Giving Up the Ghost (27 page)

“I can understand that.” John rolled his eyes. “Just look at her, will you?” he muttered. “Och, well, as long as she’s happy.” He hadn’t known her long, but he had a feeling life was more peaceful when she was like that, and right now, for Nick’s sake, he was willing -- more than willing -- to sacrifice Greg if that’s what it took. “She won’t get past me, love. Neither of them will.”

“I know.” Nick smiled at him, but didn’t reach out to touch him, as if somehow he thought that leaving the rough circle of salt and candles on the ground, even just with a hand, would spoil the effect. He raised his voice a bit. “Okay, here we go. Keep quiet if you can.”

Not much chance of that with Alicia, John thought, but he didn’t spare the two of them so much as a glance.

Nick went quiet again.

A moment later there was a faint breeze -- warm, because of where they were, but only smelling slightly of the ocean. Instead of making John feel secure, the fine hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. Nick licked his lips as if they’d suddenly gone dry, one hand opening and then closing again into a fist.

“No,” he said clearly. “No, you have to wait.”

“Wait for what?” Alicia asked in a loud voice.

“Shut up,” John mouthed at her, his words barely audible.

Alicia’s face stiffened with outrage, but Greg, earning John’s undying gratitude, reached out with one hand, the camera he was pointing at Nick never wavering, and murmured something that looked like a more tactful version of John’s command.

She subsided, her foot tapping impatiently, and John turned his attention back to Nick.

“Yes,” Nick was saying, clearly talking to the ghosts. “I know, but it’s okay. You’ll all get a turn, I promise.” He flinched. “I know; I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready to handle all of you before. But I am now. Okay. Come in.”

Alicia said something to Greg, but it was quiet enough that John didn’t do more than glance in their direction.

“John?” Nick said it in a way that let John know what he needed -- someone to take notes. There was a pad of paper and a pen in his pocket, and he took them out and held them at the ready as Nick went on. “Alexander. Mm-hm. Yes. And there’s -- okay. It’s a combination. Five, oh, six, nine, eight, nine. Okay. I’ll make sure she knows. Yeah.” His voice softened. “You can go. Go on; it’ll be okay.”

There was quiet for a minute, the breeze changing direction slightly. Then Nick drew a shaky breath; John could see him trembling.

“Hi, Dad.”

It was what John had hoped would happen; that Nick would get what he’d been given, a chance to say goodbye, but this was different. John and his father had been close, with nothing between them but love and respect. Nick couldn’t really have either of those for a man he barely knew, who’d turned his back on him.

But he was still blood. Still family. John, who could, if needed, list his ancestors going back a couple of centuries without even trying, because they’d all been born, lived, and died on that small scrap of rock and sand in the western sea, couldn’t overlook the importance of that.

His hand relaxed on the pencil he held. No need for notes here. He just wished, with a fierce, sharp pang of regret, that Nick didn’t have to do this under the eyes of strangers.

Alicia gave a choked gasp and took a single step forward, halted by Greg’s hand on her arm.

Nick looked toward Alicia a bit wildly. “Don’t,” he said, swaying on his feet. John took a step toward him, unsure if his intention was to support him or just reassure, but Nick took a deep breath and steadied himself. “It’s okay.”

“Sit if you need to, lad.” John stayed where he was.

“I will. I’m okay.” Nick turned his attention back toward his father’s ghost, and after a moment he smiled sadly. “Yeah, I know. Good intentions.” For all the world he sounded like a man who’d been close to his father, who’d considered him a friend. “Alicia? Did you want to talk to him? He’s right here.”

Alicia was trembling now, the affectations stripped from her face, leaving only the careful makeup to give it any color. Her hands rose slowly to her mouth, jamming against it, smearing the vivid red lipstick. She stood like that for a moment and then her hands dropped. “I can’t see him.” Her voice was flat, desolate. “I wanted to see him.”

John felt a sympathy he hadn’t thought possible. “It doesn’t work like that, love,” he said. “But he can hear you and he can probably see you. Hurry; you don’t have long. If there’s anything --”

“Brian?” Alicia sounded shrill. “I need to know where the money is. I know you would have wanted me to have it…”

Nick was unmoving as a statue, his head tilted a bit to one side, listening. “Some of it was on the plane with him,” he said, and Alicia gave a choked moan of despair. “But the rest of it’s at his apartment. Under the kitchen sink. He says you know where.”

Nodding, Alicia wiped at her eyes. “He kept money under there sometimes. In one of those fake spray cans.” John had no idea what she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. Greg was recording everything intently. “All of it?”

“He says yes,” Nick reported after a moment. “Everything he didn’t have with him. He says the landlord will let you in, but not to wait too long or they’ll clean the place out.”

Alicia took a step backward, as if she was about to start running to get it, but then paused. “You…he said you’d want Josh to have some. I -- I guess that’s fair. I’ll do that, Brian. I promise.” Her face crumpled, the middle-aged woman showing through the façade of youth. “I miss you, Brian. Miss you so much, sweetheart.”

“He’s…” Nick’s voice broke, but he recovered and went on. “He misses you, too. He says…he thought you two were going to get old together. That you -- you were the only person he ever met he thought he might be able to stand for more than a couple of years.” The words came fast and furious, like they usually did when Nick was trying to echo what someone else was saying. He was looking a bit pale, John thought.

“Oh, God.” Alicia started sobbing; Greg stepped closer and grasped her elbow in support, but didn’t stop filming. “I really loved…I really love you, Brian. I do. I didn’t think I could, but…”

“He says to have a good life. Have fun.” Nick’s lips twisted in something that bore little resemblance to a smile. “Find someone else, if you can.”

“I will. I’ll try. And I’ll send some of the money to Josh, I will.” Alicia sounded sincere enough, although she looked terrible, eye makeup running down her face.

Nick nodded, his attention turning inward, his voice dropping to a conversational tone John could hear, but he doubted the other two onlookers could. Alicia was too busy searching through her purse for Kleenex to care, her crying getting stormy now, her shoulders heaving, but Greg frowned and began to move forward.

John put himself between Nick and Greg, blocking the man’s view. “You’ll let him say goodbye to his father in peace.”

“I just want to --”

“You heard me.” John was prepared to take the camera from him if he had to, and he didn’t care what he had to do to get it, but Greg bit his lip, nodded reluctantly, and stepped back again.

John turned and saw a smile, regretful but not unhappy, pass over Nick’s face.

“I know. And I will. Or I’ll try, at least.” Nick’s eyes met his and his smile turned loving. “I’ve got a pretty good shot at being happy, Dad.”

John smiled back and watched Nick’s head sink forward, his body bowed as if some strength had left him. “Nick? Are you --?”

“I’m fine.” Nick’s voice was husky with tears but he managed a reassuring look. He glanced over, directing his words to Alicia. “He’s gone.”

“You mean…” Alicia sounded bereft, but after another moment or two she nodded and sniffled and turned to go. None of them made a move to stop her. She’d gone ten steps or so before she turned back and said to Nick, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have had…” She wiped her eyes again. “Thanks.”

Nick didn’t say anything; there were beads of sweat gathering around his hairline, and he was already starting to look strained, but he took a deep breath and made contact with the next ghost, inviting it into the circle. Off to the side, Greg was still taping with a look of intent fascination.

John took notes as Nick talked with the remaining spirits one by one. By the time Nick said, “This is the last one,” another half hour or so had passed. Nick’s words were halting, the pauses between communications longer, but even so it was an incredible improvement from the night before.

“Okay,” Nick said finally, rubbing his face. “I think that’s it.”

“Thank God,” John said, feeling as exhausted as Nick looked, although with far less cause. Watching Nick work didn’t require anything like the physical exertion of hauling in net after net of mackerel, silvery and squirming, but he was starting to think that he did more than watch and record; as if Nick drew something from him.

He didn’t mind that. In fact, he liked the idea, because he wanted to help Nick all he could, but God, he was having trouble focusing on the words he’d scrawled down. He tucked the paper and pen away and gave Nick a wavering smile.

“So can we just blow out the--” Greg began.

A rush of wind drove through the clearing, carrying a shriek within it, bitter and savage. Nick flinched and John instinctively brought his hands to his ears. Greg looked puzzled and slightly uneasy. “Guys?”

The small, bright flames of the candles popped out neatly, one by one, the circle of light extinguished.

“Nick? What the hell’s going on?” John had to raise his voice; the wind was a howl now, and the trees nearby were bending, limbs lashing, leaves scattering.

Nick’s face was pale, his hair unusually dark, and for a moment John could have sworn that the man’s eyes were glowing. “It’s Grant,” Nick shouted. “Get him out of here!” He gestured at Greg, and John shook his head.

“I’m not leaving you. He can bloody well get out of here on his own!”

Greg had moved closer -- the wind was so strong, swirling like a tornado, that John understood the natural instinct to be near others. “Are you kidding? I’m not leaving!” He was still holding that damned video camera, and it was still recording if the little glowing red light was any indication.

Hesitating, Nick’s face made it clear how torn he was. Step out of the circle, where he’d be less protected, or stay in the hopes of capturing Grant there?

“Stay there!” John yelled. “You’re the only one who can control him.”

“Who? Who is it?”

Greg seemed fascinated rather than scared, which was good in a way; John didn’t want to deal with someone panicking. He spared a fleeting thought for Alicia, hoping that she was well clear, and then focused his attention on Nick. “It’ll be you he’s after; you need all the protection you can get. Just stay in there.” Greg’s hand closed around his arm and John shook him off, saying briefly, “It’s one of the victims. He’s…different. Angry. Pissed as hell. Won’t let Nick help --”

Something -- something invisible but that managed to distort the air at the same time -- rushed past them. John stumbled and Greg caught at his sleeve, kept him upright. It came at them again, the howling of the wind becoming a shriek, then it circled away.

“Did you
see
that?” Greg shouted. “What the hell
was
that?”

The wind died down, the place where they were standing getting quiet again. “That,” Nick said flatly, “was a ghost. And he’s not very happy about it. He thinks I had something to do with how he got that way, so he’s…”

A thinly white form in the vague shape of a person winked into existence immediately in front of Nick, hovering just outside the circle.

“Just listen to me,” Nick told it urgently. He reached out a hand that shook. “Come in and we’ll talk. We can -- “

Before Nick could finish, the spirit was inside the circle with him. Nick stumbled backward and John
saw
, through the mostly transparent form of the ghost, his shirt move as Grant touched him. For a brief instant, Nick’s eyes met John’s, and that was enough to communicate how utterly, utterly fucked they were.

Everything happened very fast after that. The howling wind was back, blowing leaves across the grass, and the ghost inside the circle shoved Nick, making him take another step backward. Grant made a sound, something between a scream and a laugh and did it again, harder this time -- Nick fell, and when he did, his hand broke the line of salt on the ground.

Fuck
. Even if it hadn’t been doing much of anything, the loss of that fragile, shimmering barrier left John feeling a sick lurch of dismay. Grant was strong; stronger than any of the spirits John had heard about from Nick. Manifesting, physically affecting his surroundings -- that was all off the scale. He had to wonder what Grant had been when he was living to have this much presence and belief in himself after death. It was a twisted sort of power, backed by a blindness to reality, but that didn’t weaken it any.

Nick’s cry of pain as he fell, landing awkwardly, shattered John’s moment of frozen panic and he lunged forward, trying to put himself between Nick and Grant in the hope that he could slow him down. With Nick lying behind him, he turned his head, looking through the flying debris, thicker, concentrated here in the broken circle, for that flicker of white.

“John!” Nick sounded desperate, but John knew it wasn’t himself he was worried for. “He’s too strong. I can’t --”

The manifestation rushed at John, striking him in the chest and knocking him off his feet. He had a second or two, flat on his back, to blink up at the sky, and then the ghost, faceless but for two black holes like eyes, was staring down at him. There was a tremendous pressure in his chest, like a giant hand squeezing. John tried to cry out to Nick, to get up, but his struggle was for nothing; he couldn’t breathe, and he could feel his body slowing as his supply of oxygen dwindled.

It was like being underwater, he decided, his mind rushing back through the years to the first time he’d fallen overboard, reaching for a treasured spinner, his fingers closing around air, his body learning about centers of gravity the hard way. The water had cocooned him for a second, deceptively gentle, then the cold wet had seeped through his clothes in a swift invasion and the sea had dragged him down, the light above him dimming. He’d sunk, luckily too terrified to scream, his mouth clamped close, and then his father’s hand had closed on him as he’d bobbed back up to the surface courtesy of the trapped air in his lungs and a few frantic kicks. He’d been hauled back into the boat, cuffed for being an idiot, and wrapped in his dad’s Aran sweater, its thick and oily wool keeping out the brisk breeze.