit his lip, trying to calm down “He’d had one drink, that’s all, and we weren’t planning on leaving early but we had to. And it wasn’t for that.” He sighed. “Oh, this is just impossible ‑‑ look, will you let me ask him if he’ll tell you what happened? And if he does, will you listen and trust me when I say every word’s the truth? Because there’s more to this than most of you know.”

  “All right.” Michael slowed, letting John go on ahead.

  As he neared the car, Nick slid down off the boot. “Is everything okay?”

  “Aye.” John guessed from Nick’s widening eyes as he looked past John and saw Michael’s face that he’d do a better job than John had at working out what had happened. “Nick ‑‑ will you tell him? About why we left and what we did? I’m not asking you to tell the world and I’m past giving a damn what most people think or say but I can’t ‑‑ I need him to know. Will you? Please?”

  He was close enough now that he could’ve reached out and touched Nick, but he didn’t. Not because of Michael, silently waiting behind them, but because he wanted Nick to be able to say no if he had to, and it’d be easier for him to say that without knowing how much John’s hands were shaking right now.

  He was still holding the bag of fish, and he clenched his fingers tightly around the handles, his gaze fixed on Nick’s face.

  It was clear that Nick was uncomfortable with the idea, but after a moment
he nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He looked over John’s shoulder to where Michael was waiting and lifted his chin to indicate that the other man should join them, which Michael did, John shifting to one side so that Michael and Nick could have a proper conversation.

  “John thinks you should know,” Nick started. “And he’s probably right, if there’s any chance that we’re going to be friends.”

  “I wouldn’t say that’s impossible,” Michael said. John shot him a look, but it was clear from Michael’s expression that he’d meant it good-naturedly, and just as clear from Nick’s tone as he started speaking again that it had been taken that way as well.

  “I ... have this ability,” Nick began. He was hesitant enough in describing it that John knew that he hadn’t needed to very often. John wondered if Matthew had done most of the talking for him. “I can see things. Hear things, sometimes. Ghosts.”

  “You’re joking.” Michael’s face twisted scornfully.

  “No. Although believe me, there are times when I wish I was.” Nick grimaced. “Anyway ... because I know they’re there, they usually want something from me. There’s usually something I can do for them, to help them, so they can move on.”

  John set the bag of fish down, rubbing his hand clean on his jeans without thinking about it. Here, in the sunshine, with the familiar smell of seaweed and fish rising up and the town behind them Sunday-quiet, what they were discussing seemed ridiculous.

  Maybe they should’ve taken Michael to the graveyard and told him there.

  “It’s true.” John took over from Nick because now that they’d started to tell Michael he knew he’d take it better coming from him. “I’ve seen one. Felt one, too, and it’s enough to give a man nightmares when you don’t know what’s going on, I can tell you. I followed him out to the graveyard in the middle of the night and I saw ‑‑ God, Michael, I touched his hand and I saw Kirsty, his grandmother, clear as I’m seeing you now.” He shuddered, remembering. “You can’t know what it’s like. And he can hear them, too, and it’s all the time for him.” Michael’s face was setting in stubborn lines and John carried on quickly before Michael said something he might end up regretting. “Last night when he shook Sandy’s hand he had this ... premonition, vision ‑‑ God, I don’t know what it’s called! Saw him dead of a heart attack brought on by him getting scalded.”

  “He would have been.” Nick wrapped his arms around himself. “It’s okay; you don’t have to believe me. I know it sounds crazy.”

  “It does, a bit.” Michael sounded as if he was making an effort to be polite, which John supposed was an improvement of sorts..

  “I know.” Nick sighed and glanced at John. “See? This is why ...” He turned his attention back to Michael. “Anyway, while Sandy was still at Mrs. McIntyre’s party we went to his house and checked it out. And it turned out the handle on his kettle was loose. John fixed it.”

  Michael looked between them. “So when everyone thought you were out there getting off, you were actually doing a spot of breaking in and DIY?” he asked incredulously. “Will you come and fix that leaky tap of mine and save us all from drowning in our beds, too?”

  John rolled his eyes, keeping a tight hold on his temper. “Look, you know what Sandy’s like for not throwing anything away and using everything until it falls to bits. Nick picked up that kettle and got fair drenched; if it’d been Sandy making himself a cup of tea after the party and the water was boiling ‑‑ well, he wouldn’t be sitting in church today, I can tell you that! And I don’t know if he’ll let me over the threshold, but if he won’t, I’d take it as a kindness if you’d go and take a look around; there’s likely more than the kettle that he’s neglected over the years.”

  “Aye, all right.” Michael shrugged. “I’ll have Sheila bake him something and use that as an excuse to stop by.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Not that I’m saying I believe there’s anything to any of this, in case you’re thinking it. And I’m not saying I don’t believe. You can’t just lay something like this on a man and expect him to nod and smile and agree with everything you say.”

  John caught Nick’s eye. He’d believed Nick. Without thinking about it at all. Believed him because he’d seen, he’d felt ‑‑ but he would have trusted Nick without that.

  Didn’t mean he expected anyone else to, though.

  “No, I can’t,” John said. “But I can ask you to believe that I’d not lie to you when I say that’s why we left.”

  “Aye, I do believe that much,” Michael said. “I’ve no reason to think you’d lie to me, John. We’ve been friends too long for that.”

  Nick was still, silent, but radiating discomfort as loudly as if he’d been shouting.

  John sighed. “Right, then. That’s something.” He leaned against the car, not touching Nick, but close to him, and changed the subject, directing it away from Nick’s abilities. “Is Sheila blaming me for the state you’re in?” he asked, cringing slightly at the thought of her wrath, which he’d experienced in the past more than once. It’d be just his luck if he’d managed to antagonize the only person on the island who was enthusiastic about his relationship with Nick. “And what the hell did she say to her mother? Peggy was in the shop yesterday, and I may have been drunk, but from what I recall, she didn’t sound too pleased.”

  “You’ve gone mad if you think Sheila was anything but delighted once she found out how my face got to looking this way,” Michael said. “I can’t remember the last time she was so pleased with me. Kept going on about how proud she was.” His cheeks flushed slightly at the memory. “You can guess as well as anyone what she told her mother. That it was none of her business, and that people ought to be happy for you rather than sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

  John shook his head, unable to stop a smile from spreading across his face. “She’s a fine woman, your Sheila, but you don’t need me telling you that. I’m glad she’s not hating me for spoiling your good looks for a week or two.” He swallowed, finding it hard to express himself. “I’m grateful to you, Michael. And I know fine if they’d come at you singly, you’d not have a mark on you. There wasn’t a one of them you couldn’t have beaten.” He thought of the faces around the table and his lips thinned. “Bastards,” he said succinctly.

  “I’d imagine a couple of them will think twice before running their mouths off again.” Michael nodded, looking grimly satisfied “You needn’t thank me, though. It’s no more than you deserve, having your friends stand up for you. Known each other a long time, and you’ve never given me reason to think you’re anything but a decent man. Anyone with any sense will figure that out, given enough time.” Michael’s lips, always expressive, twisted into a wry grin. “Time, and a few broken bones.”

  John grinned back and then sobered when he saw that Nick was looking a bit concerned. “Aye, but you’re not to be doing this again. I can fight my own battles and you’ve more than me to look after. Besides, most of the ones doing the talking won’t be the ones you can thump.” He grimaced. “Like Sinclair and my mother, just for starters. I don’t give a damn what he thinks, but my mother ... aye, I’ll have to talk to her once she’s calmed down.”

  “She might just need some time,” Nick said. John was quite sure that Nick had said that before, as well, possibly when he’d been quite drunk and less capable of listening to reason.

  “Aye, she might.” He wasn’t all that hopeful, but there was no point in being negative, and he couldn’t help but be a bit concerned over how quiet Nick was being.

  “Well, I should probably be getting back home before Sheila dishes up Sunday dinner and I’m not there to eat it,” Michael said. “Because even being a hero wouldn’t save me then.”

  “Aye, you’d best do that.” John eyed Michael speculatively, noting the stiff way he was holding himself and guessing that his ribs were as bruised as his face. “Take it easy, will you?” He settled for a gentle pat on Michael’s shoulder rather than a hug and winced as even that brought a g
roan to Michael’s lips.

  “I will. And we’ll see you on Thursday as normal?” Michael kept his tone casual but John heard the tension in his voice.

  “Well, of course,” John told him.

  Michael nodded at Nick. “See you Thursday then, Nick.”

  They watched him walk away and then John turned to Nick. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing.” When John waited patiently Nick shrugged and leaned against the car. “I hadn’t realized how ... physical people were going to be. About the fact that we’re together.” He looked worried.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, they’ll mostly just stick to talking behind our backs,” John said wryly. “Yesterday they knew well and good I could hear them, but they didn’t come over and start anything; if I know Michael he’s the one who stopped talking and waded in because he’s happier talking with his fists, always has been.” He shrugged. “I’m not shedding any tears for the likes of Tommy Robson and his mates, no matter how hurt they got, and neither should you.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about them.” Nick was looking in the direction Michael had gone.

  John followed his gaze. “What did you expect him to do? He’s my friend. I’d have done the same for him ‑‑ have done, if it comes to that. And I’d do as much for you, and more. I’m not saying I’ll be out there looking for trouble, but if it comes and it’s men like that bringing it, would you want me to walk away?”

  He moved closer to Nick, reaching out to rub a hand along his arm and trying to work out just what was bothering him. Michael’s face was a mess, there was no denying it, but there were four other men who’d be in a similar state, and as far as Michael was concerned, that was all that mattered. He wouldn’t be fretting over his injuries, especially not when Sheila was, for once, cooing approval instead of telling him that one more scrap and she’d be moving back in with her mother ‑‑ an idle threat if ever there was one.