Burial

'Bob, I'm not sure what you're telling me here.'

'The thing about ghosts; you go looking for one, you're already contaminating the data - by looking here and not there, choosing this site over that one. You're not being objective.'

'Ghosts aren't real, Bob. They don't exist.'

'One of your most common forms of haunting, it's actually the roadside ghost. In England, anyway. Usually it's the shade of a young woman. She died violently, after sex. She's been buried on unhallowed ground. Usually between a road and a river.'

The strength drained from Nathan's legs.

Bob was saying: 'For years, I thought I'd cocked it up. I used to scan the papers, to see if something had been reported by the road Way. Phantom hitch-hiker. Anything like that. I used to drive down the lane - twice a week, in the early days. But there was nothing.'

I don't think I understand what you're saying.'

"I thought she'd haunt the woods.'

'Who?'

'But it was us. She stayed with us.'

'Bob, what did you do ?'

They stayed like that for a while. Until Bob said: 'I was trying to make a ghost.'

Nathan dropped his glass.

It rolled on the carpet. Its base described an arc. Nathan and Bob fixed their eyes on it and watched until it had stopped.

34

Nathan wanted to laugh.

Then he wanted to cry.

He ran his hands through his hair. His hair stuck up.

He said: 'You know you're mad. You do know that? There's something wrong with you. In here . . .' He tapped his head. 'You're all wrong. Jesus. You're fucked in the head.'

For a passing moment, Nathan felt eight years old and helpless. He said: 'What have you done to me?'

He went to the kitchenette and slid open the cutlery drawer. He itemized the contents: forks, spoons. Knives.

Bob turned slow eyes upon him.

Nathan closed the cutlery drawer and poured off a dirty glass of clean water. While draining it, he turned briefly to follow Bob's eye line. In the far corner, near the rotting velveteen drapes, stood a heavy-duty combination safe. It was green, and flecked with dull metallic chips.

Nathan tugged at his lower lip and muttered, 'Sweet Jesus Christ.'

and he stood there, blinking rapidly. He did not want to cry.

He looked up at the ceiling. He could hear furtive movement up there: scratching. The neighbours, perhaps, or rats.

'You said she had a fit.'

Bob shrugged, red-eyed.

'Sorry.'

'How did you . . .?'

Bob held up his hands. Flexed them.

Nathan was still looking at the ceiling. The machinery in his head was running out of control.

The weak overhead bulb flickered three times. The darkness stuttered around them.

Nathan said: 'I didn't know.'

He wasn't talking to Bob; but Bob was watching.

Bob said, 'She's haunting us.'

'No she's not.'

'She should be at the roadside, close to where she's buried. That's what road ghosts do. But I woke up, and there she was. In my room.

Next to my bed. Just standing there and hating me. She's here now.

Can you feel her?'

'No.'

'Liar.'

'You're delusional. It's not real.'

'You've seen her.'

'No.'

'Yes.'

'No. It's not real.'

Bob said, 'Second drawer down. Near the bottom.'

Nathan took a moment to work out what Bob was saying. Then he opened the middle kitchen drawer and rooted around. Beneath carrier bags, broken corkscrews, dead biros and stray 9-volt batteries, he found a note that had been printed and laminated on A4 paper: These are the remains ofElise Fox, who died an unnatural death. We commend her into your care and wish her peace.

Bob let him scan it two or three times, then said, 'I did it in an Internet cafe. You might want to think about washing your fingerprints off it, though. Use Fairy Liquid and a sponge.'

'And what do you want to do with it?'

'We drive her to a church.'

'We can't just dump her.'

'That's my point. We're not. A church is hallowed ground. If we're careful, nobody ever knows. Not Holly. Not anybody. And soon after that, it's done and dusted. Elise is gone. Out of your life.

Me, too.'

It's not real, Bob. It's not real.'

Tonight.'

Not tonight.'

Yes tonight. I'm ready.'

We've been drinking.'

Exactly.'

So let's not do something careless.'

I have to make her leave. I have to do that.'

It's not real.'

She's here.'

Nothing's here. She's dead.'

Both of us did this. Both of us put it right. That's the way it works. Both of us put it right -- or it just goes on and on.'

Ś He scrubbed at his face with dry hands.

Then he said: 'Having her with you. Every minute of every day.

It's horrible.'

Nathan began to shiver. He wasn't cold.

He said, 'Tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow.'

Nathan walked to the door. He could feel the foul bedsit behind him; its filth and its corruption. He opened the door and hesitated there -- looking up at the long, dark stairwell.

Then he reached out and hit the timer switch and raced the light all the way upstairs and out, into the cold unsoiled night.

35

Nathan was on his knees before the lavatory, shaking like a sick dog.

Holly walked in. She was topless in silky pyjama trousers. On them was a design: swallows and brambles and delicate spring flowers.

Her hair was a mess. It was 6 a.m.

She sat on the edge of the bath, gripping the sides. Waiting for Nathan to pull the flush, then turn and sit on the tiled floor, his back to the cold porcelain lavatory.

He said,'Did I wake you?'

'Is it the drinking?'

, 'No.'

'Are you ill ?'

'No.'

She softened. 'Then what is it?'

'I don't know. Stress.'

She reached out a bare foot and gave him a friendly nudge. He took the foot in his hand. He would have kissed its soft and tender Pole, had his mouth not been so rancid.

She said, 'Don't, my nails need doing.'

'Your nails are fine.'

She crossed her legs, still sitting on the edge of the bath, and lifted one foot so it was inches from her face. Quickly and efficiently, she inspected her nail varnish, toe by toe, then let go of her foot.

She said, 'You're a mess, aren't you? And nobody knows. Nobody knows what kind of mess you are, not even me.'

'That's not true.'

'Look at you.'

'I'm fine.'

'Right.'

'Really.'

'Are you going to tell me?'

'Tell you what?'

'What it is.'

'Yes.'

'Today? Now?'

I can't.

'I'm your wife.'

'I know.'

'I'm your friend.'

'I know.'

'You don't think you sleep. But you do. You make noises.'

'I'm sorry. I don't mean to.'

'Don't be sorry. What is it? What are you dreaming about?'

'I'll tell you.'

'When?'

'When I've sorted it.'

'When will that be?'

'Soon. Today.'

She considered it. 'Or we could take a day off,' she said. 'Catch a film. Go to London. Go to the zoo, maybe. Take a day trip. Go to the beach.'

He began to cry, because she was scared.

He sobbed into his knees. He said, 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.'

She climbed down from the edge of the bath and hugged him. Her breasts squashed against him. Her sleep-breath was sweet to him, the musk of her that was like no one else. His tears made wet the soft skin of her shoulder, the fine strong clavicle.

She rocked him, saying, 'Don't be sorry. Don't be sorry. Don't be sorry.'

Nathan took the morning off. He and Bob met in the village of Woolhope Ashbury. They walked through the little high street. The people around them were elderly, slow, retired.