The Medium

Steven Deighan was born in Edinburgh in 1983.

He is the author of two horror collections, A Dead Calmness and Things From The Past. His current work includes Feels Like Stephen King, an original graphic adaptation.

STEVEN DEIGHAN

THE MEDIUM An Edinburgh ghost story Illustrations by Terry Cooper

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First Published 2009: Stages Of Undress ISBN 978-0-9560912-1-5

Copyright Š 2009 by Steven Deighan Artwork and cover by Terry Cooper Š 2009 Steven Deighan asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

FOR KAREN

The Medium

Steven Deighan

1

T

HE BILLING AT THE DOOR of the Playhouse sparkled but not in the sunshine kind of way, no; the midnight blue of the poster behind the riveting text gave it a desirable shine, appealing to anyone who walked by at least fifteen yards of it. It caught their eyes, drew them closer until they could properly work out the face and name on the poster.

It was headlined PSYCHIC SENSATION! with other commercial details splattered on it (and some hexagonal stars to give it that mystical look) and the name PETER SYTHE was blown up at the bottom in the most fanciest text anyone could ever hope to use in PhotoShop.

It was also an unusual placement because pinned right next to it was the poster for that year’s spectacular, Rocky Horror. The psychic poster looked oddly subsided beside the glamorous manner of Dr. Frank ‘N’ Furter and his muscled creation. Those were two of the Playhouse Theatre’s yearly specials, and instant sell-outs both on-line and at the box-office.

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Placing them together like that on the board was like matching Saturday’s winning ticket to the lottery.

A splatter of rain decorated the pavement outside the Playhouse. There wasn’t a downpour planned; it was only mid-October and though the heat wasn’t tremendous, there was still an air of warmth residing around the upper Leith Walk area. A number twenty-five bus slid around the roundabout, an angry car driver sounding his horn at the bus’s expeditious turn in front of him.

The poster still sparkled on the board outside of the Playhouse, and continued to do so after the rain had stopped. The PSYCHIC SENSATION himself was only a few hundred yards away, drawing up a rough draft of his performance in his hotel room at the Balmoral. His assistant, Julia, was seated next to him, listening to his plans as he relayed them to her from his etched scrawling.

‘It looks good, Peter,’ she told him confidently, eyeing him from above her thinrimmed glasses. She was a petite assistant, and an attractive one. Peter had often given thought in the past to a cosy night in with her.

‘I know, but it’s mostly spontaneous,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘I only respond to what I 7

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feel, what comes through.’

She smiled at him peculiarly, like she was unsure of what he was saying. They had been together professionally – never intimately – for two years. She believed in him and his gift, his ability to communicate with the dead, though in reality, Peter Sythe usually had difficulty contacting the living.

‘You still think it’s fake, don’t you?’

‘I didn’t say that, Peter,’ said Julia, fixing her glasses, which had made their way slightly down her nose.

‘But I can see it in your face, Julia. You still think it’s fake!’

Julia managed to stifle a laugh at his remark but Peter had noticed anyway. He placed his sheets down on the glass table and glared at her, though she knew it wasn’t malicious. He was playing with her.

‘I just think it’s different,’ she said, settling in one of the comfy armchairs. There was a kettle in the small kitchen space and it clicked, allowing her an escape from the tight conversation. ‘You want tea? Coffee?’

Peter mumbled for tea, no sugar, and Julia set to work in the kitchen. She had a notebook of errands needing done but she would leave that for 8

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half an hour. She was tired from the plane journey, and even making the brew was hard work.

Reaching into the cupboard, Julia Henderson thought of the enigmatic Peter Sythe.

And of the consequences that had drew her to him. *** The audience had settled into their seats about twenty minutes prior to the psychic show. The ushering staff were drained due to the consistent running around for patrons, as well as having to prepare for the show backstage (which was almost done). There was a camera crew setting up at the foot of the stalls, just before the stage; there were hundreds of wires running along the floor like black tendrils, plugged into all outlets and cameras nearby. Some TV company had acquired the rights to televise the event, which was shaping up to be one of the most prominent shows of the year. A pony-tailed man of about thirty was holding a clipboard and moving swiftly among the TV staff, checking off details on his list when he felt satisfied everything was in place.

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A head usher was seating the last of the audience when he noted the time. The show was about to commence. A sequence of chatter filled the auditorium in a snake-like fashion, as someone was heard shouting that Peter Sythe was standing on the left of the stage. Of course, he wasn’t, but it didn’t stop some people from standing up and flashing their cameras anyway.

All they got was a spotty sixteen-year old work experience kid stealing a much-needed drink from his Pepsi at the curtain.

Peter Sythe was backstage at the Royal Concert Hall. A TEMPLE OF DRAMA was what he had read on the plaque in the foyer, and was almost certainly what he was experiencing now.

His flight from the US resulted in the temporary loss of his luggage and his transport from the airport had arrived half an hour late. If Peter had been able to contact the dead in everyday life the way he did on-stage, he’d be on the line to ask why the hell this shit was dumped on him.

The make-up woman fluttered around him, not content with the job she’d done ten minutes before – that had taken her almost half an hour to complete in the first place. He let her do her thing, mainly because he’d had a bad day, and because she was pretty. He didn’t mind looking 10

The Medium

into her cleavage when she fluffed him up.

‘Nearly there, Mister Sythe,’ someone from backstage called, but Peter couldn’t see them.

There were so many bodies scuttling around in the gloom and each individual soul would walk right by as quick as they could look at you.

‘Okay,’ Peter mumbled, rubbing his hands together. He felt good about the event, not like last time when he was about to appear and suddenly was stricken down with horrible nausea. He couldn’t explain it at the time, but after that show the in-house first-aider concluded it was a mild case of food poisoning. Peter had later thought ‘mild’ had not been the best term to describe it – he’d spent all night vomiting and shitting and speaking to deformed shadows in his room.

A tall, rough-looking gentleman had introduced himself as the show’s director and wished Peter luck. His Hawaiian-style shirt made Peter smile inside, for it was comical in November, and Nottingham was cold.

He thanked the director and clasped his hands again.

Silence crowded the auditorium as the overhead speakers announced that night’s show.

Smoke machines grunted into life at either side of the stage; Theatrics, Peter had thought. It 11

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amused him. It made him think of something sinister, like he was about to put on a show of unending madness.

He remembered the graveyard scene from Michael Jackson’s Thriller when the fog crawled out of the cemetery, right before the dancing zombies did.

He broke from this thought the second the lights came on. Like a fantasy battle, two blazing beams of blue fought against one another in the dark, dancing and criss-crossing in the air. It was a remarkable display, and as Peter had surmised, just a little theatrical, even for a show of this impression.

He was, after all, only communicating with the dead.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the overhead voice boomed. ‘Peeet-uuuuur Syyythe!’

The drama began unfolding as soon as Peter stepped onto the stage, when the mystical music was drowned out by an auditorium-full of clapping and whistling. Peter felt like a popstar standing there, an army of captivated fans at his mercy, all awaiting his grand performance. He’d had many ovations before, but none quite like this. The on-stage visuals had been a new thing too, but he accepted this as they added to the spectacle and kept the show pristine. Already the sweat had formed on his forehead due to the heat, 12

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but with his hands in the air at the audience he couldn’t stop to wipe it off.

A TV camera followed him across stage from the floor; it was running along wheels, like a customised railway accessory, with its operator seated naturally beside it, his focus melted into the lens to capture the showman.

The music had stopped by the time the applauding ceased, and the laser lights had been put to rest. Peter Sythe gained silence from his crowd, clasped his hands, and began one of his most memorable shows. *** ‘That was great, Peter!’ someone praised, passing backstage.

The towel that Peter had been handed was drenched after the first spate of dabbing; Peter had to call for several more, a little anger sustained his voice as he shouted. He didn’t want to demand (he wasn’t known for any ridiculous requirements) but he had made it clear to his then assistant, Raul, that several important items would be necessary directly after the event. He was in his own dressing room, and it was neat 13

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and spacious, just what he had asked for.

‘You really gave them one hell of a show tonight, Pete,’ said Raul, handing the pile of towels to Peter.

‘I think it went well,’ Peter replied, removing the top towel and drying his exposed underarms and torso with it.

‘You’re American, that’s why they love you, they don’t mind the mistakes,’ informed Raul.

Peter chuckled. ‘There’s so much intensity with these UK audiences, don’t you think? I mean, the questions they ask, the answers they’re seeking – they really were hoping for a miracle tonight, huh?’

‘And that’s what they got! The miracle that is Peter Sythe!’

Peter laughed at Raul and watched as a barrage of theatre staff clambered along the narrow backstage corridors with the props.

‘Close that, will you?’ Peter asked Raul, who got up and slammed the door shut.

‘What about that woman, early on? She was quite frightening. And so were you. What the hell happened? We had thought we would have to switch to commercials!’

Peter remembered. The woman had been about fifty and gypsy-like, and had told Peter 14

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from her seat that her son had left home a few years before (Peter also remembered how intent the camera was on filming her, for she looked like the typical psychic reveller). After numerous visits to mediums, the old lady was certain her son was dead. Peter made no claim to know this, of course, but reassured her that if he was, then he would be safe on the other side with awaiting relatives.

The old woman withheld the fact that her son was wanted for murder.

Peter did then make the claim that he knew, for the feeling of ‘the other side’ greeted him only seconds later, washing over him like the sudden queasiness of an oncoming headache.

The uncomfortable presence of the uninvited had caused Peter to take a few steps back, and this motivated a few of the audience members to gasp and point, for afterwards some swore they saw a “ghostly figure” lurking behind him.

Peter threw his hands to his head in true performance fashion (the TV director was loving it), moaning slightly as the dire sensation was making itself known to him. The old woman in the audience suddenly found herself seated alone, as several close-by members found her chanting too much to bear.

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‘Who is this?’ Peter had mouthed, offcamera.

The spontaneity of his jerking body only fuelled the ratings of the televised exhibition; several thousand more households tuned in after the ghostly shadow revelation. Peter’s live show was now beginning to get hot.

Then, at the back of the audience in the gloom, the old gypsy woman stood up, her eyes rolled upwards to white, her hands gripped around her handbag so much her knuckles had turned white, and she screamed: ‘It’s my son! He is here! It’s my son! MY SON!’ Two women in the middle of the row had screamed out too, and fear of a stampede was on the cards. The manager was called from upstairs and all staff reported urgently to the auditorium.

A feeling of invasion overcame Peter; it overwhelmed him, made him stumble back again and fall into one of the chairs on the stage. It wasn’t painful; he felt like he was suffering a bad form of the flu – like a spiritual parasite had crept into him and was taking over. He saw the image of a man with a knife, and he was very tall and very grubby. Somewhere, in this place, Peter could smell alcohol.

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The son whom the old woman had mentioned had been sent. Whether or not to assure his mother he was still around, Peter couldn’t tell. The only thing Peter didn’t like was the place from which the spirit had arrived.

The hysteria had died down shortly after the lights on the stage went out and the main lights of the auditorium came on. The audience had resisted the urge to stampede, but still rushed out the exits, gossiping.

Peter retreated backstage and fell into the arms of Raul, his nightmare settled. The figure was gone.

When Peter had finished remembering the ghastly events, he had dried himself. Turning to Raul, he whispered: ‘There was something with me on that stage tonight.’

‘Yeah, a puddle of sweat and a ton of madness!’

‘No, really,’ Peter enthused, ‘something odd was there with me, and I didn’t like it. I’ve never felt anything like it before.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Raul comforted him, ‘it comes with the gift. Look, I gotta go just now, 18

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but I’ll be back so don’t leave yet.’

Raul got up and left the room. It was the last time that Peter would see him alive, for mere hours later he’d find Raul face down in the gents of a local English pub, knife wounds aplenty, his fleeing murderer described as tall and very grubby.

Peter would then realise that not all the spirits he contacted had crossed over, and that he’d now need a new personal assistant.

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2 The day after Peter and Julia had been sitting drinking tea and planning Peter’s forthcoming show at the hotel, something happened. On the corner of Princes Street, adjacent to the lavish Balmoral Hotel where Peter and Julia were staying, was a Burger King outlet. It was a twolevel restaurant, accommodating no more than two-hundred hungry customers at a time. But today, something wasn’t right, and it couldn’t have been spotted any sooner when the guy walked in around noon with the refuse bag.

Julia had been looking out of the large window of their room when she had seen the tramp walking into the restaurant. He barged through a young courting couple, attracting a fighting look from the young man; his girlfriend held him back, saying that the smell put her off; and that had been the last Julia had seen of him, because then came the screaming and the ba-ruru-ru of gunfire. When she did look back, her hands thrown to the glass, carnage had ensued – those downstairs were drowned by the gunman’s bullets as he opened fire immediately; a hail of bodies tore down the restaurant stairs, only to be 20

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met with the rushing of bullets shot towards them. Each body fell hard into another; several folk fell into the condiment stands, knocking over napkins and sachets of sauce all over the linoleum floor (which was now a bathing pool of blood). The assailant had opened fire relentlessly from his machine gun, even killing several of the restaurant staff.

Before the police arrived, all that was left were the unfortunate bodies of the restaurant and the callous gunman, lying bleeding from the head, dead by his own trigger-happy hand. *** The police had arrived at the death site only two minutes later, and in any other place this would’ve been a record, except that the nearest station was minutes away. The fluorescent cars with their flashing lights ripped through South Bridge at top speed, and many of the vehicles jumped the curb outside Burger King to restrict the public’s interference.

It was a bad time for tragedy; some independent members of the Press had turned up, cameras flashing, notebooks at the ready; the 21

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many tourists blended in subtly, gawking, with their cameras too, snapping away as much as they could before being ordered away.

There was blood smeared on all of the windows and the beeping from the kitchen ovens sang out over the counters. The fries and burger meats that had been cooking throughout the chaos were caught in time by the fire brigade, who were at the back of the police. The last thing they needed was a blazing fire destroying the building.

Those that had survived upstairs were screaming from the windows, some throwing chairs against the glass to break it free. There were painful sobs and tear-stained eyes with bloodstained palms; children banged their tiny fists to alert the gathering crowd below, where only minutes before they’d been enjoying a cheeseburger and fries. Someone shouted to them to go downstairs, that the shooting had stopped, but they didn’t believe it; though the firing had ceased, fear still had them.

By a little after one o’clock (there was no traditional cannon fire, hadn’t been for a while, the tourists were told), that end of Princes Street had been cordoned off, the roads a tangled mess of unmarked cars, ambulances and police. The 22

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buses had been diverted along the Meadows up

by South Clerk Street, and the ones from the Leith end sent along George Street.

It was a horrible day in Edinburgh, but it only added another rung on the ladder of its gruesome climb – another detailed entry into the criminal log of the city. The evening newspapers ran a similarly shocking headline: RESTAURANT SLAYING – 50 DEAD The actual number of casualties was not revealed at that time; the Press were making a haphazard assumption based on eye-witness reports. Also by that time, the local radio station had found out, and when it hit six o’clock, everybody from Bilston to Granton knew and spoke of the horrendous tragedy.

The hotel opposite suffered intemperately; chauffeurs held their hats in their hands as they stood on the steps (they didn’t sit because that would be deemed unprofessional); the hotel concierge and outdoor staff were pressed into the foyer by the police, who didn’t want any folk staring at the carnage. The receptionist at the hotel had to endure hours of painstaking calls to clients and approaching guests, alerting them of 23

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the incident so they could make other arrangements to arrive. Almost no traffic at all could enter Princes Street.

Peter Sythe watched the pandemonium unfold below from his window with Julia. The staff had telephoned his room and told him what he already knew; what he was watching. He had to cancel his show but that was handled by his organisers. Even Julia, who had trouble getting through to people due to the constant use of the hotel’s phone service, spoke on his behalf.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Peter had told her, his aim to subdue her rising fear. He knew things would be sorted out on the business end; Julia often took it more seriously, threatening lawsuits and the like when co-ordinators didn’t cooperate, particularly when matters were out of their hands.

‘Does this kind of thing always happen here?’ she asked, still holding the phone. If it wasn’t the ringing on the other line that shook the receiver, it was her hand.

‘I don’t think so; it just seems random – feels random, anyway. It’s very macabre.’

‘You’re telling me – yes, hello?’ Julia returned to her conversation down the mouthpiece.

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Peter remained staring out of the window, at the restaurant massacre site.

He saw the paramedics cart out the dead one by one, and the injured, sobbing their hearts out and clinging to one another; it was a sorry sight, of course, but like he had told her: Random.

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3 Peter and Julia sat in the hotel room until 7 P.M., watching the TV. Peter flicked through the channels aimlessly, for he had the two of them watching the leftovers of some fledgling soap, the bitterness of the acting evidence of the show’s demise. There was no heart in their words, no feeling to sum up what Scottish intellect they were spewing. Peter didn’t mind; he was elsewhere in his head, running over thoughts of that day’s shooting, but Julia held grudges, and she sighed deeply, hinting at boredom – which meant if he didn’t change the channel, there would be hell to pay.

‘You’re thinking about today,’ she said to him. She sat on the comfy sofa (a strange placement for such furniture, but it aided the guests when they didn’t feel the need for sleep) with her knees up into her chest. She fumbled through her paperwork, shifting sheets of handwritten propaganda from one pile to another; a lack of interest hinted there, too, that was brought on more by fatigue than obligation.

Peter blinked erratically, like a patient returning from a hypnotic state. He turned to her; 26

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he was unaware he still held the remote firmly in hand. The TV was on BBC1.

He uttered a single syllable that sounded choked and caveman-like, but Julia knew he meant for her to repeat what she had said.

‘That awful shooting.

You were just thinking about it?’

Peter nodded. He was sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over like a child scolded after doing something wrong. He looked tired; Julia had seen him in this state before, many times.

‘I was,’ he said, his hands on his knees. ‘But there was something else.’

‘If it’s about the show, I’ve seen to it. I’ve called everyone and they’re fine about the cancellation; the theatre is too, and they can accept tickets another night once that downstairs is cleared. Or a refund.’

‘No, it wasn’t that,’ he told her. ‘I had . . . that dream again.’

Julia stopped shifting the papers. She had her mobile phone next to her and she turned it off. ‘Peter, we’ve been through this.’

He lowered his head. ‘I know. But it won’t go away.’

The dream – to be more fitting, nightmare – had been about Peter’s brother, who had killed 27

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himself five years before. It was a recurring dream that frightened Peter because in many ways he had been afraid of his brother when he was alive. Sam never knew the right things to say to people and always liked to cause trouble, but the most unappreciative thing of all was that he hated Peter’s gift. Mostly, it was just teasing, some acidic taunts that hurt Peter in the early years, but toward the end it had grown aggressive, almost . . . violent. Their parents were dead by the time the boys ended puberty, so Peter had no one to talk to (he spoke with the spirit of his mum on many dark nights) and was left alone with his brother, a man so downtrodden with woe it made the insane look groomed.

In the dream, Sam was chasing Peter through an alleyway (a common dream, a counsellor had once told him, alluding to his fear of running away with nothing) and Sam was wielding some kind of stick, the wood splintered with rusted nails that promoted the weapon to maim; he screamed at Peter to stop, that their parents were dead and it was all his stupid, psychic fault, him with his queer gift.

Peter ran through the puddles of rain that felt more like tar under his feet, slowing him almost to a standstill, granting Sam time to catch up.

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Sometimes, Sam did catch him up, but he never hit Peter with the stick. Not until – ‘Last night.’

Julia sat listening to Peter tell her about his dream, though she’d heard it all before. She felt as if she were humouring him and he knew it, kind of, but didn’t say so out of courtesy – probably more out of relief. He got to tell his fears again, and in some unselfish way, relieve himself of guilt over Sam’s suicide. He wasn’t there when the younger sibling pulled the trigger and entered the bullet deep into his brain – nor would he have liked to be. But in connection with his gift, he had felt it.

‘Is this going to end?’ Julia asked.

‘It’ll end when it ends, Julia!’ Peter snapped, jumping off the bed. He looked out of the window and caught sight of the police tarpaulin concealing the restaurant death scene. There were still cars and transits outside the building. A full moon was blistering on the patch of night to the east, the pallid yellow orb hanging in space like an apple hanging on a tree.

‘But you’re not to blame, Pete.’

‘I know, that I’ve accepted. It’s just . . . I still think I should have been there for him, you know? As mad and crazy as he was, he was still 29

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my family. Lineage is an awful burden, wouldn’t you say?’

Julia thought of her own family. It was near perfect. ‘Yeah,’ she lied. ‘I suppose it is.’

Julia got up and met him at the window.

Momentarily, anyone watching them might have guessed them a couple, but not tonight. There were no consoling arms wrapping around one another, no mental bond to share their feelings.

They were just colleagues, perhaps more confidential than some, but in the thick of it Peter and Julia were only business-related and that was the way it needed to be.

‘I sometimes feel that he’s out there.’

Julia looked up and felt a tinge of sadness for him. She did believe his power, and it was pitiless and shameful at times. So what if it made him famous, with constant touring round the world to educate the needy of the afterlife. It also sunk the man into depths he could never conclude and, therefore, to be never reached.

Peter Sythe was too far down in himself to realise the grip his gift – his act – had on him, that it controlled him, fed him, made him. He could never sleep in the beginning because of the dead that had pestered him and the live shows where the living did the same.

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Peter tugged on the line to close the blinds, both sides sliding effortlessly to the centre, blocking out the street lights. He had closed a frightened October night out on itself, a city thriving on headline newspapers and indoor comedy acts, where the drunk and the homeless gained street cred and the government parties excused their messes. He’d closed the blinds safe and sure, and saw Julia to her room.

But even with the night closed out, he kept a little fright inside of him.

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4 They awoke the next morning to find the hotel lobby more calm and orderly. A fleet of limousines had replaced the snake of police cars outside; Princes Street had relaxed. At 8 A.M. Edinburgh was reeling and ready for another busy day.

Julia was tidying herself in the main room when Peter exited the bathroom. Dressed as smart as a gentleman entering a blind date, he lifted his arms to the sides and asked: ‘Well, how do I look?’

‘You look great, Peter,’ Julia said, and she meant it. The charm oozing from the medium made her fluttery inside; he was looking great today, Damn handsome, she was thinking, to a point where it made her feel a slight tingle of sexual excitement. She brushed this off and began flicking through the clump of papers in her compact suitcase.

‘Now, we’ve got everything in order,’ she began explaining as she rummaged, ‘so just leave it up to me to get the calls made and the running around done. I can trust you to behave today, can’t I?’ 33

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Peter smirked. ‘Would I do anything you wouldn’t?’

She grinned. ‘Probably.’

They both shared a laugh, and on this new morning, it was more than inviting. They picked up their necessary belongings and headed for the lobby. The staff greeted them with quivering smiles (the talk going about that morning was that Peter was able to communicate with the dead shooter from yesterday) as they walked out of the foyer and into a sun-streaked city. The restaurant opposite still had police tape separating it from business; the early-morning people walking by, gasping, Is this it? Was this where it happened?

What psychic?

Julia turned to Peter, who was looking over at the restaurant.

‘I can feel them,’ he whispered. ‘Some haven’t gone, yet, you know? They still think they’re sitting there, eating, like nothing ever happened.’

Julia looked across the road. Nothing except the dry living.

‘They’re not gone yet,’ he reiterated.

‘Well, they’ll leave soon, right? Like you used to tell me – once they realise they’re not being acknowledged, their own grief will 34

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overwhelm them and they’ll go.’

‘You didn’t forget that?’

‘I forget nothing, Peter.’

A silence separated them, unique in its own time and space; unique for them.

‘Anyway, keep a low profile today, though I think this city’s preoccupied with other things.’

Peter nodded. ‘What time will I see you?’

Julia quickly ran through the events of her day in her head. ‘Try and get back here about one, if you can.’

Without the parting of even the least – a kiss – Peter headed towards Leith as Julia hailed a passing taxi. As he crossed the road, he was startled to see the restaurant dead were sitting inside. Startled, but not surprised.

Like nothing ever happened.

Peter passed several folk begging on the street (two rough-looking men and one scarred young woman) but could not offer them any more than a glance. Intimidated, he kept his head low and marched on. He may have felt ashamed too, but that feeling was hiding deep inside.

It was just after half past eight when he walked passed the Playhouse theatre, where he 35

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had been due to appear that night. The poster was still on the wall beside The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Tim Curry’s successor looked marvellous against the classic Seventie’s backdrop, his hunky creation at his side, whilst Peter’s boasted his face with stars. He went closer to the image and saw the sticker at the bottom: POSTPONED. The city was still in a state of shock and the staff had deemed it unnecessary to have such a show performed on the tail of it. Julia was dealing with the mess that had been created, and that took an awful lot of weight off his shoulders.

Further down Leith Walk, he saw more homeless and odd-looking people, some hobbling, others just wandering. He kept away from them, just in case, all the while remembering his way back to the hotel. He didn’t want to pry too much into the city life here, but it would’ve been nice to, had it not suddenly grown so tight and fearful.

He remembered his dream and it sent a shiver through him. Sam’s death scared him, mainly because he knew there was an afterlife, and he feared his brother could come for him at any time. He’d been lucky so far, but sometimes, just sometimes, he thought he felt him close.

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Peter didn’t see the man until the two bumped into one another with a hard shoulder-toshoulder thump.

‘Hey! Watch it!’

It was a tramp, and he gazed at Peter through age-ravaged eyes.

Peter distanced himself, mumbling his apologies, and let the man walk on.

He shivered again; knowing that daydreaming was not on the agenda for that day.

He came to a phonebox and quickly slid inside. The handset wire was savagely cut and the change slot bashed open; emptied. He didn’t care. He just needed a retreat from the street.

Wiping his hands down his face, he was surprised to see he was sweating.

There was a card tucked into the side of the phone. Peter pulled on it but it was stuck into the crevice, so he tugged it free. There was text on the front that read: ALL FORTUNES READ – CALL AND ASK FOR KIM. There was a number hand-written below. He stuffed the slip into his pocket anyway, intrigued at the request, but more mystified by its significance.

He made a mental note of calling it.

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5 It was lucky – if not a godsend – that the company was picking up the phone tab, for if Julia had had to pay the amount for the latest batch of calls, she’d surely be missing next year’s vacation.

She had a stinging sensation in her left ear, and an irritating bell-type in the other. Her mobile phone battery beeped to her that it needed more juice, and she hunted through her case until she found the charger. Plugging it into the café’s socket at her table, she tapped a few more keys on her laptop and continued sending and answering her emails.

Her inbox was brimming with complaints, apologies and, of course, the usual hindrances.

Small-time sponsors of Peter’s show demanded answers, whilst others relaxed and said they could wait until the grief was over.

It’ll never be over for him, though, Julia thought, in angst of the emails she was reading.

Why couldn’t they all understand that the postponing of the show wasn’t down to them?

That Peter Sythe was being haunted by enough ghosts of his own?

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She sighed, and went back to work. Above her, the sun was a prisoner to the clouds in the sky, breaking free momentarily, only to be thrown behind them again. Julia thought of Peter, where he was, what he was doing.

What he was thinking.

Finding a working phonebox in Edinburgh was hard, Peter concluded as he trailed the length of the Walk. He ran by the option of returning to his hotel, but he felt if he did that then he’d probably just remain there all day. Julia would scold him for not being brave enough after all he’d told her.

When he did find one, he pulled the glass door tight. He pulled out a few coins from his pocket and searched for the 10p’s and 20p’s.

Their unique septagonal shapes amused him. He found some coins and pushed them into the slot before dialling the number. He waited for the connection and dialled Julia. The computerised voice answered and told him that the mobile phone was switched off. He hung up the receiver and after a few clunks, the coins fell into the return pocket. He slid his fingers in and pulled them out. He was just about to leave when he 39

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remembered the card he had picked up. Pulling it from his pocket, he dialled Kim’s number and waited.

He got through.

‘Hello?’ the voice on the other line spoke.

‘Uh, hi,’ said Peter. ‘I’d like to speak to Kim, please?’

‘Speaking,’ the calm voice told him. She sounded very motherly, perhaps grand-motherly.

‘Hi, my name’s Peter Sythe. I found your card with your number on. It’s . . . of interest to me.’

‘Peter Sythe? The medium? I’ve read about you! You’re supposed to be performing at the Playhouse this week!’

‘Yes, I was, but the show’s been halted due to that god-awful restaurant business. It seems this city has enough ghosts of its own. I’d just like to ask – can we talk?’

‘Why, yes, of course we can! It would be nice to speak to someone like you, Mr. Sythe. It was a horrible thing that happened up there. All those innocent people. Well, when do you have in mind? I am free today, unless it’s too short notice for you?’

‘No, today should be fine. I have some free time of my own today. If you’d like to meet 40

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somewhere outside . . .’

‘I’ll give you my address, Peter. We can talk here, better tonight. It’d be nice to have someone the same around.’

Peter thought for a moment – was it wise to visit a complete stranger’s house in a completely strange city?

Ordinarily, it wasn’t.

But something in the back of his mind whispered this was worth chasing.

Peter got her address and noted it. She remained on the phone just a minute longer, until the beeping in Peter’s ear begged for more change. Before they said their good-byes and hung up, she said to him: ‘Do you know there is someone with you?’

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6 Peter met with Julia at the agreed time of one o’clock. The weather was slightly sunnier, though the mood within the city was still grim.

The restaurant was still awash with law bodies and forensic staff, and that day’s papers certainly didn’t refrain from “spreading the news”. Each headline on the news-stand shelves shone the terrible events of the shooting. Witness accounts told of the horrifying moments the gunman opened fire on the unsuspecting public: “He shot everyone in sight,” someone had blurted to The Sun. Peter folded the newspaper and placed it down on the chair in the hotel lobby. Julia met him minutes later and he helped her with her bags to her room. She thanked him. Her ears were still ringing.

‘Interesting day?’ she asked.

He sighed. ‘Hmm. It was okay. I took a look around the theatre place – you know, they have this big poster outside . . .’

‘About that . . . I know why the show’s been cancelled, possibly indefinitely.’

‘Why?’ 42

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‘The Playhouse manager’s sister was in that fast food place, Pete. She . . . she was killed, too.’

As they climbed the stairs leading out of the foyer, Peter stole a few moments to mourn the woman.

They made it to the room and Peter laid the bags on the floor. Julia optioned a tea; Peter accepted, no sugar. His legs were tired, but it was his head that was doing all the running. It was something Kim had said on the phone, about someone being with him. Had she meant Julia?

Was she being literal?

‘You do anything exciting today?’ she asked.

Peter broke from his thoughts.

‘Not much,’ he replied. ‘It’s still a mess over the road. It’s a shame about his sister.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Julia returned with the cups. She handed Peter his.

‘I spoke with someone today. On the phone.’

She looked at him accusingly. ‘Who?’ ‘A woman, named Kim. I . . . I found her card in a phonebooth. She’s a psychic from this city.’

‘And you know this, how?’

‘Because I called her. And I felt it, Julia. I 43

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know she is for real.’

A moment, then: ‘Was that all?’

‘Not quite. I’ve arranged to meet with her.’

Julia sat down beside him. ‘Do you know how crazy that sounds?’

‘It’s not crazy,’ Peter said as he got up.

‘She’s like me.’

‘She could also be like anyone! Peter, you don’t really know anybody from this country, let alone this city! I . . . I can’t let you do it.

Besides, we’d probably be best thinking of going back home for the time being.’

Peter lifted his shoulders and screwed up his face. He was giving her his Why the fuck we gotta do that? impression but not necessarily looking for an argument. Julia was annoyed; her day had been tough enough without Peter swanning off on day trips to arrange meets.

‘I’m going, Julia,’ he told her. ‘Tonight.’

‘And I doubt there’s a way I can stop you, right?’

He smiled. ‘Honey, you know me better than I know myself.’

‘Aaarrggh!’ Julia cried playfully. ‘I don’t think there’ll ever be a time you’ll learn, huh, Pete?’

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‘Not any time today, I’m afraid! Thank you.’

They spent the next hour chatting, as the police downstairs in the hotel foyer continued their monotonous rounds of questioning.

Nothing of the accusatory sort, just basic routine.

The murderer was dead and so were so many others. There really was nothing to do any more than paint the scene of the day before: how, who, when. Why. Around two-thirty, Julia left Peter alone. He said he felt tired and wanted to sleep; his mind was in overdrive, she had mused, and then excused herself.

Peter lay on the hotel bed, a large king-sized bouncy castle with clouds for pillows. He slipped into sleep easily, intentionally, and awoke something that had already begun stirring. *** There were faces, so many faces, and he could feel them all looking at him (yes, looking at him, wondering who he was, why he was there) and there was that damn alley again and 45

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Peter was stepping ankle-deep into puddles (dark puddles, shadows in them, or was it blood?) and so he shook his feet dry, for he had on no shoes and the cold wind was biting.

There was no moon, never was, but a light came from somewhere because he could see around him, the mangled brickwork, the juvenile graffiti, someone’s crude nickname with an outof-service telephone number spray painted beside it. (was it Kim’s number? SORRY, THE NUMBER YOU HAVE RECOGNISED)

DIALLED

HAS

NOT

BEEN

He thought he saw something moving against the wall ahead but didn’t want to check, for it could’ve been anything (anyone) and he was afraid, yes, that was it, afraid.

All of his life, shying away from everything, even Sam . . . But, Sam was gone now, blown himself away (crazy mother!, but I loved him) and leaving everything for Peter to clear up behind him like a toddler leaving its mother to do the wiping up, (of blood) 46

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though it was nothing new – had always been this way with Sam. (that shape up ahead) Moving again, Peter could feel his legs in the dream moving, he was walking toward the pulsating black mass that was against the wall, curious in the way dreams beckoned, his vision camera-like and steady, but a new feeling now; claustrophobia, maybe? He felt closed in, yes, but he did not panic; the light from wherever made him see as he neared the wall, a little clearer if still only his dream, mind, and noticing that there was nobody at this end of the alley at all.

Behind him . . .

Yes, in the dream, he could feel his eyes leaving his head, that camera vision again in the air above like a helicopter, spying down on events below. He prayed that there was nothing wrong (couldn’t be) but there was and always would be, some inner, spiritual voice was telling him. ‘You’re not normal,’ like a conscience that had a mind of its own. ‘With your queer gift.’

The man’s shape appeared right away, like some blotch on a movie reel does during its run 47

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through the projector (cigarette burns, they called it). Peter wanted to run again but his eyes had not returned to their places, hanging above him stealthily like the SAS, watching, waiting. Who’s there? Peter called out, but as expected, no answer. The man just stood in a silent, creepy fashion, like some horror movie star before the slaughter. He was holding something (the bat, he’s gonna kill me with that bat) but again, too dark to see. Then, (oh god, he’s coming) the shape began moving towards him, step by step, walking at a pace a school teacher would before class, not in a hurry, yet knowing that they had to move. Peter wanted to run, but the stuff beneath his feet was like tar again and he couldn’t for the life of him, or the muscles in his legs, he stayed put (nearer) as the shape drew closer, (it’s a man) revealing its masculine frame. It was Sam, had to be, always was, him with his hot breath and sneer, ready to swing at his brother with that killing device.

The face was almost in view; too tired to struggle, Peter stopped pulling his legs from his 48

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calves and awaited (the swing) being wakened by his alarm clock. It was getting darker behind the man, like the alleyway was being swallowed up by his presence. This had never happened before. Still, Peter waited.

And then the man was in full view, wearing the same clothes Sam was found in, bloodsplattered and torn, socks stained with dirt, pants stained by semen and shit and piss. Only (it’s not Sam) it’s the shooter from the restaurant! What does he want? Peter was thinking, also wondering why he wasn’t awake yet. His vision looked around, into that black mass behind the grubby shooter, who was now staring at Peter with venomous eyes and a yellow, broken-toothed grin. In many ways, this was Sam, in disguise.

The straggly hair made his features no less threatening.

I never saw your face, Peter said to him in that dreamy voice that narrates, an airy voiceover floating in the subconscious.

(But you see it now) Yes, yes I do! Peter cried in his dream. He was struggling again, desperately wanting to be awake. And then the man showed him what he 49

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was holding – the refuse bag that had concealed the gun. Peter watched in terror as the shooter’s blistered hand slid inside and pulled out the gun.

There was a whiff of smoke trailing out the nozzle. He pointed it at Peter.

(You got ten seconds to run) Peter was in a panic. He tried to hit out but in dreams, landing blows was never an easy task.

The person would simply stand there, unaffected by the attack. Peter felt almost like a kitten pawing at its owner, harmless, soft, cute.

The shooter laughed, aimed the gun at Peter, before his own face melted like hot candle wax and reshaped into Sam’s. Peter cried out again as the nozzle was pressed into his cheek. It poked that way you did with your finger when you had toothache, only harder, more menacing and with a cold point.

(Maybe you should blow your brains out, too) The dark behind Sam was creeping its way round the both of them, like bullies around a nerdy kid. And just as Sam was about to pull the trigger, Peter shook uncontrollably in his stance, wondering what was going on. Sam looked puzzled for a second, but his cold, grey eyes were fixed on his brother, him with the queer gift.

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(I’ll do it for you, Pe’er the queer) Then, the blackness swallowed them both and Peter awoke in the arms of Julia . . . who was sitting on the psychic’s bed, holding him, comforting him.

‘Oh, god, Peter!’ she cried, close to tears.

‘You were shaking! You were shaking! I didn’t know what to do!’

Peter’s muffled screams pressed into Julia as he held her, tighter it may have seemed, her silk robe heaven in his arms. She was an angel, the physical manifestation of his alarm tone.

‘Why didn’t it ring?’ he managed to say.

She looked down at him with that motherly stare.

‘What? What didn’t ring?’

He looked to the clock. It flashed 00:00 every few seconds.

‘Oh,’ Julia realised. ‘There was a power cut earlier. I left you sleeping. It’s almost seven. I was gonna wake you for your meeting.’

Kim! he remembered. ‘Are the telephones on?’

‘Yes, they should be.’

He pulled away from Julia slowly, and wiped his eyes. They were wet.

‘Was I crying?’

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She nodded.

He got up, still fully dressed, and walked over to the phone. Julia composed herself and stood by him as he dialled Kim’s number. There was no answer, so Peter left a message saying he was on his way.

‘You want me to go with you?’

‘No, Julia, please,’ he told her. ‘I think . . . I think something’s happening to me.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know . . . I can’t say just now.’

‘Well, please call when you’re on your way back.’

‘I will.’

He wanted to kiss her, or at least hold her the way he had minutes before. But he couldn’t. He grabbed his coat and some money and headed for the door. He stopped.

‘Julia, has anyone been in here while I was asleep?’

‘No,’ she told him. ‘I locked the door when I left. The staff would have had to have asked me for permission if they wanted in. Why? Peter, what’s happened?’

He shook his head at her, smiling, though panic and fear crept up on him.

As he opened the hotel room door to leave, 52

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he picked up the tatty refuse bag and stuffed it into his jacket.

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7 Kim had mentioned that the drive was about fifteen minutes to her house, but Peter felt the taxi drove longer. Driving through the late Friday night Edinburgh streets, Peter could only remember his dream, that face; and of course, what he had found when he awoke.

‘We almost there?’

‘Aye, Yank,’ the grey-haired driver told him, whispering the latter word.

The driver turned into a street near Albion Road, beside the football stadium. A pub – bar, to Peter – sat on the corner opposite, the punters outside with their beer glasses and cigarettes.

Damn law.

The taxi stopped, the driver pulling on the handbrake. ‘Okay, buddy.’

Peter handed him a twenty and was given change. Sensing the driver’s racist-like aura, he defeated his beliefs by handing him back a tenner as tip.

‘Thank you,’ the driver said, surprised, but not enough to change.

Peter got out and looked for the address Kim had given him. It was here somewhere . . .

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beside three open-topped buckets . . . on the other side the road. He had found them.

Crossing, he saw a small window with fluttering curtains. Perhaps she knew he had arrived. It was much too dark at this time, so his shape could have been anyone’s. He got to the door and found a panel on the wall with buzzers.

He saw her name, but before he could press it, the door unlocked with a heavy click. She did know.

Peter went inside the cool building and closed the door. The stairwell was wet in places; a couple of Yellow Pages phonebooks lay on the ground like heavy yellow sponges soaking up the moisture. He walked by them.

‘Peter?’ someone called.

‘Kim? Kim, is that you?’

‘Number four, Peter,’ she replied. ‘Next floor up.’

Peter ran up the steps. The last one was more slippery than the rest, though he maintained his balance. The stairwell held dark corners; names of the tenants were written on paper and taped to the doors. He didn’t want to be out there any longer than he needed.

The open door to his left led into a nice, cosy hallway. The smell was intriguing, like some 55

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tropical or beguiling scent from Avon. Pictures hanging on both walls told him, as he walked, generations of a family (a couple featured a beautiful young woman) that might have been Kim’s. He had a nostalgic feeling relating to his homeland, of old portraits documenting rather than preserving the subject. He wanted to touch the photographs hanging at each side, to see if he could feel anything from them, to know if . . .

‘Go ahead.’

Peter looked forward to see the old woman standing in the doorway to the living room. Time had been kind enough to her features; she only displayed several strands of grey and her face held the looks of a schoolteacher not yet near the end of term. The presence he felt from her, though . . . he could tell she had lived. She was neither under nor passed her assuming age, which he took to be about forty-five to fifty, and that grandmotherly presumption he had of her earlier was encouraged by the smiling children in the photo at the end of the hall.

‘They’re all my family, Peter,’ she told him, looking at both sides. ‘Many of them are . . . gone, moved on. I hear them sometimes, reminding me of things.’

Peter smiled. He reached out and stroked the 56

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thin sheet of glass that covered a photo of a middle-aged man, to which his breath caught.

‘Your father?’ he asked, the tips of his fingers tingling.

Kim nodded.

‘He was . . . a good man.’

‘Hardly.’

‘I know, I didn’t want to say. Your mother suffered a lot, didn’t she?’

‘About as much as her children.’ Kim walked up to him. She limped a little but there was no walking aid. He could see her clearly now. Had she maybe been more rugged-looking, she might have reminded him of the old gypsy woman he had encountered.

‘It was tough, then,’ she explained. ‘The end of the second world war. Money, work, love, all near-impossible to find. They often tell me about it, you know, what it was like, how hard it was for them. Many mothers suffered.’

Peter agreed. He had heard his own share of stories from that era, from the living and from the dead. Both sets of accounts matched.

‘You scared him?’

‘Yes. He never accepted what I had. I’ve known nearly all of my life about what I have, Peter. I couldn’t hide it. He never ridiculed me.

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Just never wanted to know.’

‘I know how that feels.’

A silence stole over them for a few moments.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Enough of the sentiment! I have the kettle on.’

They left the hallway and entered the living room. As Peter brushed past her, Kim turned off the hall light, leaving the gauntlet of pictured memories to themselves, rebounding act after act off one another in their own motionless, respectful way. *** ‘So, that was why I came to the UK,’ Peter finished. He was on his second cup of tea, and about two thirds of the way through the plate of biscuits. Kim pulled no punches with the display – Viscounts, Wagon Wheels, even Oreos, which delighted Peter and made him laugh.

‘Your personal assistant sure does have her hands full.’

‘Yes, yes she does. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere without her.’

Kim leaned forward and patted his hand, smiling. ‘It’s her duty as well, I think, to ensure 59

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you’re okay. But I think . . .’

‘Go on,’ he urged.

‘I think she gets confused too, Peter. You’re her employer and her friend, but from what I can gather, she sometimes sees you as someone more.’

‘You know, I used to suspect that from her, though she’d never let on.’

‘She doesn’t want to get involved, even if her life depended on it. Imagine, being with the one you love, but not really having them. People like us, Peter . . . we belong to them.’

That reminded him why he was there in the first place. ‘Are you with someone, Kim? I mean, from your photographs . . .’

‘Was, Peter. A long time ago. I am fiftyeight years old and have lived every day of it.

But, in years, it’s not that long. My family are all grown up, many dead. I have a son and a daughter that I haven’t spoken to in nearly a decade.’

‘They don’t want to know you?’

‘That was the trouble, Peter, they did know me! I don’t want to hide what I am, or what I have, because it’s what is me.’

Peter nodded.

‘You put on quite a performance with your 60

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shows, don’t you, Peter?’

‘If the mood suits the audience, yes. Things come through and I channel them.’

Kim looked to the window. It had been her curtains that fluttered earlier. The ominous dark winter had forcefully settled and there would be no escaping it.

‘You asked to speak with me, Peter, but I can’t work out why.’

‘It’s no guess,’ he replied. ‘We’re the same, what we have. It’s not everyday that you get to meet someone like that.’

‘Yes, you’re right.’

‘You said something to me on the telephone, Kim, about someone being with me.’

Kim looked back at him. She remained sitting the way that made him think of a teacher – strict, no agitation. She seemed younger than fifty-eight, but of course he couldn’t argue with her on that. Her eyes held him, for every word she said; her, the same. She liked the man, was intrigued by him, his fame, his being.

‘Sam,’ she whispered.

Peter flinched as if struck by something.

‘My brother, Sam?’ Kim nodded. ‘I have had a sense of something dark, Peter, from when we first spoke.

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And you, telling me more about him and the reasons why you came here. You can’t escape him, can you? In memory or spirit?’

‘I used to suffer these terrible nightmares.

He would be in them, taunting me, hurting me. I thought I was safe . . .’

‘And you thought running from your home was the answer.’

‘The show,’ he remarked. ‘The show was the reason why we came here. At least, that was what I told Julia.’

‘What happened to Raul,’ said Kim, ‘was an abomination. Spirits pity no more than what they can grieve.’

Almost like the living, Peter thought. ‘A ghost killed him. Do you know how insane that might have sounded if I’d told that to the cops?’

‘I understand.’

‘But Sam . . . you think he could do the same?’

‘I think he’s coming back, Peter. That connection I got from you today . . . it told me something in your mind was breaking out.’

‘I always thought his death was a way for him to get to me.’

‘He was right.’

Peter shuddered. Had the room grown 62

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cooler just then? He couldn’t tell.

‘You know this is crazy, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’ asked Kim, frowning.

‘Us, talking about all this. About an hour ago, we’d never even met, probably never would have if I never found that card.’

‘Oh,’ said Kim, ‘those are still going around?

They were part of a joke, actually. Well, some old friends were desperate to dispel my gift. I told them some things that they probably didn’t want to know about their lives. This is their way of getting back at me. Ridicule.’

Peter offered a smile. ‘I just meant that it’s funny how our paths have crossed, like this.’

‘Well, Mister Sythe, perhaps our paths were supposed to cross.’

‘The Lord? Mysterious ways?’

Kim laughed. ‘Yes! Though, I don’t think the Almighty would have any grievance over what we do. Would you say He’s working through us?’

‘I’ve never really thought of it like that,’ Peter replied. He looked around the small, neat room. Her TV was new, a plasma screen LCD with built in DVD player. She saw him looking.

‘I might be able to predict the people’s fortunes, Peter, but I can’t tell what happens in 63

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soapland!’

Time was moving on. They sat and talked awhile longer about their gifts, what Peter did in the States and how it affected the Americans.

Kim also quizzed him on other TV psychics, and what his views were. Peter told her that he knew some of them but was yet to tell if they were genuine. Many, he did say, were fakes that had read too much Edgar Cayce.

‘Kim,’ he started, feeling a tug in his stomach that he could only describe as fear, ‘Raul was killed because something materialised from the other side. Ordinarily, that’s not possible.

But tonight, leaving the hotel, I think it happened again.’

‘What do you mean?’

Peter reached into his pocket and removed the refuse bag. He handed it to her. When Kim held it, her eyes fluttered wildly and she shook a little.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Peter, startled.

‘Yes, yes . . .’ she replied, wiping one hand down her face whilst the other gripped the black bag. ‘I’ll be fine. Dear God.’ Peter relaxed a little. ‘What did you see?’

‘It’s his, isn’t it? That man from the town?

The one who killed all those people?’

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Peter nodded. ‘It was in my room tonight. I had fallen asleep; there was a power cut, and Julia’s the only one with keys to my room. But when I got up and was about to leave, I found this at the door, on the inside.’

Kim examined the plastic bag. It was crumpled to bits, with dark patches on it. She pressed it to her nose. It stank.

‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was gun oil.’

Peter sat back, satisfied, but internally frightened. ‘Just as I thought. Not that I’m used to that smell, but there was nothing else it could have been.’

Kim smoothed out the black plastic over her knees. It felt greasy to the touch, like cling film but without the muck. She could make out a splodgy image of herself in the grubby black, a distorted glistening shadow peering down with morbid curiosity.

‘But the police? Surely this was taken away as evidence?’

Peter shrugged. ‘Forces on the other side . . . they seem to be able to do whatever they want.

It’s a vital piece of evidence, but probably just shoved on a shelf in a bag. I don’t think it would’ve been too much of a problem for a ghost 65

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to just walk in and . . . take it.’

Kim handed the bag back to him. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I guess I’ll need to wait,’ Peter said. ‘I have nothing to go on. Julia wants to go back home.

She . . .’

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, god,’ whispered Peter, his eyes widening at the forthcoming thought. ‘I’ve left her alone.’

‘You don’t think . . .?’

Peter shot up and reached for Kim’s phone.

Kim sat agitatedly in her chair, thinking the worst. She hoped the call would connect.

Peter stood, trembling, as the ringing began.

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8 Julia tidied up the last of the papers from her briefcase. Her laptop case was stuffed full of cables and CDs, some strewn over the hotel bed like thick, crazy streamers. Ironically, they were mostly reds, whites and blues.

She wanted to go home. It wasn’t that she was tired of the theatrics with Peter; she genuinely believed he had a gift and that he could contact spirits. It was just getting too much for her now. He had some blazing issues burning in his head and she wasn’t the one to douse the flames. It was his own personal matter if he didn’t have a partner to share the problems with.

She didn’t really think that. She liked Peter more and more every day. And the fears and worries she felt for him were about as strong as any other emotion she felt. Love? Maybe.

She got up and looked out the window.

Princes Street had never been so solemn. A strip of dark shadow ran along the outside of Burger King, and the fluorescent police tape sealed off the restaurant. The moon had failed to deliver.

What kind of city weather was this?

Julia moved back from the window as the 67

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room phone rang. She walked over and picked up the receiver. There was a click on the other end and Julia thought she could hear someone breathing.

‘Hello? Who’s there?’

No reply.

‘Peter? Is that you?’

The breathing continued in her ear, and she imagined someone standing behind her doing it for real. She could feel a presence bearing down on her, leering at her, choking her. She spun round, twisting the phone wire half around her body, but of course there was nothing there – just empty air.

She was about to place the receiver down when she felt a tightening around her chest. It was like a hug from some butch relative, and it took her breath away for a second. She dropped the phone but it simply dangled in front of her, like a snake silently drooping from a tree branch.

Below her, queries from the earpiece, a voice that was distant and feminine, asking something that Julia couldn’t make out. The phone wire was slowly wrapping itself around her upper body, twisting and tightening the way a constrictor snake would do during the kill. She felt it press her arms into her body, forcefully; the unseen 68

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assailant was intending to hurt her, but Julia couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The white plastic cord was slithering over her chest, crushing her so that the breath escaped her by the second. It would have proved fruitless to call for help; nobody else occupied a room in the landing in which they stayed. But she tried anyway, hoping that maybe the woman on the phone could hear and would investigate. Like a deranged prisoner in a straightjacket, Julia turned furiously, now aware that her life was at stake.

The cord continued to squeeze her; she felt the burn against her upper arms, followed by breathlessness – suffocation. She fell hard onto the bed, as if pushed, and the cord continued to spiral round her, leaving a rash across her body.

Her housecoat had loosened; her tee-shirt had lifted slightly, exposing the bottom of her right breast. The burning feeling remained. With unrelenting horror, Julia felt something pull at her pyjama trousers, and a prod of something hard against her groin made her shiver.

The cord was being pulled so tight now that the white length of it was straightening out. She muffled another cry for help, but was then rolled over onto her stomach to stifle the noise. She thought her death was looming.

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Then it stopped.

The phone cord loosened as quick as it had taken hold, the receiver thumping to the floor, limp. The cord trailed off. Julia gasped for air, clutching at her throat and chest. She pulled her knees up slightly, the excruciating pain second only to her thoughts of what just happened. Her body was striped red, her nightclothes creased and slightly torn, as if her ghostly assailant had wanted her naked.

Her vision was brighter, like a hundred watt bulb had been placed inside each eyelid. She closed her eyes for a few moments, afraid to look around the room in case she spotted her attacker.

She choked and spluttered, and the sweat from her temples rolled down her cheeks.

When she opened them, her eyes didn’t adjust accordingly. She saw blob shapes swirling in front of her, reds and blues and yellows, like a rainbow that had been broken up and gone wrong. She wanted to cry out again – properly this time – but her voice hadn’t returned fully.

She coughed.

There was a knock at the door. Someone shouted her name, formally, reminding her that she was still Miss, and Julia started crying.

‘I’m . . . I’m in here . . .’ she stammered. ‘In 71

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here.’

The second knock was harder, and the jangle of keys sounded. Julia heard them being inserted into the lock, forcefully turned, before the door flew open. A member of the concierge staff stood, panicked.

He rushed over to Julia, mumbling something about a phone call from Mister Sythe to check on his aide in his room. His first thought was of rape, for the scene proposed it with her upper half exposed; she seemed cemented in the foetal position, too, and traumatised. A brutal red strip scorched her body like a vicious suntan, yet there was no blood. His supervisor would be happy at that, at least.

Julia spluttered again as he knelt beside her, fully aware that he wasn’t to touch her, just in case. DNA stuff. He moved his hands like a mime artist, afraid to hold her yet afraid not to.

The woman was crying on the bed, mumbling the psychic’s name over and over. *** Peter got to Julia’s side just as the first aider left the room. He was asked a succession of 72

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questions upon entering the hotel lobby, but he had no answers. He had an idea, but who would believe him? It was a city of ghosts, he’d been informed, but not politically.

His reasons wouldn’t wash.

‘Julia!’ he cried, racing to the chair she was sitting on.

She looked haggard – abused, if he could describe it – and her eyes were red raw. Her housecoat was lying on the bed and she wore the T-shirt Peter had gotten her on their way over.

There was printed, Edinburgh Castle at night – a dazzling beauty – but, it looked hideously mediocre on this woman, his personal assistant, his friend. She cried again as he grabbed her, hugging her about as tight as business friendship would allow. But he crossed the line; they both did, and hugged as partners.

‘Are you okay? Oh god, what happened?’

She started to speak, but the words fell out in a fumbled mush of saliva and tears. He hugged her again, stroking her hair. He then noticed the staff in the room.

‘Mister Sythe,’ someone started.

Peter stood up. He remained next to Julia, her hand in his for comfort.

‘What happened here?’ he asked.

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The man was the hotel manager. He was a tall, largely built man with thinning hair. His cheeks were flushed, though he appeared wellgroomed.

‘We’ve had our in-house first aid staff check over Miss Henderson, Mister Sythe, and our security personnel have abrasively checked all avenues of entry.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Miss Henderson claims to have been assaulted, Mister Sythe, but cannot describe by whom.’

At that moment, another staff member entered the room. He was carrying a briefcase.

The manager pointed to a space on the floor beside the window, indicating where the brief was to be placed. Peter looked back at Julia. Her crying had ceased.

‘She didn’t see?’

‘Nothing as yet, Mister Sythe, but rest assured our staff are looking through CCTV footage of the landings and lobby staff are being questioned. At Miss Henderson’s insistence, however, the authorities have not been notified.’

Julia turned away. Peter got the hint that she was afraid. The room felt that way, too.

Swallowed in terror.

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‘Are you done here?’

The manager looked at his watch. ‘Yes. We’ll have someone watch over the room overnight outside, Mister Sythe. Please, don’t hesitate to call the concierge at any time during the night if there is any further trouble. We are shocked and saddened about this incident, but we will do our very best to solve it.’

The manager headed for the door. Peter followed. Once they were out of audible reach, the manager spoke.

‘Mister Sythe, I’m very sorry about what has happened to Miss Henderson. It would not be a problem to call the police if you felt that action was necessary, or hospital treatment, for her wounds.’

‘It’s not necessary,’ Peter replied. ‘For now, anyway. Miss Henderson is shaken up. We all are.’

‘I hope this won’t affect your stay.’

Peter smiled. ‘No more than it already has.

Good night.’

He closed the door tight behind the manager and made his way back to Julia. She stared up at him as he drew closer; he knelt in front of her, took her hand again. She was cold. Cold and shivering.

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‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. He lowered his head.

Through rough eyes, Julia, the victim of an invisible sexual assault, viewed him as nothing more than a confidant. She wanted to believe that this man was more to her than her employer, that Peter Sythe could banish what troubles she had and still love her. But he wasn’t and perhaps never would be. Her burden was loneliness, and that affliction affected all.

‘It’s not your fault.’

Peter sobbed. ‘I shouldn’t have left you! I shouldn’t!’

Julia squeezed the psychic’s hand. ‘Peter, I don’t know what happened. I was here alone and something . . . somebody . . .’

He looked up at her. His eyes were glassy.

Inside, he feared for her. For them both.

‘It was Sam.’ With her free hand, Julia wiped her nose.

The fabric stature of the castle on her shirt crumpled at the motion. Such a massive, centuries-old building, crushed by something as delicate as a swipe. She looked puzzled when she shifted her arm.

‘Sam? Your . . . brother? How?’ ‘I can’t really explain . . . Julia, can you forgive me?’

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She choked back further rising sobs. ‘Of course. I just can’t make sense of it all, Peter.

How could it have been Sam?’ ‘I don’t suppose you saw anything?’ asked Peter, rubbing her hand.

‘No. It happened so suddenly, with the telephone. The wire . . . it just . . . came alive and strangled me.’

Peter looked at the phone. It had been replaced on the cradle, the wire freakishly out of shape. Thin spirals of plastic had ripped and were curling at the receiver end.

‘That lady,’ began Julia; removing her hand, she felt almost hurt. ‘What did she say? Did she say it was him?’

Peter nodded slowly. He stood up, heard his knees crack, and peered out of the window. It was approaching midnight. A gang of youths was swaggering along the outside of the Disney store opposite, gawking less-than-soberly at the crime scene just two stores up. There was an explosion of laughter followed by an amoral act of gunfire and playful high-pitched screaming.

One drunken youth heckled a passer-by but there was nothing more. Some tart in a white miniskirt was swallowing a young man’s tongue at the traffic lights. Peter grew nauseous.

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He turned back to face Julia. She had turned even more pale, her eyes shrunken to little dots in her head. She sat a little edgy. She was acting like a patient from a psychiatric ward.

‘Let’s get some sleep,’ Peter said. ‘You need it. But I’ll be in here with you tonight. I’ll get some things from my room and then we’ll get some rest.’

She smiled at nothing. ‘Thank you, Peter. I need you here.’

He walked over to her and gently leant against her. He ran his hands through her hair.

‘Are you sure you don’t need any medical attention?’

‘No, it’s really just a burn. Some cream from the bathroom cabinet will soothe that. I’ll be okay, honest.’

‘I’m so sorry, Julia,’ he repeated. ‘It won’t happen again. I promise.’

Just then, she snapped out of her trance-like state, met his eyes with rigid control: ‘What if he comes back?’

Outside, the verbal gunfire and laughter resonated.

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9 When Julia awoke the next morning, the first thing she noticed was the dazzling yellow path of sunlight leading from the window to her bed. It was Saturday.

Peter was nowhere in sight.

Julia rubbed her eyes, a stinging sensation searing across her chest. The Deep Heat cream that she had applied and the Anadin she’d swallowed had taken on some kind of lucid effect; she wasn’t entirely free of the pain from the attack the night before, but a calming feeling had already started sweeping over her.

Until she saw the phone on the dresser.

She sat bolt upright, fingers gripping onto the covers, her eyes fraught with delirium, an instantaneous fever crawling through her flesh.

She looked left, right, looked up – everywhere and anywhere her invisible attacker from the previous night might show. But she knew that it would not be until the last second that she would encounter the presence, and even then it may be too late to fight it off. Where was Peter?

He exited the bathroom. He was clothed from the waist down, with just a towel draped 79

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over his shoulders. He’s just showered, Julia thought. She relaxed, feeling a wave of tension pass over her. Her head hit the pillow.

‘You okay?’ asked Peter, drying his arms.

‘Yes, I just got a fright. Thought you had left again.’

She rolled over onto her side to meet him as he sat down. He looked less tired than last night.

‘You were mumbling in your sleep,’ he told.

‘Something about an Erica – does it make any sense?’

She thought about what he had said. It was news to her, actually, for she never knew herself to sleep-talk. Not even past boyfriends had mentioned it. Maybe it was due to all the anxiety and fear she was experiencing? She pressed for that.

‘Erica had been my best friend in junior high,’ she explained, smiling. ‘Her mother was a family friend – a friend of my mother’s, actually – and her father lived in New York. She rarely ever got to see him. I think her mother intentionally kept her from him. He was mixed up in a lot of things.’

Peter listened eagerly. It was a snapshot of Julia’s early life.

‘Erica stayed with us for a little while,’ Julia 80

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continued. She had now rolled onto her back, gazing at the ceiling but focusing her words on Peter. ‘Her mom met a guy from Texas, some electronics salesman, though he was no different from her father. I remember hearing my parents talk about him once. It wasn’t nice! Anyhow, Erica and I grew apart right before college. We both started different courses, met new people.’

‘And what? Maybe you’re missing her?’

‘I think she died, Peter. I don’t understand why it’d be now that she’s in my mind.’

Peter dried his hair. ‘It’s just after ten.’

The clock-radio on the drawer set gave testimony.

‘Peter, about last night . . .’

‘Yeah, I have something in mind about that.’

Julia swung her legs out from under the covers. The carpeted floor was nice and bristly.

Her chest still stung.

‘You making tea?’ she asked.

‘Kettle’s on.’

Peter disappeared through another door. The window curtains fluttered a little, startling Julia.

A breath of wind stole in through the cracks. She hoped that was all.

She found that when she stood up, her legs were unsteady. She fell but managed to hold 81

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onto the bed for support. A whimper escaped her lips, prompting Peter to drop what he was doing and run back through.

‘Hey! You okay?’

He slipped his arm round her waist, the other propping her up at the front. He was careful not to apply pressure to her chest.

The torn clothes from the night before had been placed into a plastic bag by Peter, and were lying on the chair in the corner. He helped sit Julia down on the bed.

‘I think you should just stay in here today.’

‘No, no,’ she refused. ‘There’s too much to be getting on with. I’ve got emails to check, phone calls to make. Where is my computer?’

Peter had bundled it back into its case.

‘You’re not working today, Julia. Besides, there’s nothing more we can do here, is there?’

A glimmer of hope. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying . . . that maybe it’s time we went home.’

She smiled. ‘Are you serious, Pete?’

Pete. She hadn’t called him that in a long time.

‘The show’s not on any more; this city’s giving me the creeps. But more importantly, we can’t have you stretched to breaking point.’

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Julia climbed back into bed. The sun continued to shine through the window. ‘I’d like to go home, Peter. You’re right, there’s nothing for us here.’

‘Then, you rest today. I’ve seen to it that someone will be with you while I’m away for a couple hours.’

She frowned.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be long. After this weekend, Julia, we’ll board the next flight home, and hopefully, won’t have to return for a very long time.’

He leant forward and kissed her forehead.

She hugged him.

They were going home. *** Peter didn’t leave her until well after one; he needed to ensure security measures were in place, in case she were attacked again. Despite the cancellation of his show, Peter’s celebrity status was still being upheld, and the hotel staff were as courteous and jovial as ever.

He found himself heading toward Kim’s house. The taxi fare was a little higher this time, 83

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but then, the streets were busier and brighter than he’d ever seen them.

Kim knew he was returning.

‘How is she?’ she asked at the door.

Peter stepped in. An elderly man exited the house opposite, waved at Kim, before heading out the main door. It clicked shut as it slammed.

‘She’s okay,’ he told her. ‘But I’m pretty sure it was Sam.’ Kim ushered him into the living room, told him to make himself comfortable whilst she made the tea. Peter politely declined, but she informed him that it would help him relax. It was a special brew.

‘He’s already manifested,’ Kim warned when she returned. She placed the steaming mugs onto the coasters on the table.

‘But how? Why?’ ‘There’s no telling,’ she replied. ‘Spirits, Peter, await the chance for a form of rebirth. I’ve seen it before.’

‘She was violently attacked, Kim. Almost to death, she says. I saw the bruises.’

‘It’s horrific,’ Kim said. ‘I’m relieved she survived. It’s fortunate, though it could have been a lot worse.’

Peter spared a moment to think. ‘We’re 84

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going home, Kim. After this weekend. We don’t plan to return in the near future.’

‘A lot of people will be disappointed!’ She sipped from her cup. ‘But you’re right, it is for the best.’

‘Can he follow?’

‘If he’s in your heart, Peter, he’ll be with you every living moment. He is your blood. He may very well be a part of your destiny.’

This revelation shook him. He’d never given it much thought that Sam would always be at the back of him until last night.

‘How do I get rid of him?’

‘How do you get rid of what you have?’

‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? I can’t, and he knows that.’

‘You’re a gifted man, Peter. A spiritual man.

You have been chosen, as a select few, to channel messages from the afterlife. Whether or not this is God’s work, you’ve been chosen for this task.’

‘I suppose it doesn’t help when I say I never asked for it?’

‘Not in any way. I know how you feel.’

‘If my life were to end, he would too, right?’

‘In a theoretical way, yes. His energy would have nothing to sift through – you.’

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have to fight him, Kim!’ Kim drank again. Her clock – which stood tall against the wall that adjoined the kitchen – bonged loudly, twice.

‘Fighting a ghost, Peter, isn’t the same as a living being. I know you know that.’

Peter nodded.

‘And they won’t readily accept the challenge, either. They fear. They fear because we are the ones they live through; they need us.’

Kim knew a lot about the dead, Peter concluded. Perhaps she’d had run-ins with them before? Yeah, that was more likely the case.

‘Then what should I do?’

Kim sat for a moment; she buttoned up the top of her cardigan, for she felt suddenly cooler.

Had Peter invited some unknown presence in with him, she would have known.

‘Confront him.’

‘You make it sound easy,’ he laughed.

‘We’re not talking boxing gloves and gum shields, are we?’

‘I think there’s one place where he can be reached,’ suggested Kim, ‘and it’s a place you were destined – the reason why you visited this city.’

‘Sorry, Kim, I don’t follow.’

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‘The Playhouse, Peter! I hate to bring up the past, but the venue where last time you experienced the other side – before Raul was attacked – is perhaps where Sam can be drawn out.’

Peter took a massive gulp from his mug.

The tea was warm and calming. Kim had been right.

‘But I can’t. The show was cancelled.

Besides, I can’t have all those people in the audience witness –’ ‘You won’t have to,’ Kim interrupted. ‘Do it alone.’

‘Do you think I should? Would they let me in?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ shrugged Kim. ‘You are the medium Peter Sythe, internationallyacclaimed.

They may even ask for an autograph!’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ He smirked.

They let another silence grab them.

‘Get him out, Peter,’ whispered Kim. ‘He’s near, and very unsettled.’

It was now Peter’s turn to feel the chill. He thought he could sense something else with them, an uncanny air that stank of dread. He wouldn’t let it suffocate him; he was determined to finish 87

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this nightmare once and for all.

When it was decided what he was to do, he stood awkwardly with Kim at the front door. The long passage of visual memories decorated her walls and they filled Peter with emotion, hope, and most of all – courage.

‘You know what you have to do,’ said Kim, with an ease only a pencil-pusher would feel, comforted that they sat safe behind the fray. ‘I’m sorry I can’t do it with you, but this is your battle, Peter. It always has been.’

‘I may not ever see you again,’ he said. ‘I came here to do a show for the people and look what’s happened. Tell me, Kim: how do you survive in this city?’

She threw him a brash smile, like a conman at play. ‘With thick skin.’

He gave the old woman one last hug; the connection was there, indefinitely, and he knew he would at least feel this woman again. She was genuine, in spirit and in flesh; her attitude towards him was one of teacher and student, in a way. He respected her more in the savoured moments he knew her than in years of his peers back home.

He left the cosiness of the doorway and walked away.

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‘Take care, Peter. God bless.’ He smiled, but only to himself. Closing the door, he stepped into the Edinburgh street. The sun was shielded by dark clouds. He thought of Julia. Of Sam. Of home.

He would end this terror . . . even if it killed him.

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10 He wasn’t entirely sure to call Julia to let her know of his plans; he left a message with the hotel concierge that was to be passed on to her in the evening . . . in case he didn’t return.

Financially, they were okay; Julia would have no trouble getting back to the States and finding work. She would be fine.

After two attempts, Peter found the bus he needed and headed up Leith Walk. He was on his way to the Playhouse.

He saw all-sorts on the bus – boisterous kids, the elderly; those on drugs or were hyper sat on the top deck at the back, their mobile phones ringing the latest chart craze over and over.

Normally, it irritated him, and had he not had so much on his mind, he would’ve grabbed the screeching device and smashed it over its owner’s head.

He neared the Playhouse. He got off the bus, taking deep breaths as he moved. A caricature drawn of this situation might well have indeed indicated it was ‘show time’. Whether or not he was ready for it didn’t matter. He had to confront his fears, preferably sooner than later.

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The box office entrance was to the right. His poster had been taken down, he noted. Just a space on the wall reserved for the next staged performance. Only Rocky Horror remained.

Peter wished it well.

He entered through the main double doors of the old building. It was incredibly massive inside; booths either side of him were unmanned, the carpeted steps leading upwards to the auditorium were pristine, but there was not a soul in sight. There was no music or chatter, just the rush of traffic from outside. It was creepy.

Surely there were shows on at this time that demanded staff be present? He walked on.

Too calm, he thought. This whole place. It should be buzzing with life, but it’s not.

He had never seen a place like this so empty before. Peter had been used to sold-out shows back home, cramped foyers with scurrying staff, crushing snacks and juice cartons underfoot.

This was too quiescent.

Then again, perhaps there were shows on and the staff were attending to those? Yes, that seemed more plausible than the current ghost town thoughts he was having. The Playhouse was a thriving business; no way in hell could it be deserted on a Saturday afternoon.

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Peter started walking up the steps of the theatre. Dynamic, framed photographs of past performances adorned the walls and as he walked into the red-lit corridors, could see the glistening frames pasted all the way along. He took the route going left, taking in every picture of the stars and their performances. Many were in full colour, but some photos were in black and white, adding that feeling of age with their sepia tone.

He came to the double doors that led into the auditorium. They were shut. Tight, it appeared, for there was absolutely no noise behind them.

Peter pulled on the handle. He closed his eyes, experiencing a slight tremor of fear and wonder as he stood. Many thousands of hands had touched here; many people had crossed this threshold to take in the shows, marvelling at the sheer excitement and power of each play and performance.

The door opened.

The emptiness of the large auditorium astounded him – rows upon rows of vacant seats ran all the way to other side of the hall, and the curtains were drawn upon the stage. There were no ushers, no staff, no patrons. No one except him.

He closed the door behind him and made his 92

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way to the centre, cutting through the circle section with ease. The carpet was smooth underfoot, as if it were carrying him to his destination, assuring whatever lay in wait that he’d arrive safe and sure.

It was funny, observing the hall and having all that space to move around without the annoyance of bumping into other folk. Though he was used to being on-stage, he found it quite calming just wading through the rows.

He ran his fingers along the velvet-like covers on the seats, thinking that it would be ignorant of anyone to suddenly appear and disturb this serenity. Not a whisper rattled the silence.

He neared the stage; marching through the stalls, he noted the lower seat numbers, embedded in the back rests, little round metal circles. Peter began to feel appreciative of those that paid to get this close. He reached out, touched the stage, and drew back.

Something wasn’t right.

He sensed he wasn’t alone.

‘Is anyone there?’ he asked beyond the stage.

The curtains were down; a momentary flutter ruffled them.

Then, the shape formed; it was a hand, a 93

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large hand, seeping into the curtain like a Pin Impressions board, remaining magically like 3D. Peter gasped. The fingertips curled outward in a grabbing impression, stopping before the hand fisted. Silently, they scraped down the curtain in such a manner the owner’s wrist should have snapped.

Once the hand disappeared at the bottom, Peter took a step forward. He now had an idea who was behind this. And he was terrified.

Just as the hand appeared, the slow protruding of a man’s face began forming in the red drapes, pushing through with horrifying ease.

The material hardened as the nose and cheekbones formed, the chin poking out below them, the heavy-set brow of the unknown person bearing down on the nasal appendage. It looked like a scene from a ghost movie.

The two shallow indents Peter guessed were its eyes suddenly moved. Like a shape moving in water, the curtains rippled as the face looked in Peter’s direction. They were fixed on him.

‘Sam?’ Of course, there was no mouth, no vocal chords to which the face could expel. Instead, it drew back, then forward, disturbing the fabric, almost like it was laughing.

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‘Show yourself, if it is you,’ Peter said.

Two hands appeared at each side of the face; the full ‘body’ of the shape started to show through. It was clear now it was a man, and that it was more than likely the medium’s deceased brother.

Peter hoisted himself up onto the stage. The wood was cold and thick and dusty. He didn’t want to get too close to the shape, even if it was behind the curtain.

‘Sam, show yourself to me.’

The shape suddenly shot upwards, tearing a slit in the curtain as it zoomed. Peter, startled, jumped back as a strip of red fabric peeled away and spiralled downward to the stage, crudely torn.

Sam had gone.

Peter looked around. He scanned the empty hall, desperately seeking the phantasmal form of his brother, but in the darkness amidst the hundreds of empty seats nothing moved.

Nothing was out of place.

I’m not afraid of you! Peter convinced himself. It felt as if it were working, though his nerves were shooting at him a million bullets a second.

Nervously, Peter called out Sam’s name 95

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again, hoping to oust the apparition from whatever gloomy hiding place it was in. He thought he saw something race across the back rows, a fleeting shadow almost faster than the human eye. There very well might have been, had he not seen it closer.

It was there, the entity, somewhere in the fourth or fifth row. It stood shapeless, yet its form was as real and forceful as any physical being. Peter was sensing an intense hostility from it, a wave of aggression at a higher level.

Its bulk was made up of black swirling shapes, a kaleidoscopic shadow of shadows, and it was then that Peter was able to fully make out his stalker. ‘Sam.’ The shape moved forward, stepping effortlessly through the seats like one would through mist. Peter was gulping, afraid of the confrontation, afraid of his fears. He watched helpless as the black shape continued to wade forward. If it was untouchable, how on earth could Peter fight against it?

It neared the stage.

Its head remained one swirling black mass, like how a black hole might seem in space, ever moving. There were no eyes or nose or mouth, 96

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which had decorated the curtains minutes before; its limbs were mere forms exiting its body. Like some visually-graphic computer effect, the shape moved closer to Peter, each step silent, swift, accurate.

‘What do you want?’ Peter asked it.

You. There was no human voice, no traditional exchange of words between men that Peter recognised. He had heard it in his head. A growling murmur.

‘What do you mean?’

You. Are. Finished.

Peter stepped back from the approaching ghost, afraid. In his paranoia, he remembered the encounter with the old gypsy woman – how that had made him feel, how it had overpowered him.

He thought he could see her out in the audience, and she held her handbag tight again and was screaming for her son.

You. Are. Finished.

The state he was in, Peter felt almost certain he was.

‘You’ve been a burden on my life for too long,’ he said courageously. ‘It’s time for us to end this.’

A ghostly arm lifted and found its way onto 97

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Peter’s shoulder. The medium winced as a nasty energy ripped through him; he saw their childhood together, at school, at home Sam teasing him, sometimes threatening to beat him.

He saw only smiles a handful of times from the lonesome boy, everything else was just negative.

‘You took your own life,’ cried Peter, buckling at the knees. ‘It had nothing to do with me.’

Sam’s arm wasn’t weighing him down – it was the memories of the past.

Time. To. Go. ‘Why are you doing this, Sam?’ It’s. Not. Fair.

The black nothingness that made up Sam was directly in front of Peter. Black tassels lashed out, striking his cheek with less vehemence than the ghostly arm itself. Peter was close to crouching now; Sam was increasingly more difficult to handle than he thought.

‘Let’s talk about this,’ Peter whimpered, still feeling the force of the ghost upon him.

No. Talk. You. Are. Coming. With. Me. ‘Where, Sam? The other side? You can’t kill me – you won’t.’

The swirls inside Sam’s spectral torso began to twist furiously; Peter had angered him.

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‘You can’t do this, brother,’ Peter pleaded, almost on his knees. ‘Not now, not ever.’

A small eruption made the swirls angrier.

They moved around inside the ghost’s body like demented eels.

No. I. I. You. ‘That’s it, Sam! Think about this. Why didn’t you kill Julia, huh?’

The grip on his shoulder let up. The ghost stepped back. Peter got to his feet, amazed he was still alive.

‘You need me, Sam,’ said Peter, informing him. ‘I’m what keeps you alive.’

No. You. Don’t. I. Am. Alive.

‘You’re not, Sam. You’re dead. I know you.

I always have. And you’ve always hated me.

But I didn’t hate you.’

Sam’s shapeless body was pulsating; the black orbs within him, the darkness that drove him, livid at Peter’s accusations. The ghost made to turn and flee, just as Peter made a grab for it.

When he touched it, his hand sunk into its dark void and he pulled his brother back.

‘You’ll leave me alone, Sam,’ Peter ordered into what might’ve been its ear. ‘And Julia. And anyone else I come into contact with. Or it’s over.’

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The ghost turned to face him again; a sliver of its former human self surfaced for a second, its face an unhappy reminder to Peter that his only brother – his flesh and blood – was dead.

‘I’ll kill us both.’

The apparition pulled away and lifted up into the air, but not before warning Peter: I’m. Not. Dead. I. Will. Return.

Sam dissolved in the air of the auditorium, wispy, black trails scattering into nothing. After a few moments, Peter’s fear lifted, too.

And scattered into nothing.

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11 ‘So, today’s the day, then?’

Peter zipped his case shut. ‘Indeed it is.’

It was Tuesday.

‘And everything’s arranged, flight-wise?’

‘Course it is! I saw to it yesterday. We’re outta here!’

Julia had finished her packing before Peter.

They were due to check out of the hotel.

‘And the taxi is coming?’

‘Yes!’ Peter shouted. ‘I told you, I’ve seen to it all.’

Julia walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Peter noted how confident she was becoming.

When she returned, she took his hand.

‘I’m glad it’s all over,’ she said.

He leant forward, kissing her forehead.

‘I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about for a long, long time.’

They cleared their stuff and headed down to the foyer. The hotel manager was waiting; he personally thanked them for their stay, apologising that he didn’t get to see the show and, of course, for Julia’s ordeal. Peter just 102

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shook his hand politely.

The airport taxi was waiting.

Peter loaded the bags into the back and saw Julia inside. As they started to pull away from the hotel, Julia looked back.

‘I hope we never return.’

Her opinion of the city was biased and it was most likely to remain that way for a long time.

He hoped that one day she would change her mind.

‘I don’t know,’ she began. ‘How do they manage to live in this city?’

Peter spared one last thought, which seemed to last a lifetime, and said: ‘With thick skin.’

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