by Adams, Guy
‘I don’t know …’ Michael squirmed. ‘It’s very kind, don’t think I’m not grateful.’
‘You’d want to think about it, of course. The last thing a young couple needs is an old man cluttering up the place.’
‘It’s not that. It’s, well, it’s where Mum died, you know?’
John did understand that, of course, but lied nonetheless. ‘Nothing haunts that house but good memories. About time it set about making some new ones too.’
Nothing but good memories.
He had taken to sleeping in the spare bedroom again. When Jane had been ill he had moved there so as not to disturb her. Their old bed, a place of life where they had made love and brought a son into the world, had become a deathly place, a compost heap upon which his wife rotted. Surrounded by the accoutrements of her disease, the drip and the respirator, the bedside table loaded with pill bottles, tissues and moisturiser, there had been no more room for him. He had moved to the lifeless guest bed, sleeping under second-best sheets surrounded by soulless decoration. Spare bedrooms are as close as a house gets to abandoned space, where none of the personality of the owner is allowed to shine through.
Now he slept there because it felt safer.
The marriage bed all too often felt like it contained more than just himself. The darkness around him was thick with more than air, it smelled of pharmaceuticals and rot. It contained the damp, mildewy breaths of the dead.
Even in the spare room his nights wouldn’t pass completely undisturbed. Often he would hear movements coming from the other bedroom. The soft pacing of naked feet, pressing each croaking floorboard into life, groaning and whining like a forest coming to life with nocturnal predators. Sometimes he thought he could actually hear her pressing against the adjoining wall, hear the soft slide of her cheek and palms, as cold as the plaster they rested on. Perhaps she listened for his breathing, perhaps she waited for an invitation to visit? All manner of ideas occurred to him as he lay there, anything, it seemed, to keep him from restful sleep.
It seemed that the more he tried to hold onto his rational beliefs the more they slipped away from him. Was he losing his mind or was he really experiencing everything his senses told him?
Jane had mocked his refusal to believe in anything but the physical. ‘For a great thinker,’ she had said, ‘your thoughts are so very narrow.’ Her background was resolutely Catholic, though that hadn’t stopped her cursing the name of her God at the end, as all must when the pain gets too much and the vastness of death overwhelms you. He had done his best to calm her, had uttered platitudes he didn’t believe as she gripped his hand tight enough to bruise. He had talked of the better place she was travelling to, of the painless eternity that would stretch out before her. A time of spirit and peace. He had no idea whether she knew his comments rang hollow in his throat as he uttered them. Maybe this was his punishment? Those things in which he refused to believe preying on him until he had no choice but to accept them. she forcing her beliefs on him as she never had while alive?
That night, Aida Golding was piercing the barrier between life and death at a Scout hut in Ealing. The walls were hung with powder-paint art and charts that attempted to show the difference between common British deciduous leaves. John found himself giving as much attention to a poster titled ‘Flags of the World’ as he did Golding’s performance. His mind just wasn’t in it; he should have stayed at home and dried out. He hadn’t been sleeping well, too alert to the noises the house made at night and what they might mean.
‘Oh dear,’ said Aida, ‘I can’t hear this very well, it’s either a John or a Jane …’
John didn’t hear her the first time, having entered into a dreamy state, staring at the wall and swaying gently in his seat.
‘Is there a Jane here? No … it’s a Jane I have speaking … Yes, dear, I know, I’m telling them … She wants to speak to John. Is John here?’
Still John was unaware, as divorced from what was happening in the room as if he had stayed at home. It was the rustle of activity around him that finally roused him.
‘It’s him!’ the old widow was saying, pointing at him with one of her perfectly painted nails. ‘He’s the one you want.’
‘Sorry?’ Her words and the fact that everyone was staring at him made John feel as if he was in the middle of a dream. He was suddenly afraid, pressing himself back in his seat, away from these desperate people who claimed to want him.
‘John?’ asked Aida Golding. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted.
‘The message is for you. Jane is here, she’s right beside you. If she were to hold out her hand she could rest it on your shoulder. And she so wishes that were possible. That she could touch you, hold you again.’
Aida was not to know how terrifying John found this thought, though even the most casual observer should have been able to tell from the look on his face. Either the shadows or her own convictions were too deep, Aida carried on: ‘She’s always been with you, John, she never left you. Can I hear your voice, John? She still shares a home with you, still follows in your footsteps, shares a bed. I need your voice, John, it’s my connection, let me hear your voice.’
‘I … I don’t …’
‘You miss her, don’t you, John, since the cancer took her body from you?’
‘Of course …’
‘The cancer can’t kill the spirit, John, it can’t kill the soul. It eats away at the flesh but leaves the truth behind. She’s still here, John, can you feel her?’
‘I don’t …’
‘You sense her sometimes, don’t you? Around the house? Or when you visit places that you used to visit together? You can tell she’s with you?’
‘I—’
‘I need your voice, John, she’s slipping away, let me hear your voice …’
‘I don’t know what to say!’
Aida Golding’s shoulders slumped and she aimed a beneficent smile out into the darkness. ‘It’s all right, John,’ she said, ‘she’s gone, you can relax. Just know that she loves you and she will always be beside you.’
John couldn’t sit still through the hubbub that followed as Aida moved her attentions elsewhere. He excused himself along his row of seating and escaped into the corridors outside the main hall. He wandered, nervous and confused, hoping to find a bathroom where he could wash at his tired, numb face in some cold water and try and bring himself back to normality. Somebody had talked to Aida Golding, that was the only viable explanation. Accepting that Golding could not – and did not – commune with the dead, she had cheated her way to the information. And really, had there been that much of it? A wife called Jane who had died of cancer. That was not so difficult, was it? That was the sort of thing anyone could have overheard during his conversations with Henry’s widow. And Golding can’t have known the negative effect of her words, she had sought to console him not disturb him. She knew nothing about him, he decided, nothing at all.
The corridors were dimly lit by fire escape signs and the cork boards rustled their paper notices in a slight breeze from the open front door. He found the toilets and took a drink of water from the tap, trying not to imagine the pale reflection of his dead wife appearing over his shoulder in the large mirror above the sink.
‘Are you all right?’
He spilled a cupped handful of water down himself in shock as he turned to see who was speaking.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ It was Sandy, leaning in the doorway and trying not to smile at the panic she had caused.
John could hardly have been more awkward, rubbing at the wet patch on the front of his shirt. ‘I’m a bit jumpy after that,’ he admitted. ‘Sorry. You must think …’
‘I don’t think anything,’ she said and then her mood changed, glancing over her shoulder into the corridor. She’s nervous, John realised, nervous of being caught or nervous of me? ‘I just wanted to make sure you were OK, you seemed pretty shaken.’
‘It’s not every day you
talk to your dead wife.’ John smiled, trying to make light of it. Sandy didn’t follow his example, just glanced once more into the corridor and then stepped back out of the doorway.
‘She does smaller meetings, you know,’ she said, ‘at her house, once a month. You should go.’
‘Do you?’
There was a pause at that question and Sandy appeared even more uncomfortable. ‘Always,’ she admitted. ‘The less of you there are …’
‘The more chance you have of getting a message?’
Sandy nodded.
‘When’s the next meeting? Do you think Mrs Golding would be willing to have me?’ In truth, now the subject of conversation had turned, John had no doubt of it. Sandy had been sent to invite him, to lure him in. At least she had the decency to appear uncomfortable about it.
‘I’m sure she would,’ the girl replied, shuffling from one foot to the other. ‘If you want I could ask her?’
‘That would be kind.’ John dried his hands, feeling more confident now that Sandy had revealed herself as little more than the friendly face of a trap to lure him in. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’
Sandy looked genuinely frightened at the prospect of that but agreed nonetheless.
‘How long ago did your baby die?’
‘Not so long. Two years.’
‘Oh, I just noticed the cuts on your arms …’
‘What about them?’ Sandy snapped, tugging her sleeves over her hands.
‘Some of them just seemed a lot older, that’s all.’
There was a round of applause from the main hall and the double doors crashed open, breaking the awkward pause between them.
‘I’ll ask her,’ said Sandy and dashed off along the corridor.
John hadn’t been quite sure what to do: to follow Sandy or just hang around at the door. In the end, the thought of sharing false smiles with the rest of the audience made the decision for him. He hung back until most people had made their way into the car park and then strolled out after them.
There was a brief pause in the rain, the trees dripping heavy with it, and the tarmac shined orange from the streetlights. You could tell from the pressure in the air that the weather hadn’t fully cleared, the sky was thick black, just waiting to shed once more.
‘John?’
He turned to face Aida Golding who was clutching her cardigan tightly around her and offering a soft, slightly wrinkled hand. John couldn’t tell if she wanted him to shake it or kiss it, he went for the former option. A heavy, silver ring pressed itself against his fingers as she clasped his hand in both of hers and held it there, refusing to let him go.
‘I’m so glad I was able to offer you a message,’ she said. ‘We all need some words of comfort in our lives don’t we, Mister …?’
‘Pritchard.’
‘Not the painter?’
If there had been a famous artist that shared his name he certainly wasn’t aware one. More than likely she was fishing for his occupation. Not in the mood to be creative, he decided to give her more or less the truth.
‘No, nothing so grand. I teach.’
‘Oh,’ Golding took his arm. ‘There’s nothing more grand than spreading wisdom. I like to think it’s my vocation too. What do you teach, John?’
‘Psychology.’
‘The study of the mind? Well, a narrow view of it at least. How interesting.’
‘I think so.’
‘And your students must too, I’m sure.’
‘I’ve never had any complaints.’
‘And I’m sure they would be only too quick to offer them. Teenagers are never backward in coming forward, are they?’
She was fishing again, he was sure of it. Waiting for him to confirm or deny the age of his students. He decided this time he would leave her unfulfilled. He simply smiled and waited for her to say something else, which she duly did.
‘Of course, it would be lovely to have you join us one night. In fact, our next meeting is on Friday, unless you’re …’
‘Friday would be lovely. Whereabouts are you?’
Alasdair presented a business card in a manner that was just a little too polished and official. Golding’s manner was far superior, John thought, never letting the unsavoury taint of business fall on things. The address, in Richmond no less, would have been far better scribbled on a scrap of paper or discarded bus ticket. A business card just looked blatant and misplaced. Certainly it prompted him to ask his next question.
‘How much is it? I mean … sorry to have to ask but teachers don’t earn a fortune.’
‘Oh please,’ Golding squeezed his arm, ‘what must you think of me? This isn’t business, I charge what I do in order to cover my expenses and keep food on the table. I think it’s important that I give all of my time to the cause which means, sadly, I must earn a living from it. Albeit a meagre one.’
Meagre? Living in Richmond? John thought. Come off it.
‘I make no charge at my special meetings, if people wish to make a donation then … well … that is always appreciated. But really, the important thing for me is just spreading the important message of everlasting life and love.’
‘I understand completely,’ John assured her. The rain began to fall again and this stirred the group to life.
‘Can I offer you a lift, John?’ Golding asked. ‘I often drop Sandy off at the closest tube station, happy to do the same for you. It’s not a night for walking.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘but thank you. I’ve a taxi booked so I’d better wait for it.’
‘See you Friday then.’ And with that the three of them dashed towards their car and John huddled beneath the awning in front of the hall to watch them go.
He didn’t have a taxi booked but had wanted to save the added awkwardness of being trapped in the car with the three of them. He waited for them to leave and then began to jog up the road, trying to stick closely to the buildings and the scant shelter they offered.
Uxbridge Road was thinned out by the weather, the traffic sailed the shallow river in both directions but the pavement was all but empty. Discarded takeaway packaging swirled in the gutters. Old newspapers clung to the paving stones as if someone had been interrupted in the art of covering the whole street in papier mâché. The world felt distorted by the weather, as if so much rain had fallen that everything had simply begun to melt. He was soaked through by the time the tube was in sight. Crossing the road he paused for a moment, bathed in the lights of the stationary traffic, a straggling fish picked-out in the beam of a submersible’s searchlight. Metres away, standing on the pavement he had just vacated, was his wife, the water slicking her nightdress to her skin just as the fevered sweats had. Her hair clung to her small, grey skull as if desperate to crush it, it plastered most of her face but he could tell that her lips were moving. She was talking to him. Telling him something.
First one driver beat his horn then a handful of others joined in, pulling John’s attention back to the crossing where the lights had changed. He dashed across to the opposite side, the most impatient drivers narrowly missing him as they drove on. Looking back there was no sign of Jane. By the time he reached the entrance to Ealing Broadway he had just about convinced himself that there never had been.
Four
Hearing Voices
THE HOUSE WAS oppressively normal. Far back from the river and the more ostentatious, expensive homes it stood as part of a smoky grey brick terrace. In fact, John thought, luxurious postcode aside, it wasn’t that different from his own home. It was surrounded by limp privet, beaten into submission by the rain like over-blanched spinach.
John pushed open the small wooden gate, painted a particularly sickly light blue, and noticed one slight concession to the mystical: next to the plastic number plaque there was a crescent moon. It was made from plastic and the silver veneer had begun to wear off from the rubbing of reverent thumbs to expose pearlescent white beneath.
Closing the gate behind him he jogged up to the front do
or. Beneath the porch he took a moment to rub the rain from his face and smooth back his hair, squeezing the water into rivers that ran down his neck.
He felt perversely comfortable at what he might find beyond that door. While he could no longer guarantee the safety of his own home, or even the streets he walked, there was one place he was fairly sure ghosts did not walk and that was alongside Aida Golding. Whatever the evening might promise, whatever cons or unpleasantness she held in store, he was sure that it would all be theatre. A dark reflection waddled towards him through the smoked glass window in the door and he found himself remembering the apparition he had seen through the door of the shower. The memory robbed him of his confidence. The lock was drawn. A security chain was rattled loose. To his left, amongst the shining-wet creepers of the ivy, he became aware of pale flesh, sliding and squirming against the leaves. Was that a pair of eyes watching him, as fat and glistening as fruit?
‘Mr Pritchard, welcome.’ It was Alasdair who opened the door, stepping to one side to allow John in from the rain. ‘If you could leave your coat there.’ The young man gestured vaguely at a hatstand and stood to one side while John shucked his wet waterproofs and hung them up.
John scrubbed his shoes on the coconut-hair doormat and then followed Alasdair deeper into the house.
He paid as close attention as time allowed, walking through the entrance hall. He wanted to take this opportunity to glean as much information about Golding as he could. The place was decorated in DIY store Edwardian, wipeable, dark green wallpaper and polystyrene cornicing. The black and white floor tiles looked original enough, he decided, though the slender rug that lay down the middle of them was catalogue at best. He looked at the pictures on the wall. They were all prints, no photos, nothing personal. A watercolour of angels in flight, a fantastical meadow of the sort that unicorns have been known to trot through, a stylised rainbow’s arc surrounded by stars. It was all washed-out New Age, with not a single hint of soulfulness. The images could have been printed on cheap greeting cards or a mail-order series of decorative plates. John had no doubt they were as much window dressing as everything else.
