The Ghost of Helen Addison

by Charles E. McGarry

  Leo took a meditative draw on his cigar. Future nostalgic remembrance would require that he gloss over this uncomfortable fact, he realised – inasmuch as romance is a quality most often conferred upon events in retrospect – because everyone needs their glory days to look back upon. Yet the young woman murdered at Loch Dhonn would be denied even that. Leo cursed himself for his selfish introspection. He gazed glumly out of the window as the deep blue January Glasgow night descended, a surge of loneliness overcoming him. Time for whisky, he decided.

  6

  LEO’S usual seltzer remedy had failed him. He tried some Scotch as the hair-of-the-dog, but it only succeeded in giving him heartburn. He tried mixing some brandy with milk but that nostrum too had little effect. He resolved to endure the hangover manfully.

  With some flourish he used his antique letter opener, a nineteenth-century German silver production with a beautiful leaping hart and oak leaf terminal, to unpeel a handful of envelopes, all junk except for one from the council, a final warning regarding his burning of coal, a prohibition he refused to observe due to his conviction that smokeless fuel gave off inadequate heat. Furthermore, he adored the smell and crackle of a coal and wood fire. He scrunched up the letter contemptuously and cast it, fittingly, onto the grate for later. He coughed a raw, barking cough. It was strange, he thought, how with age one began coughing exactly like one’s father.

  He stirred in some emollient and checked the water; it was hot – very hot, enough for Leo to play his traditional bath game in which he would lower himself slowly in at as near to scalding point as possible. As the surface lapped his dangling scrotum he knew that he could bear the temperature, and gradually immersed his entire body, enjoying the scent of the lavender bath oil as he did so. The rising steam softened his stubble, making for the perfect shave, which he executed with a modern safety razor (‘Don’t push down, let the blade do the work,’ he heard his father gently advise; it’s funny, the little things you remember) – an ivory and badger-hair brush, and luxury shaving soap he had picked up in Knightsbridge. He carefully checked his chops with his fingers for any stubble he might have missed, rinsed and dried his face, patted his neck and cheeks with Italian aftershave, then applied some expensive balm. He combed Macassar oil through his thinning hair and applied talcum powder to his armpits, feet and to Benjamin Franklin, who afterwards put his owner in mind of a sugar-dusted pastry in the window of a pâtisserie.

  Having completed his toilet Leo strode to his bedroom, disrobed and cast his dressing gown upon the bed. As he did so he caught a glimpse of his paunch in the full-length mirror, a gross totem to middle-aged bachelorhood. He paused to survey himself – precisely the sort of pastime that can instantly disabuse a man of any vain notion that he has uniquely preserved his youth and dilute his theory that he is still handsome in his own rough way. At least his tallish bearing made the gut more forgivable, and his chest and shoulders had retained some defiant pride amid the entropy. His hands looked peculiar and artificial as they hung pendulously from his long arms. They had been badly burned in a house fire a number of years ago. One of them – the left, which had sustained some fourth-degree injury – would have been a mere purple claw had it not been repaired to almost full functionality by a brilliant NHS surgeon, yet they remained unsightly, and sometimes when undertaking menial tasks Leo experienced a familiar twinge. One aspect of ageing was the hypertrophy of the cranium – the effect accentuated by the hair’s glacial retreat from the Moranite bluffs and valleys. Leo therefore preserved that of the wiry stuff which still flourished at the fenders and brow at a length just shy of unkempt, producing an emblematic triad which further intensified focus upon his visage. At least it had retained its dark brown pigment, but recent invasions by burgeoning legions of powder-white bristles into the shaving basin were harbingers of decline. The slightly bulging jowls and thickening neck amplified his default demeanour: brooding. By some genetic miracle the booze hadn’t done for his beak yet (an item acutely imperilled given its naturally drooping posture), but a close inspection revealed that the onset of mutation was in fact underway: an Orinoco Delta of tiny broken capillaries, the surface beginning to rupture and raddle, a slight swelling to asymmetrical bulbosity. The expansion of the features meant his keen hazel eyes had retreated somewhat into their furrows. Once, when in company, he had described these peepers, housed beneath the noble arches of his eyebrows, as ‘hawklike’; ‘piggy,’ a wag had demurred unkindly.

  Once Leo had dressed, he packed his vintage dressing case, then began looking things out for the trip, taking regular breaks to rest upon the chaise longue on account of his hangover. At one point he went into the dining room and carefully slid volume two of Gibbon from his bookcase, then removed a false panel and withdrew his money box. He counted out fifty twenty-pound notes, rolled them up and slipped them into an empty cigar cylinder which he put inside his jacket pocket. There was a knock at the front door. Leo hurriedly replaced the money box, the false panel and the book, then rushed through to meet his visitor. Probably a neighbour, as he would have needed to buzz someone from outside into the building first. His heart leapt a little excitedly as he undid the bolt, suddenly realising how eager he was for some human company. It was Rocco from downstairs, and it was unusual to see him abroad at this tender hour. Leo unslotted the chain and hospitably ushered him inside. He walked to the kitchen, lit the gas burner and put the kettle on, while Rocco, barefoot and clad only in tracksuit bottoms and a vest, padded into the drawing room and sat down.

  Rocco had enjoyed modest success as a guitarist during the Britpop era and still wore his trademark mop top, although it now clashed with his prematurely aged face in a faintly comical way. His band, The Insects, had been heralded as Glasgow’s answer to Oasis, but their minor chart hit ‘Suburban Dreams’ was withdrawn from sale after a songwriter in the States initiated legal proceedings claiming plagiarism. Rocco – and The Insects – went downhill after that. He developed addiction problems and spent some time in prison for passing forged banknotes (he had ‘previous’ for certain drug-related offences). He came out fairly chewed up, but at least he now had the flat, which he had inherited, as a nest egg. Leo liked to look in on him from time to time, to check that he hadn’t turned into a marijuana plant. If ever he was cooking a pot of soup he would make enough to fill a couple of extra Tupperware dishes, one for Rocco and one for Mrs Godomski, the misanthropic cat woman from 3/2, thus doing his bit to keep alive a neighbourly Glasgow tradition. Rocco was rather in awe of Leo, and eternally grateful for his kindnesses. Whenever he was invited into his apartment he would gaze around and marvel at his neighbour’s excessively uncluttered, aesthetically pleasing rooms (Rocco himself was a hopeless hashish slob). Today, however, the usual order of the flat was somewhat thrown asunder by Leo’s packing.

  ‘You goin’ then?’ enquired Rocco, nodding at the oxblood leather suitcases lying opened in the middle of the room as Leo served the tea.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Why do ye need so much stuff?’

  ‘My sense of sartorial elegance isn’t just for personal gratification. Others put great stock in appearances, whether they realise it or not. And it is crucial that I impress the local constabulary.’

  ‘Are ye goin’ today?’

  ‘Yes, despite it being a great sufferance upon me. But carpe diem and all that. Ideally, I would spend the day digesting last night’s flesh, like a boa constrictor.’

  ‘Ye mean ye have a hangover?’ Rocco grinned.

  ‘I must confess I did imbibe a little too much sherry. Anyway, regardless of the reason, today I would really much prefer to rest my brainium.’

  ‘Ye mean cranium?’

  Rocco’s voice had a nasal quality, as though he was permanently suffering from a head cold, and Leo always enjoyed the way it accentuated the earnestness of the man. Leo had once enquired if his name was owed to some Italian lineage; in fact its convoluted origin occurred in a Glasgow playground. His real forename was act
ually Maurice, which was tenuously, by merely the common initial syllable, converted by his imaginative school pals to Morocco Mole, a 1960s Hanna-Barbera cartoon character. This was abbreviated to Morocco, which was in turn abridged to Rocco.

  ‘No, brainium. It is an appellation I devised for my head, which is essentially an immensely powerful brain within a bone chamber. I felt brainium somewhat apt.’

  Rocco seemed to consider this for a moment, nodding his shaggy-haired head thoughtfully as he chewed and swallowed a mouthful of tea bread. ‘I brought ye somethin’.’ He solemnly placed the gift upon Leo’s Regency table. It was a flick knife.

  ‘I thought I asked you to get rid of that for me.’

  Years ago Leo had been employed as a night dispatcher for a taxi firm, and a security guard who worked at a nearby parking lot used to pop into the office for a cup of tea and to get out of the cold. He was an old navy salt who had sailed on destroyers in the Atlantic and Russian convoys. He regaled Leo with stories of the gangs in Glasgow during the 1930s. The old-timer had refused to join with his local team, and that had made him a marked man. He told terrifying tales of being chased by mobs of razor-wielding hooligans. ‘But ye could leave your front door open in those days,’ the old guy would muse wistfully. Once, while docked in Brooklyn, he had bought this flick knife from a street pimp. When he had returned to Glasgow after the war, the gangs had temporarily gone into abeyance, but the weapon still had its uses within the tough old city. The man then bequeathed it to Leo who, for certain reasons, was being pursued by members of the National Front at the time. Leo despised knives, bringer of countless tragedies to his beloved hometown, but he didn’t want to hurt the old tar’s feelings, so reluctantly accepted the present, then cast it into the back of a drawer. Years later he came across it and requested that Rocco dispose of it safely for him.

  ‘I hung onto it. Ye never know when such a thing will come in handy.’

  ‘If you carry a weapon you are more likely to become a victim of violence.’

  ‘But I’m old enough in the tooth to recognise that these are unusual circumstances. Whoever killed that wee lassie is one brutal bastard.’

  Leo sighed as he eyed the wretched item disapprovingly.

  ‘I kind of had this feelin’ . . . that ye might be in danger up there,’ continued Rocco, rubbing the bristles on his chin. ‘Will ye take it with ye, for my sake?’

  ‘If it will keep you happy,’ replied Leo, tossing the thing into the front compartment of his case.

  After Rocco had left, Leo resumed packing. He fetched his father’s Golden Treasury, his electronic chess machine, a couple of Graham Greene novels, a box of linen handkerchiefs and his tortoiseshell clothes brush, shoe brush, hairbrush and hand mirror. He had already looked out his Harris Tweed herringbone sports jacket (he would wear this on the journey up), his Blenheim shooting coat, his walking shoes, an evening suit, a couple of Fred Perry polo shirts and two V-necked lambswool jerseys, along with a silk necktie, a cravat, two pairs of silk Paisley-patterned pyjamas, a dressing gown, his deerstalker, a couple of pairs of flannels, several shirts, long underwear, a dun cashmere scarf and his fleece-lined black pigskin gloves. He polished his versatile Oxfords – comfortable enough for travelling, smart enough for dinner. He located his cigar cutter, his multi-tool, his knapsack, his World War II Barr & Stroud binoculars, his Stanley torch, a box containing his (filled) hip flask, his aluminium water flask, matches, his tinder box, two notebooks bound in crocodile leather, a tin of shoe polish and enough drugs to fill an entire apothecary’s shop. He would wear his more robust Swiss Army Infantry wristwatch rather than his Cartier. He looked out two bottles of Ballantine’s blend, three packs of mini Cohibas, a box of Orange Creams and a quarter-pound bag of Pan Drops he had bought at Sanjeev’s. Finally, he checked that his detective’s kit was in order; it was all contained within an electrician’s pouch which fitted beautifully into the large pockets he had ingeniously fashioned into the insides of his overcoats.

  Leo surveyed his packed luggage with satisfaction. He glanced at the mantle clock and called a local taxi firm, a slight sensation of anxiety resonating in his stomach as the impending adventure beckoned.

  III

  LOCH DHONN

  7

  ‘I HOPE you’re not afraid of ghosts,’ said Helen.

  Leo started violently. His immediate reaction was that he was being hoaxed; then he quickly realised the absurdity of the notion of a young woman, who looked exactly like Helen, abroad with a murderer on the loose on a freezing cold night wearing nothing but a thin nightie simply to prank a perfect stranger. Then he wondered if he was hallucinating. He instinctively dispelled this idea. And so he came to the rapid conclusion that this was, in fact, the phantom of Helen Addison. In spite of his previous personal experiences of the supernatural a chill ran down Leo’s spine and his skin tingled with fear as the effects of alcohol retreated rapidly within his brain. He made to speak, but the words choked in his larynx, such that he had to clear his throat and start again.

  ‘I-I’ve never b-been harmed b-by one in my l-life,’ he stammered, ‘thus far. Permit me to introduce myself . . .’

  ‘I know who you are. And I know about your magic visions. I heard you talking with that policeman earlier.’

  ‘So you are able to . . . spy on folk, and listen in to their conversations?’

  ‘Only some of the time. Why haven’t they caught him yet?’

  Leo gathered his thoughts, keen to adjust himself to the surreal nature of the situation. It was crucial to make the most of this extraordinary opportunity.

  ‘I don’t know. Tell me who did it and I’ll tell them.’

  ‘I don’t know who did it. I couldn’t see his face. It was covered.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Helen, I’m so sorry about what happened to you. The police, and myself, we’ll do everything we possibly can to catch this character and make sure he’s punished.’

  ‘He’ll be punished, one way or the other. Eventually. I’m just afraid he’s going to do it again.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘I only arrived today. Yesterday, rather,’ he said, glancing at his wristwatch.

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘I’m hoping that my being here, at Loch Dhonn, will help stimulate my visions. In the meantime, now that we’ve connected, you must tell me everything you can about your ordeal. There must be some purpose behind your not having fully passed beyond the veil yet. I know it’s not easy, but please try. Just start at the beginning.’

  ‘It was like I was watching myself in a movie. Like I was there, but that I wasn’t really there. I don’t remember leaving home. The first thing I can remember was standing down there, not far from the water, and seeing a little rowing boat on the loch getting nearer and nearer. I watched him reach the bank and drag the boat up. I knew it was really cold but somehow I didn’t feel it. I was watching him from the trees down there. I was transfixed by him. It was like I was rooted to the spot.’

  ‘I wonder what the devil he was doing out on the loch.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I think he was coming from Innisdubh. That island over there,’ she said, gesturing towards the loch. ‘I bet there are clues there.’

  ‘The police must have conducted a search.’

  ‘Well, look again.’

  Leo gazed out at the misty surface of the loch, over to the little island with the keep on it which he had seen earlier. It seemed ugly and sinister to him in the night-time. Helen leapt down from her position on the folly and landed soundlessly beside him. She was pretty, slim, petite, small-breasted. Her chestnut hair looked as black as liquorice in the night, and her eyes shone with a strange, furious candescence. She had elfin features and freckles, which in the pale light looked as though they had been tattooed on with henna.

  When she had been alive Helen had always dreaded moments of silence between herself and others. She
felt that for a conversation to go into abeyance proved a deep-seated fear of hers: that she was a dull and uninteresting person. She had overestimated what conversation actually required, often wondering what people filled their sentences with – what on earth were they talking about? Therefore she had been anxiously inclined to fill blank spaces with little outbursts of tangential chatter. Yet over the last few days she had overheard several conversations, invisible as she was to the participants. And she had gained the knowledge that folk had been largely talking a lot of blethers all along. And because of this revelation this moment seemed pleasantly novel; she felt totally centred, comfortable in her own skin (such as it was), happy to let the silence play out between her and this strange man, towards whom she was for some reason able to physically manifest her spectral self.

  She sighed, taking in the moonlit view, then continued relating her terrible tale. ‘It was misty over the loch, just like this. He was wearing gloves. Black leather ones, I think. And this weird hood.’

  ‘Weird in what way – can you describe it to me?’

  ‘It was black. It had two little slits for eyeholes. You know, I couldn’t even see his eyes. They were just two deep shadows. It came to a point at the top, like the ones those racists in America wear.’

  Leo recalled the oddly shaped headwear worn by the dark figure in his second vision. ‘The Ku Klux Klan?’