The Angry Ghost and Other Stories Page 11

  “AD?”

  “After demise,” I said.

  “Oh,” Linus nodded.

  Just then Frank’s love song ended and Lucy guided a seriously unfocussed Frank towards the seats.

  “You both looked good out there,” I said.

  Lucy gave me one of those stares that only a woman can project. It was one of those mute admonishments which said much. Though somehow, I felt she hadn’t found it as bad as she was making out.

  By this time, I too had imbibed enough to smile at Lucy’s stares.

  Frank sat and stared at Linus. Despite his wasted state, I was impressed with his sudden intuitive empathy. “Just go with it, Linus. It is not easy – to begin… with.” He hiccupped.

  Lucy was clearly impressed too for she leaned over and kissed Frank on his bony forehead.

  Just then the lights came up and the music stopped. We blinked in the new, austere ambience before Big Bob appeared in the middle of the dance floor.

  Chapter 5: Awards

  “Well, happy Hallowe’en to each and every one of you!” Big Bob shouted.

  The crowd cheered.

  “I’d like to welcome the zombies, ghosts, skeletons and corpses. I would also like to welcome the werewolves, Freddie Kruegers, blood-covered doctors and nurses and even the clowns – though I think you guys might be at the wrong venue.”

  There was laughter and applause.

  Lucy looked over at me. “I told you clowns shouldn’t be here.”

  “Well, let’s get to it,” Big Bob said opening a big golden envelope.

  There was a loud cheer from the audience.

  “In third place… blood-covered doctors and nurses. I certainly wouldn’t want you people operating on me – though some of you nurses look strangely gorgeous!”

  There was more laughter.

  Several blood-splattered people walked up onto the floor to receive their prize of a crate of beer.

  “In second place… the bald-headed devils and… what was that?… You’re wraiths? … Okay. They are wraiths… Are wraiths normally bald?” he asked someone offstage.

  “Anyway, you look horrifically gruesome enough to take home Big Bob’s Hallowe’en second prize of two crates of beer.”

  There were more cheers and applause.

  I noticed Big Malik join Big Bob.

  “And lastly… Yes, you’ve guessed it… I don’t know how they do it but they’ve done it again. Top prize goes once again to the walking dead down there in the front row. As usual, the level of detail to your costumes is unbelievable and as for the neat trick with the fake knife removal earlier on the dance floor – well, that was a real showstopper. However, the trophy goes to…” He looked around at us.

  “Hey, you…” he said pointing.

  I looked around.

  “What’s your name?” Big Bob said.

  “Erh… Linus… I’m Linus…”

  “Well, Linus. Other than your stunning costume, it’s your amazing ability to stay in character and drag that leg of yours around all evening – looks like it’s broken in a dozen places! Well, it earns your team the first place in this year’s ‘Big Bob’s Hallowe’en Cup’ and three crates of beer.”

  We all wandered up and Linus picked up the cup from Big Bob.

  It was so good to see Linus smiling.

  He looked over. “I still regret the truck hitting me thing.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Alice once said to me shortly after I died, ‘The past has gone; enjoy the now’.”

  Chapter 6: Rest

  The music was no more and so our little troupe and others left the venue.

  As we left we located Big Malik. “Take care of the beer, won’t you… again? … We’re really not that bothered,” Lucy said.

  I often wondered if Big Malik might have some say in the winning entry as he clearly did well from our win.

  “Thanks, Lucy. Hope to see you all again next year,” he shouted over as we left and walked away.

  I looked over at Linus. “That’s a nice cup. What are you going to do with it?”

  “I guess there’s plenty of room in the grave.”

  We wandered back down the road until the cemetery gates hove into view.

  “It’s been a great evening,” I said. The others nodded and smiled. Then after a rather profound farewell, Lucy and Frank sauntered back to their graves – they appeared to spend a moment or two together before they disappeared to their places of rest.

  Linus and I stood alone and found ourselves gazing up at the stars.

  “Give it a year or two,” I said quietly, attempting some support.

  “It has been an enjoyable evening,” Linus said finally. His smile looked genuine.

  “That’s good,” I said aware that I was now alone and without the support of my friends.

  Just then I noticed Lucy rise and walk over to Frank’s marker. She pushed it to one side and lowered herself down under it. Then she slid it over her.

  Fuck me, I thought. They’re an item!

  It was then that it occurred to me that perhaps I was spending too much time in Lucy’s company.

  A Dog Needs His Walk

  Scene 1: An Early Morning

  My wife called out to me as I manoeuvred myself gingerly into an old pair of gardening trousers and two thick sweaters. I really felt the cold nowadays.

  It wasn’t always so.

  I remember spending most of my younger years in shorts and a T-shirt and barefoot.

  Gently I persuaded my ageing body to carefully descend the stairs – how many times had we discussed buying a bungalow? Simple things that I once gave no thought to were now challenges that required every ounce of strength and concentration. My vision wasn’t very good and I couldn’t hear too well, but at eighty-nine I guessed I was doing rather well even though the last of my all too regular visits to the doctors had indicated my progressive dementia as cause for some concern. This surprised me as I have never felt confused or befuddled; just found it hard to remember recent things, although my long-term memory was apparently fine.

  I heard my wife’s voice again. “Have you got the shopping list, and the mobile phone?”

  “Yes… yes and I’ll be careful,” I pre-empted, putting the list into my coat pocket. It was easier on my pride to simply agree rather than telling her that I did not know how to use the mobile phone as it didn’t seem to have any numbers on it. I suspected that to get at the keys I would have to push, pull or twist something to allow a cover or flap to slip, slide or flip away. If that was the case then I haven’t, as yet, found the elusive catch. But since it was given to me by my grandchild ‘in case I needed it’, I always felt it was more useful to keep it with me rather than try to use it for some practical purpose. I thought of it more as a lucky charm than a useful device.

  I stood in the doorway wearing a thick overcoat, over-leggings and wellington boots. I had on thick gloves and a woolly hat. The only thing that would have singled me out from Scott’s team to Antarctica was the exceptionally worn dog lead in my hand.

  Ben’s lead.

  I looked out with some despair through the window. Despite the darkness, I could see from the downward glare of a streetlamp, large snowflakes adding to the already white pavement. It would be a while before these dark December mornings became slightly less dark January ones.

  My wife called out again, “It won’t be so bad, love, once it’s lighter.”

  Lighter, darker, I just wanted my warm bed, I thought.

  Still, I had some shopping to get – as usual. We needed milk, eggs and bread from Mr Singh’s little shop nearby.

  But first, a certain ‘man’s best friend’ needed his walk.

  I mentally went through my list; something my wife always told me to do many years ago. I had my glasses; I wasn’t sure w
hy I included them in my mental check for if they weren’t perched on the end of my nose, I would not have been able to see my list! House keys, check; mobile phone – what use it was – check; medication prescription – check; money for the groceries – check; shopping list – check and Ben’s lead, check.

  All set.

  I opened the door to leave and called over my shoulder as I always do, “Won’t be gone long, love – see you soon.”

  Walking along the path I spied my neighbour, Mr Johnson, looking sadly at me. He always looked sad and I wondered what his problem was. I remembered his wife getting treatment for cancer some time ago. I hoped she was okay. It reminded me of my own wife’s battle with the same illness several months ago, and she’s still with me.

  And so, with a feeling of meeting the ultimate challenge and with as much testosterone as my ancient body could muster, I proceeded with assured manliness to what should probably have been a sledge and team of huskies – but was, actually, a Ford Mondeo.

  Scene 2: The Field

  Twenty minutes later I was in the field and Ben, our beloved border collie, was chasing a stick I had risked shoulder dislocation to deliver.

  Ben was a lovely dog; he was black and white, had a great temperament and the sweetest face imaginable. He would look at you so intently as you prepared to swing your arm back and throw the stick as far as possible.

  Sadly, that distance wasn’t what it once was, but Ben didn’t seem to mind. I had found an underarm throw was far more sympathetic on the joints than the once skyward-producing overthrow I used to administer. This seemed the key to getting old; generally trying to keep to the same things but approaching them differently to accommodate a body and mind different from those one once had.

  Ben was now biting the hell out of the stick and shaking it about his head, all the while barking and jumping before returning it to me.

  It was a little lighter now and I could see the once starry blackness above was giving way to a dark and then lighter blue until, as far as my squinting eyes could tell, an orange corona lay across the horizon.

  Once the lethargy had left the body, this was a great time in the day. The world seemed devoid of poverty, Third World debt, starvation, terrorism – and dementia. This was a field full of simple joys, although inwardly I still felt the warm bed had the edge.

  I took my eyes off Ben and marched on, walking stick in one hand and swinging the dog lead in circles as I have always done, in the other.

  I returned my gaze to the ever-moving patch of ground a couple of feet or so in front of me. There were so many molehills and holes that, I guessed, some furry creature had created that it took every effort to avoid them. The number of times my ankle had twisted on to its side made me wonder if it would have been better if God had given us ball joints for ankles.

  I looked up – but no Ben.

  As usual I felt a moment’s anxiety. I figured that it was probably better I keep my eyes on the lookout for holes and other stumbling obstacles and temporarily lose Ben rather than keeping my eyes on my dog and finding myself prostrate with a broken ankle.

  In my mind’s eye I envisaged the customary ‘man walking his dog’ who always finds the dead bodies, looking down at my corpse and saying to himself, ‘Poor bugger; he’s still gripping his mobile phone, and what’s that he’s scrawled in the dirt? Looks like how do you work this bloody thing!’

  I smiled to myself and turned a full three-sixty degrees. There was Ben now, just visible in the mist that hung a couple of feet above the field. He looked wraith-like as, in and out of view, he chased the magpies. He appeared to hover above the ground as he ran, his body moving like a thoroughbred. His mouth was open, his tongue lolling and he looked so happy. The fact that not only were the birds several yards in front of him, but also several yards above him, didn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm.

  My eyes welled up for a moment. God, I loved that dog. It was at times like this that I felt I’d be happy if these moments never ended. But of course, one day they would – dogs don’t live forever…

  I stopped my train of thought suddenly. It was not a subject I would entertain, and had always denied it would ever happen. Without Ben, I didn’t know what I would do. I sometimes had the strangest of feelings that he was all I had.

  I looked again at Ben pelting up and down the field. There were a few deer around and they used to run and bound away but strangely they no longer seemed afraid. I guessed they were probably used to him by now and no longer saw him as a threat.

  I smiled again. A dog’s face is so open to different expressions. We used to have a couple of cats but whether they were happy, sad, scared, hungry, or vaguely ambivalent, their faces remained the same. But Ben definitely and without doubt looked happy or sad or worried.

  Though I gave the appearance to my wife of grudging toleration towards these walks with Ben, deep down I would not have had it any other way. There is a closeness; maybe a respect or simply a love – I don’t know – that exists between a dog and his master and I can understand why we humanise man’s best friend and never want them to leave.

  For the umpteenth time, I moved my walking stick to my lead hand and slowly bent to pick up a saliva-coated stick – and suddenly Ben stopped in his tracks.

  Where would I throw it? To the right? To the left? Behind me?

  My accuracy nowadays was such that Ben probably had a better idea than I did as to where the hell it would finally end up. Ben was so focussed, staring fixedly at my hand. I signalled a throw to the right and then the left and then threw it to the right. He ran after it like his life depended on it, and as if it was the first time that I had ever thrown it. He was so happy and again I envied him his happiness in such a simple activity. One would think he would get bored doing the same thing every day, month after month, year after year.

  Scene 3: The Stone

  How many times in how many years had I watched Ben chasing after his sticks in this field? I’d lost track but I knew in my mind that I never wanted it to end.

  Finally, I had completed the walk around the field and I waited for Ben to come to me. He always seemed to drag this moment out as I was certain he knew the fun was coming to an end until next time.

  Eventually he came over and jumped up at me, panting from his exertion. I put out my arm for him to rest his front paws up on and stroked his head and the long curly fur along his back. He looked up with his clear brown eyes, so full of trust, right into my own, once clear and brown but now, the colour of used washing-up water.

  I was surprised how little snow there was on Ben’s back – my shoulders had an inch or so on them.

  I headed into the nearby copse beside the field. Gradually, over the years, Ben and I had worn a path through the foliage.

  I stopped at a small area with overhanging willow branches and a stream that flowed gently past. On a misty morning, the sunlight would diffuse through the moving branches creating dancing shadows.

  Then I stopped and found myself looking down at a large, flat stone.

  I carefully knelt and wiped the snow from its face.

  Some of the markings I had scratched into the stone all those years ago, with an old chisel, were now worn away but some were still visible. I couldn’t remember quite what I had written or why I had put the stone there, but felt it had been important to me. I could just make out Beloved Pet, 1991 – 2005 and – ironically – never forget.

  Curiously, it also had Ben’s name on it though I couldn’t think why. I looked over at my dog sniffing a small shrub and then urinating on it.

  I laid Ben’s stick on the flat stone, as I had always done and, with some difficulty, got to my feet.

  I then turned from the stone and with my walking stick in one hand and swinging Ben’s worn lead in the other, headed back to my Mondeo and on to Mr Singh’s store for something. I wished I’d made a list, but never mind. The sho
p had been open a while now and, despite the early hour, it would probably be busy, but as my dear departed wife used to say – a dog needs his walk.

  In Memoriam to Ben, Dougal, Geordie, and all other pets that we have loved and lost – and will never forget.

  Back for Him

  Scene 1: A Break

  I looked up at the crumbling edifice before me; one hundred years of salt spray had given the brickwork of the old lifeboat station a mottled and diseased appearance. An air of decay hung about the two-storey building from the rotting roof timbers down to the rusting metal railings that accompanied the concrete slope and further to an encroaching sea.

  I sighed and decided that the old barn in Cumbria may have been the better option – despite the protestations of my grandfather. But this was to be his holiday – a break from his life’s hustle bustle of frantic blandness and mediocrity.

  The doctor had simply stipulated somewhere quiet and peaceful – a place devoid of tension and anxiety to counter my grandfather’s rapidly encroaching dementia, and a place once held dear to my grandfather would be perfect… I was assured.

  I had seen sepia-toned pictures of a lifeboat station in my grandfather’s photo collection and after further research found the location of said pictures.

  Potentially, it appeared quite pleasant as the thought of sitting on its balcony overlooking the Atlantic from a quiet and idyllic north Cornwall bay did indeed sound nice.

  But once again I compared the sepia picture in my hand to what I saw before me.

  It has certainly not been looked after, I thought.

  Scene 2: The Lifeboat Station

  I unlocked the doors and we entered a large room. It was cold and I had a strong impression that the salty air was infused into the walls such was the damp smell.

  There was an austere simplicity to its decor but I guessed I should not be surprised as it had once held a very practical purpose. I was surprised, however, how little had been modernised.