Fourteen Days (5 page)

“Don’t be stupid. It just made me jump a little.”

“Don’t lie,” he mocked, squeezing her leg. “You thought it was that ghost in the TV from
Poltergeist
, didn’t you?”

She shook her head. “Grow up, Rich—you’re the one afraid of ghosts.”

“Don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot, do you?”

“You’re being childish now.”

Richard got up from the couch. “You can dish it out, babe, but you can’t receive it, can you?”

Clearly irritated, she turned the TV volume up to a normal level.

Richard gave one last gloating smile and said, “Right, I’m off to bed—unless you need me to protect you?”

She grimaced. It seemed her patience was wearing thin. “Why? It’s still early. Don’t you want to watch that film?”

He shrugged. “No. I’m a bit tired.”

She pushed a button on the remote, and the TV screen faded. “All right. I’m ready for bed too.”

Richard turned off the living room lights as they left.

Nicky was sitting up in bed, reading her book, while Richard lay next to her, deep in thought.

She turned to him. “You all right?”

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

“You just seem quiet. Is there something on your mind?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing—everything’s fine.”

“You sure?”

He forced a smile. “I’m fine, honestly. It’s just work and stuff. The usual.”

“Well, you have to try and block it out of your mind.”

“I know. But it’s hard. So many things to do when I get back.”

“Isn’t there something else you can focus on? Like seeing your friends or something? Or what you’re going to get me for Christmas?”

“It’s the middle of spring, babe. It’s a bit early to be dropping hints, don’t you think?”

She patted him on the chest, and then went back to her book. “It’s never too early to drop hints—especially when men are concerned.”

Rolling his eyes, he turned onto his side to go to sleep.

But as he listened to the scraping noise Nicky’s book made each time she turned a page, he knew that any hope of sleep was futile. The idea of having a stack of problems waiting for him when he returned was sure to keep him up for the next ten days.

And now he was seeing things in his kitchen.

Maybe I’m losing it
…

The clock turned over to 4:08 a.m.

Richard witnessed it, just like he’d witnessed every other minute for the past four hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such a problem with insomnia. And then he did. It reminded him of the time back in college when Gary spiked his lager with amphetamines. He spent the entire night sitting up in bed, watching a
Simpsons
marathon, wondering why he couldn’t keep still, and why on earth his teeth were grinding together.

And then he smiled.

Good times
.

Nicky began to stir next to him, so he froze, trying not to make any unnecessary movements. But now he wasn’t even close to being relaxed, which made sleep even more unfeasible.

God, I’m tired. What’s
wrong
with me?

Frustrated, he shuffled to find a more comfortable position, risking disturbing Nicky. He closed his eyes and swore to himself that he wouldn’t open them again until morning.

After perhaps twenty minutes, he slipped into a trance. Thoughts of work, and Nicky, and college flooded his mind. Then he imagined being back in Worcester, Nicky in her little side office again, smiling at him as he clocked in. As more and more images filled his head, they became more vague and illogical. A mess of thoughts that only a madman could decipher.

Sleep was coming.

The sounds of the night were now lost in his trance. He could feel the events of the day fading into nothingness as he slipped deeper and deeper toward sleep.

It felt good. Such a relief.

A screeching police siren filled his dreams. Or was it an ambulance? He could never tell the difference.

But the shriek was still with him in the bedroom when he opened his tired eyes. Nicky sat up in a flash, her eyes wide with panic.

It was the smoke detector.

Richard leaped out of bed, almost tripping on the overhanging quilt.

“What the hell’s that noise?” Nicky said, covering her ears with her palms.

“It’s the smoke alarm,” he said as he dashed out onto the dark landing to find the culprit.

It was the same one from yesterday. And the day before.

Racing down the stairs, he reached up at the device. Just as his fingers touched the plastic body, the sound vanished.

“I changed you already, you cheap piece of crap.” He reached over the banister and managed to switch on the hallway light to see into the kitchen. “Where’s the fire? Piece of junk.”

As he scanned the kitchen for smoke, he caught a glimpse of the kitchen chair. That feeling of dread he had experienced at lunchtime returned. He tried to shake it off but couldn’t. So he decided to do the one sensible thing he could think of. He reached over the banister again, turned off the hallway light, and ran as fast as he could up the stairs and back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

“Is everything all right?” Nicky asked, half asleep. “Any fire?”

“Everything’s fine,” he whispered, as he crept back over to his side of the bed. “No fire. Go back to sleep.”

“Then why did it go off?”

He climbed back into bed. “Good question.”

“Must be the battery. You should change it.”

“I did.”

“Good thinking, babe.” Her voice was now faint and her eyes were closed.

“Yesterday.”

“What was yesterday?”

“The battery. I changed it yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Because it went off yesterday—
and
the day before.”

“Oh, right.” She pulled the quilt up to her neck. “Good night, babe. See you in the morning.”

Leaning on his elbow, Richard peered over her. “You don’t think that’s a little strange?”

“What’s strange?”

“That it went off three times without any smoke—
and
with a brand new battery?”

She opened her eyes and scowled. “Babe, I’m trying to sleep. I’ve got to be up in the morning.”

“Sorry, Nic. I think it’s weird, that’s all.”

“Look, I know what you’re thinking.”

He frowned. “What am I thinking?”

“You think it’s a bloody ghost doing it, don’t you?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s just a mystery.”

“Look, was it the same smoke alarm all three times?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well then.” She turned to face the other way. “We’ve got two others. So it’s just faulty. It’s only weird if one of the other ones went off as well. Now go to sleep. There’s no such thing as ghosts—good night.”

Richard put his head against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling.
I didn’t say it was a ghost
, he thought
. I don’t even believe in ghosts. It’s just weird, that’s all. A mystery
.
I’m not scared of anything. Especially not bloody ghosts. And nothing under my roof
.

Now he was wide awake and in desperate need to urinate. He could feel his bladder ache as he stared at the darkened landing through the bedroom door that was ajar.

Dying for a piss
.

I think I’ll hold it.

Best not disturb Nicky
.

S
aturday arrived at last, but to Richard it was just another day not at the office. He watched the rain hit the road as he waved Nicky goodbye. Her younger sister had walked out on her husband again, so Nicky had decided to pay her a visit in Worcester.

He hadn’t slept a wink the entire night. His eyes stung and his head ached.
Stupid smoke alarm
.

Closing the front door, he stepped back into the silent house. The quietness filled him with dread—so much so he almost trembled. But this time it wasn’t just the dread of solitude, it was something else, something that he had not felt in years. And it was barely something he could even admit to himself. The feeling of terror as a child. Believing, without a shadow of doubt, that something horrible lived under his bed. And no matter how many times his father would check, try to reassure him, nothing would douse those awful feelings of vulnerability.

Shaking off the sensation like a cold shiver, he walked into the kitchen.

He stood next to the fridge and glared over at the kitchen chair. The hairs on his forearms began to rise as he pictured seeing the mysterious woman again. He rubbed each arm to flatten the hairs.
Grow up, Gardener
.
What’s wrong with you? She’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

Turning away in protest, he opened the fridge, reached in, and pulled out a bottle of lager. Unscrewing the bottle cap, he flicked it into the garbage, then walked past the table. Halfway past, he picked up the pace, almost running out of the kitchen into the hallway, humming an unrecognizable tune.

Entering the living room, he sat on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions, sipping his lager. The TV was already on so he scanned the channels, hoping to find something to take his mind off the woman. His search came to an end when he found a topical debate program called
Say you, Say me
. The subject was religion in schools.

After he had finished his drink, he pondered whether or not to get another from the kitchen. Better not have too many. Especially this early in the morning. But despite his reasoning, he knew that his real motive for not having another had nothing to do with drunkenness, or even health.

Staring at the empty bottle, he longed for another. After a few minutes, his craving got the better of him. He got up and marched into the kitchen, repressing his fears. Opening the fridge, he grabbed a bottle. Just as the fridge door closed, he caught a glimpse of the kitchen table. Even though the chair was unoccupied, he could feel a cold, unnerving sensation creep over his skin—so he opened the fridge again and secured as many bottles as he could carry, then raced past the table, trying not to drop any bottles in the process.

Relief washed over him as he collapsed on the couch, holding six bottles of lager.
What the hell is going on? I’m not afraid of anything
.
Jesus
.

Opening a bottle, he took a huge swig.
It must be just the loneliness. And boredom. And work stuff.
Yeah, that’s it. Nothing else. This house isn’t going to feature on
Most Haunted
. It’s a mid-terrace house in the middle of Bristol City—it’s not a bloody medieval dungeon.

He took another big swig of lager and swallowed hard.
But I did see something. And she did seem so real. Maybe I saw her on TV and dreamed her. After all, she was the same woman from my dream. Maybe I was half-watching something on TV when I dropped off to sleep. And then, for some reason saw her again on the kitchen
chair. That makes sense. Perfect sense
. He took an even bigger swig and managed to finish the bottle.
Yeah, it makes more sense than thinking a dead woman was sitting in my kitchen.

Stupid ghosts—as if.

He opened another bottle and sank back deep into the couch.
And I ain’t moving from this spot all day. If she wants me, she can come and get me.

Please don’t come and get me
.

Richard walked across a muddy field carrying a large plastic water container, heading toward a tap next to a farm gate. The sky was cloudy and the air winter-cold. It reminded him of caravanning with his parents as a child. The smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with a pungent scent of manure. In the distance he could see the old disused tractors and the loose barbed-wire fencing.

Bliss.

At the tap he saw Nicky wearing a white dress, sitting on a large rock. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why aren’t you out with your friends?”

“I’ve got to fill the water tank for the caravan.”

Nicky smiled. “That’s good. Always so organized.”

“I try my best. But I hate filling up the water. It’s always so heavy.”

“Tell me, Richard—”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“Have you seen my baby?”

Puzzled, he asked, “What baby?”

“
My
baby.”

Shaking his head, he moved closer to her. “But you don’t have a baby.”

“Please, Richard—have you seen my baby?”

Shaking his head again, he looked down at the rock where she was sitting and noticed a dark patch. “What’s that you’re sitting on, Nic?”

She looked down at the dark patch, frowning, and then replied, “I don’t know. It wasn’t there a minute ago.” She stood to inspect it further. As she did the sky darkened and the air began to mist. “It looks like blood. But it’s not mine. It can’t be mine.”

Blood dripped down her legs and stained through the bottom of her dress. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “I’ll go get help. Mum will know what to do.” He turned away, but something blocked his path.

A woman.

The lower half of her white dress was stained with thick blood. In fright, he fell backwards onto the muddy grass, screaming for help. The woman walked toward him, blood still seeping from her dress, down over her legs. She held out a hand. Cowering in terror, he continued to call out to his mother, until his cries managed to cross over into his living room, where he found himself lying on the couch, covered in sweat, and trembling.

“
Fuck
,” he said in an exhausted breath.

Still disoriented, he rubbed his tired face, trying to wake up and shake off the effects of the dream. He couldn’t remember falling asleep.

He picked up the empty bottles and carried them into the kitchen. Dropping them into the bin, he stared at the dreaded kitchen chair, still terrified. “What’s
wrong
with you, Rich? There’s nothing there. It was just a stupid dream. Get a grip—for God’s sake.”

With his eyes fixed on the chair, he felt his heart race as the fear took over. The dreaded chair was now filled with visions of the woman, her eyes of sadness and desperation, her look of helplessness. He could no longer move his legs.

There’s nothing there. You’re being ridiculous. She isn’t real. Come on now—focus.

As the seconds rolled by, turning into minutes, his mind was still gripped with trepidation. He waited for the feeling to pass. Slow, deep breaths began ease his racing heart—but not by much. His body was sticky with sweat and his hands still trembled.

The sound of the front door opening sent him even further down into a pit of terror. Turning his head to see, he clenched his fists when he heard footsteps. He focused on the banister in the hallway, too afraid to look back at the table. The muscles in his legs tightened as he attempted to move. Just as they began to loosen so he could walk, the sound of Nicky’s voice made him feel like a weight had been lifted from his entire body.

Exhaling in relief, he watched her walk toward him, smiling, yet clearly exhausted.

“Hi, babe,” she asked, greeting him with a kiss. “What are you doing in here?”

Beaming, he shook his head. “Nothing—just waiting for you to get home.”

Scrunching her face up in repulsion, she pulled away from him. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yeah. I had a couple of bottles. So?”

“You had more than a couple, your breath
stinks
of lager. How many have you had?”

“Nice to see you too,” he said.

She dropped her handbag onto the table, then sat heavily in one of the chairs, putting her feet up on the dreaded chair. “I’m worn out. I’ve had such a lousy day.”

“How come? Is your sister all right?” he asked, eyes locked on the dreaded chair.

“Well, she’s gone back to him now. I’m not surprised though.”

“Already? How long for this time?”

“Exactly. And my mum’s been doing my head in—fussing over her too much. I’m just glad to be home. So what’ve you been up to today—apart from getting drunk?”

He managed to shift his attention away from the chair. “I’m not drunk. I had
one or two.”

“I’m teasing. I don’t care what you do, as long as you take it easy.” She got up from the chair as if she weighed a ton, and moved over to the fridge. “See any ghosts today?” she asked, using a quivery voice.

“Very funny.”

“So your fancy-woman hasn’t come back for revenge then?”

Fake-smiling, he left the kitchen. “Why, jealous or something?”

“Yeah, right—in your dreams,” she retorted, chuckling as she pulled out a large bowl of stew from the fridge.

Richard entered the living room and sat back on the couch, relieved that his wife was home. All of a sudden the house wasn’t such a cold and frightening place.

But what had changed? Why did his house feel so different? And why did he need his wife home to feel safe? Was it the smoke detector going off for a third time? No. It was faulty. It must have been. Maybe it was the TV coming on like that—after all, it even gave Nicky a scare. Maybe his lack of sleep? And he hadn’t so much as heard, let alone seen, the woman in the white dress again. His dreams didn’t count.

But he was safe again. Safe from his fears. Safe from his wandering mind, his vast imagination. Safe from irrational thoughts… for now at least.

Richard came down from the bedroom to see who the female voice belonged to. Opening the living room door, he saw his wife sitting on the couch next to one of her friends, Karen Leigh. She was a short, thin massage therapist, with long brown hair down past her shoulders. She seemed at ease, as if without a care in the world as she sat smiling, sipping a cup of tea.

Nicky’s face lit up when she clapped eyes on him. “There he is, Karen.”

“All right, Karen. How’s things?” he asked, regretting coming down.

“Good, thanks,” she replied in a soothing tone.

“I was just telling Karen about your little ghost problem.”

Frowning, he shook his head. “Babe, why did you have to go and tell the world? It’s embarrassing. And for the last time: we don’t
have
a ghost problem.”

“I’m sorry, it just came up. Karen’s into ghosts and witchcraft and all that stuff, too.”

Karen turned to her. “Witchcraft? You make me sound like a devil-worshiper or something.”

“You know what I mean.”

“If you mean the spirit world, then yes, I am into it.” She redirected the conversation to Richard. “So tell me, what’s been happening?”