Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

‘What did she look like?’

‘Stunning … I mean, just really, really beautiful. Not in a fancy, glamorous kind of way, she was just … I don’t know. There was just something about her. Her eyes, her face … everything. She was the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen.’

‘Describe her.’

‘What?’

‘I want to know what she looked like. You know, was she tall, short, blonde …?’

‘Blonde, yeah. Short blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin … she wasn’t tall.’ I looked at Bridget. ‘About your height …’

My voice trailed off and I lowered my eyes as I realised that my description of Stacy could easily have been a description of Bridget, and for some reason I found that oddly embarrassing.

‘So did you make a move?’ Bridget said, smiling. ‘Or did you spend all night just looking at her?’

‘Make a move?’

She laughed. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘if it wasn’t for Stacy, I probably would have spent all night just looking at her.’

‘So she made the first move?’

‘Yeah … I’d been watching her for about half an hour or so, when I suddenly realised that she was staring right back at me from the bar. So I immediately looked away, you know … I probably started fiddling with my cigarettes or a beer mat or something in a vain attempt to make out that I hadn’t been staring at her at all. But then the next thing I knew, I heard someone say, “Would you like to buy me a drink?” And when I looked up, there she was, standing right in front of me with an irresistible smile on her face.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said, “I’m sorry?”’

‘Very cool.’

‘I know. She didn’t seem to mind though, she just kind of cocked her head and looked at me and said it again, “Would you like to buy me a drink?” And this time I said, “Yeah, yeah, I’d love to buy you a drink.” And then I stood up and started going through my pockets, looking for some money, but all I had on me was a pound … one measly pound coin.’

Bridget laughed.

‘So then Stacy said to me, “Would you like to borrow some money?” And that was pretty much it.’

‘That was it?’

‘Well, it turned out that she wasn’t with the man at the bar after all, he was just a teacher at her school who’d been chasing after her ever since she’d first started working there … she didn’t even like him.’

‘But she liked you.’

‘Well, we spent the rest of that night together, and the whole of that weekend, and after that we were together just about all the time. It was … I don’t know. It was like I just didn’t want or need anything else any more … all I wanted was to be with Stace, all the time. That’s all that mattered.’

‘You loved her.’

‘Yeah … yeah, I did. I never even thought about going back to university, I just forgot all about it and moved in with Stace, and while she carried on teaching, I just took on any old jobs that were going, just to bring in some extra money. I worked on a building site, I was a postman, I worked in a call centre … I even had a job at the crematorium for a while.’

‘Very nice,’ Bridget said, raising her eyebrows.

‘Yeah, well … I didn’t care what I did. As long as I was with Stacy — ’

‘That’s all that mattered.’

I smiled. ‘Yeah.’

‘So then what?’ Bridget said. ‘You got married …?’

‘Yeah, then about eighteen months later we found out that Stacy was pregnant — ’

I stopped at the sound of the doorbell ringing. As Walter started barking upstairs, I looked at Bridget. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’

‘It could be Melanie,’ she said. ‘A friend of mine. She said she might come over.’ Bridget looked at me, and I felt her hand on my knee. ‘I can tell her to go if you want.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s all right … I’d better get back to work anyway.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah …’

‘Maybe we can talk some more later on tonight?’

‘Yeah, that’d be good.’

The doorbell sounded again.

Bridget smiled, getting to her feet. ‘I’d better let her in. See you later, OK?’

I nodded, watching as she went back into the house and started yelling at Walter to be quiet. I lit a cigarette and sat there in the misty haze, trying to work out how I felt. I was slightly confused with myself for feeling OK about talking to Bridget about Stacy, but I did feel OK about it, and I guessed that was all right. I was only talking to her, after all. It wasn’t as if I was betraying anything, was it? We were only talking …

‘Yeah, I know, Stace,’ I muttered. ‘That’s what they all say, isn’t it? We were only fucking talking …’

It’s all right, it’s fine. I like her .

‘John?’ I heard Bridget say.

I looked up and saw her standing at the back door.

‘There’s a man here to see you,’ she said. ‘He says his name’s Bishop.’

When I went inside the house, Bishop was standing outside my door, doing his best to ignore Walter, who was sitting at the foot of the stairs snarling quietly at him.

‘I hope you don’t mind, John,’ Bishop said to me, glancing at Bridget as she followed me along the hallway. ‘But I let myself in. It’s a bit cold out there.’

Walter barked at him.

He glared at Bridget. ‘Is that yours?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, taking Walter by the collar and leading him up the stairs. ‘Come on, Wally, let’s go.’ She glanced over her shoulder at me, silently asking me if everything was OK.

I nodded at her. She nodded back and carried on up the stairs.

Bishop watched them go, waited until they’d gone, then turned back to me with the hint of a smirk on his face. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

‘What do you want?’ I said.

The smirk disappeared. ‘I need to talk to you, John. And I’d rather not do it in the hallway, if that’s all right with you.’

I opened the door and showed him inside, and without so much as a word he made his way into the front room and positioned himself at the window, standing with his hands in his pockets, peering out at the street. I followed him in, sat down on the settee, and lit a cigarette. He didn’t say anything for a while, he just stood there with his back to me, which I guessed was intended to make me feel anxious or offended or insignificant or something … but I didn’t care what it made me feel. I just smoked my cigarette and waited for him to say something.

Eventually, with a casual stretch of his neck and a better-get-on-with-it sigh, he reluctantly gave in to the silence.

‘So,’ he said, turning from the window. ‘Who’s the girl?’

‘Bridget Moran,’ I told him. ‘She’s my tenant.’

‘You own this place then?’

I nodded.

He looked at me for a moment, knowingly nodding his head, then he adjusted his tie and wandered over to a ramshackle shelf that spans the width of an alcove next to the double doors. The shelf is dotted with all kinds of bits and pieces: glass jars, a painted wooden spoon, a framed photograph of Stacy, a mouth organ, a clockwork crab, a stuffed bird, a candlestick … Bishop picked up the clockwork crab, wiped it free of dust, and turned it over to examine the workings. The clockwork shell looked wrong in his hands, like a child’s bauble in the hands of a giant. He poked at the crab’s feet, pronging a broken claw with his thumb, then he put the toy back on the shelf and looked disdainfully around my room.

‘Is she your only tenant?’ he said idly.

‘Sorry?’

‘Miss Moran … is she your only tenant?’