Once upon a time there was a newspaper competition asking for new writers to submit a 2000 word ghost story. I submitted this one below but six much worse stories were selected for the short list. I am not bitter about that at all.
An undesirable patron. (2000 word target)
He wasn’t a friend at all, just a bloke I saw most nights usually lingering over a single scotch, crouched alone and watching the regulars come and go. His name was Nick but other than knowing each other's name our only common link was that we were both regulars of the pub.
He’d adopted the ancient table hidden behind the door as his spot. It sort of suited him I guess, his pale face was made indistinct by his lank grey hair, stained beard and ruined teeth. A threadbare brown checked coat added to his worn-out look and made him the ideal occupant for that battered corner. It was never a popular seat, the stained ceiling hung low there and the entry next to it caused it to be a somewhat cold alcove. Not that Nick was ever involved with much, he didn’t exactly exude an essence of bonhomie, so mostly everyone ignored him.
I admit that while I do drop in to the pub most evenings, I go in for a pint with my mates and to warm in front of the fire, so I mostly ignore him too. Sitting where he did though, Nick was in easy earshot of our often animated discussions. He never interjected or passed comment, although I did see him sometimes smiling grimly.
Occasionally I saw Nick sitting in earnest discussion with the odd stranger over the years but none of the regulars paid him any attention. In effect he was like the piece of furniture really, always there but not noticed.
Anyway, today's the anniversary of my father’s death, at least I always think of it as the anniversary. It’s when the Ministry of Defence told us that Dad was missing in action, presumed dead. I was ten at the time and to be honest, I've never got over the unfairness of it.
Last year, on the anniversary, I had again told the lads everything I knew about Dad’s last mission and they had again let me talk it out. That time though, as I was leaving, Nick grabbed my arm and said, hauntingly, “I know about your dad”.
The surprise at being gripped so firmly stopped me dead. He slowly released my arm from his bruising fingers but his icy blue-flecked eyes stayed staring into me. “Sit down with me and I’ll tell you of things I know”.
I remember feeling compelled to sit despite thinking that I didn’t want to listen to this old bloke’s ramblings. Every November I hear tales from veterans who re-tell their stories. I rarely tire of the unassuming way these quiet heroes release their memories but I know from years of questions that there is no record or memory of my father’s last mission so I was in no mood to hear Nick’s rambling tale.
Nick started to tell me events from my Dad’s mission that only I had ever researched. He went on to provide bits that were missing from my searches and records. I couldn’t believe how much detail Nick knew and said he knew and I demanded to be told where he got all this information.
“I said I knew about your Dad” he answered quietly and intently, looking directly at me again.
“In fact I don’t only know about what your dad did, I know he was not killed in action. I also know his whereabouts this very day”
I sat there looking at this strange thin man. He was not smiling, not pretending, he was simply delivering insights into my father’s past and more shocking to me, was about to tell me about my father’s present.
My brain was struggling to make sense of that. I wanted to refuse to accept he was alive. I wanted desperately to meet him. I was angry. I was incredulous, struck dumb. I deeply wanted to reject but Nick’s facts were so credible, so incredible. I stared back blankly into the steely eyes.
“What do you mean? You know where his body is buried?” was the only rational question my brain would allow. My fear just contained.
“No Dave.. I know where he is. Right now”
“I don’t believe you.” Rationality was my last refuge. Any other thought was lunacy.
“What would it take for you to believe me?” Nick stared through narrowed eyes, his pupils coal black and intense.
“I , I don’t know. How can you prove that its my dad? You could show me anyone.”
Nick didn’t even pause to think.
“Your dad will know of things you did together, things you talked of that only the two of you will remember. It will take no time for you to be certain” His voice quiet and firm.
Thoughts flashed like lightening through my clouded brain. He was right of course, the times I have with my kids, I remember the smallest of details for years.
I started to recall days out with my dad. I wondered if he would remember them too.
But this was crazy. Why would my wonderful father have stayed away, left his wife, abandoned his kids, what would have allowed any man who loved his family to do that?
As if reading my thoughts, Nick continued,
“Your dad was given no choice in his actions, he could not make contact with you. But now, I can arrange for you two to meet” For the first time I saw a smile crease his face, it was not a pleasant thing, it was an unnerving gruesome gape.
“How could you do that?” I so needed to remain unconvinced and unwilling.
“Never mind how. What would you do if I could guarantee you can meet your dad again?”
I wasn’t sure but I thought Nick was peddling for some reward or payment so I just looked blankly back at him not knowing how to respond..
“I can make it happen” Nick said smoothly “but I need to know how important it is to you and if it is worth my arranging it. You see, this is a one time offer, the window of opportunity is small and it will pass. I need to know if it is important to you.”
“Well of course it’s important, if my dad is around I'd want to meet him. Of course I want to meet him” I didn’t know what Nick had expected me to answer. Who wouldn’t want to?
“So, what would you do if I could guarantee such a meeting?’ he held that eerie grin.
“I’d do anything” I spat out. “If you can bring my father to me, then I’d do whatever”
“Great!” He said leaning back and straightening himself up. He suddenly looked much less feeble.
“Follow me!” He rose strongly, moved the table aside with ease and strode towards the doorway.
In a sort of emotional trance I caught the urgency of his movements. I trailed behind him into the swirling rain and heaving traffic of the busy high street.
Nick turned to me, his eyes were alive and sparkling now as he said “Come on just across the road and down a bit.” as he headed towards the curb.
I hurried to join him at a gap he’d found torn in the pedestrian fence where the traffic careened past in a solid stream of headlights and spray. No sooner had I joined him than he grabbed my arm with that vice-like hand, and pushing me impossibly hard in the small of my back, he spun me directly into the path of the speeding bus.
In that instant of my imminent death, the last microseconds of my existence took on a slow motion roll. I looked back in horror to see a spectral skull with a yawing yellow toothed grimace where Nick had stood. “You wanted to meet your maker!” it screeched hideously at me. “You are sent now to be with your father” it added in wicked mirth.
I tried to scramble clear but even in the slow roll of my demise I saw the speeding wall of metal would not be escaped.
A world-shattering explosion preceded my scream which pierced the shards of my agony and burst existence. I was tumbling and flailing with a searing pain tearing at every part of me.
Then nothing.
Then the merest hint of a tiny spark of light.
Then nothing.
I have no recollection of the next six months, I am told about the miracle of my survival, of the wondrous works by the paramedics and the surgeons. I am advised of the tiny window of opportunity I squeezed through to survive. I recall being vaguely aware of my wife and children during my recovery from coma.
I know I am here today because of people I’d never met, professionals from all fields, donors of all races and support from all walks of community. I am forever grateful.
I remained mystified about Nick. I've been back to the pub on many occasions since that night. I have had chats with my mates. My story of how my death nearly happened is politely listened to and everyone smiles and nods, then they change the topic. Tonight though, on this years's wretched anniversary of my dad's death , Keith took me aside and said that he had to have a word with me. He was being very serious, a mantle that didn’t fit comfortably on him.
“Mate, I’ve got to tell you, get over it, you have to accept that there never was a Nick, no one threw you into the traffic, you’d just had one pint too many that’s all”
“What?” I was incredulous, “As if I’d walk into traffic!? " I stared at my friend. "You mean to tell me nobody ever saw Nick? He sat at his spot at that corner table every night! I don’t believe you.” I felt like I was being abandoned.
“Dave, no one ever sits at that table, it’s too bloody cold. Sure, sometimes a visitor might squat there for a while but they never stay long. No one has it as ‘their spot’ that’s for sure.”
“I’m not that daft Keith, and I was never that wasted that night”
“Gees Dave, you always get full on your dad’s anniversary, and it’s not like you were the first accident out there you know. People are always getting bowled down. Another punter was turned to pizza a couple of months ago, that’s why they’re putting that new fence there.”
Keith’s confident practicality shocked me. I started to question my memory and sat quietly for a while. Was it booze, or perhaps the drugs, or my coma? If Keith was right then I didn’t know what a real memory was any more.
He slapped me on the shoulder and with a friendly shake added “You’ve just got to stop living in a dream mate” he sat back and said “Your missus told me you shout out "Nic"! in your sleep, she thought you’d been having a bit on the sly. Don’t worry, I've put that to rest for you, but you have to get a grip”
He got up to order another pint leaving me staring at the fire.
It was a couple of minutes before I was snapped out of my muddle by a call to re-join the lads with a fresh pint. I dragged myself up but went to the gents first.
Standing at the hand basin I looked at my torn face in the mirror. I splashed water to cool my eyes before going out to try and slip into to the usual banter. It was good to have mates, good to have survived.
I should get a grip as Keith said.
I walked back into the bar just as a stranger was getting up out of that corner seat. Keith was right, nobody stayed there long.
It was as the stranger was heading onto the street that I glimpsed the back of a grey head and a threadbare brown checked coat leading him out.
I stared transfixed at the door as it slowly shut and my eyes closed over tears as the screams from skidding car tyres and shocked bystanders laid a soundtrack to Nick's latest fatality.
© GregWebster 12/11/2010
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