In the Company of Ghosts

In the Company of Ghosts

The evening's guests have departed, the tables have been cleared, and the goblets and decorations have been put away for another year, as tradition demands.

My husband is already asleep upstairs, exhausted. Next to him, Theo, our infant son who has recently recovered from a very nasty fever, which left us frightened, drained and worried for the future. Nobody said this would be easy.

Tonight is Hallowe'en, the Feast of Samhain, and we will try to celebrate this special night as our ancestors once did. We don't go in much for the current trends - Fancy Dress and Trick or Treating, or drinking to excess in crowded basement bars. Instead, we crack nuts and dip for Apples, tell spooky stories and watch old horror films. Tom Cruise and the re-imagined version of "The Mummy" was tonight's movie of choice. I enjoyed it and, so far as I can tell, the others did too.

Tonight is special. I have always been utterly fascinated by the old Pagan rituals although, alas, so many of those traditions have simply faded into memory. In Victorian times, come Hallowe'en, a maiden in search of a husband would go into a small room with an apple and eat it in front of a large mirror. According to various sources (none of them at all scientific, I should point out) the reflected image of her suitor would appear beside her reflection, albeit briefly, so she would know who to look for when next she went a'Courting. Another tradition dating back to Georgian times, and perhaps beyond, was to dump a couple of Hazelnuts upon an open fire. If the nuts burned brightly then your suitor, your life partner, was faithful and true. He was a Keeper. However, if the nuts crackled and popped, and split open then your suitor, no matter his obvious qualities, was a liar and a cheat, a Blaggard who would steal your fortune and leave you destitute, perhaps at the mercy of the Parish. Hence, the old North East name for this celebration, Nut-Crackin' Night.

Earlier this evening, we built a small bonfire behind the walls of the Victorian Garden, hidden from view and out of sight of the locals. There, the celebrants, our invited guests, took turns jumping the flames Skyclad, which is to say, naked. My friends Maxine and Ben, Charlie and her friend, Drella, Charlie's mum, Yvonne, and my on-off-on friend, Alice, all jumped the flames in a ghostly procession of bare flesh and ghoulish laughter. Even Soovi, our uptight housekeeper, recently returned from her adventures abroad, dropped her inhibitions long enough to join in the fun. Alex and I jumped together, as a celebration. We have some good news. Theo will have a brother in the New Year.

Alas, that party has since dispersed and I am on my own, more or less.

The clock in the hallway strikes eleven.

It's time to begin.

Once the house is secure, I make my way to the Temple with my dog, Sam. He has been my constant companion on these adventures over many years although, sadly, age and infirmity have caught up with him. His health is failing and we both know that whatever comes after this life is poised, Stage Left, waiting to take him onwards, to the next Great Adventure. 

I look into his big, lustrous eyes and smile. "You are such a good boy..."

"I'm not dead yet," he seems to say. "Not by a country mile..."

"Good for you, old son," I whisper. "But please. Take it easy, will you? Don't go running downstairs at your age. You know it hurts."

As ever, Sam ignores me, curls up on his bed in the far corner of the room and licks whatever is left of his scrotum.

I love dogs. Really. I do. Always have. Always will.

A gloomy way to start a piece of erotica, perhaps? Yes, certainly, but here we are.

"There is more to life than Spanking the Monkey", as my English teacher, Mrs. Birkmire, used to say but then Maxine was always a little bit out there. A little bit left field, if you will.  With luck, she will put in an appearance once again this evening, ideally before the clock strikes thirteen and before we run out of gin.

I turn the key in the lock and check the door before walking slowly towards the fireplace. I touch the concealed buttons to the right of the heavy oak frame and the fire bursts into life. It's fake, obviously, but looks real enough for our purposes.

I light candles in the north, east, south and west, one for each station of the Cross. Whilst this is not a religious ceremony, I have learned that it pays to remember your manners. Don't understand? Don't worry. With luck, all will become clear.

I undress. Why? Largely to show that I have nothing to hide, that I carry no weapons nor hidden emblems nor the words to any of those forbidden incantations that might trap my unEarthly visitors within this domain and against their will. Again, this is about manners. Do the right thing. Say the right thing.

And, besides, going naked feels wonderfully honest. I bare my body as I would bare my soul.

The floor has already been prepared. A series of heavy blankets, cushions for my head, food for the soul and wine to mark the beginning and the end of the ceremony.

I catch my reflection in the windows and note the changes that have occurred since I last stood here in the warm embrace of the dearly departed. Some good, some not so good. The gently rounded swelling from my belly looks and feels amazing. That my gorgeous boobs headed south sometime after Easter is a disappointment and I lament for those times when my ass would not look out of place in the Hippopotamus enclosure at Edinburgh Zoo.

I sit upon the floor and make myself comfortable. There's a blanket for warmth and security, and a crucifix to guard against mine enemies, real and imagined. I am mindful of the simple fact that not all of my would-be visitors tonight are friendly and some might, indeed, prove more than a little hostile. Being in the realm of the departed does that to a troubled soul.

I settle back and relax, shut my eyes and await the arrival of the first guest.

Tonight, I am in the Company of Ghosts.

Of course, when I say 'Ghosts', I do not mean actual 'ghosts', ghosts of the type beloved of Egon, Ray and Venkman. These are spirits, nothing more. Chimera conjured into existence and restored to life within and without the corridors of my own mind.

I do this in remembrance of those who have passed. This night belongs to them.

I wait and I wait, and then I drink some wine, which helps but not much. The flickering light which dances in majestic ripples across the ceiling is a distraction. In past years, I have used a small clearing in the woods not far from the house. A campfire and a sleeping bag were the only artefacts I deemed necessary. Alas, it is absolutely tipping down outside and the wind and the rain lash our poor, lonely house mercilessly. I have no desire to catch my death of cold out there in the wilds of County Durham, this night or any other night for that matter.

The clock chimes again. I count.

One, two, three, four, five, six... how many? I can't be sure. I'm on the edge of sleep and about to topple over the edge and into the abyss.

Am I awake? I don't know but here we are and here we stay. Let the party begin.

Predictably, the first to arrive is, of course, my Mother. She hasn't aged at all, which is hardly surprising really. She appears exactly as I remember her. Truthfully, she is a constant companion, a loving friend. She is never far from my side and is often at my back, ready to whisper in my ear, perhaps offering kind words of advice and encouragement.

However, just as she was in life, she remains busy. Very, very busy. She says her 'Hellos' and admires the view but does not linger any longer than is strictly necessary. Schedules and all that. She has errands to perform, people to meet and Committees to organise. Indeed, she's as busy in the Afterlife as she was in the Before Life.

Don't worry. She'll be back.

Her parting words? "You're putting the weight on a bit, aren't you?" she says before fading into the firelight glow at my feet.

"Thank you so much, Mother," I whisper but smile all the same. "Your handbag grows ever bigger, like Fortnum and Mason's variant on Jacob Marley and his chains, dragging through eternity."

However, she is gone before the last of those syllables echoes and dies.

The next to arrive is my Great Grandfather. We never met and all I know of him comes from hearsay and a few faded (but treasured) photographs. I keep those images close, as a reminder of his sacrifice. He served as an Ambulance Driver in World War One, driving across the fields of France with my Fraternal Uncle, Robert. He said little of his wartime experiences but then, according to many, he said very little thereafter, so traumatised was he by the images that were burned into his memory by a million cannon shells and an untold number of torn and silent faces. He saw the best of Men. He saw the worst of Man. He saw courage and bravery in the face of overwhelming adversity. He witnessed first hand the horrors that men do. He saw it all and yet he sits and smiles, and stares into the fire but, like my mother, he is quickly gone.

I know that these visions are merely phantoms, echoes of lives long since faded into memory, and brought to life once again purely by my imagination. They are no more real than the countless myths and legends that litter our TV screens and literature, of which I am so fond.

There are others here, awaiting their turn to enter the Limelight.

I spy my former lover, band mate and mentor, Beast, dead from pancreatic cancer these past five years. He is on time and punctual for once. We chat albeit briefly. He says that he misses me and our silly conversations, and asks if I still play my instruments. Whilst I answer truthfully that I still do play them from time to time, we both know that music no longer burns in my soul as brightly as it used to. I hope, one day, that this condition will change and that I'll once again find peace and pleasure in my former calling.

Next up, Senso, the former drummer in our band. This is only his second manifestation since he slipped and fell from this life. We never truly became friends so I don't really know why he's here but I have no intention of turning him away. Senso died two years ago, of a heart attack apparently. He left the comfort and security of his Spanish Villa to go buy a newspaper and twenty Benson and Hedges one pale Wednesday morning, and never returned. He was found, slumped on a park bench, six hours later. His neighbours had seen him, apparently asleep, and they occasionally checked in on him. They simply assumed that he was sleeping off the end result of yet another week-long bender, as was his custom. How wrong can you be?

Alas, Senso fades into the twilight before we have time to properly acknowledge each other.

My father is hovering in the wings. As ever, I sense his pain and regret. His habits, his drinking and his smoking, intrinsically linked to his dangerous lifestyle, took him from us way too soon. At just fifty years of age, he left his family broken and broke. Like Senso, a heart attack claimed him one night as he set off in pursuit of... I forget. How long since he passed? Thirteen years? He knows this, remembers the pain he caused but he also knows that we miss him deeply. We miss his laugh and his wit, his charm and his intellect, and he is welcome here, his sins and his selfishness long since forgiven.

And now...

Oh Lord. Not you.

Too soon, Babe. Too soon.

I need time to get my head together, to prepare.

Because this one hurts.

This is grief. This is loss. This is pain.

At least she's smiling.

Kim, my one-time lover, my would-be wife, passed away nine months ago assisted by a mix of pills washed down with a bottle of cheap vodka. Why? Because she was miserable. She was unhappy. The choices she made in life were the wrong choices, so she maintained. She turned left instead of right. She chose the Blue Pill and not the Red Pill.

Poetry aside, she decided that she could no longer endure her husband's abuse. He beat her, as little men often do. She was frightened for her life and frightened of the pain, and had nowhere else to run. And I curse myself because I was away with my own family when she called that awful weekend. When I finally found her message some days later, and found the time to listen, and then to call her folks, she had already taken up residence down at the local morgue, her only attire a hastily written toe tag.

The Police report made interesting reading. Some days before, she had been found running down the side of the A1, not far from Dunston in Gateshead, naked, her husband having thrown her out of their shared house because... I have no idea what she'd done to raise his ire. He beat her and stripped her and then threw her out into the night where the Cops found her and hid her away in a refuge until she deemed it safe enough to return.

Apparently reconciled with her husband, he nevertheless turned on her some weeks later with a ferocity that startled even the Coroner's Office and, as you might imagine, they are somewhat familiar with the pain and suffering that one person will oft heap upon another.

Kim sits beside me and wraps a thin, bony arm about my torso. "You're getting fat," she whispers.

"Oh, for fucks sake," I whisper. "Will you lot please just leave it out with all of the jibes about my fat ass? Yes, I have a fat ass. Yes, I am a bit chunky about the thighs but, for Gawd's sake, I just squeezed a small human out of my Cooter."

Kim laughs and then looks under the blanket. "You're naked," she says. "I like that you're without clothes."

And then she is, too. Like the Good Old Days, when we used to cuddle up together on that shabby couch every other night in front of a myriad of Angst-ridden, doom laden Scandinavian thrillers. "Who dunnit?" we would scream. "Well, she did it!" we'd shout in unison.

Another time. Another ritual.

"You're so tense?" asks Kim. "When was the last time you had your bits touched up?"

"You'll be jealous if I give you an honest reply," I answer trying to suppress a laugh.

"Will I?"

"Probably. You always were the jealous type."

"I was, wasn't I?" said Kim. "So, spill the beans. When and where?"

"Last weekend, over at Charlie's house."

"Really?"

"You act surprised."

"I am," said Kim. "Didn't think you had it in you. Not these days."

"I did," I replied. "Three times, in fact."

"With the same person or with different... Ladies?"

Kim sat up, her little apple-dumpling titties catching the flickering light from the fire's warm amber glow.

"Three times? Really? With who?"

"Whom," I said. "It's 'whom'. Not 'who'... "

"Ever the pedant," whispered Kim. "With whom then?"

"Friends. Acquaintances. Lovers."

"You jammy cow," she says, frowning. "You absolute jammy cow. Were they as good as me?"

I nod and smile, and feel ever so slightly embarrassed.

"I repeat," says Kim. "You are an absolutely jammy cow. As good as me? I find that hard to believe."

"I said you'd be jealous, didn't I?"

"You did," says Kim. "Do you fancy a quick nudge?"

I sit up sharply and stare into her eyes. "Nudge? What the Hell is a nudge?"

"A three finger special," says Kim, smiling. "The Magician's..."

"You're just making this shit up," I said. "This is just more of your nonsense."

"It's not," says Kim. "Look! Do you want a quick naughty or not?"

"Really? Like now?"

"Really."

"We have visitors," I said. "Look..."

"They can wait," said Kim. "Do you or don't you?"

I sigh and look at the clock. "Well, get on with it then. My Mum will be back soon and you know what she's like?"

"Don't I ever," says Kim. "She's even more of a pain in the arse up here than she was down there."

"I somehow knew you'd say that," I whispered. "Does she give you a hard time?"

"No, not at all," said Kim. "She's lovely. Very patient. Very forgiving. But then... she needs to be."

Kim lifts the blanket and goes to work on my pussy. She was always good, always knew what to do and how to do it, and didn't just quit when she got bored, or go find something else to fiddle with before she'd rung my magic bell, so to speak.

Lord, that's nice. She opens my pussy lips up and slips a finger within.

"You're a bit wet down there, darling," she says. "Have you been looking forward to little Kimmy-Kims and her magic fingers?"

"You want the truth?" I asked.

"Of course," she says before tonguing my clit with all the subtlety of a Walrus downing a quart of Cider. "Always".

"You won't become utterly, utterly insufferable?"

"Who? Me? Insufferable?"

"Yes, you." I whisper between gasps. "You have a Masters Degree in being insufferable. You said so yourself."

"So have you missed me?" asks Kim, smiling.

"Of course I've missed you," I reply. "And yes, I've been looking forward to this moment all night. All week, in fact. You always were an Olympic Grade Tipper of all things Velvet."

Kim smiled, a huge grin spreading across her weathered features.

"But do you forgive me," she asks. "That's the sixty four million dollar question, isn't it?"

My turn to tell the truth.

I shake my head. "You know the answer to that question."

"Well, do you? Forgive me?"

"No," said as emphatically as I dared given the circumstances.

"I don't forgive you," I whisper. "And I never will."

Kim pauses. "I thought not," she replies.

"You broke my fucking heart into two..." I whisper. "You really did. Not once but twice."

"Yeah, I did," she says. "And just a simple 'I am so sorry' just won't cut it, will it?"

I try to push her head away but only partly succeed.

"No, not ever. I ended up running half way across Europe to escape from you and what you did. That was the first time. The second time? I had nowhere to go and... And it fucking hurts... Still..."

"Well," she says, lifting her head out of my thighs. "I think it's best if I just disappear, eh?"

"No! Not right now? Stay a while. We never got to talk, did we? We never got to say our goodbyes."

"We didn't..."

"Plus... I was just starting to enjoy that..."

"So you were," whispers Kim.

And then she's gone. She is no more than a memory, just as she always was.

"Piss," I whisper. Sam looks over at me and sighs. His eyes say it all. "What did you expect? Really? What DID you expect?" 

Another face appears from beyond the veil. She is new here. Unfamiliar.

"I think I'm lost," she says. "I'm sure I should be somewhere else."

This is Elizabeth Browning. No, not the poet. This is another Elizabeth Browning altogether.

I met Elizabeth once, about twelve or thirteen years ago, just after I'd been fired from a really brilliant job and then dumped by my would-be husband-to-be because... he had his reasons although they were mostly centred around his wife refusing to divorce him. He was a tedious dullard anyway.

Elizabeth is about ninety years old and looks uncannily like Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, replete with her hair tied up in a bun, stiff and thoroughly opaque beige stockings combined with a crumpled and careworn matching Tweed skirt and jacket. I note that her customary hat is missing, as is her faded leather handbag.

"You're not lost," I reply. "This is where you're meant to be."

"Sarah, isn't it?" says Elizabeth, peering over the top of her tiny steel-rimmed spectacles.

I nod. "That's me. Elizabeth, right?"

"Yes, I'm Elizabeth. Lily to some. Betty to most. Elizabeth to my parents, husbands and..."

"Lovers?"

"Lovers? No..." she says, smiling. "Lovers? Never... Never use your real name where lovers are concerned. Bad form, I reckon. Otherwise, they only come back to haunt you later."

"That's not what you said when we last met..."

"How long ago was that?" she asks.