Walking with Ghosts

Leonard, Sam lent me. D’you know them?’
    J.D. smiled. ‘Not personally. I know their work.’
    ‘I’m reading Omar Khayyám at the moment.’
    The writer shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve come across that one. Is it Chandler or Leonard?’
    ‘No,’ Geordie said. ‘It’s like a poem. Really old... poem...’
    But J.D. Pears was laughing. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It was a joke. Bad joke.’
    Geordie smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said. But why did people make bad jokes? Geordie thought if you were gonna make a joke you ought to wait until you could make a good one. ‘Would I know any of the books you’ve wrote?’
    ‘You might. There’s a series about a policeman who’s a food connoisseur. Bloody Broccoli was the first one. The last one was The Camembert Killer. Just published this month.’
    Geordie shook his head. ‘Can’t say they ring any bells,’ he said.    ,
    J D- looked miffed, made a pout inside his beard. ‘They’ve had good reviews,’ he said.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Geordie, taking pity on the guy. ‘I don’t read many of those kinds of books. Sam reads ’em, and Marie, they’re always swapping them. They’ll’ve heard of all yours. Me and Celia read more poetry, classics, literature, know what I mean?’ J.D. nodded.
    ‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ said Geordie. ‘I’ll get one of your books for Sam’s birthday, and if you sign it at the front I’ll give Sam a bell and ask him if you can get some hands-on experience by following me and Marie around on the murder inquiry. How’s that grab you?’
     

5
     
    Sam moves across the darkened room. He draws back the curtains. Holding it in one hand, his long fingers gripping the rim, he brings the loaded tray to the bed. He looks younger than he should. He wears a T-shirt tucked into the waistband of his jeans. You try to sit up in the bed and he helps you with the pillow, kissing your cheek in the same spot that Dylan Thomas’s lips might have been.
    ‘You’re smiling,’ he says.
    ‘I’m happy.’ Your voice is like dry dough. It is not easy to be young and beautiful when you are old and ugly. You make a sour face at the cracks in your voice.
    Sam pulls the cardigan around your shoulders, and you wonder what happened to that pale-blue nightgown, quickly doing sums in your head. He was still in his teens the night you wore it for Arthur.
    ‘Can you manage this?’ he points to the tray. It is loaded with cornflakes, toast, marmalade and coffee.
    You clear your throat before answering. The coffee is the best thing you have smelled in your life.
    ‘You should eat,’ he says. ‘Try the toast.’
    You nibble a crust. He is right. You should eat something. Though your body only wants the coffee and a cigarette. Sam pours milk and cornflakes into the bowl for himself, and he eats, watching your face over the rim of the bowl. He offers you a spoonful and you suck the milk and leave the wet cornflakes behind. He shakes his head, his lips pursed, his eyes wide and twinkling. You open your mouth and take the cornflakes. You-cannot resist him. You are an old fool to fall for a man his age, but you like being an old fool. It is better than being a young one.
    There is a searing pain under your arm and you catch breath. The tendons on each side of your jaw strain and lock against the spasm. A few of the cornflakes fall on to your chest.
    ‘What is it?’ Sam is on his feet. His hands on each side of your face, but it is over.
    You tell him. ‘A false alarm. Just a twinge.’ Your voice is a croak. You smile at him and he sits. He collects the flakes from your chest and eats them. He doesn’t like wasting food. There are people starving in Africa.
    The coffee is good. Not too hot. It tastes better because it’s forbidden.
    You point to the pot and Sam pours another cup. You ask him for the cigarettes and he makes his disapproving face, but gets one anyway. He lights it for you and passes it over. He strokes your face with the palm of his hand, and lets it run on, over your neck. You feel something move beneath the skin, like a small egg, and you watch Sam’s eyes, because he felt it too, but he does not let on. Your body is covered with those eggs now. You are no longer surprised by them. You hate them, but they no longer shock you.
    ‘Did you sleep?’
    ‘Yes.’ You lie with a smile on your face, knowing that Sam knows you are lying, and knowing that he knows that you know... He pinches your cheek between forefinger and