Twisted Little Things and Other Stories (35 page)

“Well, we touched! I mean, you can't touch a ghost, can you?”

“I have no -”

Before I can finish, she hurries past me and makes her way out through the door. I wait for her to say something, but then I head over and look out. She's standing next to the steering arm now, at the very rear of the boat, staring out into the darkness. Again, I wait for her to speak, but finally her chatterbox engine seems to have run out and she seems overcome by some new realization. After a moment, I realize that she's checking her pulse on the side of her neck. I do the same, although my leathery old skin seems to be making it hard to find anything.

“Listen,” I say finally, “I'm tired and -”

“When did you lose your dog?” she asks, turning to me.

“A while back. He -”

“Be specific. When? And how?”

“I don't know, exactly,” I continue, feeling a little foolish. I rub the back of my neck, but to be honest I already know that I won't be able to give her a precise date. However, I should at least take a stab. “It was a few months ago. Six, maybe. Maybe more than that, but I think about six.”

“And what happened to him?”

“He just...”

My voice trails off. What
did
happen to Baxter?”

“He died,” I tell her. “He wasn't a particularly old boy, but one morning I woke up and he was just gone.”

“So there was a body?”

“He was
gone
!” I hiss. “I don't really want to talk about it!”

“The man on the boat had a dog,” she replies.

“What man on what boat?”

“The man in the book,” she continues, sounding a little exasperated. “One of the stories about him is that he's this guy who died on his canal barge a few decades ago. When he was finally found, he'd decomposed pretty badly, but his dog was still alive. The dog had sat with him the whole time, for at least a week. Faithful, loyal, never daring to go anywhere else. Just sitting next to his master until some passersby noticed the smell.”

“That's rubbish for a start,” I reply. “If the dog sat there for a week, how did it not starve to death? What did it eat?”

“I guess there was still some food in its bowl,” she says. “I don't know the details, but he was probably taken to an animal shelter or adopted by some new owners.”

“And you think the dead old man was me?” I ask, unable to hide a faint gasp of amusement. “You think I died, and now I'm some hopeless old ghost traveling the waterways? I know I might look a little haggard, and maybe my clothes are kind of old, but I'd still like to believe that I at least look like I'm alive!”

She stares at me for a moment, before looking down at my wrist.

“What time is it?” she asks.

I take a moment to check. “Ten to midnight.”

“I have to go home. I have to know!”

“That's what I've been trying to -”

Suddenly she turns and jumps onto the riverbank. She shouts something, but I don't quite make out the garbled words, and by the time I get up on deck there's no sign of her. I can hear her running into the distance, but soon even that sound has faded, and I'm left standing all alone in the darkness.

“Weird girl,” I mutter, before glancing back into the kitchen and seeing that her backpack is still on the sofa.

Great.

“Hey!” I yell, turning and calling after her. “You forgot your stuff!”

I wait, but of course there's no reply.

“Crazy-ass lunatic,” I say with a sigh, heading back inside. I stuff her book of ghost stories into the top of the backpack and then I haul the damn thing outside, leaving it propped against the steering arm so she can retrieve it if she comes back.

Kids these days have way too much time on their hands. When I was her age, I was already out of school and working seven days a week in my father's shop.

“Come on, Baxter,” I mutter as I head back inside and lock the door for the night. “Time to -”

Stopping, I look down at the red rubber bone, and I realize that for a moment I forget that he was gone.

Once I'm alone in bed, with the light off, I close my eyes and try to get some sleep. I'm sure the crazy girl is safely back home by now, and I just hope she fetches her backpack without disturbing me. I mean, I know I'm not in the best health. I'm old, I'm tired, there are bags under my eyes and bags under those bags too, and I have liver spots on my hands, and I'm a little overweight, and my teeth are discolored and I stoop slightly. And my joints are agony, even if they haven't been too bad lately.

But at least I'm alive. At least I've still got that going for me.

Five

“Get help!” I gasp, sitting up suddenly and slamming my head into the bedroom's low roof. I let out a groan of pain and pull back, but I'm sweating like a pig and it takes a moment before I'm able to get my breath back.

I'm on the boat.

I'm in bed.

Everything's okay.

Still, a moment ago I was having a dream. I was with Baxter, he was barking at me, but I was struggling to get out of the boat and there was a crushing pain in my chest. The pain is gone now, but I can still feel its echo shuddering up to my left shoulder and down my arm, and the dream seemed unusually vivid. I remember crashing down to the floor, right next to the sofa in the boat's kitchen, and then Baxter started licking my face and whimpering.

And then...

And then I woke up.

Clambering out of bed, I take care not to hit my head again as I stumble through to the seating area and then to the kitchen at the boat's far end. I look around for Baxter, before remembering that he's long gone, and then I pour myself a glass of water. I still feel hot and sweaty, and a little out of breath, so I unlock the door and step out onto the rear of the boat. Before I can manage more than a couple of steps, however, I trip against something on the floor and I stumble forward.

Steadying myself against the steering arm, I look down in the darkness and see that goddamn backpack.

“Great,” I mutter, checking my watch and seeing that it's now 1.13am.

I spend the next twenty minutes or so just trying to calm down, but I still feel far too worked up to even consider going back to sleep. I guess that dumb girl's crazy theories filled my head with rubbish, and now I probably won't get any sleep at all tonight. Figuring that I should still make myself useful, I slip into my old boots and then I step off the boat, onto the muddy towpath. I head along to the bow and then I climb back on-board, and I take a moment to uncoil the hose and slip it into the opening at the top of the tank.

If I'm going to be awake, I might as well refill the boat's water supply.

Grabbing the other end of the hose, I jump back onto the towpath and start trampling toward the service point. I've traveled along these canals for so long now, I know them back to front, and sure enough I quickly find a rickety wooden hut. Even without any light, I locate the tap and attach the hose, and then I turn the top so that water starts flowing into the boat's main tank. The damn thing creaks like crazy, but at least the water is running. To be honest, I feel like an old fool doing all of this in the dead of night, but I guess I long since gave up caring what other people think of me.

These days, I am who I am, and I'm not apologizing to anybody.

For the next few minutes, I wait while the water tank fills, and then finally I turn the tap off and disconnect the hose. I busy myself with a few more odd-jobs on the boat, but I'm still feeling mighty disturbed and finally I figure it wouldn't hurt to take a little wander and try to get a little fresh air into my lungs. I swing the boat's doors shut and then I take off along the towpath, fumbling through the darkness until I find the gravel path that slopes up toward the bridge. When I reach the top, there's no sign of life, and there are no cars running anywhere nearby. Still, it feels good to get a change of view, and when I look over my shoulder I can just about make out the canal's water rippling in the darkness. This must be the first time I've stepped away from the canal since...

Well, since before I can really remember.

And then I hear her.

I turn and look the other way, out into the darkness. Somebody's weeping, and a shiver runs through my chest as I realize that the sound must be coming from the old cemetery. I can't see the gravestones, or even the church, but I know they're nearby, and the weeping sound is strong and steady.

“You have to be joking,” I mutter, as I realize that it must be the girl. “Don't you have a home to go to?”

I'm finally feeling tired again, and I desperately want to go back to the boat and try to sleep. Still, I've always been a gentleman at heart, so I set off through the darkness, walking carefully and slowly until I finally bump against the low stone wall that encircles the cemetery. I fumble along the edge, and it takes a couple of minutes before I find the gate, which I swing open before stepping through into the cemetery itself. I can just about make out the nearest gravestones now, tilting in the cold night air, and the ground is much less even beneath the soles of my boots.

And the girl is still weeping. Wherever she is, she can't be more than a few meters away.

“Hello?” I call out, taking a cautious step forward. “Angela? Are you here?”

I hear her sniffing back some of her tears, and a moment later her shocked face bobs up from behind one of the stones.

“It's me,” I continue, just in case she hadn't realized. “Robert, from the boat. Remember?”

She sniffs again.

“What are you...” She pauses. “What are you doing here?”

“What the bloody hell do you
think
I'm doing?” I ask, taking a step closer. “I could hear you whimpering away from down by the goddamn boat.”

“You could?”

“Well, from the bridge at least,” I mutter. “It's almost two in the morning. What are you doing out here, you damn fool? I thought you were going home!”

She stares at me for a moment longer, before suddenly dropping back down out of sight. I wait for her to reappear, but finally I make my way over to the stone and look around to see that she's sitting on the grass.

“You left your backpack on my boat,” I tell her.

No reply.

“So what's this about?” I ask. “Let me guess, you're one of those goths, aren't you? I've read about the type. You like hanging around cemeteries at night and generally wasting your time on stupid -”

“I can't find my way,” she says suddenly, as she holds her right hand up and once again starts opening and closing her fist.

“Your way where?”

She pauses, before looking up at me.

“Home.”

I wait for her to explain, but now there's real fear in her eyes.

“Well, what do you mean, you can't find your way home?” I ask. “You told me earlier, you said you lived a few miles away.”

“I do.”

“There aren't that many places in the area. There are a couple of towns and villages, and that's about it.”

“I know, but I don't know where I live!”

I can't help but sigh.

“Well,” I reply, “let's start with something simple. Do you know where you were tonight, before you came and started bugging me?”

“I remember walking through this cemetery,” she replies, “and then down to the towpath, but before that... It's like I started here.”

“I don't think that's possible.”

“I don't remember being anywhere else,” she continues, and it's clear that she's once again close to tears. “It's really weird. I know who I am, and I have this vague awareness of my life, but I can't seem to latch onto the specifics.” She looks down at her hand again, which seems to have fascinated her ever since we were on the barge. “Something isn't right here. It's like I can't remember being anywhere other than the cemetery and the towpath, at least not lately. I'm trying, but...”

Again, her voice trails off.

“Well, there's no need to fuss,” I say finally, trying to perk her up a little. “I'm sure it'll come to you if you just think about it a little longer.”

“Tonight,” she replies, “I remember walking through the cemetery and going to the towpath, and then meeting you.”

“Okay, but -”

“Before that, I don't remember anything about what I did all day. I remember the previous night, though. Again, I was in the cemetery, and then I spent some time on the towpath, and then I came back to the cemetery. The only difference is that before, I never bumped into you.”

“I wasn't here much before,” I point out. “I travel a lot, I float along the waterways and, well, I guess we never bumped into each other until tonight. Besides -”

Stopping suddenly, I realize that my memory isn't much better. I remember being on the barge, I remember mooring for the night, but I'm not sure I remember what I did yesterday. In fact, all my recent memories are of being on the boat at night, and I honestly don't recall one moment of sunlight since... Well, since Baxter was still with me, and I'm still not sure how long he's been gone.

Weeks.

Months.

Longer, perhaps.

“Admit it,” she says after a moment. “Your memory's about as bad as mine.”

“I'm not admitting anything,” I reply, starting to feel a little irritated. “I'm an old man, it's perfectly normal for me to have a few blank spots, but I'm certainly not -”

“Look!” she adds, suddenly turning and placing a hand on the nearest gravestone.

Sighing, I look at the stone, and I feel a flash of recognition as soon as I see the name.

“Amanda Bates,” she reads out loud. “Born on March seventh, 1980. Died on May tenth, 1995. This is her, this is the girl who was mentioned in the book. The one who drowned.”

“So?”

“So each night, my memories start here. Right here, at this exact grave.”

“But your name -”

“I don't know!” she hisses, as her desperation finally starts to burst through. “Angela, Amanda, maybe I'm just getting confused! My head is so foggy right now, I don't really know what's happening, but I think I remember...”

She pauses, staring at the stone for a moment.

“I have these dreams,” she continues. “I think they last all day. In the dreams, I'm out by the canal. It's late at night, and I'm all alone. And then I've dropped something into the canal, I don't remember what, but I know I have to get it out. I know it sounds dumb, but I climb down into the water, so I can swim out and...”

I wait, but she seems lost in the memory.

“And then there are these weeds,” she adds, her eyes wide with shock. “Whatever I've dropped, I think it's a necklace or something, but it's sinking. And I've gone down to get it back, but at the bottom of the canal there are all these weeds, and they're wrapped around my ankle, and I can't get back to the surface. I'm pulling so hard, and I'm running out of air, and the water's so dirty I can't see anything. Not even my hands in front of my face. Finally I feel water flooding into my lungs -”

“This is nonsense,” I mutter.

“And I'm drowning,” she continues, looking up at me again. “I can't help gulping more and more water into my body, and I feel like my head is going to explode, and it's horrible but then at the very last moment there's this rush of calm. Like suddenly I feel everything's going to be okay, and I don't need to struggle anymore. The pain goes away, and the fear too, and I'm just left down there in the water, anchored to the bottom by the strands of weeds that are still wrapped around my ankles. I don't know how long that lasts, but in the dream I'm there for at least a few days before the water's disturbed and some men in diving suits find me. And then either I wake up, and it's night and I'm right here in the cemetery, or the dream starts again.”

I open my mouth to tell her again that this is crazy, but deep down I know that I've had similar dreams. Except in mine, I'm in the boat with Baxter and there's a pain in my chest, and I collapse, and then...

And then I'm just alone on the boat, and it's always night. And I never meet another soul, at least not until I bumped into Angela tonight.

Or Amanda, or whatever the hell she's really called.

“I think I'm dead,” she says finally, sniffing back more tears as she runs a hand across the gravestone, letting her fingertips dip into the carved letters. “I think we're both dead.”

“That's not possible,” I mutter, although I'm starting to feel less and less certain.

“It fits,” she continues. “Why else would I not know how to get home? Why else would I constantly be drawn back to this spot in the cemetery?”

“Just wait until morning,” I tell her, checking my watch. “It's already -”

“Morning won't come,” she adds, interrupting me. “For either of us. We're only here at night. During the day, we're gone and maybe we dream. And then tomorrow night, I'll be here again, just like this. And you'll probably be off again, somewhere else on the canal.”

I shake my head, but I can't bring myself to argue with her.

“So where did you get the book, then?” I ask.

“With the ghost stories?” She pauses. “I must have had it when I died.”

“Impossible,” I point out. “Not if it mentions your death in it.”

“Huh.” She frowns. “That's a good point. I guess I must have found it, then. Maybe that's what I do as a ghost, maybe I collect things that people leave on the towpath. I used to be a bit like that anyway, I think.”

“Great,” I mutter. “You've got an answer for everything.”

Getting to her feet, she stares at the stone for a moment longer before stepping around and heading over to the wall.

“Maybe this is what it's like to be a ghost,” she says after a moment. “Maybe you're just trapped, except... Maybe we got lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you see it. Maybe we just happened to bump into each other, and ghosts aren't supposed to do that, but we did anyway and now we're kinda aware of what happened to us. Maybe most ghosts never have that opportunity.”