by Amy Cross
I'm on the boat.
I'm in bed.
Everything's okay.
Still, a moment ago I was having a dream. I was with Baxter, he was barking at me, but I was struggling to get out of the boat and there was a crushing pain in my chest. The pain is gone now, but I can still feel its echo shuddering up to my left shoulder and down my arm, and the dream seemed unusually vivid. I remember crashing down to the floor, right next to the sofa in the boat's kitchen, and then Baxter started licking my face and whimpering.
And then...
And then I woke up.
Clambering out of bed, I take care not to hit my head again as I stumble through to the seating area and then to the kitchen at the boat's far end. I look around for Baxter, before remembering that he's long gone, and then I pour myself a glass of water. I still feel hot and sweaty, and a little out of breath, so I unlock the door and step out onto the rear of the boat. Before I can manage more than a couple of steps, however, I trip against something on the floor and I stumble forward.
Steadying myself against the steering arm, I look down in the darkness and see that goddamn backpack.
“Great,” I mutter, checking my watch and seeing that it's now 1.13am.
I spend the next twenty minutes or so just trying to calm down, but I still feel far too worked up to even consider going back to sleep. I guess that dumb girl's crazy theories filled my head with rubbish, and now I probably won't get any sleep at all tonight. Figuring that I should still make myself useful, I slip into my old boots and then I step off the boat, onto the muddy towpath. I head along to the bow and then I climb back on-board, and I take a moment to uncoil the hose and slip it into the opening at the top of the tank.
If I'm going to be awake, I might as well refill the boat's water supply.
Grabbing the other end of the hose, I jump back onto the towpath and start trampling toward the service point. I've traveled along these canals for so long now, I know them back to front, and sure enough I quickly find a rickety wooden hut. Even without any light, I locate the tap and attach the hose, and then I turn the top so that water starts flowing into the boat's main tank. The damn thing creaks like crazy, but at least the water is running. To be honest, I feel like an old fool doing all of this in the dead of night, but I guess I long since gave up caring what other people think of me.
These days, I am who I am, and I'm not apologizing to anybody.
For the next few minutes, I wait while the water tank fills, and then finally I turn the tap off and disconnect the hose. I busy myself with a few more odd-jobs on the boat, but I'm still feeling mighty disturbed and finally I figure it wouldn't hurt to take a little wander and try to get a little fresh air into my lungs. I swing the boat's doors shut and then I take off along the towpath, fumbling through the darkness until I find the gravel path that slopes up toward the bridge. When I reach the top, there's no sign of life, and there are no cars running anywhere nearby. Still, it feels good to get a change of view, and when I look over my shoulder I can just about make out the canal's water rippling in the darkness. This must be the first time I've stepped away from the canal since...
Well, since before I can really remember.
And then I hear her.
I turn and look the other way, out into the darkness. Somebody's weeping, and a shiver runs through my chest as I realize that the sound must be coming from the old cemetery. I can't see the gravestones, or even the church, but I know they're nearby, and the weeping sound is strong and steady.
“You have to be joking,” I mutter, as I realize that it must be the girl. “Don't you have a home to go to?”
I'm finally feeling tired again, and I desperately want to go back to the boat and try to sleep. Still, I've always been a gentleman at heart, so I set off through the darkness, walking carefully and slowly until I finally bump against the low stone wall that encircles the cemetery. I fumble along the edge, and it takes a couple of minutes before I find the gate, which I swing open before stepping through into the cemetery itself. I can just about make out the nearest gravestones now, tilting in the cold night air, and the ground is much less even beneath the soles of my boots.
And the girl is still weeping. Wherever she is, she can't be more than a few meters away.
“Hello?” I call out, taking a cautious step forward. “Angela? Are you here?”
I hear her sniffing back some of her tears, and a moment later her shocked face bobs up from behind one of the stones.
“It's me,” I continue, just in case she hadn't realized. “Robert, from the boat. Remember?”
She sniffs again.
“What are you...” She pauses. “What are you doing here?”
“What the bloody hell do you think I'm doing?” I ask, taking a step closer. “I could hear you whimpering away from down by the goddamn boat.”
“You could?”
“Well, from the bridge at least,” I mutter. “It's almost two in the morning. What are you doing out here, you damn fool? I thought you were going home!”
She stares at me for a moment longer, before suddenly dropping back down out of sight. I wait for her to reappear, but finally I make my way over to the stone and look around to see that she's sitting on the grass.
“You left your backpack on my boat,” I tell her.
No reply.
“So what's this about?” I ask. “Let me guess, you're one of those goths, aren't you? I've read about the type. You like hanging around cemeteries at night and generally wasting your time on stupid -”
“I can't find my way,” she says suddenly, as she holds her right hand up and once again starts opening and closing her fist.
“Your way where?”
She pauses, before looking up at me.
“Home.”
I wait for her to explain, but now there's real fear in her eyes.
“Well, what do you mean, you can't find your way home?” I ask. “You told me earlier, you said you lived a few miles away.”
“I do.”
“There aren't that many places in the area. There are a couple of towns and villages, and that's about it.”
“I know, but I don't know where I live!”
I can't help but sigh.
“Well,” I reply, “let's start with something simple. Do you know where you were tonight, before you came and started bugging me?”
“I remember walking through this cemetery,” she replies, “and then down to the towpath, but before that... It's like I started here.”
“I don't think that's possible.”
“I don't remember being anywhere else,” she continues, and it's clear that she's once again close to tears. “It's really weird. I know who I am, and I have this vague awareness of my life, but I can't seem to latch onto the specifics.” She looks down at her hand again, which seems to have fascinated her ever since we were on the barge. “Something isn't right here. It's like I can't remember being anywhere other than the cemetery and the towpath, at least not lately. I'm trying, but...”
Again, her voice trails off.
“Well, there's no need to fuss,” I say finally, trying to perk her up a little. “I'm sure it'll come to you if you just think about it a little longer.”
“Tonight,” she replies, “I remember walking through the cemetery and going to the towpath, and then meeting you.”
“Okay, but -”
“Before that, I don't remember anything about what I did all day. I remember the previous night, though. Again, I was in the cemetery, and then I spent some time on the towpath, and then I came back to the cemetery. The only difference is that before, I never bumped into you.”
“I wasn't here much before,” I point out. “I travel a lot, I float along the waterways and, well, I guess we never bumped into each other until tonight. Besides -”
Stopping suddenly, I realize that my memory isn't much better. I remember being on the barge, I remember mooring for the night, but I'm not sure I remember what I did yesterda
y. In fact, all my recent memories are of being on the boat at night, and I honestly don't recall one moment of sunlight since... Well, since Baxter was still with me, and I'm still not sure how long he's been gone.
Weeks.
Months.
Longer, perhaps.
“Admit it,” she says after a moment. “Your memory's about as bad as mine.”
“I'm not admitting anything,” I reply, starting to feel a little irritated. “I'm an old man, it's perfectly normal for me to have a few blank spots, but I'm certainly not -”
“Look!” she adds, suddenly turning and placing a hand on the nearest gravestone.
Sighing, I look at the stone, and I feel a flash of recognition as soon as I see the name.
“Amanda Bates,” she reads out loud. “Born on March seventh, 1980. Died on May tenth, 1995. This is her, this is the girl who was mentioned in the book. The one who drowned.”
“So?”
“So each night, my memories start here. Right here, at this exact grave.”
“But your name -”
“I don't know!” she hisses, as her desperation finally starts to burst through. “Angela, Amanda, maybe I'm just getting confused! My head is so foggy right now, I don't really know what's happening, but I think I remember...”
She pauses, staring at the stone for a moment.
“I have these dreams,” she continues. “I think they last all day. In the dreams, I'm out by the canal. It's late at night, and I'm all alone. And then I've dropped something into the canal, I don't remember what, but I know I have to get it out. I know it sounds dumb, but I climb down into the water, so I can swim out and...”
I wait, but she seems lost in the memory.
“And then there are these weeds,” she adds, her eyes wide with shock. “Whatever I've dropped, I think it's a necklace or something, but it's sinking. And I've gone down to get it back, but at the bottom of the canal there are all these weeds, and they're wrapped around my ankle, and I can't get back to the surface. I'm pulling so hard, and I'm running out of air, and the water's so dirty I can't see anything. Not even my hands in front of my face. Finally I feel water flooding into my lungs -”
“This is nonsense,” I mutter.
“And I'm drowning,” she continues, looking up at me again. “I can't help gulping more and more water into my body, and I feel like my head is going to explode, and it's horrible but then at the very last moment there's this rush of calm. Like suddenly I feel everything's going to be okay, and I don't need to struggle anymore. The pain goes away, and the fear too, and I'm just left down there in the water, anchored to the bottom by the strands of weeds that are still wrapped around my ankles. I don't know how long that lasts, but in the dream I'm there for at least a few days before the water's disturbed and some men in diving suits find me. And then either I wake up, and it's night and I'm right here in the cemetery, or the dream starts again.”
I open my mouth to tell her again that this is crazy, but deep down I know that I've had similar dreams. Except in mine, I'm in the boat with Baxter and there's a pain in my chest, and I collapse, and then...
And then I'm just alone on the boat, and it's always night. And I never meet another soul, at least not until I bumped into Angela tonight.
Or Amanda, or whatever the hell she's really called.
“I think I'm dead,” she says finally, sniffing back more tears as she runs a hand across the gravestone, letting her fingertips dip into the carved letters. “I think we're both dead.”
“That's not possible,” I mutter, although I'm starting to feel less and less certain.
“It fits,” she continues. “Why else would I not know how to get home? Why else would I constantly be drawn back to this spot in the cemetery?”
“Just wait until morning,” I tell her, checking my watch. “It's already -”
“Morning won't come,” she adds, interrupting me. “For either of us. We're only here at night. During the day, we're gone and maybe we dream. And then tomorrow night, I'll be here again, just like this. And you'll probably be off again, somewhere else on the canal.”
I shake my head, but I can't bring myself to argue with her.
“So where did you get the book, then?” I ask.
“With the ghost stories?” She pauses. “I must have had it when I died.”
“Impossible,” I point out. “Not if it mentions your death in it.”
“Huh.” She frowns. “That's a good point. I guess I must have found it, then. Maybe that's what I do as a ghost, maybe I collect things that people leave on the towpath. I used to be a bit like that anyway, I think.”
“Great,” I mutter. “You've got an answer for everything.”
Getting to her feet, she stares at the stone for a moment longer before stepping around and heading over to the wall.
“Maybe this is what it's like to be a ghost,” she says after a moment. “Maybe you're just trapped, except... Maybe we got lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you see it. Maybe we just happened to bump into each other, and ghosts aren't supposed to do that, but we did anyway and now we're kinda aware of what happened to us. Maybe most ghosts never have that opportunity.”
“If I was a ghost,” I reply, looking down at the stone, “I don't think I'd want to know. I think I'd prefer it if I'd been left to carry on the way I was.”
“Maybe tomorrow night we'll have forgotten again.”
“Maybe.”
“I guess there are no rule books, huh?” she asks. “Man, this is messed up. I thought I was hunting for ghosts down by the towpath. Maybe that's something I used to do when I was alive. And all along, I was the ghost. Or one of them, anyway.”
I stare at the gravestone for a moment longer.
“Baxter,” I whisper. “You said my dog was rescued?”
“That's what the book claimed. I mean, it was a long time ago, so I guess he must be dead by now.”
“He would've missed being on the boat,” I mutter. “He loved sitting next to me, watching the world go by, barking at passing ducks. He wouldn't take to life on land very well. He would've missed me.”
“I'm sure he would.”
“But at least it sounds like he was looked after,” I continue, as tears well behind my eyes. “That's the important thing. I more or less lost all contact with my family. They were better off without me, I was never very good with people, I'm sure they were fine. But that little dog... He and I got along so well, he was my constant companion. So long as he was okay, I think I can deal with the rest of it all.”
“Does that mean you finally agree with me?”
I turn to her.
“We're dead,” she adds, before forcing a smile. “And we'd never have realized if we hadn't met each other tonight.”
“I don't know whether to be glad you showed up,” I reply, “or mighty annoyed.”
Her smile grows, and I can see there are tears in her eyes. After a moment, she turns and looks out past the wall, as if she's staring straight into the dark void of night.
“Well this certainly puts a dampener on the evening, doesn't it?” I continue with a sigh. “Of all the things to learn about yourself, I'm not sure -”
“Lights,” she says suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lights!”
I step over to join her by the wall, and I immediately see what she means. Two torch-beams are cutting through the night, swinging wildly this way and that, and after a moment I realize they're down on the canal's towpath. Before I can say anything, I catch sight of something familiar in one of the beams, and the lights come to a halt. A moment later, I spot two figures clambering on-board.
“My boat,” I whisper, watching as the two torches reflect against the windows. “Who are those people, and what are they doing on my boat?”
Six
Even though I'm dead, I'm still not very fast. As I hurry away from the cemetery and down toward the towpath, Angela is able to get far ahead, and I almost los
e sight of her in the darkness. I feel a little out of breath, too, but I force myself to keep going until I reach the bridge and stop for a moment to rest.
I guess even ghosts get tired. Maybe I should have died while I was younger.
Figuring that I should keep going, I set off again, hurrying down the gravel path as the torches continue to cut through the darkness ahead. As I get closer, however, I see that Angela has stopped on the towpath, and she seems to be watching the two intruders. Reaching her, I come to a halt and see that the intruders are still on the boat, and it looks like they're trying to get the door open.
“Hey!” I call out. “That's my -”
“Wait!” Angela hisses, placing a hand on my arm.
“They're trying to break into my goddamn boat!”
“They're standing on your boat,” she points out. “How are they doing that, if it's not really there?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, frustrated by her constant attempts to complicate everything. “My boat is as solid as they come!”
“According to the book I had with me,” she replies, “some witnesses reported seeing your boat moving along the canal at night. So maybe somehow you're driving your actual boat, and it's just not always visible?”
“That doesn't make a lick of sense!”
“None of this makes sense,” she point out.
“No kidding,” I mutter, hurrying past her and making my way along the towpath. “Stop!” I yell. “That's private property! You're not allowed to -”
Suddenly I hear a loud banging sound, and I see to my horror that the two intruders have managed to break the lock. They pull the barge's door open and then they shine their lights inside, and I can hear them excitedly talking to one another.
“That's criminal damage!” I hiss, stopping as I get to the side of the boat. “You'll pay for that!”
“I think we found it,” one of them says, ignoring me completely. She ducks down and shines her light into the kitchen area, and I can just about make out her grinning face. “Sorry, Gary, I guess I was completely wrong. I didn't think there was a chance in hell that we'd ever find the damn thing.”
