The Ghosts Are Out Tonight Read online

The Ghosts Are Out Tonight

  James Eddy

  Copyright 2013 James Eddy

  Bewilder

  Heart over Head over Heels

  Bonfire Blues

  Lily Green

  The Devil eats Coleslaw

  Fading Polaroids in Reverse

  The Graveyard

  Hello, Emptiness

  Revelations

  In Dreams

  Diamonds

  Cover by Scott Liddell, Lauren Bathurst

  Publishers Notes

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the United Kingdom.

  The Ghosts Are Out Tonight

  The whisky bottle bell wakes me with its familiar ringing in my head. I sit upright and open my eyes, as if I desperately need to be somewhere. I lay back down.

  Leaning over the right-hand side of the bed leads to the discovery of whisky rather than water. The old, familiar impulse pushed aside, I stand on seasick legs and take my empty glass to the bathroom.

  I sit on the bed again, still sipping the water and trying to breathe. There’s a burning sting in my eyes and the soft mattress has made the tense ache in my neck even worse. The magnolia and white walls that surround me do a decent job of reflecting the daylight outside but it’s hardly inspiring. The radiator beats out an imperfect rhythm over the faint hum of electrical equipment. The tapping begins fast before slowing down almost to a stop but not quite. It circles the room and circles me, round and round almost endlessly.

  I need to leave but drift within the haze of sounds and sleepiness instead, until I wake again with the half empty glass still in my hand. It’s the sound of throbbing, mechanistic bass pounding through wood and plaster and the gaps around the door that wakes me. The deep lines of sound matching the fluidity of the headache I now have. I know sleep won’t find me again today.

  I dress myself, still feeling awful, the medicine cabinet’s empty and my hair looks like hell. With sunglasses on, the little luggage I have is sent ahead to where I’ll be in a few days. Before then, there are other places to go; places I shouldn’t have put off visiting for as long as I have. This’ll be the last of my sudden disappearances. The last time I’ll be a summer breeze, gone too soon.

  Once I’m out in the diminished seductiveness of the city streets, the distant sound of sirens permeates the air like a moan of despair in the dark. The day brings nothing except lifeless cold to my fingers and the ghosts of frozen breath as I walk. Cigarettes burn themselves out in the pavement cracks that I step between as I follow my feet to the train. Once aboard, I sit with music playing through earphones. ‘Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere’ goes from ‘Cinnamon Girl’ to ‘Cowgirl in the Sand’ and I put it back on repeat. It’s the perfect soundtrack to all the miles travelling past the window. It’ll always be the record that makes me think of my dad and of growing up. And each time I hear it, it loses nothing except that simple sense of time and place. It’s music I can rely on to still make me happy.

  Rain falls, on and off until just outside Alveston. Then I pull the earphones out and the sun bursts through the cloud to paint the town in Technicolour. I check my wallet for money and find enough to cover what I need. So I approach the taxi rank and catch the eye of the pale, overweight man in a t-shirt, who will take my cash this afternoon.

  He takes me to Crediton and waits while I climb the hill up to the church and to my best friend. Visiting Dan again is a strange experience, but one I know is needed. In my right hand I hold the whisky bottle and raise it to his grave. I tell him I miss him, take a single swig and sit awhile in the autumnal grey that’s returned to the world around me. I let my thoughts travel down cul-de-sacs before eventually turning my back again and waving goodbye to them and to my good friend.

  I don't go back to Alveston. I've already made my peace with it and there are places more important and pressing I need to be. Clarity returns and I ask Nick the driver to take me to the nearest train station. Only three miles further but I pay him some more for his trouble and to get himself back to town.

  I change trains three times and then I’m back in the countryside; back home to where I haven't been in many years. To be honest, I've avoided it. Too embarrassed and ashamed to confront my dad. It’s the right time to face his disappointment. I'm ready. More ready than I've ever been but it's still a worry as I walk the last couple of miles home.

  It’s such a strange sensation being back. I've spent so long in cities that the colours come as a bit of a shock. The rain has stopped and sunshine only occasionally finds the gaps in the clouds but it’s still unmistakably different to what I'm used to. It’s not as green as I remember, although that might just be the time of year. Still, it was always the yellows and purples, lit up by the endless acres of sky, that stood out most in my memory.

  A lot’s changed since I last gazed upon this little patch of earth. Trees have grown and the landmarks seem to have changed. But then again maybe it's also that I'm not what I once was either. I think my heart’s the same. It's just that so much else has happened. So much trouble, so much that was bad, and so much that was my own fault.

  I'm treated to the sight of an orange sunset, glinting gold in my eyes as I walk the last few yards to the front door of mum and dad’s house. Then the door opens and things are different but not in any way I'd expected. Dad hugs me and I know it's okay and it’s the right time to be here again. I still won't be staying for long.

  In my old room, I don't sleep well. Too restless, and on the second night I get up at half two and go out walking. The cold bites but I don't really feel it. Instead, I stare up at the clear starlight and the full moon and in my mind I try to cut holes in the faces of the moonbeams. Then I start thinking that there’s surprisingly little difference between the town and the country at three in the morning. There’s still the same essential loneliness that comes from being out at that time. The same darkness and even the same sort of street-lights.

  Eventually, the sun climbs into the sky and reveals the sparkle of the ground beneath my feet. The ice particles twinkle where they’re embedded in the earth and crushed with every step I take. I cast my shipwrecked eyes out over the sun clad sea of frosted diamonds that should have been a school playing field. My lips become a smile and I can't say how but I know it's time to leave again.

  I get myself together and mum and dad give me a lift to the station. I'll see them both soon but for now I need to be back in London. Back with the only other person I know that doesn't need me to pull miracles from my mouth whenever I speak. I’ve wasted far too much time trying to do that and that was my own fault. In a way, I'd decided I deserved the life I'd given myself and the bitter allure of sadness had only ever left me nowhere.

  Then there’s the masochistic part of me that’s always indulged a romantic fantasy of who I was. Even as a kid I was attracted to the tragics and the crazies. To the Syd Barretts’, the Sylvia Plaths’, the Billie Hollidays’, the Buckleys’ and all the other Rock and Roll deaths. Part of me always wanted to be one of them; living with that kind of burning intensity that can never last.

  Much worse is the other fantasy that still remains in part of my brain although not in any of my heart. Sometimes I want to see the Becky I remember from the moment we met. The beautiful fantasy woman with perfect hair and a halo.

  It’s rarely something I want for long. I just wish it would go completely though. Because deep down I know that the reality of Becky is what gives me jo
y. It's in the little things. Like the way she almost speaks in tongues after only a couple of drinks or even the sight of hankies strewn all around the bed when she has a cold. That's the real her, complete with insecurities and sadness, and that's what gives light and shade to my life. And in the end I think that's the difference between being in love with someone and being in love at them.

  After only a couple of hours I’m in London. I pick up some flowers at the station. They aren’t for Becky. I don’t go to her yet. I head south of the river instead; to a cemetery to visit Sarah’s grave. It's too long since I last went and I feel bad about that. I could make the usual excuses about life getting in the way but that’s nowhere near good enough.

  I place the flowers on the grave; pink roses discolouring grey