Climbing the stairs to the bathroom, I followed the thunder of the shower and tried to concentrate on the task in hand; delivering Nick clothes to him and relaying the message from his mother. All that kept contaminating my mind was how lucky those drops of water were to be caressing his skin. Everything else might quite easily slip my mind if I maintained that train of thought.
I tentatively knocked on the bathroom door and heard a gargled sound of acknowledgement drift through from the other side. I shouted through to him “I have your clothes!” and the same dampened voice told me to come in. Come in? I could just leave them outside though? I swayed back and forth trying to decide whether to be bold or whether to be a coward. I decided to be bold, take death by the balls. Pushing open the door, I was met with a humid wall of steam; he couldn’t feel the heat of the water, it was hot enough to boil a lobster. Without making a sound, I tiptoed into the bathroom and left his clothes folded on the side. The opaque shower curtain, unfortunately, obscured my vision, but an alluring mirage of his outline still played against the condensation clad plastic.
“Thanks” Nick yelled over the cascading water, it appeared I had been standing there dreaming for longer than I realised “err… your mom called” I waited for a response and Nick head popped around the curtain, the plastic clinging to his shoulders and releasing beads of water to duel downwards. He looked apprehensive “…and?” “The hotel called her, you haven’t been to your room in days, and it’s approaching your checkout… she’s worried about you”
Nicks face crumpled in alarm and confusion “if I’m not in my hotel room, where am I?” In a hot tub full of electrocuted super models with a toaster under your arm “no idea!” I said shrugging “I’ll meet you downstairs… when you’re not…” I waved a hand towards him “…when you’re… not naked… dressed… see down there” Nick lowered his eyes with a modest half smile and I raced out of the room. The idea of tearing the shower curtain down had crossed my mind, and I had to get out of there before it tackled its way to the surface and extended control over my body.
Once Nick joined me downstairs we knelt in front of the answering machine like monks in meditation, and I played the message to him. A cloak of melancholy covered him, and his eyes cast down to the floor; they were seeing memories only meant for his eyes. “You okay?” I asked, placing a hand on his, those pins and needles returning again “yeah…” Nick replied “I’ve never heard her that worried. She’s always been a pretty ‘hands off’ parent, you know?” I did know actually, his family never came round, and he never spoke about them. I assumed he was waiting till the house was finished before inviting them over from their castle to his little bachelor pad, but the closer to completion it got the less likely the idea became.
I could see him pushing an onslaught of emotions back with a riot shield into the depths of his mind and attempting to focus. I wanted to reach out, take him in my arms and tell him it was all alright, but I couldn’t. Nick wasn’t one for intense emotions; he always put up a strong front and didn’t let people get to close, not emotionally anyway. Had no problems taking a woman home but it never went any further; not because he was trying to be an arse, I just don’t think he liked letting people in?
Nick regained control of his expressions and snapped out of his gloom “Looks like my body is ‘missing in action’ then?” “Looks that way” he chewed his bottom lip in thought, but nothing came to him “there’s nothing I can do is there?!” I shook my head. Unfortunately, there wasn’t; we were as helpless and in the dark as his mother, except we knew he was dead.
Nick was clearly anxious about his family, but I couldn’t pressure him to open up, despite the fact it would fizz up and try to swallow him whole if he didn’t get it out of his system. All I could do was be here when it did come ripping to the surface. Seeing him this troubled stained my heart and ugly shade of blue, but we all had to go through this part; watching your loved ones grieve for you, it was just part of death. And it sucked. It’s always easier to get out the other side of something than it is to watch someone you love suffer though it; I wish I could just do it again and save him the torment.
The rest of the day just passed in a sombre blur, I read my book to stay out of Nick way but kept an ear to the ground for what he was up to. Nick just surfed the net for most of the day, trying to find any scrap of information about how or when he died. Turns out the seminar he was a key note speaker for cancelled his slot as he didn’t show up and a few of his other clients had sent him angry emails about missed appointments.
Eventually, at about nine he sloped back downstairs looking exhausted “how’d it go?” I questioned, just wanting to wrap him in a duvet and put him to bed “looks like I died on Tuesday…” “But you only got there on Monday!?” only one day out of my sight was enough to get him killed apparently “any idea how yet?” I asked, putting my book down to offer him my undivided attention “foul play?” “No idea,” he responded chewing on that sumptuous bottom lip again “I don’t think I had any enemies?” I couldn’t imagine anyone disliking Nick, he was a genuinely likable person; but I was biased being crazy about him. I suppose money makes you plenty of enemies all on its own, success has a tendency to do the same.
I had no idea what Nick did for a living though; he never brought his work home or even spoke about it. If anyone asked him how things were at the office he just replied ‘same old, same old’. It must have been something he was exceptionally good at but didn’t enjoy; he couldn’t have liked it much at all for what he did for a living to not become part of what he was.
“Would you like to see something special, to cheer you up?” I offered and Nick face relaxed a little into curiosity “what sort of something?” “Surprise. It’s funny though”
We headed outside, and there was a crisp blanket of snow over the garden. We had been so involved in our humdrum pottering over the day we hadn’t even noticed the snow noiselessly falling like diamond dust, glazing everything in its path with a glittering white coat. “Is this the surprise?” Nick asked “because I hate snow” “how can you hate snow?!” he scooped up a handful of ice and it negated to melt in his hand “It’s cold, it’s wet, and it’s inconvenient” I looked it in astonishment “and whimsical and special and magical,” Nick still didn’t look impressed “okay, how about this. Listen” we both strained our ears into the blackness, his eyes glued to mine, waiting for something “I don’t hear anything” “exactly. No cars, no people, no animals. Nothing” A coy smile teased his lips in agreement “I never noticed that before” we stood in awe of the audible void and soaked up the heavenly quiet “welcome to the silence of snow”
Our journey continued over a few fences, into the garden of an elderly gentleman named Mr Baker. He was a hippy back in his day and still retained a platinum plait that streamed down his back as a badge of honour; admittedly the top of his head was as bald as the day he was born, but a beanie hat gave his cranium sufficient coverage against the elements. Mr Baker’s house was inhabited by a couple of keepers, the ghosts of two Victorian children; a brother and sister with matching blonde curls, sage coloured clothes and shined shoes. They looked like they were off to a wedding in pinafore and dungarees, must have been about seven, I think they were twins perhaps. Locked in an eternal game of hide and seek, they ran through the house full of delight with squeals of excitement. Mr Baker wasn’t frightened by their occasional interactions in the least; he was quite a spiritual man (and aided my medicinal, herbal cigarettes every now and then for his arthritis). He just accepted the sounds of footsteps upstairs and twitching curtains as part of the natural order of things. I have no doubt he even felt graced by their presence in the house; it was evidence that his chosen path in life (a lot of drugs and meditating in the sixties) wasn’t the twaddle people believed it to be, and he had seen the other side.
I ushered Nick into the garden bleached with sparkling ice, and we perched on a raised flowerbed “keep your eyes on that window,” I said pointing up to a curtain-less, lit bedroom on the first floor “should be a couple of minutes” Nick turned to me “what am I looking for?” I span his shoulders back to the illuminated window “if you miss it you’ll never know” we waited with baited breath and right on cue Mr Baker’s daughter entered the room. Ms Baker wasn’t as relaxed about ghosts as her father; she came to stay over once a month and was a frail creature that resembled a wiry bag of twigs. Nowhere near the free thinker her father was; she was a lawyer clad in tailored suits and empirical logic, always scared half to death by the little keeper’s antics, but the children had no idea they were even dead, let alone that they shared a house with a jittery woman and an ancient hippy so continued their mischievous games.
Ms Baker was in her tartan pajamas rummaging for toiletries in her overnight bag, when the little boy ran into the room, cheeks rosy and curls bouncing with exhilaration. He looked around for a suitable hiding place and silently climbed into the wardrobe while Ms Baker’s back was turned. I pointed the little boy out to Nick “he’s a keeper, his sister will find him soon” Nick watched in amazement “He’s so young… what about her?” he pointed to Ms Baker “nope, she’s alive” the little girl ran in next, with an appearance of panicked anticipation and began checking the room for her brother. Not behind the door, not under the bed, not behind the curtains. At this point, Ms Baker had sensed she wasn’t the only one in the space and was clutching her wash bag to her bosom in terror, inching towards the open door. Just as the little girl was about to give up and leave to search elsewhere in the house her brother exploded from the wardrobe, roaring like a lion with his fingers curled wicked talons and chased her downstairs. Ms Baker screamed in fright, threw her wash bag across the room, showering creams and ointments through the air and tripped over the rug, slamming to the floor.
Nick and I erupted into laughter; tears were rushing on to our cheeks “Oh god!” Nick hooted “that was BRILLIANT!” Ms Baker was just peeling herself off of the floor when the little boy ran back in and closed the wardrobe door causing the petrified woman to hit the deck all over again, making us collapse with laughter all over again. I was holding my knees wracked with hysterics and Nick couldn’t breathe; good job he didn’t need to. My ribs should have ached from the comedic assault, but the absence of feeling meant we could prolong the frenzy of mirth even longer “gets her every time!” I wheezed, and Nick could barely speak himself, fitting words between snorts “does… this… happen… often?!”I took some deep breaths to compose myself and fight the giggles back “every month when she stays, it’s her dads house” Nick was now attempted to calm himself to, halting the spasms of his rib cage with deep breathing.
I stood up and moved in front of Nick to wipe the tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of my jumper “your mascara will run before long Mr Cox!” a crooked smile painted his face, and he looked up at me. The whites of his eyes were now tinted pink from the uncontrollable fit of laughter, and it made his blue irises scream against the darkness. His gaze intensified when our eyes met, my hand slowed on his sodden cheeks and he stood, gaining a foot of height over me. Nick smoothly nestled his hands into my waist and pulled me closer, the sound of his breath was deafening; filling my ears with the whip-lashed change in atmosphere. I think my heart was beating fast enough to power a small city; thump, thump, thump, the beat filled by chest, punching through my ribs. Nick took my chin in his hand and angled my head upwards, a thumb sweeping a strand of hair from my cheek, sending pins and needles through my skin. Nick looked over my features and began to move in closer, and closer, and closer, but his eyes caught something behind me and his smile vanished “what the hell is that?!”
I turned around to see the two keeper children standing in the lit window watching us with chilled, blank faces “They can’t see us… They shouldn’t know we’re even here” the children looked haunting, framed in darkness with vacant faces, just glaring out across the white, gleaming garden. They were all blonde curls and sunshine a minute ago, but now they looked disapproving and intimidating despite the lack of any expression “it looks like they can see us,” Nick whispered into my ear, still holding me close “I don’t like this. Let’s go”
Those children can’t have seen us, they are stuck in Victorian England in their minds, and they don’t even know they are dead. Nick held my hand and towed me back to the house with an unsaid urgency; the looks on those little faces wouldn’t get out of my mind. I have watched through that window for six years and never been noticed, why tonight? Was it me and Nick? I know me loving him when he was alive crossed a line, but now we are dead surely I can catch a break?!
I had an extraordinarily unpleasant feeling about this.
