Shiver

by Andrea Frazer

  When Nasreen got back to the shop carrying the cat, her father quizzed her endlessly about it and looked as if he wasn’t going to let it stay. Finally though, he seemed to take pity on her and let her keep it. Nasreen took it up to her bedroom and gave it a pouch of food in a little bowl. Immediately it was out of the carrier and had a full belly it seemed better. Nasreen took Kevin’s jacket out of the carrier and went to hang it up. He was always a neat man and it seemed only right to keep it tidy, even though he was dead now. She supposed she should take it into the police when she got a moment. But maybe she’d take it to the cleaners first. It was the least she could do as a mark of respect for the dead, and maybe he should be buried in it as it was his favourite piece of clothing. As she was placing it on the hanger, she felt some papers in the pocket. They should come out if she was going to clean it.

  She reached her hand in, and brought out the ticket. She glanced at the numbers, then she went downstairs to find a newspaper. She took the newspaper upstairs. She couldn’t believe it. The numbers matched. They really, truly, definitely matched. She looked around at the cat, and it purred and looked at her with its big green eyes. It seemed to be saying thank you. What’s more, it seemed to be saying, ‘That money belongs to you. Kevin would have wanted you to have it, he was a lonely man but you don’t have to be a lonely woman’. Nasreen felt as if she was walking on air as she went over to cuddle the cat. ‘Shall we keep it then?’ she asked. ‘You know something cat, I think our number’s up. You’d like a nice diamond collar, wouldn’t you?’

  She’d heard black cats brought you luck. And they did, they so definitely did.

  The Dark Night of Dawn

  Caroline Dunford

  When my sister Tracey told me she’d entered me into ‘Spooky Date’ I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. She explained, ‘It’s a show. On that big black box in the corner of your living room. The thing you never turn on?’ She gave a big sigh, as if I had just confessed I didn’t know what the bright yellow thing in the sky was. ‘Dexter Davies? He’s the medium? Takes four couples on a blind date through a haunted house. The fear and terror they experience shows them exactly what their date is like.’

  ‘Dexter Davies? You’re kidding me!’

  ‘I know,’ said Tracey entirely mistaking my meaning, ‘he’s so dreamy. So firm. So spiritual. So manly.’

  ‘I have no idea who he is.’

  ‘Really? I know you’ve been a bit of recluse, but –’ she turned her head and shouted into the kitchen, ‘Mum, Dawn doesn’t know who Dexter Davies is!’

  My mum, curly-headed, aproned, and smeared with the makings of the Sunday Yorkshire pud, came through wiping her hands on a tea towel. She frowned at my sister, ‘I’m surprised at you, Tracey. Of course she wouldn’t watch any of his programmes. Considering and all that.’ She flapped her hands helplessly as she always did when words failed her. Good Yorkshire stock, my mum. If they ever cut her open I wouldn’t be surprised if they found ‘least said, soonest mended’ written right through her like a stick of rock.

  ‘I’ve entered her for Spooky Date: Love in the Dark season three.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum, flailing her dish towel in agitation, ‘I expect you won’t get through, love. It’s very popular.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tracey, ‘but she’s got a special interest. You’ll thank me,’ she told me firmly.

  I could think of quite a few words I’d like to share with my sister, but none of them were ones of gratitude. My ‘special interest’, as Tracey so delicately put it, had got me through to the audition stage. Tracey had picked me up in her car and driven me to the studio. I suppose I could have refused, but she caught me on one of those days when I didn’t seem to have the energy to do anything. If I’m honest those days are quite frequent now. I drag myself to work at the bank, stagger home, pop a meal in the microwave, and more often than not fall asleep before it’s done. And let me tell you, twice-heated microwave food goes through some weird alchemical process. After two blasts of energy anything tastes like rubbery chicken. And who wants to eat that? Which is why I wasn’t surprised when the casting person took one look at me, threw up his hands and said, ‘You’re so thin!’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I’ve been …’ I began.

  ‘Darling, no, you’re perfect. Waif-like and pale. So, so Spooky Date. I will find you a positive HUNK to hook up with.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’ But I was whisked away into ‘make-up-and-hair’. Then wardrobe shoved me into something lacy and floaty, and I was pushed out in front of a camera.

  ‘Isn’t she darling?’ said Casting.

  The director, agitated, in his thirties, and obviously wishing his career had taken him in a different direction, said, ‘Yes, very good for camera,’ in a voice as laconic as limp pasta. ‘Dexter?’ he added turning to the man next to him.

  Dexter Davies wore a flocked red Victorian frock coat, had an extremely expensive haircut, and was unnaturally tall and thin. He glanced in my direction. ‘Whatever,’ he said.

  Casting hurried me off. ‘Ooooh! Darling, he likes you.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  Casting and Tracey both gave me hard stares. ‘You’re a very lucky girl,’ said Casting. ‘Lots of young women would give their right arm to get on this show. And you might just find the love of your life.’

  It was then that all the fight went out of me. All I could do was nod stiffly and try to hold the tears back. I could always not turn up for filming, I told myself.

  But good old Tracey got audience tickets for herself and Mum and drove me down on the night. The two of them would sit outside, wrapped in blankets against the freezing October night, and watch events as they were shown on a big screen in the manor house’s garden. On the whole it had seemed too much effort to stop what Tracey had so eagerly put in motion. Mum, it transpired, was also a huge fan of the show and Dexter. She was torn between not wanting to upset me and wanting me to get Dexter’s autograph for her. She thrust a programme and a pen into my hand just before I was taken into the Manor. ‘If you can …’ she said. ‘Only if it’s no trouble ….’ I sighed, took it, and had it taken off me as soon as the doors closed behind me.

  Then I was introduced to my date for the night, Trevor, a big meaty hunk who had played rugby at Rugby, as he told me several times over, laughing loudly each time in the hope the camera came over to us. He had floppy hair, a firm jawline, and an interest in acting and or modelling. This show, he told me, was his way in.

  We four couples stood around in the wood panelled entrance hall and sipped our hot fruit punch, while the camera and sound guys wandered between us eavesdropping on our conversations. Melanie Love was due any minute and would be taking us couple by couple into the antechamber, where she would interview us ‘for human interest’ before Dexter arrived and took us all into the house.

  We’d been told to act as if the building was cold in keeping with its ghostly reputation, but in the wood panelled room with all the atmospheric candles, hot punch and camera lights it was unbearably hot. I managed to take off the black leather coat they had given me to go over my black floaty thing and lose it behind a chair when the cameras were homed in on a blonde girl who was explaining she had been psychic since she drowned in a pool when she was five. ‘I was, like, dead for two hours, like,’ she said. ‘I came back like just knowing like there was life on the other side.’

  She turned her head to the camera, fluttered her eyelashes and wiggled, so her very short skirt went even higher up her preposterously long legs. I couldn’t help noticing that she’d overdone the fake tan. ‘Like an Oompa-Loompa,’ I muttered under my breath. The furry sound boom, a large dead hamster of a thing, swung into my face. I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. ‘Two hours, honestly? Is that even possible? Don’t you mean two minutes? Or wouldn’t you be brain-dead or something?’ I saw the cameraman’s lips twitch.

  ‘Whatever,’ said the girl. I could tell she and Dexter were going to get al
ong.

  In fact now I looked about me, all the couples were higher on the attractiveness stakes than you usually meet on the high street. Except my Trevor. But being nearest to his halitosis I was biased. Melanie Love eventually arrived and started taking couples into the antechamber. When it came to our turn I didn’t need to pretend it was cold. Compared to the first room this one was like an igloo. However, Melanie had firmly announced the door between the real world and the ghost realm was now firmly closed. It didn’t seem likely I would be nipping back to get my coat. I’d probably end this evening with a dose of pneumonia. Well, if I died, I could always come back and give Dexter Davies a run for his money.

  ‘Now, Dawn, you have a story, don’t you?’ Melanie Love had her head on one side, eyes wide, gazing soulfully at me. Close to, I could see she had terribly bad skin. I fixed my gaze on one particularly large pore.

  ‘Dawn?’

  ‘I think Dawn of the dead is away with the fairies,’ chuckled Trevor. ‘Did I mention I’ve been on the county championship rugby team for three years. Would you like to feel my guns, Melanie?’

  Melanie Love’s right eye twitched, but her voice remained smooth and her smile in place. ‘I’m sure we’ll hear all about it later.’ She turned to face into the camera and adopted a very sympathetic face as if she was actually still talking to me. ‘It won’t be the first time a visitor has come to us burdened by the past. But as we all know the spirits can heal us as often as we heal them.’

  I continued to stare at Melanie’s bad skin.

  ‘Dawn?’

  She may have repeated my name a few more times, but I wasn’t playing. ‘I’m sure we’ll hear all about it later,’ said Melanie, a little desperately. Behind her back, out of shot, she was frantically signally with her left hand. The door at the end of the room creaked open. ‘Ah, it seems Dexter and the house are ready for you. Good luck, and may you both find what you are looking for.’

  Going through the door was a bit of an anti-climax. Once we got through the dry ice it was a very ordinary looking utility room. A washing machine, a dryer, a huge boiler, and a couple of plastic buckets were pushed to one end of the room. Two people waited for us. One girl hovered with a large make-up brush and the other shoved his hand my skirt with an apologetic ‘Just mic-ing you up, love.’

  ‘I take it we’re not on camera?’ I said.

  ‘Nope,’ said the girl with the brush. ‘This is the touch-up before you go. Last thing that happens is that Mike here turns on the mic. Try and remember once you’re through that door everything you say and do is up on the big screen. No matter if you’re with the main group or not. We’re still be able to hear you.’ She looked meaningfully at Trevor.

  ‘Is there any way I can leave?’ I asked.

  Trevor and the others looked alarmed. ‘It’s just I think I may have made a mistake coming on here.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said the girl. ‘I thought you were going to say you were ill. No, you signed the contract. You’re committed.’

  ‘Now you mention it I don’t feel so good,’ I began. I felt both cold and sweaty. Bile hovered at the back of my throat and my legs quivered.

  ‘Bit of stage fright,’ said Mike the mic. ‘You’re on.’ And with a shove we were sent through the next door into the Great Hall.

  ‘Wow,’ said Trevor beside me.

  The vaulted roof reached into darkness above us. A few candles flickered at the edge of the room outlining how very large the room was. A green light flared in the huge marble fireplace in place of the friendly burning logs that had been in the first chamber. At the far end a wide, dark staircase was lit with one spotlight and standing in the centre of it was Dexter Davies. He turned slowly towards us and beckoned us in. ‘Wow,’ said Trevor again. He grabbed my hand and dragged me in. A camera swooped down in front to capture our expressions.

  We took our places at the foot of the stairs. The sequence was repeated several times until all the couples were lined up at the foot of the stairs. No one spoke. I assumed the feed was switching between Melanie Love and the Great Hall. Certainly between beckoning in a spooky manner, Dexter leaned against the railings and looked bored. He perked up a bit when the ‘psychic’ blonde appeared, but when she tried to talk to him after her entrance he made a throat-slitting gesture. I hoped he was reminding her about the mics rather than promising what was in store for us.

  Finally, just as I was convinced I would die of hypothermia, Dexter motioned us all forward. I found myself tottering slightly, my legs were so numb.

  It’s hard to be scared of ghosts when you’re concentrating on avoiding cameramen. As well as the floor cameras in the main room we had five people carrying photographic equipment on their shoulders all involved in an elaborate dance not to be caught in each other’s shots. Their ducking and diving, and the occasional glimpse of a hairy bum crack didn’t set the atmosphere the directors were hoping to achieve.

  Halfway up the staircase Dexter stopped, turned to the camera and began to listen to his spirit guide, a London guttersnipe from 1810, who was filling him in on the history of the building.

  ‘Don’t forget about Poor Jayne Withby,’ said Dexter in a high and squeaky voice that I assumed was meant to be his guide rather than induced by unfortunately tight trousers. ‘Shut in the dark, dark room on the eve of her wedding by a jealous older sister. Never seen again. Poor, poor Jayne.’

  Dexter turned in alarm to face the camera. ‘Melanie, I didn’t realise we had a lingering death here? That’s very dangerous. I’m not sure we should continue.’

  The cameras turned to witness Melanie’s arrival at the foot of the stairs where we had all started. ‘Oh, Dexter,’ she said in a breathy voice, ‘do you want me to lead them out?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Trevor softly, ‘they’re going to cancel the show!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘It’s all a set up.’

  ‘Quiet,’ commanded Dexter, ‘you’ll wake the sleeping dead.’

  The camera swung rapidly towards Dexter Davies, narrowly missing my head. The cameraman mouthed an apology. Next to me Trevor, who I had just discovered was a mouth-breather, panted excitedly like a dog tied up outside a butchers.

  Davies turned to the camera again. ‘As most of you know, the sleeping dead are spirits, who should not be awakened. They slumber uneasily in our realm and take great offence at their rest being disturbed. This is what makes my job so difficult. I must guard these young men and women here with me and ensure that I only let past the waking dead. The ones who desire to converse with the mortal world. Sometimes for our sake. Sometimes for theirs.’

  ‘Wow, just wow,’ breathed Trevor, his breath moist against my ear. ‘I can’t believe I’m really here.’

  Neither could I.

  Everyone was asked if they wanted to continue. Not surprisingly no-one declined. When they came to me, Trevor looked at me like a puppy that was about to be abandoned. ‘Sure,’ I said, when they asked me. If I said no, I was fairly sure they’d keep filming until I said yes. Also the other star-struck candidates would tear me limb from limb.

  ‘You will now split into couples,’ announced Dexter. ‘Melanie and myself will roam the mansion ready to come to your aid should you require it. I urge you all to open your minds. To take advantage of this unique opportunity that has been presented to you. It may be the spirits have placed you with someone who will become your life partner. Or it may simply be that tonight you will learn a lesson that will change your life. Whatever is to come I can assure you none of you will be the same person who entered our haunted mansion.’

  The last words were said with a flourish. Dry ice blasted from the corners of the Great Hall. Doors on all sides banged open. The psychic blonde screeched and all the cameras swung towards her pretty face. I confess, even though I knew this was how the show always started the ghost hunting segment shook me a little.

  Trevor, I and our silent cameraman were ushered towards one of the doors by Dexter’s dramatica
lly pointing finger. We had to make our way back down the stairs again. The cameraman had to do this backwards and I could see from the expression on his face exactly what he thought of this idea. I couldn’t suppress a grin. Dexter, who was watching more closely than I suspected, cried out, ‘Brave heart, Dawn. You are going on a great adventure.’ I had to admire his quick thinking. The viewers would now be more liable to think I was excited rather than amused by the whole ridiculous affair.

  Our door led us to a small turret. More stairs for our cameraman, who was silently groaning. I couldn’t help winking at his despair when he turned the camera towards Trevor. ‘Wow,’ said Trevor, ‘Do you think this is the turret where Jayne Witherspoon died?’

  ‘Withby,’ I corrected absentmindedly.

  Trevor ignored me. ‘Do you think these very steps could be the last she trod, Dawn?’ He clutched my arm suddenly. ‘Don’t be afraid, Dawn. I’ll protect you.’

  I shook his hand off my arm. ‘I’m not afraid,’ I said tartly. ‘The only thing that’s worrying me is the amount of dust in this place. Hasn’t the owner heard of brooms.’ I sneezed. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  ‘It’s alright, Dawn,’ said Trevor desperately, ‘you don’t need to be brave. I’m here.’

  I gave him a look which I hoped mingled scorn and heartfelt contempt and set off up the stairs, but not before I’d caught the grin on the cameraman’s face. It was a good face, friendly and open. He was probably around my own age, wasn’t showing his bumcrack like the other cameramen, and frankly I would have infinitely preferred him as my date. At least I wouldn’t be left alone with Trevor.

  Oh how wrong I was.