An Irish Heart

by C M Blackwood

  He winced, said “Ow,” and then pinched me.

  ***

  “Look at this,” Abbaline said to me. “I’ve finished the pamphlet.”

  “Have you really?”

  “No, I just said it so that you’d think you were about to see it. Don’t you think I could have come up with a better joke than that?”

  “I’m not quite sure.”

  “Well, fine, if you don’t want to see it.”

  “I was only kidding. Of course I want to see it.”

  “Now I regret putting your name on it.”

  “You put my name on it?”

  “Myrne’s too.”

  “Let me see,” I said, snatching the paper from her hands. I looked down at the pamphlet, which read:

  THE REBELS STILL LIVE – AND THEY WILL RISE.

  MAKE WAY FOR THE MEMBERS OF THE NEW PARTY:

  ABBALINE ELSON, WALTER STUBBINS, THOMAS JENSON,

  SAMUEL ROSE, KATHARINE O’BRIEN & MATTHEW MYRNE.

  STEP ASIDE, GENTLEMEN OF THIS REPRESSIVE ORDER.

  WE WILL RISE.

  I read it twice, lingering on the name “Walter Stubbins.”

  “Who’s Walter?” I asked.

  “That’s Blackie.”

  I snickered.

  “Whatever you do, you had better not let Blackie hear you laughing like that.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “It’s very nice.”

  “Nice?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I looked down at it again. “Just one question, though. Is it really a good idea to put our names on it like that?”

  “Whatever do you mean? You’ve already gone to prison! I think that you’ve been on the naughty list for some time now.”

  “Well, why are only our names on it? What about all those others who come to call?”

  “It’s the flyer for our base,” Abbaline answered. “All the others have their own.”

  “We have a base?”

  “What do you think this is?”

  “A house?”

  “A house that serves as our base.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Abbaline sighed. “You still don’t grasp the enormity of this, do you, Kate?”

  “Would you be angry if I said that I didn’t?”

  “No, I suppose not. I’ll leave your name on, anyway. I’ll take all that I can get.”

  “Well, I won’t object.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “I object.”

  She did a quick double-take. “What?”

  “I just wanted to see what you’d say. I don’t really object.”

  Abbaline put a hand to her head.

  ***

  I was living something of a ghost’s life. I saw everything, I heard everything – but I could not touch anything. Whenever I reached out to shake a hand; whenever I pretended to laugh at someone’s joke; whenever I feigned interest in someone’s story.

  I could not feel any of it. It was as though I was still lying on the floor of that cell, indifferent and secluded in a world of my own making. It was as though I was still lying in that hospital bed, oblivious to the fact that a cold-blooded turncoat was tending my wounds. It was as though I was still lying in that bookshop – the same place where my dear friend Tyler Ashley had fallen for the last time.

  “You know what’s funny?” Myrne said to me one day. “Sometimes, when you’re talking to me, you really seem to mean what you’re saying. But most of the time you don’t.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Then why did you bring it up?”

  “To see if you had anything to tell me.”

  Myrne was the only one who could really make me laugh – but he was not much of a philosopher.

  So I asked Abbaline.

  “What do you do,” I began, “when nothing means anything?”

  It was not often when the woman seemed at a loss for words, but she certainly did at that moment.

  “Does everything mean nothing to you?” she asked.

  “That’s not exactly what I said.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, it is – and if you keep arguing with me about semantics, then this conversation is over.”

  “All right.”

  She studied me for a few moments, obviously trying to decide what to say next.

  “I don’t believe that that’s true,” she said eventually.

  “What?”

  “That nothing means anything to you.”

  “It sounds much less likely to be true when someone else says it like that – but it really doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not. I was only asking you what you would do about it, were it true for you.”

  “How logical of you.”

  “That’s all that’s left to be.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know what that means, Kate.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “If I don’t know what it means, then how can I help you?”

  I frowned. “I suppose you’re right. I should never have asked; it’s too much to expect that someone else would understand what I am.”

  She looked genuinely confused, now. “What are you, Kate?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. But then I thought of what Myrne had said to me, and I added, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “How could I possibly tell you something like that?”

  I nodded. “Like I said, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Now I was confused. “What good did it do, if you can’t tell me?”

  “Only you know what you are, Kate. I can tell you what I see, what I think you are from what I’ve seen. But only you know the full truth of it.” She paused. “That’s the way it is for everyone.”

  I nodded once more, and turned to go. I issued a quiet “thank you” in the direction of the wall.

  “That’s it?” Abbaline asked.

  “That’s it,” I replied.

  Chapter 36

  I heard a strange banging and clanging somewhere above my head. I looked up immediately, as though expecting to be able to see directly through the ceiling to the source of the noise.

  It was coming – I was quite certain – from the attic.

  I got out of bed, with Dolly on my heels, and went out into the hall, going straight to the stairs and climbing up to the third floor. I undid the tiny staircase in the ceiling, just as quietly as I could, so as not to wake any of the fellows asleep in the surrounding rooms; and then went up to the attic, no longer fearful of what I might find there.

  It looked, quite naturally, the same as it had before – empty, excluding the large desk. I went to the desk, and was both unsurprised and unperturbed to find that it was still covered with papers, and free of dust. A candle still stood on its corner.

  Dolly quite startled me as she began to bark, her body pointing stiffly towards the opposite end of the room. When she finally stopped, and settled for a low growl cast in the same direction, I heard that sound again – but somewhat softer now. It was the sound of connecting metal, of one piece hitting another.

  “Is someone there?”

  There was no reply; but I did hear another repetition of clanking.

  “If there’s someone there, just say so.”

  “There is.”

  Dolly began to bark again.

  As unconcerned as I thought I had been; as far from frightened as I could have sworn I was, that voice still scared the living wits out of me.

  I suppose I had thought that it was all in my imagination to begin with.

  But the very real and unimagined voice came from the darkest corner of the attic, a place shrouded in shadows and invisibility. It was the sa
me place I had hidden on my first night in the house, as I waited for something to come up the stairs and find me.

  I wondered if this was the same person I had feared that night.

  “Who are you?” I asked, remaining at my place beside the desk. Most of the room was at least partially visible in the white light that streamed in faintly through the window; but that one corner was completely covered, totally taken by darkness.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  I was frightened just as badly this time, as I had been the first time, by the voice. It was not so much a surprise, now, as it was a reminder that I was not alone in the attic. It was a man’s voice, deep and stern. Yet I stilled my trembling hands and decided that, if he had meant me any harm, he would have rushed already out of the darkness.

  “Curiosity, I suppose,” said I, attempting to sound indifferent. The truth was that I was curious; but the lie was that I was not feeling altogether indifferent about it.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” said the man. “Or, in this case, the dog. Won’t you shut that thing up?”

  “Not sure how.”

  “A lot of good you are, then!”

  “Are you going to come out of that corner?” I asked, trying to peer through the darkness.

  “I suppose,” he said. “After all, it’s been over a hundred years since anyone’s seen me. It would at least be something new.”

  I heard again the clink of metal, and awaited with captive breath the appearance of the owner of the deep, stern voice.

  Out of the corner stepped a tall, brawny man, with shoulder-length black hair, a thick beard and a moustache. He wore black trousers, heavy boots, and a chest full of chain mail. He held a heavy-looking metal helmet in his right hand; he dropped it to the floor, and kicked it over to me.

  The same, obnoxious sound which I had heard downstairs.

  Dolly fell to whining, and scampered behind me.

  “Why were you making so much noise?” I asked him.

  “I get angry sometimes,” he said. “I get tired of living – or dying, rather – in this house. I want to leave. I want to find out what else there is to see, for those like me.”

  The question I had been going to ask, before he said that, was why he was in the house to begin with. But now I had a different question.

  “Are you a ghost?”

  “If that’s what you want to call me.”

  I felt my sanity slipping slowly through the cracks in the floorboards.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I already told you. Over a hundred years.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. When I opened them, I expected the man to be gone; but he stood there still, chain mail and all. I picked up the helmet, and turned it over in my hands, feeling the weight of it.

  There was no denying that it was real.

  “Is that why you were kicking this? Because you wanted someone to hear you?”

  “I’ve been kicking that helmet about since 1808,” he replied coolly. “You’re the first to have heard it.”

  “Surely not. It was loud enough to wake the dead.” I set down the helmet. “Excuse my phrasing.”

  “What do I care? I’ve been dead longer than I was alive. I’ve gotten used to it.”

  I stared at him for a long while. Finally I asked, “Can I touch you?”

  “Why should I let you?”

  “To convince me.”

  “I beg your pardon, dear lady, but I care hardly at all to convince you of anything.”

  “But aren’t you lonely?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  He sighed in frustration. “I really don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t give a fig what you think. I didn’t have to give a fig what anyone thought, before you decided to come up here and harass me.”

  I shrugged. “You needn’t talk to me, if you really don’t want to. But I know that I would be lonely, if I had been here all alone since 1808.”

  I took a very long moment, to try and grasp the sheer magnitude of that statement.

  And I took another to try and grasp the magnitude of my insanity. I had felt it coming on for some time – but I had not thought that it would result in anything like this.

  “Well,” said the bearded ghost, “I suppose that we’re very different, then.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He seemed to be scrutinising me, as though I were the oddity of the situation.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “I suppose there must be something different about you; but I’m not sure what it is. There have been a lot of people in this house over the years. You’re the first I’ve ever talked to!” He squinted at me. “But I don’t see anything special about you.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  “I didn’t mean it that –”

  “Oh, what do I care what way you meant it? You’re dead, for goodness’ sake! No one cares what you think anymore.”

  He hung his head, and I felt immediate remorse for my words.

  “Oh, come now,” I said. “Don’t take offence. After all, I thought you didn’t care what I thought?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why do you look so sad?”

  “You would be sad, too, if you were dead.”

  I stood silently, then, glancing back and forth from the window, to the man. I looked out into the night, at the stars and the moon – which were, obviously, quite real. Then I looked at the man, who looked nothing at all like a ghost. He looked, I think, the same as he would have looked were he alive. Unless he was alive. But why would he make up such a thing?

  I walked over to him, and poked him in the chest. I immediately pulled back, though, my finger made sore by his chain mail.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked, backing away indignantly.

  I glared at him. “You’re not a ghost.”

  “What are you talking about? Don’t you think I would know?”

  I rubbed my finger. “If you were a ghost, that wouldn’t have hurt.”

  “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  I poked him again – but this time in the shoulder. All I felt was the cloth of his shirt, the solid muscle underneath.

  “Would you stop it with that?”

  I stood back to appraise him.

  “You’re making me nervous,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

  “You said you can’t leave the house, anyway. How far are you going to get?”

  He scowled – and then disappeared.

  I felt a bit faint.

  “Wait!” I called, running for the stairs. (I had to pause for a moment to call to Dolly, who was still cowering by the desk). I ran down the third storey hallway, looking for that black-bearded fellow; but he was not to be seen.

  “Where are you?” I called, making my way down to the second storey.

  But he was not there, either.

  “Come back,” I said; this time a little desperately.

  “What do you want?”

  I almost screamed. He had appeared behind me, without my notice.

  “I want to know if you’re real.”

  He sighed. “I am real, just as you are real. But if you want me to tell you why you can see me – well, that part I don’t know.”

  “You’re telling me that no one, absolutely no one has ever seen you?”

  “No one. There were perhaps two people over the years, who I think could sense me more than the others; but that was all. I’ve not spoken to anyone since I died.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you will, madam. That is none of my concern.”

  “Will you come with me for a moment?” I asked.

  “Where?”

  “Just come here, will you?”

  He followed me reluctantly, as I went down the hall to Myrne’s bedroom door. I did not even knock, before passing inside.

  The lamp by the bed sti
ll burned. Myrne slept propped up by pillows, a book lying open on his stomach.

  “Myrne!” I shouted.

  He bounced up off the bed like a spring, his book falling to the floor. “What is the matter with you?” he asked.

  “I just want to ask you something.”

  “Well, get on with it, so I can go back to sleep.”

  I looked at the metal-vested man beside me; then I looked at Myrne.

  “Do you see anyone else?” I asked.

  He rubbed at his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you see anyone next to me?”

  “No, you lunatic. I only see you.” He flopped back onto the bed. “Obviously.”

  “Thank you,” I said, backing out of the room.

  When I had closed the door behind me, I turned again to the bearded man. “What’s your name?”

  “Platt. Ian Platt.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Forty-two – technically.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Myrne called.

  “Do you hear him?” I asked excitedly.

  “I only hear you! Now go away!”

  I walked away from his door, chasing the ghost who was heading back down the hallway.

  “Where are you going?” I asked him.

  “Away from you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll have to excuse me, but things were much quieter before I met you.”

  I had to put in a bit of effort to keep up with him. Apparently, dead people move much more quickly than live ones.

  “Was that you?” I asked. “The first time I came here?”

  He nodded. “I saw you that night.”

  “I thought you were a criminal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, not you personally. I just saw the lights, and I thought . . . Oh, I don’t know what I thought. I must have stood in the attic for an hour, though, waiting for someone to find me.”

  “Why did you think someone would find you?”

  “The candle.”

  “Oh. That. It was so dark up there, and you were being so nosey, I thought I’d give you a little light – the better to snoop.”

  “But I didn’t see you light it.”

  “I needn’t touch the candle to light the wick.”

  “Really?”

  He did not answer.

  “What were all those papers on the desk?”

  “I sit there sometimes,” he said. “I like to write.”