as usual he appears with fluorescent flair yaahing & woo-hooing down the stairs a halo of ghastly green worms for hair waving his shroud emphatically a little melodramatically it seems to me especially as I know he was buried in a suit but maybe he hired the shroud for the shoot maybe there’s an undead outfitters called Zombie & sons, or Just Jitters I’ve really no idea I’m getting off-point here which is witches ghouls and vampires and such none of that bothers me all that much but ghosts have got my attention good since dad landed back in the neighbourhood
‘Jiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmeeeeeeee’ he wails to me waving his arms unconvincingly
Okay, okay I say Let’s just drop the LOOK AT ME I’M SO DEAD act I think I can take it as a flatline fact since I saw you unplugged in ITU (the scariest thing I saw anyone do) so you can save the sulphur sit on that sofa and rest your mouldy old bones a minute as far as hauntings go I’ve reached my limit rest, rest, perturbed spirit maybe it’ll make for an easier visit
and to my surprise he complies
so – tell me – dad this may sound mad but what’s it like being dead?
he scratches his shiny head lovingly examines his long white phalanges then smiles at me and carries on more conversationally
S’okay he says it’s had a bad press are the hours good? yes there’s very little stress so unless you’re under some kinda spiritual duress or feel the need to confess or maybe impress the need for vengeance on someone who’s transgressed I’d have to say, for me at least, it’s been a success
hey! I say that’s nice to hear but – to be clear why are you here? if death’s such a doozy why d’ya treat the place like a goddamn jacuzzi? jumping in and out waving your arms and legs about lots of steam see what I mean?
well, the metaphor’s a mess but I guess I can see where you’re coming from and judging from your current demeanour I think you’d be keener if I dropped by a little less often? but then – wouldn’t I be forgotten?
no – no, you wouldn’t so I shouldn’t take that as a reason for haunting continued contact I’m fully supporting just not with all this phonus balonus maybe you could phone us? or skype? or a text if you can type? alright?
alright! he says yes! you’ve made your case! I was never any good at face-to-face but promise me I can swing by soon anytime there’s a blood red moon
so I say naturally dad, of course when suddenly he rises with the force of a Marvel special effects team and roars off with a chilling banshee scream and the ceiling rends and ripples and the hissing cat’s hair bristles and the lights all surge and pop and dogs in the street all howl without stop and the curtains snap and whip and the carpets ruck and rip and the chairs all flip and I’m sitting trembling saying what the shit
then a moment of silence
the sound of distant sirens
then I hear dad whispering so low I almost miss it sorry Jim – couldn’t resist it
The ghost of my father came back again last night (I know, right? it’s all so contrived I see more of him dead then I did when he was alive)
Anyway, I’ve stopped being freaked by his spooky mug the more something happens the more you shrug
Sup, dad? I said as he hovered heavily overhead pretending to do the front crawl against the opposite wall (the irony escaping him that in life he couldn’t swim although maybe he was trying to ease the chills and prove you can always earn new skills)
The thing that really gets me is why he can’t forget me? I mean – you’d think he’d relish the chance to swerve my bullshit badinage but no – it’s just like Hamlet’s father, right? Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night and by the way, whilst he’s at it criticise the work we had done in the attic
So he does what he always does eventually which is settle on the bed and talk endlessly which sounds quite nice as these things go but he can lie in and I’ve got work tomorrow
It was hot & heady stuff right enough exactly the kind of secrets and regrets that would stop anyone getting a good aeon’s rest the casual betrayals and sordid affairs you’d only admit to in Cosmo questionnaires (then immediately re-work to change your score and get a result that suited you more)
Did someone murder you, father? I cried out, on edge Cos I don’t think I’m really cut out for revenge What? No! he said. What are you, CRAZY? It was just when your mum was a dinner lady she had an affair with that Iranian student who was good at table tennis and liked Ted Nugent
How d’you know all this? I said She told me later on in bed and whilst I was turned on for a while in the end it started to cramp my style so I took up with that woman from accounts who said it would work but I had my doubts
He carried on in this way for an eternity and made me question the benefits of paternity until suddenly he was struck dumb My hour is almost come, he said rising portentously from the bed When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames Must render up myself – erm – James Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me – and bailed through the curtains clumsily
So right that second I went on the Net to buy the best ghost insulation I could get (a wool & wafer mix from the Holy See fifty pounds a metre, plus VAT)
I woke from dreams that were dark and troubled / the glass of water on the bedside table bubbled / the ceiling buckled / there was a roaring of resonant cursing & swearing / the sound of the spacetime continuum tearing / then dad dropped through in a ghastly heap / and struggled back up on his bony feet
Alright Jim? he said with fake insouciance sorry to be such a ghostly nuisance but these poems about me are highly dubious
Sorry Dad I said. Well, I do my best I’m grateful for the feelings you’ve expressed I was only exploring ideas of inheritance I can leave you out if that’s your preference
He adjusted his shroud and scratched his pate his ribs and hips in a terrible state but twenty years’ buried and you never look great
Wait, he said. I don’t want to sound mean I just don’t get this whole poetry scene in fact any kinda writing I’ve never been keen
That’s true, I said, and reading between the lines you hated fiction but trusted The Times you always thought literature a bit suspicious and only read gardening books we got you at Christmas
Come on, though, Jim, he said, I did you a favour when I took those poems you wrote as a teenager and got them typed up by a colleague or whatever
Yes! I said. I remember! It’s all coming back I’d written a collection about insects and that ‘miniature dinosaurs of a macabre imagination’ or some such bullshit gothic creation
Dad suddenly looked a little bit guilty he said (unironically) please don’t kill me but I did it to impress a temp called Julie
I don’t mind, I said, I was thrilled all the same to have something finished and bound in my name I’ve been chasing that particular dream ever since it’s just the publishers I’ve got to convince
Anyway, said Dad, rising to go I just thought I’d drop by and let you know you should give all those ghost dad poems the elbow
I’m not promising anything, Dad, I said as he hovered prophetically over the bed Fathers and sons are fertile topics and ghosts are fun, so screw the optics
Dad’s ghost came to me again last night which doesn’t sound quite right like ‘Dad’ is one kind of entity and his ghost exists independently gliding around silently like those ROVs you sometimes see nosing around in documentaries exploring the furthest depths of the sea smoothly & stealthily and maybe in that analogy the wreck it illuminates so spookily is me
Every time I visit Cutter Street I think of Platform 9 3/4 in Harry Potter. It takes the same crazy leap of faith to make the turn off the busy main drag, to shut your eyes and swing a right between the Pottery Play Barn and the Natural Funeral shop, where no sane person would ever think to hang a right without catastrophically jamming the nose of the car into an alleyway even a cat would pull its whiskers in to enter. But amazingly, the brick walls either side seem to lean away, like they respect anyone mad enough to come through. And the path quickly widens in a magical, funnel-like way, and suddenly you’re parking-up in a generous courtyard with an office block one side and a housing block the other, both of them dropped fully formed from the sky by a giant who wanted to keep them secret.
And all of this seems to fit, because I’ve been asked to come and see a patient who’s seeing ghosts.
The GP is querying a UTI. When they’re bad they can give you hallucinations, so it has to be the most likely explanation – certainly in Gerry’s case, who’s had them before, more vulnerable since he was fitted with a catheter a couple of years ago. The GP has already sent over a short course of antibiotics, just in case, and then asked for us to take bloods and get some more information.
I buzz Gerry’s number. He sounds confused when he answers through the intercom, but there’s a lot of crackling and interference. He doesn’t buzz the main door open, though, so I’m forced to go to Plan B, which is to ring the neighbour in the flat next to his. After a minute or two an elderly guy in a Chelsea football shirt and jogging bottoms appears. It’s strange to see him in those clothes, like he aged seventy years on the journey from his flat to the main door. ‘You’ve come for Gerry,’ he says. ‘Yes. Sorry to bother you. The doctor sent me.’ He bats the air – whether to say it’s no bother or he doesn’t believe in doctors, it’s hard to say. ‘This way,’ he says, turns and leads me in an odd, shuffle trot through the deserted lobby to the foot of the stairs. Gerry is standing at the top, looking down. ‘Oh!’ I say. ‘You must be Gerry!’ ‘I found him outside’ says the guy in the football kit. ‘Says the doctor sent him or something.’ ‘I was coming down to let you in,’ says Gerry. ‘That’s great!’ I say. ‘Are you alright if we go to your flat and have a quick chat?’ He stands there, holding onto the rail, thinking about it. For some reason I say: ‘Permission to come aboard, sir?’ and salute. Football guy laughs. ‘I’ll pipe you up,’ he says, and makes a toothless whistle. Gerry salutes, too, which I take as a good sign. Football guy slaps me on the shoulder, says: ‘If you want me I’ll be in my flat. Flat number one.’ ‘I rang flat five though,’ I say. ‘Oh. That’s right. I meant five. What did I say?’ ‘One.’ ‘No. Five. Flat five. I’ll be in flat five.’ I’m not sure if he’s confused or covering for something, but I don’t have a chance to form more of an idea because he turns on the spot and shuffle-trots off. ‘Come on then,’ says Gerry, turning and walking off down the hallway. I sprint up the steps to catch up with him.
Gerry’s flat is lush. It’s filled with dark wooden antiques, old prints of The Great Exhibition and whatnot, marble busts, fern jardinieres and dominating the whole thing, centre stage on a circular, teak dining table, a huge ceramic parrot. ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask Gerry as he settles down in his armchair. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what all the rumpus is about.’ ‘I think the doctor was worried you might have an infection or something.’ ‘Why would they think that?’ ‘They said you were seeing things. Is that right?’ ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I’ve been seeing them since I was six.’ ‘What kind of things?’ He raises his shoulders, purses his lips, raises his eyebrows, shakes his head repeatedly from side to side, then completely relaxes again. It’s a funny, all-in-one expression, like he’s concentrating all his confusion into one, short mega-shrug. ‘Oh… people – mostly,’ he says. He strokes the leather arms of his chair. ‘But I’ve always been interested in… you know… what’s it called…?’ ‘Ghosts?’ ‘Yes. That’s it. The occult. I used to be in a group… a whaddyacallit?… god, my memory… ?’ ‘I don’t know. A coven?’ ‘No. When you all come together and summon the spirits.’ ‘A seance?’ ‘Is it? Anyway, I’ve always had the gift.’ ‘Do the ghosts worry you?’ ‘No. Not at all. Yesterday it was my mum, dad and sister. They’ve been dead twenty years but they were drifting through the flat.’ ‘That must’ve been quite nice to see them.’ ‘They didn’t stay long.’ I’m tempted to make a crack about that, but I hold off in case it doesn’t help. I take his blood pressure, temperature and so on. Everything checks out. ‘The doctor wants some blood, too,’ I say. ‘Typical vampire,’ says Gerry.
Q: Spirits keep restlessly coming & going fading & flickering, drifting & glowing we’ve exorcised thoroughly but no luck yet A: Try rebooting your Ethernet
Q: Demons are nesting up in the attic and the noise is increasingly problematic I’d be grateful for any information A: Follow the link re. insulation
Q: A ghoul is forever moving pictures shifting tables, loosening fixtures tossing our plants – it’s driving us screwy A: A simple case of bad Feng Shui
Q: There’s an entity over the garden lawn like a numinous ectoplasmic swarm I threw a net but the damned thing missed ‘im A: Try holy water on a sprinkler system
It’s been a hot day, busy and chaotic, but it’s late now, almost finishing time, and the fierce light of the afternoon is settling around the old hospital into something easier and more golden. There’s only me and Jane in the office, the long, empty room settling and ticking in tiny sounds of absence, like a car finally parked up and cooling. I’m sitting opposite Jane at the coordinator’s desk. Jane’s been pretty quiet the last hour, focused on working through a printed sheet of stats, the summation of the week’s activity. It’s a painstaking task and she sighs a lot. I’ve been fielding all the calls from patients and staff to give her the space, but they’ve eased off now and there’s nothing much else to be done.
Suddenly one of the connecting doors on the far side slams shut. At the same time, an overhead light flickers and goes off.
Jane looks up.
‘Ghosts,’ I say. ‘This used to be a surgical ward. It’s probably infested.’
She leans back in her chair and stretches. When she sits forward again she fixes me with a long look.
‘You’ll probably think I’m mad if I tell you this,’ she says. ‘But the place I live is haunted.’
‘Is it?’
‘It used to be an asylum. Then it was just a big, fancy house. Then it was flats. So it’s no wonder there’s stuff going on.’
‘What sort of ghosts?’
‘It depends,’ she says. ‘Mostly it’s odd bangings and things, whispering. Stuff gets thrown around. The other night when Steve came over, I went to bed and I saw his shadow on the door. So I told him to stop mucking about. Nothing happened, the shadow just stayed there. Suit yourself, I said. Then the shadow went away, and I heard Steve coming up the stairs. Who were you talking to? he said. So I realised it wasn’t him.’
‘Were you scared?’
‘Not really. I’ve got used to them now. I think they like the company. They get a bit restless when there’s been some change in things, like the lockdown. But otherwise they keep themselves to themselves. They’re basically just lonely, I suppose.’
‘It’s weird about ghosts,’ I say. ‘I mean – logically I don’t believe in them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t spook myself out a lot.’
She nods, but in a non-committal way, acknowledging the words but not the feeling.
‘When you think of all the places people die,’ I say. ‘Not just hospital, but everywhere. All over the place. Like where we live. It’s pretty old, used to be owned by a farmer. When we moved in, the old woman next door took great delight in telling us he choked to death on a chicken bone, in the front room. She rushed in to save him, but it was too late. So I thought – Oh, great! We’ve moved into a haunted house. But nothing. Not a cough. And none of the dogs or cats we’ve had have hissed or done anything strange. And they’re supposed to be sensitive, aren’t they?’
‘Depends on the dogs.’
‘And then you’ve got to think – if everyone who dies makes a ghost, wouldn’t we be completely snowed?’
‘Maybe we are. Maybe only some of them can make themselves known. And only some of us can see them.’
She smooths out the spreadsheet in front of her and stares at it.
‘Who knows?’ she says, planting her elbows on the desk, cradling her chin in the palms of her hands and pressing her fingers into her eyes so vigorously her glasses ride up onto her forehead. ‘I’ve never been good with numbers.’
I’m sorry, but if you’ve been murdered
and want your cause for justice furthered
you can’t simply fire off a furious email
describing what happened in meticulous detail
No.
You’re contractually obliged to be scary as shit
while you draw the whole thing out a bit
scrawling on mirrors, freaking out dogs,
looming alarmingly in spooky fogs
and even though you can open doors
and make wet footprints on kitchen floors
type your initials on a computer screen
or work the buttons on an answer machine
you’re totally forbidden to write a letter
that would explain the thing a whole lot better
or pull up a chair and have a chat
about who it was killed you and stuff like that
It doesn’t make much sense, I agree
and only adds insult to injury
but them’s the rules. I didn’t make ‘em
who the hell knows what happens if you break ‘em
I’m looking through Judy’s notes, the last time someone listened to her chest. I can’t help laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ she says.
‘Well – I think the nurse who wrote this must’ve been hungry. She’s written bilateral crepes.’
I show her the little drawing in the notes. The rough sketch of her lungs, a line of little crosses at the bottom of both, an arrow pointing to them.
Judy’s expression doesn’t change.
‘What does that mean?’ she says.
‘It should say creps.’
‘Craps?’
‘Creps. Short for crepitations. I think that’s what it stands for. Anyway, it’s that crackly sound you get sometimes when there’s gunk in the lungs.’
Judy shrugs.
‘I know all about that,’ she says. ‘I’ve had enough of that.’
‘You’re sounding better today, though.’
‘I’m not dead yet, then?’
‘No! Alive and kicking.’
‘I’ll kick you in a minute.’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
She stares at me.
‘Where are you from?’ she says. ‘Or-stralia?’
‘Australia? No! I was born in London but brought up in the Fens.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That explains it.’
I shut the folder and carry on with the examination.
Judy is ninety-eight but looks older. In fact, with her quilted housecoat, netted, silvery hair, enormous slippers, stiffly jointed movements – the way she wobbles along clinging to a kitchen trolley loaded with toast, Tommy Tippee beaker and emergency button – it feels like I’m in a marionette update of the Red Riding Hood story, where the Big Bad Wolf works for a Community Health Team, and lets himself in with the keysafe.
‘Are you going to be much longer?’ she says.
‘No. Almost done.’
She takes a toot of tea from the beaker.
‘Would you like me to freshen that up for you?’
‘No – thank you,’ she says. ‘I shall need the lavatory.’
There’s a pause whilst I add my notes to the folder.
‘What did you do – before you retired?’ I say.
‘Shorthand typist,’ she says.
‘How lovely!’ I say. ‘I like typing. It’s one of the most useful skills I ever learned. That and driving.’
‘I worked in a brewery,’ she says, moving on. ‘That’s where I met Alf.’
‘Did he work in the office, too?’
‘Nah. He was in and out. But we’d throw things at each other and we sort of went on from there.’
‘Sounds brilliant.’
‘It was hard during the war, though. Terrible hard. There were these Ack Ack guns on the roof. You should’ve heard ‘em when they went off. Boom! Boom! Boom! The whole place shook like it was gonna fall in. They were having a pop at all them German bombers comin’ over. It was a terrible business. Terrible.’
‘How long were you married, Judy?’
‘A long time. So long I couldn’t tell ya. But Alf’s been gone for years now and – well – that’s that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for? It’s not your fault. Is it?’
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘Well then.’
I put the finishing touches to the notes.
‘Why don’t you go upstairs and have a lie-down if you’re tired?’ she says.
I look up from the folder.
‘Sorry, Judy – what?’
‘Not you,’ she says. ‘Him.’
She narrows her eyes and nods at the empty chair behind me. I turn to look.
‘My old man,’ she says, sighing and leaning back again. ‘If I don’t keep talking to him he might go orf’ with someone else.’
jim clayton 