by Pati Nagle
He’d been dragged out of a coach—a gig, actually, smaller than the monstrosity before him—by his boon companion, John Thurtell, who had proceeded to murder him. Thurtell had taken exception to losing at cards, accused William of cheating (true, but Thurtell had no proof of it), and bludgeoned him to death. With the help of friends, he had then dropped William in the pond at Gills Hill Cottage, but being nervous that he’d be discovered, they had moved him to another, more remote pond, and then to the river.
After all that sloshing about, William’s remains had been in poor condition. He remembered. He had watched.
He’d watched the trial, too, and a rare sensation it had been. He had been a solicitor in life, and professional interest, not to mention having little else to do, had drawn him to take in all the many blustering hours. He’d been at the hanging as well, there to greet his old companion and hasten him to his own personal hell. Thurtell hadn’t liked seeing him, William recalled with a smile.
The young man in the driving coat cleared his throat. William glanced up at him.
“Mr. Weare, I’m here to invite you to join a card game.”
“A card game? Is that why I’m given a new body, so that I can play cards?”
“Well, yes.”
“And to whom to I owe this honor? If it’s Thurtell, you can get back in that rattletrap and begone.”
“No, no. It’s Mr. Simon Penstemon, an American. The game’s in America.”
“And why should I journey to America merely for a game of cards?”
“Don’t you want to keep that new body?” said the youth.
A feminine giggle drew William’s attention. Two young ladies, a plump redhead and a petite brunette, both wearing fuzzy jumpers over their blue jeans, were walking toward him along the street. They had their heads together and were obviously amused by William’s attire. The brunette cast a coy glance at the young man in the driving coat.
“They can see you,” William accused.
“They can’t see the coach,” the fellow replied in a whisper, then he nodded and smiled to the ladies.
“Hello, boys!” said the redhead. “Off to a masquerade? Can we come?”
“No masquerade,” said the fellow in black. “We’re just talking.”
The redhead pouted. Her friend was staring at the young man in open admiration, but he appeared not to notice. William chuckled, then hid it in a cough.
“Buy us a drink, then?” the redhead said to him. “You’ll be a hit at the pub.”
“Sorry, we can’t,” said the youth. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”
“Hold on, hold on,” said William. “We’ve got time for a drink, haven’t we?”
The young man met his gaze, frowning. William smiled. He had the fellow, and they both knew it.
A silent bargain passed between them: a drink at the pub in exchange for his cooperation. He’d get the drink, and then he’d see about the cooperation.
Turning to the redhead, William offered his arm. “Lead on, my dear.”
A drink. A nice pint of bitters—it had been so long he could scarcely remember the taste.
“I’m Alma,” said the redhead, “and that’s Joanie.”
“William,” he said, and glanced at the youth.
“Festus,” said the youth grudgingly.
Alma laughed, a little cascading sound. “What a funny name! Is it American?”
“It’s short for Hephæstus.”
“Like the Greek god,” said Joanie, beaming up at him.
The youth said nothing, and didn’t quite roll his eyes, though he looked away. Alma pulled William forward, and the other two followed. The coach, which neither of the girls had heeded, began a laborious turn in the street and eventually followed them.
The pub wasn’t far. It was filled with people, mostly younger folk, chattering over loud rock music. A tiny dance floor in one corner was crammed with youngsters bouncing to the music. William had drifted in here once or twice, but it wasn’t a good place for haunting. Too hard to get people’s attention with all the noise and activity.
Alma led William up to the bar. The barkeep, a cheery fellow with the build of a prizefighter, looked up.
“Hallo, Alma,” he said in a bluff voice that cut through the music. “Wotcha got here?”
“This is William,” Alma shouted back. “Ain’t he grand?”
The barkeep’s brows rose. “How do, your lordship. What’ll you have?”
“A pint of your best,” said William loudly, “and whatever the ladies would like.”
“Pint for me, too,” said Alma.
“I’ll have a GT,” said Joanie. She looked at Festus, and the barkeep shifted his gaze to the youth.
“Just water for me,” he said. “I’m driving.”
An interesting lie, William thought. He watched as the barkeep fetched the drinks. Festus had better have the means to pay for them, because he wasn’t wasting one of his guineas on a couple of pints.
The barkeep set a glass before him. William admired the dark, golden-brown color, then sipped and sighed. Good ale, sharp with hops, mellow underneath. Bliss.
“So what do you do, William?” Alma asked, leaning one arm against the bar and sipping at the ale in her other hand.
“Do? Nothing.” He thought for a moment and added, “I’m retired.”
“And you dress like this just for kicks?”
“That’s right,” he said with a glance at Festus beside him, who looked increasingly uncomfortable. “For kicks.”
“You two should go dance,” Alma said to Joanie and Festus.
Joanie looked shocked. “It’s too crowded,” she said, with a worried glance at Festus.
“I don’t dance,” Festus said flatly, and swallowed half his glass of water.
William took another sip of his ale. He was rather enjoying this. All the physical sensations were so strong. As a ghost, he’d barely had a whisper of them. He liked them better than he’d remembered.
He liked Alma particularly, she was soft and warm and smelled interesting. He wondered if she’d be willing to take a tumble with him. Women nowadays were much more open to that sort of thing, it wasn’t nearly the disgrace it had been in his time. Perfectly respectable women slept with whomever they pleased, and called it dating.
“Are you at university?” he heard Joanie ask Festus.
“No,” Festus said without elaboration.
William sighed and took another swallow of ale. The fellow was a fool. Here was a lovely young thing clearly enamored of him, and he was throwing it away.
“So, where’s the plane taking you?” Alma asked.
“America. Want to come along?” William glanced sidelong at Festus, who looked fit to burst with annoyance.
Alma’s cascading laugh rose above the music. “Yeah, sure. Can you get me home by morning? I’ve got to work.”
“Call in sick,” William suggested.
Alma laughed again. Festus, who had both elbows on the bar, stared sullenly at his glass. Beyond him, Joanie watched, a hopeless jumble of confusion and infatuation.
William finished his ale and ordered another. He flirted with Alma while he drank it, much to Festus’s annoyance. Joanie tried a few more times to engage the fellow in conversation, then gave up and quietly sipped her drink. Poor girl. She wasn’t having a bit of fun.
“’Nother round?” asked the barkeep, glancing at William’s nearly-empty glass.
“Not for me,” said Alma.
William finished his drink and set down the glass. He was feeling nicely mellow. “That’ll do, I guess.”
The barkeep waved a slip of paper. “Who gets the tab?”
William looked at Festus. The youth reached into the pocket of his driving coat and withdrew a twenty-pound note, which he dropped on the bar.
“Will that cover it?”
“More than. I’ll get your change,” said the barkeep.
“Keep it.” Festus turned to William with a hard look. “Time to
go.”
William shrugged and offered an arm to Alma again. She finished her pint and slid her arm through his. Warm and soft.
Festus turned and began pushing his way through the crowd. William and Alma followed, with poor Joanie tagging behind. When they reached the street, Festus headed for the coach, and William noticed that he walked haltingly. That accounted for his not wanting to dance. Joanie followed him a couple of steps back, her arms crossed over her chest.
Festus stopped beside the coach, which was waiting at the curb. “It was nice meeting you both,” he said to the girls, “but I’m afraid we have to say goodbye.”
“Hang on a minute,” Alma said, grinning at William. “You offered to take us along, right?”
“Sorry, we can’t,” Festus said shortly.
“In that case I’ll stay here,” William said. “You go on, my boy.”
“I can’t leave without you!” Festus sounded annoyed.
“Then you’ll have to take us all,” William said. “If you want me, you’ve got to bring Alma and Joanie.”
Alma laughed. Joanie looked uncomfortable and murmured a protest, but her eyes were hopeful as she glanced up at Festus.
“I can’t do that!” Festus said. “It’s not allowed!”
“Why not? Private plane, isn’t it? There’s room, isn’t there?” William was gambling on these assumptions, but from Festus’s reaction it looked like he’d been right. He grinned.
“They’re mundanes!” Festus said in exasperation.
“I beg your pardon!” Alma said, looking ready to clock him one.
“Mundanes aren’t allowed in the Black Queen,” Festus said, ignoring her. “Mr. Penstemon’s very strict about it.”
“Am I a mundane?” William asked.
Festus blinked. “Well—I guess you are—”
“So the rule doesn’t apply on this occasion, does it?”
“You’re an invited guest! They’re not!”
Festus’s brows were knit in an anxious frown, and color was rising in his cheeks. William felt a glow of calm triumph, an echo of his days as a solicitor. When one’s opponent was flustered, one was on the verge of victory.
“Bring them along,” he said in a kindly tone, “and I’ll work it all out with Mr. Penstemon. You won’t get in trouble. I’ll explain to him.”
Festus made a frustrated sound, like a strangled growl. “All right, all right,” he said, yanking open the door of the coach. “Get in.”
“Blimey, where did that come from?” said Alma. “It wasn’t there a second ago!”
Joanie stepped toward the coach and reached out a hesitant hand to touch it. “Wow! It’s gorgeous!”
“I wish you’d chosen some other vehicle,” William said testily. “I have bad memories of my last carriage ride.”
Festus waved an angry hand at the coach. A sudden wind came up, reminding William sharply of the maelstrom. The coach and pair transformed into a limousine, long, low, and black, engine purring. Joanie jumped back with a small shriek.
“Blimey!” Alma cried, then exchanged a wide-eyed look with her friend.
“It’s time to leave,” Festus said, standing by the open door. “Get in.”
Alma looked at him with new respect. She took a deep breath, a little nervous but still game. “Can we just pop round to my flat, so I can get a few things?”
“No,” Festus told her. “You can get whatever you need at the Black Queen. Now, Mr. Weare?”
William turned to Alma. “Coming, my dear?”
Alma drew herself up. “Yes.” She stepped toward the car, and William offered a hand to help her in.
“Alma, you can’t!” Joanie cried. “How will you get home?”
“I’m sure Mr. Penstemon can take care of that.” William looked at Festus, who didn’t answer.
Alma peered up from the car seat with a nervous smile. “Come on, Joanie. It’s just a lark.”
Joanie looked terrified. She glanced at Festus, who ignored her. Festus had turned into a bloody stiff-rumped footman. William couldn’t understand why Joanie was still attracted to him, but attracted she must be. She took an unsteady step toward the limo and allowed William to hand her in next to Alma.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Joanie moaned as William climbed in beside her.
The long bench seat had ample room for the three of them. The door closed with a snap, and a moment later Festus got into the front seat beside the invisible driver.
“I’ve always wanted to visit America,” said Alma, a bit too cheerily. “Oh, look!”
She’d found a bar in the back of the front seat, fully stocked. William poured drinks all around as the limo eased away from the curb, glided through the village, and turned onto the A5.
“So, where are we going?” Alma asked him as the limo accelerated. “New York?”
William took a sip of his single-malt and leaned back, smiling. “I have no idea.”
Joanie let out a small whimper. Alma laughed again, a note of hilarity in the bell-like cascade.
The car was changing, stretching out, and—William peered out the window beside him—yes, it was growing wings! Safety belts reached up out of the seat and buckled themselves around the three of them, causing Joanie to squeak again. Alma tossed back the rest of her drink and gave William a nervous smile as the coach-cum-limo-cum-plane roared, gaining speed, and lifted itself from the highway to fly off into the black October night.
~ James ~
Dave started up a drunken yodeling of “John Brown’s Body” as a distraction while James carefully switched the hand he’d been dealt for the prestacked one in his pocket. He then picked up the cards and fanned them. Aces and eights, nine of diamonds. He’d argued that the queen of hearts should have been the kicker, but they had the nine up on the wall and weren’t about to depart from long-standing tradition.
He downed the glass of whiskey at his elbow. The part he hated most was coming up. No matter how often he did the show, he couldn’t get used to the gunfire. He could feel a spot between his shoulder blades tickling with tension. He hated sitting with his back to the door, even though he knew Joe’s pistol was loaded with blanks, even though he knew all the saloon’s employees were watching out for him.
God damn, it was a hell of a thing to be killed five times a day. Not all the whiskey in the world could set him up for it.
BLAM! BLAM, BLAM!
James jumped, as he always did, then pitched forward, taking care to spill his cards face up. The hullabaloo proceeded while the smell of gunpowder tickled his nostrils and he tried to keep from sneezing. They used far too much powder in the blank charges—liked a loud explosion, made the crowd jump. Unrealistic and wasteful, but this was a show, after all.
The fuss died down, and Dave and the girls came to carry him away. James kept his eyes closed and tried to stay limp, which wasn’t ever easy. He felt his hat sliding off as they pulled him from the chair and restrained an impulse to grab at it. One of the gals picked it up and dropped it on his stomach as he was carried out of the room to a smattering of applause.
He was more successful at being dead than he’d ever been at being alive. Ironic, but there you had it.
In the back room, which was half broom closet, half dressing room, they laid him down on the cot where he’d been sleeping nights. He sat up and then got to his feet, dusting off his clothes. Joe gave him a grin.
“Good show, James. Like always.”
“Thanks.”
They left him alone to change. There’d been some argument about that, James quite naturally wanting to continue wearing his own clothes. Mike, the manager, wouldn’t have it. Said it would destroy the illusion of the show. As if the crowd actually believed they’d seen Wild Bill Hickok shot.
James snorted. Well, they had—better than they knew—but not even Mike was aware of that.
He’d gone about the town a little in the last couple of mornings, and been astonished at the numerous tributes to himself—st
atues, courtyards, memorials. It seemed that whole town existed for the sole purpose of glorifying his ignominious death in the dirty, scurrilous mining camp that it had once been.
He had honored Mike’s desires and bought himself a pair of jeans and a modern shirt to wear between shows, and a coat for going outside. Not one of the puffy feather-mattress coats—those were expensive, he’d found out—just a nice heavy cloth coat to keep off the chill. He’d admired a sheepskin jacket at the clothing store, but that had cost even more than the featherbed ones.
He changed into the jeans and shirt and then put his own boots back on. He drew the line at pulling his hair into a braid or a pigtail like Mike wanted. All his life he’d worn it loose across his shoulders, and that wasn’t about to change.
A knock fell on the door and it opened. Mike stepped in, closing it behind him. He was a big blustery fellow, kept a tight rein on operations at the saloon and enjoyed the hell out of stepping into the show if someone should happen to be absent. He grinned at James and held out a long, white envelope.
“Here you go, Jim. Good job tonight.”
James ignored the misuse of his name and glanced through the money in the envelope. Mike had wanted to pay him with a bank cheque, but James had convinced him to pay cash on account of he was working temporary.
“Goodly crowd tonight,” James said, stuffing the money in the tight pocket of his jeans.
“Yeah, especially for a Thursday. It’s the nice weather, brought some weekenders out for the end of the season.”
James nodded. He’d figured out the crowds, even in just the couple of days he’d been working. In the afternoon it was mostly kids and their folks, in the evenings fellas with their gals, groups of boys looking for a game or a fight, and groups of gals looking for the boys. Tonight’s crowd had been the biggest he’d seen.
He picked up his clothes, folded them, and put them along with his hat in the bag from the shop where he’d bought the new outfit, then put on his coat. “Good night, Mr. Shelley.”
“Night then,” said Mike, stepping backward and opening the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“So you shall.”
James walked out and headed straight for the bar. Jenny, the gal who’d given him a free whiskey on that first night, set a full glass before him without his asking. He put the money for it on the bar, but she pushed it back at him.
