Walking with Ghosts

well.
     
    After a week you capitulate. On the Friday you telephone Arthur at work. He is not there. You are ready for anything. You will prostrate yourself in front of him, let him trample on you.
    There will never be a way out after this. This was your final fling, Dora. It cost five years of your life. It smashed your self-image. There is nothing left now. You will have to beg. You will take whatever comes.
    Billy climbs over the seats on the top of the bus. Diana sits by the window bouncing up and down in anticipation. The bus shunts from stop to stop, taking you home, back to Arthur. The children are overjoyed, but inside of you doors closing. You look at Diana’s profile, and you think, She’s my daughter, and I’m going to hate her for this.
    The children run ahead along the avenue. Then they run back again, complaining that they cannot get into the houSe The door is locked.
    ‘I’ve got a key,’ you tell them. ‘Don’t worry.’ You stumble over a mound of post. Diana and Billy push you aside running through the house.
    ‘Daddy. Daddy. Where are you? We’re home.’ They climb the stairs.
    You recognize Arthur’s handwriting and pick up the note on the kitchen table. It is like a joke. You read it twice but it does not make sense: If anyone is interested, I’m in the garden.
    You open the back door, Dora, and step outside. The garden is deserted. Arthur is not there. You walk along the path and try the door of the shed, but it is locked.
    A sense of relief floods your body. Arthur must be out somewhere. It is better like that, somehow more acceptable that he comes back and finds you returned. You leave the path to collect a few fallen pears, stuffing them into your pockets, ducking under the low boughs of the huge tree. Something catches your shoulder and swings. You raise your hand to your face, expecting a branch to fall, but it is Arthur’s foot which comes towards you. You step back, and again you step back, raising your eyes to take in the full picture. Your hands are in your mouth.
    Arthur is hanging by his neck. His clothes are dripping wet. His head is dragged to one side, and he is swinging, ever so gently, swinging backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.
    Involuntarily you take a step towards him, but freeze to the spot as the full horror of it hits you. If anyone is interested, I’m in the garden. The words of his note jangle in your head like a mantra. In the garden. In the garden. If anyone is interested.
    You can see the flies around his eyes. The sockets where his eyes used to be. Their quick movement gives animation to his features. They crawl in and out of his nose and run the ridge of his teeth. It is as if he were laughing. Laughing at you, Dora, laughing and swinging, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.
    He has used the washing line. You recognize it, and glance the posts to confirm it. But your eyes do not wander for long Arthur is a hypnotist. He demands attention.
    Even when you feel the movement behind you, you cannot tear your eyes away from him. You stand there transfixed until Billy’s scream sends the birds clapping away over the rooftops. Then you turn and pull him into the house, collecting Diana with her saucer eyes on the way.
    ‘Is it Daddy?’ she says, as you push her into the kitchen.
     

12
     
    J.D. went for the sandwiches and Marie stayed behind the wheel of the Montego watching the entrance to Edward Blake’s office. With J.D. out of the car, she snapped into a different mode. Work mode. Surveillance.
    In the few days since he’d arrived on her horizon she’d drawn J.D. deep into her life. He hadn’t needed a lot of coaxing, either. He’d been a willing victim. But his presence certainly undermined the job.
    Marie wanted to hear all about him, and to tell him about herself. His insights into her and into life in general were off-beat and fascinating. Last night she’d been to see his band in the Bonding Warehouse. Almost unbearably loud country blues and electric feedback. J.D. beating out the rhythms like the march of a chain gang or the chattering howl of a strike in the night. He staggered off the stage at the end of the set and put his arms around her. His face slick with sweat, his eyes hollow with dope. Take me to bed,’ he said. ‘Get me out of here.’
    The sex was disappointing. Probably, Marie thought, because their bodies had not yet grown accustomed to each other. The closeness was good, but the act itself seemed