Concert of Ghosts (32 page)

Harry said, I remember having a house close to some woods. I remember I grew marijuana.

—And after that?

—After that I came here.

—Why did you come here?

—I had a breakdown.

—But now you feel better?

—I feel terrific now.

—Did you enjoy growing dope, Harry?

—It was a living, I guess.

Lannigan went away.

Tennant didn't dream so much anymore. His life had become comfortable in a routine kind of way. Talks with Lannigan. Sleep. Medication. Working the weights. He was physically stronger than he'd ever been, but a certain restlessness had begun to invade him. One morning he asked Lannigan when he could look forward to his release.

—You want to get out, Harry?

—Yeah. I think I'm better than I was. I'd like to get back to what I was doing.

—Growing stuff, d'you mean?

—Something like that.

Lannigan said he'd consider it. A month, perhaps six weeks, after Christmas the Irishman said, You really think you're well enough to go it alone, Harry?

—You know better than me, but I'm beginning to feel, I don't know, restricted. I don't want to sound ungrateful, you understand. You've done a lot for me.

Lannigan sat on the edge of the bed. He said, I know where there's a small house with some land not far from here. It's available, if you're interested.

—Sure, I'm interested, Tennant replied.

—I ought to caution you. No dope this time.

—Right.

—I mean it, Harry. You want to grow things, grow cabbage, something people can't smoke.

—Sure. Cabbage. Corn. I can see that.

—That keeps you legal, Harry. You don't want another breakdown, do you? You don't want to go near dope of any kind.

—No.

During the third week in February, when the fields were covered with snow and the trees looked as if they might never live again, Lannigan drove Tennant to a tiny frame house that stood on eight or nine acres of mixed woodland and fields. It was a twenty-minute drive from the clinic. Tennant explored the small rooms. The house had good light from the west and the paintwork wasn't bad. The furniture was functional. All in all, he liked it.

—I might get a dog, Paul.

—I think that would be helpful.

—And if I don't feel good, I know where to find you.

—Down the road, take a right. You know the way.

—Who owns this house?

—Oh, some corporation in D.C. I don't remember the name offhand, boyo.

The following week, after days of intensive talks with Lannigan, during which the Irishman constantly interrogated him about his family, his past history, Harry moved in. From a nearby breeder he bought a Great Dane pup. He couldn't think of a name for her.

He walked the fields, enjoying the way his feet sank through the crust of snow. He walked in the woods, delighting in the barren melancholy of the trees. From a certain angle he could see the small house between the trees. Something in the perception touched him: He felt at home here.

Lannigan had loaned him a shortbed truck. Every now and then he'd drive it into the nearest hamlet—a place called Shelbyville—and buy groceries and beer and dog food. The store had everything he needed. Once or twice he lingered outside the public telephone located in front of the shop, possessed by the odd idea that he had a phone call to make, but he didn't go inside the box. He couldn't think of anyone to call, and he wasn't sure why he had such an irrational urge in any case. I will have to make a friend, he thought. Just so I have somebody to call. But he wasn't lonely.

One morning when he was stepping out of the store, he saw a gray bus parked alongside his truck. He knew it was the private bus that sometimes ferried the clinic's clients here and there—therapeutic outings, day trips to one place or another. Lannigan believed in exposing his patients to what he called the real world. Otherwise, he always said, they feel more cut off than they should.

Tennant gazed at the windows of the vehicle. A pale-skinned girl looked at him through the window. Some aspect of her impassive face provoked a sense of curiosity in him. He wondered why. He got in the truck and drove back to his house, thinking of the girl all the way. The black hair, the big sad empty eyes. Her image troubled him for the rest of the day. She was one of Lannigan's patients: What had happened to her? Why was she sick? He took one of the tranquilizers and lay down, the Dane at his feet. Then he forgot about the girl.

He lived quietly.

He lived quietly for weeks before he awoke one dawn with a sense of panic. He'd dreamed something menacing, a situation crowded with figures who meant to harm him. A girl dressed in black had entered the dream. Sweating in the unheated house, he dressed quickly and drove the truck to the clinic, where he asked to see Lannigan.

The Irishman calmed him down, gave him some tranquilizers, massaged his shoulders in that comforting way he had.

Tennant didn't describe his dream in detail. Dreams were sometimes too obscure to talk about. He told Lannigan he'd woken up with a bad feeling. He just didn't know why.

—Don't worry about it. Don't get stressed. Go back home. Take a pill and relax.

—Yeah. I'll do that.

Tennant left the clinic and drove back to his small house. The day was cold and bright. He shivered when he went indoors. He stacked logs and kindling and lit a fire in the living room. He sat on the sofa, watching smoke drift. He had a feeling of satisfaction. House, fire, dog. What could be better?

Crazy question. I have it all. All I'll ever need. He rose to lift the poker. The logs had to be prodded. A few sparks disappeared into the blackness of the chimney. Wood crackled, spat. A flying chip, burning fiercely, adhered to the back of his hand. Moaning, he brushed it quickly away. He went inside the kitchen, ran the hand under cold water, dried it gently. He returned to the old horsehair sofa and sat down, hunched forward. He watched the fire, the sparks. His hand ached. He looked at the scorched mark on his flesh and found himself for some reason thinking of the girl he'd seen on the bus. The image was quickly gone, leaving him with an unfocused sense of pity.

In early spring he decided to plant his first seeds: corn, green beans, peas. He cleared an overgrown plot of land at the back of the house, hacking away diligently at weeds and nettles. He pricked his fingers; blood ran down the palm of his hand. He placed the tips of his fingers in his mouth, tasted his own blood, felt a quick sharp jab of pain. He was thinking of the girl, that forlorn face imprisoned behind the window of the bus, dark eyes, short black hair. It was perhaps somebody he'd dreamed, or somebody he'd met once. He wasn't sure. He felt a jab of loneliness.

He sat down on a grassy bank and surveyed the soil he'd just turned over. The dog came from the house and stood alongside him. I have to find her a name, he thought. The bright yellow sun lay flat on the landscape, the sky was cloudless. He picked up a stick, thinking he'd throw it for the dog to fetch—the Dane hadn't learned to play this game—but instead, forced by an impulse he didn't understand, he inscribed a couple of lines in the earth, two diagonal lines that formed the sides of an incomplete triangle connected one to the other by a short bridge. He looked at what he'd done. The letter
A
.

It signified nothing. He erased it with his foot.

About the Author

Campbell Armstrong (1944–2013) was an international bestselling author best known for his thriller series featuring British counterterrorism agent Frank Pagan, and his quartet of Glasgow Novels, featuring detective Lou Perlman. Two of these,
White Rage
and
Butcher
, were nominated for France's Prix du Polar. Armstrong's novels
Assassins & Victims
and
The Punctual Rape
won Scottish Arts Council Book of the Year Awards.

Born in Glasgow and educated at the University of Sussex, Armstrong worked as a book editor in London and taught creative writing at universities in the United States.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1993 by Campbell Armstrong

Cover design by Angela Goddard

ISBN: 978-1-5040-0406-0

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

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