Phantoms

by Marie O'Regan

  On the walk Steven seems anxious, jingling the change in his pockets and shooting sideways looks at Alec. Alec knows he wants to talk about Imogene, but can’t figure how to broach the subject. When at last he begins to talk, it’s about his memories of the Rosebud. He talks about how he loved the place, talks about all the great pictures he saw for the first time there. Alec smiles and nods, but is secretly a little astounded at the depths of Steven’s self-deception. Steven never went back after The Birds. He didn’t see any of the movies he says he saw there.

  At last, Steven stammers, What’s going to happen to the place after you retire? Not that you should retire! I just mean – do you think you’ll run the place much longer?

  Not much longer, Alec replies – it’s the truth – but says no more. He is concerned not to degrade himself asking for a handout – although the thought is in him that this is in fact why he came. That ever since receiving Steven’s invitation to visit the set he had been fantasizing that they would talk about the Rosebud, and that Steven, who is so wealthy, and who loves movies so much, might be persuaded to throw Alec a life preserver.

  The old movie houses are national treasures, Steven says. I own a couple, believe it or not. I run them as revival joints. I’d love to do something like that with the Rosebud someday. That’s a dream of mine, you know.

  Here is his chance, the opportunity Alec was not willing to admit he was hoping for. But instead of telling him that the Rosebud is in desperate straits, sure to close, Alec changes the subject… ultimately lacks the stomach to do what must be done.

  What’s your next project? Alec asks.

  After this? I was considering a remake, Steven says, and gives him another of those shifty sideways looks from the corners of his eyes. You’d never guess what. Then, suddenly, he reaches out, touches Alec’s arm. Being back in New Hampshire has really stirred some things up for me. I had a dream about our old friend, would you believe it?

  Our old – Alec starts, then realizes who he means.

  I had a dream the place was closed. There was a chain on the front doors, and boards in the windows. I dreamed I heard a girl crying inside, Steven says, and grins nervously. Isn’t that the funniest thing?

  Alec drives home with a cool sweat on his face, ill at ease. He doesn’t know why he didn’t say anything, why he couldn’t say anything; Greenberg was practically begging to give him some money. Alec thinks bitterly that he has become a very foolish and useless old man.

  At the theater there are nine messages on Alec’s machine. The first is from Lois Weisel, whom Alec has not heard from in years. Her voice is brittle. She says, Hi, Alec, Lois Weisel at B.U. As if he could have forgotten her. Lois saw Imogene in Midnight Cowboy. Now she teaches documentary filmmaking to graduate students. Alec knows these two things are not unconnected, just as it is no accident Steven Greenberg became what he became. Will you give me a call? I wanted to talk to you about – I just – will you call me? Then she laughs, a strange, frightened kind of laugh, and says, This is crazy. She exhales heavily. I just wanted to find out if something was happening to the Rosebud. Something bad. So – call me.

  The next message is from Dana Llewellyn, who saw her in The Wild Bunch. The message after that is from Shane Leonard, who saw Imogene in American Graffiti. Darren Campbell, who saw her in Reservoir Dogs. Some of them talk about the dream, a dream identical to the one Steven Greenberg described, boarded-over windows, chain on the doors, girl crying. Some only say they want to talk. By the time the answering machine tape has played its way to the end, Alec is sitting on the floor of his office, his hands balled into fists – an old man weeping helplessly.

  Perhaps twenty people have seen Imogene in the last twenty-five years, and nearly half of them have left messages for Alec to call. The other half will get in touch with him over the next few days, to ask about the Rosebud, to talk about their dream. Alec will speak with almost everyone living who has ever seen her, all of those Imogene felt compelled to speak to: a drama professor, the manager of a video rental store, a retired financier who in his youth wrote angry, comical film reviews for The Lansdowne Record, and others. A whole congregation of people who flocked to the Rosebud instead of church on Sundays, those whose prayers were written by Paddy Chayefsky and whose hymnals were composed by John Williams and whose intensity of faith is a call Imogene is helpless to resist. Alec himself.

  * * *

  After the sale, the Rosebud is closed for two months to refurbish. New seats, state-of-the-art sound. A dozen artisans put up scaffolding and work with little paintbrushes to restore the crumbling plaster molding on the ceiling. Steven adds personnel to run the day-today operations. Although it’s his place now, Alec has agreed to stay on to manage things for a little while.

  Lois Weisel drives up three times a week to film a documentary about the renovation, using her grad students in various capacities, as electricians, sound people, grunts. Steven wants a gala reopening to celebrate the Rosebud’s past. When Alec hears what he wants to show first – a double feature of The Wizard of Oz and The Birds – his forearms prickle with gooseflesh; but he makes no argument.

  On reopening night, the place is crowded like it hasn’t been since Titanic. The local news is there to film people walking inside in their best suits. Of course, Steven is there, which is why all the excitement… although Alec thinks he would have a sell-out even without Steven, that people would have come just to see the results of the renovation. Alec and Steven pose for photographs, the two of them standing under the marquee in their tuxedoes, shaking hands. Steven’s tuxedo is Armani, bought for the occasion. Alec got married in his.

  Steven leans into him, pressing a shoulder against his chest. What are you going to do with yourself?

  Before Steven’s money, Alec would have sat behind the counter handing out tickets, and then gone up himself to start the projector. But Steven hired someone to sell tickets and run the projector. Alec says, Guess I’m going to sit and watch the movie.

  Save me a seat, Steven says. I might not get in until The Birds, though. I have some more press to do out here.

  Lois Weisel has a camera set up at the front of the theater, turned to point at the audience, and loaded with high-speed film for shooting in the dark. She films the crowd at different times, recording their reactions to The Wizard of Oz. This was to be the conclusion of her documentary – a packed house enjoying a twentieth-century classic in this lovingly restored old movie palace – but her movie wasn’t going to end like she thought it would.

  In the first shots on Lois’s reel it is possible to see Alec sitting in the back left of the theater, his face turned up towards the screen, his glasses flashing blue in the darkness. The seat to the left of him, on the aisle, is empty, the only empty seat in the house. Sometimes he can be seen eating popcorn. Other times he is just sitting there watching, his mouth open slightly, an almost worshipful look on his face.

  Then in one shot he has turned sideways to face the seat to his left. He has been joined by a woman in blue. He is leaning over her. They are unmistakably kissing. No one around them pays them any mind. The Wizard of Oz is ending. We know this because we can hear Judy Garland, reciting the same five words over and over in a soft, yearning voice, saying – well, you know what she is saying. They are only the loveliest five words ever said in all of film.

  In the shot immediately following this one, the house lights are up, and there is a crowd of people gathered around Alec’s body, slumped heavily in his seat. Steven Greenberg is in the aisle, yelping hysterically for someone to bring a doctor. A child is crying. The rest of the crowd generates a low rustling buzz of excited conversation. But never mind this shot. The footage that came just before it is much more interesting.

  It is only a few seconds long, this shot of Alec and his unidentified companion – a few hundred frames of film – but it is the shot that will make Lois Weisel’s reputation, not to mention a large sum of money. It will appear on television shows about unexplained
phenomena, it will be watched and rewatched at gatherings of those fascinated with the supernatural. It will be studied, written about, debunked, confirmed, and celebrated. Let’s see it again.

  He leans over her. She turns her face up to his, and closes her eyes and she is very young and she is giving herself to him completely. Alec has removed his glasses. He is touching her lightly at the waist. This is the way people dream of being kissed, a movie star kiss. Watching them, one almost wishes the moment would never end. And over all this, Dorothy’s small, brave voice fills the darkened theater. She is saying something about home. She is saying something everyone knows.

  A MAN WALKING HIS DOG

  Tim Lebbon

  I was still shaking when I returned home, so I made myself a cup of tea and sat on the decking in my back garden, wishing I’d added a shot of something stronger but feeling too traumatised to go back in and find the whiskey. My regular seat on the timber bench welcomed me, knowing my shape and affording me some level of comfort. But I was still shivering, and not only from the deep winter chill. It’s not every day you see a dead body.

  It was cold but dry, January just heading into February. There’d been a heavy snowfall just after New Year, but since then the weather had been crisp and freezing, frost-speckled landscapes the perfect canvas for my regular morning walks with Jazz. I loved the sound of frozen leaves crinkling underfoot and the sight of Jazz rooting through the undergrowth, sniffing out scents I would never know. She lived in a whole different world from me – one of exotic senses and tastes, different colours, and drives I can only pretend to understand – but that’s why our friendship had always meant so much. She relied on me, I relied on her. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I held the mug tight in both hands, comforted by the warmth and staring through the steam. My back garden had the sparse, bleached appearance of winter, colours muted and growth paused between seasons. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath today.

  I breathed out, and the steam spiralled and dispersed in the cool, clear air.

  * * *

  “A body has been found.”

  She has been expecting it. She’d convinced herself it was the only likely outcome, given the circumstances. But it is still a shock when the words come out of the policewoman’s mouth. Taking form and meaning, given the weight of reality compressing air he had once breathed, the words’ finality is like a punch to the chest. Her heart stutters and she blinks, eyelids fluttering as the echo of the statement weaves its way through the house and rebounds inside her skull.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs Jones. This is not a formal identification, but the clothing matches your description.”

  She can’t look at the policewoman. She’s been very kind, has sat with her for many hours over the past few days, but she is an invader in Jenny’s home. Yesterday, Jenny went into the kitchen and found that John’s cup had been washed and wiped and placed on the wrong hook, and the wrong way around. He wouldn’t have liked that. They had their routine, their organisation, and John would have tutted and rolled his eyes. The policewoman didn’t belong here. John did, sharing Jenny’s space as he had done for the past four decades.

  Jenny takes in a deep, shuddering breath and goes to stand, one hand flat on the table top, the other pressed against her bad hip. She senses the policewoman moving close and concentrates harder, not wanting her help, not needing it.

  “Maybe you should stay sitting down,” the woman says, and Jenny hears the pity in her voice. The caring, the humanity. It’s been there all along.

  “Yes,” she says, easing herself back into the chair. “Maybe I should.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs Jones.”

  “Yes,” Jenny says, and as she sits again she looks across the table at John’s seat. He’s there, newspaper folded on the table before him, toast and marmalade half-eaten on the plate, cup of tea half-empty, and he’s frowning at the crossword as he has every morning for as long as she can remember. Soon he’ll sigh and sit back, sliding the paper across to her again so that she can have another look. Seven down’s a bugger, he’ll say, and she’ll hear him crunching the rest of his toast as she looks at the offending clue, half-hoping she’ll get it instantly, half-hoping she won’t. They both love their morning ritual. It is the foundation upon which the rest of their day is built, whatever that day is destined to bring.

  John is not there. This day has no foundation. The previous few days have been the same, but now she knows that solid base will never be built again. She is floating free in her own home, her own chair. It makes her feel sick.

  “We like to do the crossword,” she says, and she senses the policewoman’s discomfort. She hears movement behind her, a shuffling of feet, and Jenny silently berates herself for saying something so foolish. The woman will think she’s just a confused old lady. She’s not confused at all.

  She’s angry.

  “He’s left me,” she says, looking up at the policewoman for the first time since hearing those dreaded words.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” the woman says. She has a very caring face.

  “I told him he was being stupid,” Jenny says. She’s already told the police about his failing health. They wrote down what she said with a blank expression.

  “He sounded like a very proud man,” the woman says, and the past tense makes Jenny blink. John will never be in the past for her.

  “Where?” she asks.

  The policewoman scoots a chair over and sits down next to her, taking Jenny’s hand in her own. It’s a sudden, surprising gesture, the first time the woman has made physical contact, and it makes everything more real. The foundation of my new future, Jenny thinks. A stranger holding my hand.

  “Up by the canal,” the policewoman says. “I don’t know where, exactly.”

  “Five days,” Jenny says. “He’s been lying there on his own for five days.”

  No answer. Only a squeezed hand.

  “Who found him?”

  “A man walking his dog.”

  Jenny laughs. She surprises herself so much that she pauses, then laughs again. The policewoman frowns, uncertain.

  “Isn’t that always the way,” Jenny says. “Poor man. Poor, poor man. Just out for a walk with his dog and he finds…” He finds my dead husband.

  “I suppose it is something you hear a lot.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” Jenny says. “The man. His dog. I’d like to meet them to say sorry.”

  “I’m not sure if…”

  “Not straight away. After all this is…” Sorted. Put away. After everyone but me has moved on.

  “I’m sure it can be arranged,” the woman says. Her radio makes a funny noise and she lets go of Jenny’s hand, standing and moving to the doorway into the dining room to speak. She must be grateful for the distraction.

  Jenny looks across the table at her husband’s empty chair. Seven down’s a bugger, he says.

  “I’ll get it for you,” she whispers.

  The policewoman glances at her and frowns. Just another confused old lady whose husband wandered away to die.

  * * *

  Jazz went off on her own again. I didn’t mind, because she was a good dog and I knew she wouldn’t get lost or run away. Jazz always came back.

  But now, something was different. She was barking. She didn’t bark very often, and it sounded agitated and afraid. I followed, slipping down the steep slope from the canal towpath and into the woods. A stream flowed down there. I’d heard it countless times, but I’d never been tempted from the path to go exploring. There was a barbed wire fence, fallen trees, holes from old forestry work, and I had no wish to injure myself and lie there in pain waiting for someone to come and help. I glanced back up towards the canal. It was interesting seeing it from this perspective. From down here, you could make out some of the heavy stone retaining walls that had been built over a century before, when the canal was being constructed. Such a familiar place, and now I was seeing it afresh.<
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  “Good girl, Jazz,” I said. She had shown me something new once more. She was always good company, and she enriched my life.

  I heard another bark. I paused, head tilted, and the barking came again. I fought my way down the slope, climbing over fallen trees, avoiding the snares of tangled undergrowth.

  The barking continued, guiding me, and by the time I saw her I knew that something was wrong. A darkness had fallen over the day. The sun was still out, but the fir tree canopy shielded me from the cool sky, and frost clung to the shadowy forest floor.

  As soon as I saw the shape ten feet from Jazz I knew what it was. I froze, heart hammering, and for the longest few seconds of my life I waited for movement. He’s a drunk, a vagrant, a bird watcher, an explorer. But all of those were wrong, and my first reaction was right. This was a dead man. From the state of his body, the colour of his skin, I believed he had been dead for some time.

  I reached down to stroke and calm Jazz.

  Which was when the man’s head turned with a crunching sound and he said, “She’s a good dog.”

  * * *

  I snapped awake, gasping for breath. It was the third time I had dreamt about the dead man, the dreams waking me each morning since finding him. They unsettled me, because a dead man shouldn’t talk. They were mostly the same – me and Jazz walking, her disappearing down into the woods, me looking for her. Then the barking, her calling me onwards with an obvious alarm. Drawing me closer to the body. The only real changes were the memories of how the weather had been that day. In one dream there was snow, a couple of inches coating the landscape and settling on the canal’s frozen surface. In another, it was raining a constant, soaking drizzle. In this final dream, it was cold and sharp, and my exhalation of shock upon finding the body hung in the air before me. I didn’t like waking to these dreams. It was as if the poor man’s death drew me onwards, day by day, towards my own inevitable future.