The Low Road

by Eleanor Harkstead

  Except Alex didn’t go home. He went into the florists’ around the corner from his office and chose a bunch of bright pink lilies, then headed off to Gallows Hill.

  He had to say goodbye. He couldn’t go on like this, dating a dead man in his car for brief, snatched moments. Whether he had imagined Joe or whether he really was a ghost, they couldn’t be together. There was no future for them, because there had been none for Joe—he was trapped forever in a few minutes of a rainy late August night in 1976.

  Alex would go to the church and he’d find Joe’s grave. He’d lay the lilies there and wish Joe peace and wish him rest, away from Gallows Hill. Even if it meant he would never see him again.

  Alex slowed at the crossroads, checking for traffic, then pulled out. He swerved to avoid a dog that was ambling across the road, a huge creature with enormous red eyes and a dark shaggy coat.

  Only once it was too late did Alex see the huge metal grille on the front of the lorry and hear the blast of its horn. It rammed the side of his car, and like a ride at the fair running in slow motion, the car spun in a circle across the verge. The lilies came loose from their cellophane, filling the car with splashes of pink. And as the radio played a pop song, and the large old oak grew ever closer, Joe appeared in the passenger seat, his hand held out towards Alex and a smile on his face.

  * * * *

  Alex blinked against the bright white light.

  So this is heaven, then.

  It had to be, because Joe was standing there, and they weren’t on the road anymore. Joe’s anorak was gone now. His hair was no longer damp. He held Alex’s hand in his own, and it was warm. Alex’s father would be here in heaven too, and he glanced at the figure who was standing on the other side of his bed.

  My bed.

  Alex noticed then the strong, sharp scent of antiseptic and the pain in his chest as he moved. This wasn’t heaven—he was in a hospital. The blue uniform of a nurse was immediately to his left, but as the nurse stepped aside, Alex saw his mother. And her boyfriend.

  And Joe.

  Who was as solid as the curtain behind him and the jug on the bedside table, as real as the pain in Alex’s chest and the drip in the back of his hand.

  “He’s come round!” Joe smiled.

  Alex’s mother reached across the bed to pat Joe’s arm, then wrapped her arms around Alex.

  The nurse laughed. “Careful now, he’ll still be sore. Broken ribs aren’t much fun.”

  Alex’s mother relinquished him, stroking the hair from Alex’s face instead.

  Alex winced as he tried to take a breath. “What…what happened?”

  “You were in an accident,” Joe told him. His voice was just the same as Alex remembered, and Alex gazed at him, then down at their linked hands, not understanding anything at all. “But you’re okay. Apart from the bruises and the broken ribs! And some cuts, but they’ve bandaged you up. You’ll be fine.”

  “Your friend Joe was in the car with you,” Alex’s mother explained. “You were hit by a lorry, then crashed into a tree. Headfirst! We’re lucky we didn’t lose you. The driver’s side hit the tree, but not the passenger side. Joe’s unscathed.”

  “I saw a dog. In the road,” Alex told them. “I swerved… Did anyone find the dog?”

  “No,” Joe told him. “But don’t you lie here worrying about the dog. I’m sure it’s okay.”

  Alex’s mother beckoned to her boyfriend. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing David along. He wanted to come to see you, didn’t you, David?”

  Hesitant, David took Alex’s other hand.

  “Doesn’t seem real. I was in an accident at the exact same spot years ago. Picked up a hitch-hiker in the rain, minutes later—doesn’t bear thinking about.” David swallowed. He glanced across the bed at Joe. “The hitch-hiker was a young man—you remind me of him, actually. I’ve never forgotten his face. You see, he—he didn’t…he didn’t make it to hospital. I’ve felt guilty about it every day since.”

  “You mustn’t feel guilty.” Joe’s voice was soft with forgiveness. “It wasn’t your fault. That road’s dangerous in the rain. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  David nodded to Joe. “Thanks—that means a lot.”

  Alex struggled for breath again, and managed to say, “Could you give me and Joe a second?”

  His mother fussed over Alex’s blankets as if she was tucking him into bed for the night. In the least subtle stage whisper ever heard, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a young man? Joe’s lovely! He hasn’t left your side for a moment!”

  “We haven’t known each other very long,” Joe admitted. “But I’d do anything for Alex.”

  Even breach the divide between the living and the dead.

  Alex’s mother slipped out through the curtains along with David and the nurse. Alex was left alone with the ghost.

  Who wasn’t a ghost. Not anymore.

  “You died, Joe,” Alex murmured. “Forty years ago. How…how can you be here?”

  Joe perched on the edge of the bed. Alex felt the weight on the mattress—Joe was real. Definitely real.

  “I don’t know myself. I was in the car with you and you hit the lorry, and I saw the tree come closer, and I remembered—I remembered that rainy night when I’d seen it all before, and it was only then that I knew…” Joe glanced over towards the curtains around the bed, then turned back to Alex, his voice hushed to a whisper. “I was a ghost. I hadn’t realised until then. All those years, sitting in people’s cars, heading up the hill to go into town, and I’d only end up at the bottom again in the rain. I had no idea that I’d died. Isn’t that strange?”

  It certainly wasn’t the only strange thing going on, but Alex smiled at Joe to continue. Joe twined his warm fingers more tightly with Alex’s.

  “And I knew, Alex, in an instant, I knew that you were going to die. And I held your hand and I thought, It won’t be so lonely out here if you’re with me. But you didn’t die. And now… Now I can live.”

  “Things like this don’t—can’t happen.” Alex stared at Joe in his long-collared 1970s shirt, his large blue eyes fathomless and calm. “But you got a second chance. And so did I.”

  “I know. I’m not taking this for granted. None of it. And to be honest, I’m just as surprised as you are. I don’t understand it—I don’t think I ever will.” Joe laughed and ruffled Alex’s hair. With a smile that Alex felt against his skin like the warmth of the sun, Joe added, “But at least you can take me for that drink now!”

  Want to see more from this author? Here’s a taster for you to enjoy!

  The Captain’s Flirty Fireworks

  Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead

  Excerpt

  When Rob Monteagle pushed open the door of the King’s Head, he walked into a lull in the conversation. He’d only recently moved to Longley Magna, and it seemed that the locals of the South Downs village were still getting the measure of him.

  Rob nodded and gave a small wave to the other drinkers, and once they seemed satisfied that they knew who he was—a rather loud stage whisper from someone in the pub of “He’s that new fireman!” helped—they went back to their Saturday night conversations.

  He ordered a pint of the local ale and leaned back against the old bar, wondering how to strike up a conversation—wondering who would want him to. Everyone seemed settled in their own little groups, and when Rob had attempted to join in on his last visit to the pub, he’d received a jovial barrage of remarks about helmets and hoses. Still, he had to try.

  Before Rob had a chance to move, the pub door swung open, admitting a blast of cold November air to the busy taproom. It admitted a man too, and the very sight of him sent a frisson through Rob just as it did every time he caught a glimpse of the stranger, who was usually to be seen on horseback.

  Tonight, though, he was on his own two feet and his handsome face was lit by a smile brighter than any fire. He stood just inside the pub doorway and called to the assembled drinkers, “I need a h
ero who doesn’t mind heights, at the double!”

  Rob put his pint down on the bar. Now here was an opportunity to be useful to the community and—well, he had to be honest, the bloke was gorgeous.

  “I don’t know about a hero, but I’m not scared of heights. Been up a fair few ladders in my time!” He crossed the room and smiled into the man’s sparkling dark eyes. “I’m Rob, the new fire officer at Longley Magna station—don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  “Ollie, and you look just like the hero I need,” the man told him. He took Rob’s hand and shook it, the dark green waxed jacket he wore rustling as he did. And jodhpurs, Rob noticed, though he tried hard not to. Why did this handsome man named Ollie always have to be in jodhpurs? “Terrified of heights, but always trying to save a damsel in distress—even if she does have a tail and whiskers!”

  “Is it Smudge again?” the landlord called. Ollie’s nod elicited a chorus of long-suffering groans from the drinkers. Then, still holding Rob’s hand, he towed him out into the late afternoon dusk.

  “There.” Ollie pointed to the oak in the middle of the village green, where a black and white cat was sitting quite contentedly among the boughs. At the foot of the tree was an elderly woman, a dish in her hands that was clearly intended to tempt the creature down. “Can you hop up the tree and do the necessary for Mrs. Cooper’s pride and joy?”

  “Don’t see why not!” Rob grinned.

  Easy-peasy.

  The old tree was a breeze to climb, with several low branches and thick bark that gave Rob purchase as he nimbly ascended the trunk. Once he was level with the cat, he sat astride the branch she had settled on and beckoned her.

  “Smudge? Hey there, madam. Would you mind climbing down now?”

  “Be careful!” Ollie called from where he had joined the lady with the dish. At the pub door drinkers gathered, watching the new firefighter save the day. The cat, meanwhile, began edging along the branch until she reached Rob. Then she nuzzled against him and let out a long, low purr.

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  About the Author

  Eleanor Harkstead likes to dash about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. Her large collection of vintage hats would rival Hedda Hopper’s.

  Originally from the south-east of England, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.

  Eleanor loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website details and author profile page at https://www.pride-publishing.com