Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Well, this chap I was with, called Roger. Married, of course. I'm his bit on the side, except that's not as frivolous or irresponsible as it sounds, for either of us… well, it never is, is it, really?'

Mrs Castle was just looking into space. There was a full coffee cup on the table, but the coffee had gone cold, a whirl of cream almost solid on the top like piped icing.

'Roger's a prat,' Chrissie said. 'There's no getting around that. He's got a terrific opinion of himself and yet at the same time he's obviously a bit intimidated by his wife – she's a doctor. He wanted something else, less demanding. Which was me. One slightly shop soiled divorcee off the bottom shelf – flattering, eh? High powered wife, so he's looking for something cosy and undemanding and, worst of all, a bit cheap, you know what I mean?'

Mrs Castle nodded and struggled to smile, a little bit of colour in her cheeks. She was actually very attractive, good bones.

'I mean, you talk about undemanding, he didn't even have to go anywhere to pick me up. We work in the same office, I'm his secretary-cum-personal assistant – soon found out what that meant.'

Realising she'd never talked to anybody about her and Roger before. Maybe this could turn out to be unexpectedly therapeutic.

'But at the end of the day,' Chrissie went on, 'his biggest love – I mean, listen to this – his biggest love, who's far more important to Roger than cither me or his wife – is a squidgy little brown man who's been dead about two thousand years and came out of a bog. Now, can you…? Ow!'

A kind of mad revulsion in her eyes, Mrs Castle had suddenly swung round from the stove, grabbed hold of Chrissie's wrist and was digging her nails into it.

As if, Chrissie thought, pulling away, cold, to make sure I'm actually flesh and blood.

'I tell you what, Mrs Castle. I reckon you're the one who would benefit from talking about it.' 'Where are we going exactly?'

'Rog, mustn't be so anxious, m'friend! Mind holding the umbrella? Oops! Two hands, please, or you'll lose it.'

Huge golf umbrella; anything else would have been turned inside out by the sheer force of the downpour. Hard, vertical, brutal rain.

'There, that's stopped 'em from dithering.'

'I wasn't d-'

'Surrounded by ditherers. Don't worry, I like 'em. Shaw used to be a ditherer, didn't you, Shaw? Ditherer, stammerer, cowardly little bastard. Fixed it, though, didn't we? Fixed everything. Right, then, if we're all ready, in we go. Been here before, Rog?'

Darkness. Cold.

'Never. Pretty chilly, isn't it?'

'Chilly? This? Hear that. Tess? Poor Roger thinks it's chilly This is Tess, my niece, aren't you, darling? And what shall we say about these others? What they are is a bunch of unfortunates befriended by the lass, she's so… good… hearted.'

'Uncle, please…'

'Apologies, my love. Yes, up the stairs is where we go. Onwards and upwards. Into the Attic of Death, do you like that?

'Not really.'

'Relax, relax. Relaxation. The key to everything, Shaw knows that, don't you, m'boy? Up again. Ought to be a lift, be totally cream-crackered, time we get there. How you feeling now, Rog?'

'A touch light-headed, now, actually. How many drinks did I have, I can't…'

'Just the one, Roger, just the one. Famous for our cocktails aren't we, Tess?'

'What's that smell?'

'New one on you, is it, Rog? What a terribly sheltered life you must have had, m'boy.'

'Oh, dear God.'

'Ah, now, let's not bring that chap into it, Roger.'

'I'm going to be sick.'

'No you're not, you're going to get used to it. No time at all. Now relax, the dead can't harm you.'

Don't look at it, don't look at it, don't… Oh, Lord, what's happening to my head?

'No, actually. I'm lying again. That's a common myth perpetuated by morticians. You're quite right, the dead can indeed harm you, in the most unexpected ways. The dead can harm you horribly.'

Laughter. Laughter all around. By the time Macbeth walked into the room behind the Post Office the sense of there being something deeply wrong at this rain-beaten village – everybody seems to be on edge tonight – had become so real it was starting to affect the air; the atmosphere itself seemed thin and worn and stretched tight like plastic film, and faces were pressed up against it trying to breathe.

Two faces. One chubby and female that ought to have looked healthy and a small, male face under a brown fringe, a face out of Wind in the Willows or somesuch.

Both faces pressed up against the tight air of a small and crowded room full of flower pictures, flower fabrics and flowers.

Macbeth finding it hard to introduce himself. 'I, uh…' Harder still to explain what he was doing here. 'Mrs Castle – Lottie, right? – thought maybe you could tell me where I could find a… a friend of mine.'

'Aye,' the little guy said. 'Look, can I ask you, how close were you to Moira, lad?' A slow, kindly voice, but Macbeth felt the damp behind it.

'I guess I'd like to be closer,' he said frankly.

Rain from his black slicker dripping to the floral carpet.

Rain making deltas on the window and small pools on the sill.

Rain coming down the chimney and fizzing on the coal fire.

And yet all the flowers in the room – on the walls, in the pictures, on the woman's dress – contriving to look parched and dead.

The woman said bleakly 'Since Willie spoke to Lottie we've had a phone call.'

'Moira?'

The woman's wise eyes were heavy with a controlled kind of sorrow.

A hammer inside Macbeths head beat out no, no, no.

'Sit down, lad,' the little mousy guy said, pulling a chair out from under a gate-legged mahogany dining table. On the table was a bottle of whisky, it's seal newly broken; beside it, two glasses. 'Well, of course I don't believe in it, you see, Chrissie. I never have. All right, maybe it's not a question of not believing. I mean, is there a name for a person who just simply doesn't want to know?'

Chrissie warmed both hands around her coffee cup. 'For that matter, is there a name for a man who professes to be above all that superstitious nonsense but is more than happy to let it cure his impotence, and then he can go back to not believing in it again?'

'I think "bloody hypocrite" might be one way of putting it.' Lottie said. 'But…'

'But tonight… God, am I really saying this? Tonight you saw the ghost of your husband.' Chrissie shuddered; it really did go all the way up your spine. 'Wasn't going to use that word. Never liked it.'

'Ghost?'

'What does it mean, Lottie? Was he really there? I mean his…?'

'Spirit? Was his spirit there?' Lottie's voice rose, discordant like a cracked bell. 'Yes. I think it was. And crushed. His spirit crushed.'

She thrust a fist to her mouth, swallowing a sob, chewing her knuckles.

'Let it come,' Chrissie said, and Lottie wept some hot, frightened tears. 'Yes, he was a man of spirit, always… endless enthusiasm for things, what first attracted me. But there's a negative side to enthusiasm, isn't there?'

'Ob… session?'

Lottie sniffed. 'First there was the woman. Moira. Not only beautiful, but young and – worst of all, worst of all, Chrissie – talented. The thing I couldn't give him. Support, yes. But inspiration…?'

'You're beautiful too,' Chrissie said ineffectually.

'Thanks,' Lottie said. 'Was. Maybe. In the right light. Doesn't mean a lot on its own, though, does it? Don't get me wrong, it never… flowered, this thing over Moira. They never actually did it. I know that now. But I think that's worse in a way, don't you? I mean, the longing goes on, doesn't it? The wondering what it might have been. Maybe I should have let him work it out, but I gave him an ultimatum: her or me and his son, Dic. He'd have lost Dic, too. It coincided, all this, you see, with an offer she got to join another band. He made her take it. It was "the right thing to do".'