Giving Up the Ghost (7 page)
“If I knew what you were talking about, I could maybe answer that.” John tried to sound patient, but, really, he was close to -- no, he’d never hit Nick. No matter how tempting the idea might be. “What is it that you’ve been dreaming about? Someone who’s died? Calling to you in your dreams, maybe, because you’re too far to reach?”
He still didn’t really understand how this all worked; he’d just been grateful that the few ghosts hanging around on the island had let Nick ease them out of their misery and onwards and after that Nick had been left in peace, for the first time in his life. If the ghosts were reaching him in his sleep, though, the peace might be over.
“I don’t
know
.” Nick sounded frustrated, and well he would be after God knows how long this had been going on. He was still close enough to touch, but John kept his hands to himself. “I’m starting to think it’s not real. Not yet, anyway.”
“A premonition, you mean?” John frowned. “Like what happened with
Nick shook his head, but it wasn’t a denial. “I’ve thought about this. I’ve thought about
all
of this, and I don’t know why it’s happening. All I know is that it’s something I’m supposed to stop, somehow, and I have no idea how.” He was trembling, and John realized what a toll this must have been taking on him. “I don’t think I can do this.”
John reached out instinctively, too used to comforting Nick when he was like this to remember that Nick might not want the hug he usually got. He saw Nick flinch back and sighed. “Nick -- please. Let me, will you?”
The pain in Nick’s look nearly stopped John’s heart. “No,” he said. “This is the part I don’t think I can do.”
John let his hand fall back. “Right. I see.” He blinked at Nick, seeing him through eyes blurred with tiredness. “I don’t know what to say, then. Don’t know what you want me to do.”
“Yeah, well.” Nick looked down as if he was studying his shoes. “I guess neither of us has done this before.”
John waited, thinking that he owed Nick time to decide what he wanted.
“Look, why don’t you go upstairs and get some sleep,” Nick suggested finally. “We can…we’ll talk later, when I’m not so…whatever.”
Nodding seemed like something John could do, but it took all his strength to turn and walk away.
* * * * *
Nick sat at the kitchen table, staring at his half-empty coffee cup, until he knew that John was in bed. Not that he had any idea if John was really sleeping, and there was part of him that hoped that he wasn’t. Hoped that John was lying up there awake, racked with guilt.
The other part of him, the part that loved John, hoped that the other man was getting some rest. He’d looked terrible when he’d come in, and Nick’s first instinct had been to comfort him, an instinct he hadn’t been willing to ignore until John had forced him to. He hadn’t wanted to hear what John had to say.
And now that he had, he felt sick and alone. Work, the furthest thing from his mind, Nick got up and went outside with no idea where he was headed. The sun was shining brightly now that the previous night’s storm had passed, but it was still cold. A glance into John’s car revealed that John’s heavy winter jacket was on the passenger seat; Nick opened the door and took it out and slipped it on. It felt warm and soothing, the way John’s arms around him would have.
He walked with no direction in mind, following the road into town because it required less care where he put his feet than walking across the countryside would have. Walking had become second nature since he’d come to Traighshee; driving was something he could do again, now, but he didn’t think it would ever be something he did without purpose.
It was still early, and the town showed little life -- most everyone was asleep, tucked warm into their beds, just like John was at home. Suddenly overcome with despair, Nick stopped, trying to draw a deep breath. He didn’t hear the car until it was beside him and someone reached out to touch his arm.
“Nick? I thought you were John at first, in that jacket.” It was Michael. “Are you all right?”
A bark of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. “All right?” Nick echoed. “No, I don’t think I am.”
“You don’t look it,” Michael agreed. He rubbed his hand over his chin. “I’m on my way into work, but I’ve time to talk.” He smiled. “Always time to talk here, isn’t there?”
It’d taken Nick a long time to relax into the pace of the islands, where people worked hard, but took their time doing it, and deadlines weren’t taken too seriously. He still wasn’t sure it’d ever come naturally to him.
“Get in,” Michael said, his hand gently urging Nick toward his idling car. “We can drive along the cliff road and stop at the lookout; it’s on my way, and you can cut across the fields to home easily enough from there.”
Nick let Michael put him in the car -- it was easier than arguing with him, and he’d been sleeping so little that even the walking he’d already done had tired him out -- but he didn’t say anything.
“I take it John’s all right, or I’d think you’d be looking a sight worse,” Michael said, shutting his door and starting the car toward the cliff road.
“He’s…I don’t know how he is,” Nick said, watching out the window. Usually the island’s scenery filled him with wonder, but this morning it just looked bleak and empty.
“Well, I heard he didn’t spend a very comfortable night,” Michael said, chuckling. “Getting himself stuck out on Creeth, like a daft summer visitor, or something! Wait until I see him; he’ll not hear the last of that in a hurry, I can tell you.”
It didn’t surprise Nick that Michael already knew about it. Gossip in a small community spread fast, and he supposed, looking at it objectively, that it was bound to get discussed. As Michael had said, it was funny looked at one way. Nick just wasn’t at that point yet, and doubted he ever would be.
“Do you know the man he went out fishing with?” Nick asked.
“Andy? Aye.” Michael was watching the road, but he glanced at Nick, puzzled. “Been here half a dozen times or so. Never in the winter, though, not before now.”
The thought of John kissing a man Nick had never even seen made him feel almost physically ill. “They were…they…” He couldn’t say anything else, the silence stretching long and taut.
“Fuck.”
It looked like he’d said enough.
Michael steered the car off the road onto the close-cropped grass that bordered it and turned off the engine. “The stupid bastard,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, Nick.”
“So am I.” Nick was tempted to make excuses for John, to protect him in the eyes of his oldest friend, but instead he said, “I don’t know what to do.”
There was a sigh of breath and then Michael turned his head to stare out of the window, at gray sky and sea. “If it was Sheila -- och, I don’t know what I’d do. Beat seven shades of shit out of the man, that’s for sure, but she’s mine. I don’t think I could bear to be without her.” His fingers, powerful, strong fingers, on a wide, work-scarred hand, curled around the steering wheel, squeezing it tight. “I -- once, just the once, mind -- before we were married --”
“I know about that.” John had told him, on a beach in spring, a long time ago.
“Aye? She doesn’t know. She’d forgive me, but she’d always be wondering if I’d do it again, and I wouldn’t, not ever, but it’d be asking a lot for her to believe that.” Michael cleared his throat. “It’s the first time he’s done this? Gone off and slept with someone else?”
“He didn’t,” Nick admitted. Michael gave him a funny look, and he explained. “He didn’t sleep with him. He…kissed him, and…” Describing this to Michael was hard beyond just saying it out loud. The waves were crashing onto the beach like they always did, like nothing had changed. “I guess it didn’t go a lot farther than that. And things have been…well, not exactly good. For a while.” He realized Michael’s actual question was still sort of hanging. “Yes. It’s the first time.”
“And you’ve never…?” Michael cleared his throat again.
“No! God, no.”
“I wouldn’t have thought John would’ve even looked at another man, to be honest.” Michael gave him a sidelong glance, obviously starting to reassess where the blame lay. Nick couldn’t blame him. John had been Michael’s best friend for as long as they’d known each other and Nick was a newcomer. “After all you’ve gone through I’d have thought you were settled.” He frowned and said slowly. “Content. Aye. Like me and Sheila. But you’re not, are you?”
Nick shook his head. “I don’t know if I can be. I don’t know.” He couldn’t look at Michael, so he looked out the window again, pulling John’s jacket more tightly around him even though he wasn’t cold. “I was, for a while, I think. But then things started to go wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix them, and…I don’t know, maybe this is my fault as much as his.”
“I don’t know about that.” Michael shrugged. “I mean it. I don’t. I see you two together, and I think you look happy, and then I see John with this little frown, watching you -- he does that a lot, you know? -- And I wonder what’s going on, but I don’t feel comfortable asking. And I’ve been fair gagging Sheila sometimes, because she was all for a bit of plain speaking, and I didn’t think it was anyone’s business but your own.” There was a wry, humorless smile twisting Michael’s lips now. “Even now, there’s enough people talking about you two; I didn’t think you needed anymore. Maybe I was wrong, if it’s come to this. Are you kicking him out, then?”
“I don’t know.” Nick was starting to think that he could make a recording of himself saying that and use it to answer pretty much any question. “He said he’d go if I wanted him to, but I don’t. Want him to.” He looked at Michael, finally having absorbed something the other man had said. “You don’t think he’s happy with me?”
“I think that’s the question he’s asking about you,” Michael replied. “We don’t really talk about it much, but the other night in the pub he was, well, wondering if you were maybe a wee bit bored. Of the island. Of him.”
“No,” Nick said, frowning. “God, no! I’ve been…distracted, sure, but I’m not bored. I love it here. I love
him
.” He flushed, aware of how awkward this was. “So you think he’s been unhappy because he thinks I’ve been unhappy?” Michael nodded, and Nick sighed and leaned his head against the window glass. “God, how does stuff like this happen?”
“You’re asking the wrong man,” Michael said, starting the engine again and pulling away. “I once had Sheila mad at me for two months before I worked out that she’d had her hair cut and I hadn’t noticed. And by the time I did, it’d grown back to how it always was, anyway.”
“Maybe I’ve been too caught up in my own head,” Nick agreed. “He’s said stuff about me spending too much time writing, but I guess I really didn’t hear him. Or didn’t want to.”
Michael paused the car at the crossroads, looking at Nick expectantly, and he nodded. “Yeah. Could you drive me back to the house? I really need to talk to him.”
John’s car was still in the drive when they got back; Nick let out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.
“Thanks,” he said to Michael, opening the door.
“No trouble,” Michael said.
Nick stood in the drive, leaning against John’s car as Michael left. He’d wait until John woke up, he decided, and then they’d talk, no matter how much neither of them really wanted to. But they weren’t going to get through this without talking about it, even if all Nick wanted was to pretend none of it had happened in the first place. The thought of John kissing someone else, touching someone else…
He swallowed hard and went inside to find a note on the kitchen table.
Couldn’t sleep. Going to take a bit of a walk. I’ll be back soon.
John
He could hear John’s voice saying the words; see the stutter of the pen where John had set it against the paper to write “love” before his signature but then changed his mind. John’s writing was precise and careful, old-fashioned even, and it looked like him somehow.
While Nick was debating whether to wait for John to come back or to go look for him, the phone rang.
“Hello?” Nick sounded impatient and he knew it.
“Yes, this is Carolyn Mosser with DeltaZone Airlines; I’m trying to reach Dominic Kelley. Is this his residence?”
Chapter Four
John had known Nick was back as soon as he’d walked in, even before the sound of Nick’s footsteps overhead reached him. The house didn’t feel empty as it had done when he’d woken from his doze. Taking the stairs slowly, he wondered if it was a good idea to talk in their bedroom; maybe he should see if Nick wanted to come back to the kitchen where they could --
His thoughts cut off abruptly as he reached the open door. His suitcase, the one he’d bought new for their trip to the States earlier in the year, lay open on the bed, half-filled with his clothes, and an assortment of toiletry items were piled up beside it.
“You’re…what are you doing?” Stupid question, when it was obvious. He knew he deserved this, but it hurt that Nick was so eager to see the back of him that he couldn’t even let John do his own packing, or wait for him to arrange somewhere to go.
Nick looked up at him. God, even worn out and hurting, the man was one of the most gorgeous things John had ever seen. “My father’s dead,” he said, straightening up with one of John’s T-shirts in his hands.
“God, I’m sorry,” John said automatically, even though everything Nick had ever said about the man -- and it wasn’t much -- had left John thinking that Nick was better off without him. He’d walked out on his wife and young son when Nick was a child, after all. “What happened?”
“Plane crash.” Nick was wooden, moving from chest of drawers to the bed and putting the shirt into the suitcase as if he was on auto-pilot. “Probably the one that I…” He stopped, his face in profile, eyes closed. “I don’t even care about him. I don’t.”
“Then why are you --” John replayed Nick’s words in his head, hearing them properly this time. “Christ. That was it? This is what you’ve been dreaming about? A plane crash?” Let it be something small. Not hundreds of deaths for Nick to blame himself for, even though John knew damn well there wouldn’t have been a thing Nick could’ve done to prevent it.