The Ghost (6 page)

February, 1974

The children chosen to take part in Bethesda First & Middle's centenary celebrations were divided into two groups. The younger ones – Cook included – were allocated Victorian-era playground games, while the older bunch all contributed to a collage of thickly daubed watercolours depicting school life in 1874. Cook ground three marbles together in his pocket as he was guided to his spot on the upper-school playground. The day was being filmed for a historical TV show which uncovered evidence of past culture in present-day architecture. Cook's school had been selected because its original buildings were a social historian's wonderland of air-raid shelters and shoe-scrapers. The presenter – a bearded academic in a beige polo-neck – drifted around, chatting to the children. He stooped before Cook, referring to him as ‘young chap' and resting a hand on his shoulder. As he spoke, his mouth barely seemed to open – saliva-glazed lips writhed like earthworms in the centre of the tangled scrubland that had overrun his chin and cheeks.

Cook spent the half-hour filming time engaged in an over-theatrical ‘game' of marbles with an older boy, David Brereton. They were instructed to repeatedly – but casually – roll smaller marbles towards a larger target ball, while everyone else skipped and hopscotched and leap-frogged inside strictly defined zones. Cook and Brereton giggled and bantered, rolling the marbles with too much pace and aggression, aiming them at a nearby group of skipping girls. Cook was pleasantly shocked by Brereton's disregard for instructions, how practiced he seemed at appearing to comply, but always adding his own subversive little improvisations. When one of the girls slipped on a marble, Brereton was quick to convincingly feign disinterest, focusing instantly back on the ground below, and abandoning Cook to a warning from Mrs Mellor.

On the way home from school that afternoon, Brereton caught up with Cook half-way over the zebra crossing.

“D'you wanna go to the marl-hole on Saturday?”

Esther had warned Cook to avoid the area near the deep pit of clay around the back of the brickworks, a short walk up from their house. Unguarded at weekends, the ‘marl-hole' was a treacherous gouge of restless sludge, trickling screes and abandoned extraction tools. Cook definitely did not ‘want' to go there on Saturday, but he felt oddly secure with Brereton – although he was clearly the type to attract trouble, he was equally skilled at deflecting consequences.

“Yeah, okay!”

“Come call for me – 28 Lowther Street.”

Brereton veered off and Cook diverted to the corner sweet shop, where he bought a few Fruit Salad chews before rejoining his usual route home. A few minutes from his house, Cook noticed a group of boys, directly in his path, shoving and wrestling near the main gates of the oil-works. His instinct was to turn back and find an alternative route, but he buried the sweets deep in his pocket and carried on walking. As he got closer, Cook recognised John Ray, at the centre of a restricting huddle, being yanked and buffeted around by three captors. Each time Ray made a dash for escape, he was hauled back into the centre. Cook switched pavements to avoid the scene, and was about to scurry past when he saw a blue-and-white handkerchief in the middle of the road.

“Come on!” shouted one of the boys. “You can go!”

Cook stopped and watched. The group had parted to form an apparent exit channel. Ray bolted for the gap, but was quickly blocked and forced back into the centre. He howled with frustration, and again, Cook thought of something animal – almost alien. Like Mr Smith's persistent hacking and heaving, he longed to silence the sound, to slice it out of existence.

Cook walked over and picked up the handkerchief. The boys were a little older, but he was high on confidence after his role in the filming, and the new connection with Brereton made him feel more protected – at least more monitored – than usual. He forced his way through interlocking hands and offered the handkerchief back to its owner. Ray's pallid skin was blotched red with anger. His jumper had split open at the armpit and something earthly had been ground into his feathery hair.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the handkerchief and stuffing it into his pocket. Cook's boldness had stalled the boys, but as he turned and wriggled out of their circle, he felt a kick to the back of his leg which toppled him down onto the pavement. The boys' laughter was more gleeful than malicious. Cook's misfortune had broken the tension and, faces saved, the group scattered and scampered away.

“Are you alright?”

The question could have been directed either way, but it came from Cook to John Ray.

“Yes.”

Ray sniffed. He took out the handkerchief, wiped his nose, buried it back in his pocket. As they walked, Cook offered one of his sweets, but Ray shook his head. For him, kindness was to be feared – it was a feint, a prelude to cruelty.

The road levelled off near the iron bridge. Ray quickened his pace and broke away with a doubtful, “See you later!” Cook was surprised to hear that his speaking voice was clipped and precise – almost posh.

At home, Cook dropped off his school-bag and headed straight out to call on Lisa Goldstraw. Her mum made them both a glass of diluted orange juice and they sat drinking, side by side, on the two swings at the bottom of Lisa's vast, immaculate garden.

“Lisa?” enquired Cook.

“Yeah?”

“Will you go out with me?”

She considered this, tugging both stockings over her knees. “I can't. I really like you, but I'm already going out with someone.”

“But I could be, like, your second boyfriend?”

Her silence told him this wasn't possible. He hopped off the swing and wandered into the kitchen, where Lisa's mum had propped baby Rebecca in a high-chair and was smearing primary-coloured puree into her reluctant mouth. Rebecca squealed with joy at the sight of Cook. She strained her tubby arms to full stretch, reaching for him. Mrs Goldstraw smiled and handed Cook the jar of baby food. He rattled the spoon around and scraped out a blob of something that smelt of sweetened carrots. Rebecca was stilled. Her shining eyes tracked the spoon's movement as Cook lifted it towards her mouth, which opened wide, received the food and immediately re-opened for more.

WILLIAM STONE DRAINED HIS
glass and rose for a second round. He quickly returned from the bar with two fresh drinks, handed one to Cook and clinked cheers. Cook had barely broken the surface of his original pint, but awkwardly slurped at the foam from the new glass.

“Look at him!” laughed Stone. “Two on the fucking go! What a lightweight!”

Cook tilted his glass and took on more beer than was comfortable. The liquid was lukewarm and chemical. Bubbles spiralled up into his nose and he had to disguise a gag as a cough.

“How's the cholesterol?” A deflection.

Stone lifted an eyebrow, wrinkling his brow. Here, in a mangy corner of the
Seven Stars
, under the hundred-watt scrutiny of a mock-antique lantern, Cook saw that the whites of his friend's eyes were scored with deep red capillaries, branching and pooling into bloodshot halos around the socket edges.

“Quack put me on some pills, printed out a little info sheet. Usual – more exercise, no smoking or decent food. I had a scare last autumn. I dunno. Gotta die of something.”

He finished off half of his pint in what looked like a single gulp. Cook reverted to his first glass and manfully cut the content by around a third. The effort made his vision blur.

“How's Gina?” Stone asked, eyeing his drink lustfully, as if pondering how soon he could dive back in for the second half without appearing dependant. Stone had always given Cook the impression that he was a drinker by personality and capacity, when in fact he used alcohol as more of a tool than a toy – to dull the ache of a desolate marriage that was slouching towards divorce.

“She's good, yeah,” spluttered Cook, mid-drink. “I mentioned I'd seen you and she said to say hello.”

Stone smiled, looked up from his glass and held Cook's gaze a little, sensing – and expecting – more.

“But… Ah, you know. We're holding it together. Her folks would fucking disown her if she gave up, but I'm not sure how much longer that can go on for.”

“Funny,” said Stone, sloshing his beer around, “I always had you pair down as happily-ever-after types.”

Cook snorted. “You can never really judge someone else's relationship from the outside.”

This prompted a synchronised swig, noticed by both. Stone laughed, loud enough to turn a couple of heads.

“How's Lydia doing at school?”

Stone's daughter was fourteen going on eighteen, with a swelling sexuality that Cook regarded with both alarm and allure.

“I barely see her these days. She communicates more with her bloody gadgets than she does with her voice. I suppose Alfie is too young for all that?”

Cook winced. “He's well aware of it – more than I am, anyway. I hate the idea of ‘social media' – this culture of virtual vanity.”

“It's an American thing,” Stone confirmed. “They love bragging about their friends, talking about how successful everyone is. Brits used to find that a bit embarrassing but we've definitely got over it now.”

Refreshment levels steadily increased and the conversation flowed into darker channels. Cook raised the topic of Stone's troubles at work – he had recently been assaulted during the policing of a street protest and, unwisely, had retaliated, socking his (female) assailant on the chin with his sizeable fist, and laying her out cold. His promotion prospects had been frozen and he would soon face a disciplinary hearing.

“Listen, Dor…”

Cook braced. Stone's tone and posture was now familiar – maudlin, head hung low and heavy, weighted with booze. He was breathing like a bulldog.

“Can you do me 2K? 3K at the end of the month.”

It was a long-running arrangement. He would hand over £2000 in cash and, at the end of the month, always on time, Stone would deposit £3000 back into his account. Cook suspected a gambling debt, but couldn't make sense of the economics. He emptied his glass and, unkindly, left the question unanswered for a few seconds.

“Of course, mate.”

*

Later, hot-faced and ravenous, Cook bought a steak pasty and settled into the corner of a quiet carriage on the last Tube train home.

He took out his phone and opened an email which notified him of a new message on
PastLives.com
. He laid the paper pasty bag down on the seat beside him, logged in and opened his profile inbox.

The train jerked away from the station. Cook deleted the message, pocketed his phone and slumped forward, elbows on knees, head resting on clasped hands. The journey was around twenty minutes and he stayed in this position all the way, uneaten pasty by his side.

April, 1974

“City or United?”

Uncle Russell raised Cook onto his shoulders, crouching slightly. As he gradually unbent his knees, Cook felt the peaks in the ceiling's artex complexion brush against his hair.

“United!”

Russell drew himself almost upright, lifting Cook's head closer to the plaster spikes. Both were laughing.

“City
or United?”

“City!
City!”

Russell squatted down and Cook scrambled off his shoulders, brushing off-white flakes out of his hair. His uncle closed in for a follow-up armpit-tickle, but Cook saw it coming and was quickly up and running for the bottom of the stairs.

“Nana! Tell him!”

A knock at the front door, rather than Cook's plea, brought Esther thudding down the stairs.

“Leave him alone, Russell! What do you want for your tea?”

Russell gathered himself. Then, still laughing: “Egg and chips!”

“Can I have that too, nana?”

Cook followed Esther and hovered as she struggled with the sticky front door.

“No. You're going out.”

The door opened on the third tug, revealing Lily, frozen in a rehearsed smile.

“Hello, Dorian, darling!”

As ever, Cook recoiled from the hug, keeping one foot in the house and the other on the front step, torn between his egg and chips and his mother.

*

Cook and Lily walked slowly and silently through the Saturday dusk, up past the oil-works and down a deserted side-road lined with houses whose windows were either boarded or cautiously ajar, leaking statutory odours of over-boiled vegetables. Cook tolerated the holding of his hand but didn't squeeze back. As they traced the high perimeter fence of honeycomb-patterned wire that bordered the Bethesda School infants' playground, he saw that Lily had lost her smile, but regained it briefly whenever she caught him glancing up at her. After a careful crossing of the busy road that climbed up to the football stadium (City), Lily released Cook's hand and pulled a single door-key from the fur-lined pocket of her coat. For a second, Cook thought she was about to let herself into the
King's Head
– a buckled old pub on the corner, long since marked for demolition but somehow still upright. Instead, she cut into a narrow side-passage and Cook followed as she lifted the latch on the poorly hung gate at the end of a smelly back yard. The key admitted them into a narrow kitchen where they crab-stepped past toppled columns of saucepans and dinner plates which seeped over the rim of a china sink barnacled with mould and matter.

The living room was certainly lived in. Cook cleared away a heap of damp clothes and settled into a squashy armchair which, despite its smooth PVC upholstery, had managed to retain an impressive crust of dust. A large-to-overlarge man in T-shirt and pyjama bottoms emerged from a storage room under the staircase, bumping his head on the door frame. Lily leapt to his aid, rubbing at the bump, her pink nail varnish contrasting with his inky-black hair. She turned to her boy as she soothed her man.

“Dor, this is Tom. Remember – I told you about him a few weeks ago.”

“Hiya!” said Cook, mock-cheerfully.

“Y'alright, Dorian?” enquired Tom. He pulled away from Lily's fussing and dumped a mound of comic-books on the floor next to Cook's chair.

“Ee'yar… Have a look at them, then.
Spider-Man
,
Hulk
. Think there's a few
Superman
ones in there, too.”

“What d'ya say, Dor?” said Lily.

“Thank you!” sing-songed Cook, ruffling through the pile. He took out an issue of
The Amazing Spider-Man
. On the cover, the Green Goblin was in mid-fight with the costumed hero, while the pair's alter-egos taunted each other in flashback. Tom gave Cook a small bottle of orangeade and a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps. Cook guzzled and munched and rustled, hardly noticing that Tom and Lily had disappeared upstairs. When it grew too gloomy to read, he just sat there in the dark, tracing spider-web patterns in the armchair dust, re-imagining the comic stories, projecting them onto the blackness where they played out as animations – vivid and looming and leering.

On the way back to Esther's, Cook happily threaded his fingers through Lily's.

“I like my dad!” he declared.

Lily snatched in a breath. “That's really good, Dor.”