‘That should be ‘either’,’ Bella said, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘And ‘are not’. Shocking syntax. Don’t they teach correct English in schools these days? And you should be. Scared. Very.’
‘Garn!’ Another youth spat. ‘You can’t do nothing to us. You’re just a pair of old slappers.’
Afterwards, Mrs Pooh could never work out what exactly happened.
Suddenly, Bella and Donna seemed to whirl round and blend together in a mass of grey mist and a sprinkling of white-hot stars. There was a rush of wind and someone screamed. Then all was quiet.
‘There,’ Donna said cheerfully as the mist cleared. ‘That’s fixed them for the evening …’
‘Little buggers,’ Bella said fondly. ‘They’ll have some sore heads in the morning but they won’t remember a thing about it. Right, Winnie, onwards!’
Mrs Pooh, between the Nightshade sisters again, looked over her shoulder. Their youthful assailants were all sitting on the damp verge giggling and pushing one another and laughing shrilly.
‘Are they – um – intoxicated …?’ Mrs Pooh queried.
‘You could say that,’ Donna laughed throatily. ‘Nothing that won’t wear off by daybreak. One of our better spells, that one. Ah, here we are … Merryleggs Lane …’
Bella frowned at the little cluster of ghosts and skeletons and witches gathered by the front gate. She could see Winnie’s problem.
‘We wanna see the ghost. We wanna see the ghost. We wanna …’
‘Goodness me!’ Bella snapped. ‘Don’t whine! Hang on and we’ll see what we can do.’
Mrs Pooh fumbled with the door key and let them all into the cottage. Donna slammed the door behind them. The plaintive cries of ‘we wanna …’ could still be heard echoing shrilly on the cold night air.
‘Ty …’ Mrs Pooh tiptoed into the living room. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you. Well,’ she added quickly in case she hurt his ghostly feelings even more and he refused to co-operate, ‘not really to see you. More, not to see you, if you get my drift …’
Tyrone sighed. The woman was a ditherer. Kind, true; well-meaning, very; but as a hauntee, completely hopeless.
‘He’s on the sofa, Winnie,’ Donna said softly. ‘There’s no need to speak to the fireplace.’
Tyrone sat up. Whoa. This was something else. He knew all about the Nightshade sisters. They were spooky. Donna sensed spirits like a cat, but couldn’t see them. Bella, on the other hand, could be big trouble.
‘OK,’ Bella said briskly, shedding her leather jacket. ‘Donna has located the little devil … now, I’ll need to do a bit of mediuming …’ she shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘Alone. Why don’t you go and make a nice cup of tea or something …’
Mrs Pooh and Donna hurried into the kitchen and closed the door. Bella flexed her fingers.
‘Here,’ Tyrone said in alarm, ‘I don’t want no rough stuff.’
‘I wasn’t planning any rough stuff,’ Bella frowned at the untidy heap of cushions on the sofa. ‘Oh you mean these …’ she gazed down at her long gel nails covered in the best moon-and-stars art. ‘I was just limbering them up … Now, you and I need to have a little chat …’
Tyrone wriggled quickly to the far end of the sofa before Bella deposited herself unwittingly on top of him. He closed his eyes in sartorial torment. Second-skin jeans and a white lace cami with a red bra – ladies’ fashions certainly weren’t what they used to be …
‘Why won’t you just show yourself for a moment?’ Bella said chattily to the cushions. ‘You’d only have to stand at the window for a little while and all your problems would be over.’
Not if I really do look like they think I do, Tyrone thought.
‘No?’ Bella said softly. ‘Then how about just appearing to me, then I could tell Winnie and she could tell the kiddies and –’
‘Hold up,’ Tyrone shook his head. ‘You’re talking about materialisation here. You know what materialisation does to a ghost. Buggers up the reflexes for weeks. Anyway, I don’t want to.’
‘Don’t want to …’ Bella mocked. ‘Shan’t! You can’t make me! Listen to yourself. You’re nearly five centuries old. Stop behaving like a brat.’
‘So, what do you suggest?’ Tyrone shrugged. ‘That I should wear myself to a frazzle just to put an end to the rumours? I don’t think so.’
‘You’ll just have to put up with the speculation then, won’t you?’ Bella fished into the depths of her handbag, took out her cigarettes and lighter, and settled back into the sofa, exhaling smoke. ‘And suffer the consequences for eternity.’
As the smoke drifted across the room, Tyrone inhaled greedily. It was one of the drawbacks to being a ghost – nicotine played havoc with the ectoplasm – but he’d do anything, anything, for just one puff.
‘Of course, I could exorcize you, you know that,’ Bella said throatily. ‘I’ve got the gift.’
Tyrone nodded. He knew. And exorcism was no joke. It hurt. But maybe, just maybe, there was room for negotiation here …
‘If I materialised – and it’s a big if – would there be any chance of a cigarette?’
Bella giggled. Got him!
‘Every chance, love. I’ll give you a whole packet. Deal?’
Tyrone hesitated for a moment. Then: ‘Deal.’
This was going to render him useless for days, he knew that, and there was always the risk he might actually look awful – like the late Mr Pooh – all bald and plump and given to beige slip-overs and ginger cords … but it was a risk he was prepared to take …
He sighed, then drew a deep breath, and stepped off the sofa.
Bella watched fascinated as strong brown feet appeared on the shag-pile, followed by a pair of slim but masculine ankles. Shapely calves, joined to long muscular thighs followed rapidly.
Bella swallowed and stubbed out her cigarette with a trembling hand.
Snake hips, taut waist, hard-muscled chest …
Bella gulped and wiped sweaty palms on her jeans.
Neck, face … Bella’s jaw dropped. Sleek hair, dark as a midnight sea, huge brown eyes …
‘Stone me,’ Bella whispered. ‘You’re a bleedin’ Dream Boy …’
It was two hours later that Bella staggered into the kitchen. The witching hour had long since been and gone.
‘Oh, you poor thing!’ Mrs Pooh was all contrition. ‘I should never have asked you! Look at the state of you!’
‘Hard going, was it?’ Donna poured a restorative glass of Mrs Pooh’s best Christmas turnip and elderflower wine.
‘Very hard …’ Bella whispered faintly.
‘And?’ Mrs Pooh could contain herself no longer. ‘What did he look like?’
Shakily, Bella sank onto the kitchen chair and took a grateful swig of wine.
Donna shook her head. The camisole was inside out. The red bra was missing …
‘Yes,’ she raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Just what exactly did he look like?’
Bella waved a limp hand round the kitchen and smiled a satisfied smile.
She alone in Ferny Fronds knew the truth about Tyrone – and she certainly wouldn’t be telling …
Your Number’s Up
Cara Cooper
Nasreen could have set her watch by the pale man, he was so regular in his hours. Regular in everything in fact, she thought as he came through the door in the same grey suit he always wore. She peered up at him through her veil of wavy black curls. She’d brushed a lick of mascara over her lashes today, bravely risking her father’s anger if he noticed. She reckoned the pale man had noticed. When he gave her the coins for his Euromillions ticket and his newspaper his fingers had rested in her palm just a fraction longer than normal. ‘Morning,’ that’s all he’d ever said to her before, but this time, he hesitated and added, ‘turned out nice, hasn’t it?’
‘Mmm.’ She replied and instantly looked down, letting her hair fall back to hide her lip. Her father wouldn’t be happy if he thought she was flirting. But for once her fath
er wasn’t standing next to her was he? Nasreen watched the pale man walk out of her parents’ shop and wondered, for one glorious fantasising moment, whether he could be the one who’d set her free. For years she’d dreamed of some man who might take an interest in her. You never knew when you met someone if they were going to be significant, did you? It wasn’t always love at first sight. Sometimes it could be a slow burn. She’d never seen the pale man with a woman or anyone else come to that, and there was no wedding ring on his finger.
He wouldn’t be the greatest of catches, looks wise. Thin, with skin the colour of porridge. But young, like her, and he had a steady job. He must do, he took the same train every morning. Surely a man like that must be lonely. He must be looking for someone to cook his breakfast for him, to hand him his umbrella on rainy days, to kiss him on the lips when he went off to his office job. She blushed to think of such things, her cappuccino-coloured skin darkening. No man had ever kissed her.
A tiny seed of hope had been planted in Nasreen’s breast that morning despite her father telling her a thousand times, ‘Nasreen, you must accept no man will want to marry you. Not looking like that.’ She touched her hand to her misshapen lip and a sudden anger burned inside at her father’s insensitivity. ‘No, your place is with me in this fine shop. You will inherit it one day. And your sister’s family will come and live here and her children will help you run the shop when I’m gone.’ So, she was to be nothing more than an add-on, as she had always been to her beautiful sister. No husband and no fine home was planned for Nasreen. She was to be an unpaid servant, yet again.
Suddenly she was pulled out of her reverie. ‘Nasreen,’ her father yelled from the back room. ‘I am feeling a little better now, come and help me up.’ A stab of resentment clutched her throat like strangling hands. But, dutiful daughter she was, she went off to help him. Even though inside she was screaming for someone like the pale man to come and set her free.
Kevin Bateman sat in the train heading for home. In the seats next to him was a gaggle of pretty young women, suitcases at their side. Laughing, they looked at photos on their phones and compared notes about boyfriends. ‘He’s fit, and I know he likes you.’ Such high jinks were games Kevin had never got the hang of. He was uneasy around women, yet he desired them. They scared and entranced him. Especially ones like these, confident and glowing and more than a little scary. They were out of his league. They knew it and so did he. They didn’t give him a second look. Unconsciously, he rested his hand on his breast pocket. Inside it the Euromillions ticket he had bought this morning lay neatly tucked and waiting for Friday’s draw. Twenty-seven million pounds it had been last time and nobody’d won. It would rollover this week to something even more ridiculous. Now if he won that much money these girls would look at him. They’d be all over him. He’d be able to pick and choose. He chanced a look at the blonde but when she caught him, he was sure he saw a sneer on her face, like she’d seen something dirty on her shoe. He looked away.
Walking back from the station, his thoughts turned to the girl in the newsagent’s. The fat old guy’s daughter. Kevin was sure he hadn’t imagined it, surely the daughter, Nasreen he’d heard the father call her, had given him a look this morning. It had thrown him, it was such a rarity for any woman to notice him. He’d barely registered her before. She was overshadowed by the father but since the old guy had had his heart attack the girl had come out of herself a bit.
Kevin thought about the Euromillions again. He thought about it a lot. He’d not give a girl like Nasreen a second look if he won all that money. But seeing as he hadn’t, she was worth pondering on.
As he left home the next morning, he checked the door three times. He never could leave without checking three whole times, only then could he be sure it was safe. Small talk wasn’t something that came easily to Kevin. But this morning he made a real effort. He also never bought magazines, they were a waste of money and he had little enough of that. But just this once, he picked up a copy of one of those fitness mags, the ones with muscle-bound blokes with six packs on the cover. He plonked it down in front of her. She was sort of pretty, he realised. Shame about that lip but if you concentrated on her eyes you could just about forget it. This morning he noticed she’d put some of that kohl round her eyelids. It made her look feline and sultry. And she had nice hair. Lovely in truth now he took the trouble to study it. Silky and shiny. Black with a bluish sheen like a raven’s wing. She used it like a curtain to hide the lip and at certain angles, the deformity hardly showed. ‘I’m …’ he hesitated, not used to chit chat, ‘getting into fitness, going to join a gym.’ It felt like he blurted it out, he was so unused to hearing his own voice. ‘If I win the Euromillions, I’ll have my own gym, in my own house.’ He’d made it sound as if he already had a house when all he had was a rented flat. Now he just felt stupid. He blushed. Choosing what to say made him sweat with effort.
But she didn’t seem to notice. She was concentrating on him hard, like what he said actually mattered. ‘Really,’ she answered as she took his money and pressed the buttons on the cash register, ‘that’s a good thing, to be healthy.’
‘Absolutely.’ He could think of nothing else to say so he left. As he stood on the train platform, he noticed a couple standing opposite, their heads together in earnest conversation. His cheeks were hot, and he couldn’t help thinking they were whispering about him. They must have seen him talking with Nasreen in the shop. He couldn’t wait to get onto the train.
At home that night, he lay awake in his bed. Upstairs, the neighbour played loud rock music. If he won the Euromillions, Kevin could say goodbye to all this. He could buy this rotten block of flats and chuck his neighbour out. He was sure his neighbour turned the volume up on purpose just to annoy him. They’d had a run in about the bins not so long ago and since then the woman had done everything in her power to make his life a misery. Stomping up and down the stairs, walking round up there in her heels on the wooden floor. But at least now Kevin had something else to think about other than the one in fifty zillion chance that he might win the Euromillions. He had Nasreen. He shut out the thump of the music from his mind, cuddled his pillow, and imagined it was her.
Each day that week, he got bolder in his chats with her. With her father in the background she wasn’t nearly so shy. When she smiled, it really lit up her face. In his dreams, she didn’t have the disfigurement. Maybe he mused, it was a sign, a sign that this week, after all these years, the numbers on his ticket were finally going to come up. Because, if his numbers did come up, he vowed he would get her lip fixed, whatever it cost. Kevin was a great believer in signs. His grandmother had been obsessed with them and had passed her obsession on to him. ‘Look at the magpies, Kevin,’ she’d say, ‘one for sorrow, two for joy. Thank heavens we saw two of those birds, Kevin, it’s unlucky just to see one.’ She looked for the future in tealeaves at the bottom of the cup, and sought to determine whether you’d have a long life by scrutinising the lines on your palm. Yes, seeing Nasreen in his dreams, her lips perfect as rosebuds, was a sign he was going to win this Friday. He unfolded his ticket again and looked at the numbers he always chose; important birthdays and anniversaries. Then he sat up, and a thrill ran through his body. For the first time, he realised this Friday was 31st October, Halloween. That was a sign too, it was a significant day. One of his numbers was 31. That Nasreen, she must be a positive omen.
He was so certain of her role as a good luck talisman that on Thursday, the day before the prize draw, amazingly he found himself asking her out. ‘Tomorrow,’ he tried to sound cool, ‘come out with me tomorrow evening, have a coffee at that little place in town. When do you finish here at the shop?’
She kept her voice down so her father couldn’t hear. ‘At 8 p.m. I could get there for 8.30, no earlier, I’m sorry.’
She looked worried, like he might turn her down but he didn’t. Later was better for him because the draw would happen at just after seven and he liked to check online to see whe
ther he’d won. Seeing her late would preserve his routine and he kept to routines because it was bad luck not to. Just like it was bad luck to step on the lines in the pavement, and bad luck to walk under ladders.
Nasreen was so excited when Friday morning came. She and that nice Kevin had a secret together. She’d never, ever had a secret before. It made her shake a little, for having a secret meant of course she’d had to tell her father a lie. ‘I have to go out this evening, after work.’
‘Out, out where?’ Her father was amazed. She was always there for him, always at home to make him tea and look after him, especially if he was ill.
‘I have to go out and take Mrs Collins’ paper to her. She was going to pick it up this morning but she isn’t well and phoned to ask if it could be delivered. I promised to take it myself. She is a good customer, Father, and well worth the effort. I can walk, the exercise will do me good.’
He grumbled but gave in. He wasn’t so ill that he couldn’t sit and watch television on his own so there was very little objection he could make. Nasreen waited until she was out and in the bus before she put on her mascara and kohl that evening. Then she brushed her hair till it shone. When she reached the coffee shop, Kevin hadn’t arrived. She was early so she took a table away from the window and ordered an orange juice to wait for him.
This was so exciting, it made her heart pound. She felt she was in a film, waiting to see her lover. Each person who came through the door made her jump in case it was him. But 8.30 came and went and still no Kevin. Perhaps for once his train had been late home and he had been, how did they say it, unavoidably detained. But whilst other people’s coffee dates turned up and were greeted amid smiles and hugs and kisses, the place next to Nasreen remained stubbornly empty. She ordered another orange juice but she didn’t drink it. By the time 9.30 arrived and she was still alone, Nasreen could have cried, right there, in front of all these Friday-night lovers. Finally, dejected, her shoulders bent, she made her way back to the shop. Her father, thank goodness, barely looked up from his TV show. ‘All OK, you delivered the paper?’
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