The Spectral Book of Horror Stories (3 page)

“Going on your tour, are you?”

“That’d wow them, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t be expecting that.” When Vin gave him a look that seemed determined to fend off his enthusiasm Stu said “I want to go and hear. Not just for me, not even mostly.”

“Been telling yourself that, have you, Stew?”

“That’s not my name,” Stu said with a fierceness that, in all the years since his second wife had left him, he’d forgotten he possessed. “I’m not a pan of Scouse.”

“Sounds more like that’s all you think you are, a bit of one.” Before Stu’s rage could find another word Vin said “Go on, go home and sort your head out. That’s what the weekend’s for.”

Stu had a better use for it, and he’d be bringing the proof to the shop. He reached the homeward stop less than a minute ahead of a bus. The police had restored its usual route, and he was home so early that he only just missed the penultimate tour of the day, which left him feeling prickly with frustration. At least he had time to make sure he heard everything about him on the final tour.

He mustn’t risk being unable to hear. He dodged out of the house to stand behind the tree outside the front garden, and wondered how much he resembled a drunk overtaken by a need. Sometimes he’d been like that—both his wives had lectured him about it more than once—but he couldn’t afford to be now, financially or otherwise. In any case, his neighbours oughtn’t to be watching him; they would have a better reason when they heard the guide. Here was the tour at the end of the road at last, and as the bus turned towards him he put the tree between them.

Suppose it prevented him from hearing? Should he just stroll along the road? It might look as if he was loitering in search of praise—as if he needed that to lend him confidence. He’d begun to tear strips of bark off the tree by the time he heard his name. The bus was on the far side of the tree, and he kept it there by sidling around the trunk. As soon as it was well past he sprinted to the next tree, and thought he glimpsed passengers turning away from gazing at his house. He followed the tour to the end of the road, where he had to let it go, having run out of cover. Whether since the trees were in the way or because his exertions had amplified his heart, he’d failed to hear another word.

When his pulse had finished shaking his body he let go of the last tree and limped back to the house. “What have you been up to now?” he could hear his wife demanding—either of his wives. They’d accused him of making too much of all his Scousers posters, as if both of them weren’t doing that themselves. He’d argued all night with the first one after she’d torn a poster on the wall by the stairs—only dusting, she’d said. He’d waited for her replacement to carry on the damage, and she was gone too once she had. Being unmarried had let him have the posters framed under glass, although that left them feeling less alive to him. Now that the tour was bringing it all back to life he shouldn’t need them so much.

The light from the street glared out of the frames, and the contents went dark as he shut the door. Might there be another tour today? Even if that was only a hope, a couple of pieces of toast would keep him going while he waited. He kept stopping after just one bite for fear that the crunching that resounded through his head might deafen him to the approach of the bus. When at last it grew too dark and cold for him to imagine there would be one, he brushed the crumbs off his lap and out of the window, then leaned on the sash to haul it down. He drew the curtains before switching on the light, and then he got ready for bed. He wanted to be awake well in time for the first Sunday tour.

His name wakened him, but he couldn’t tell how high the voice had been. He thought it might have been falsetto, the way the Scousers sang—and then he realised what it must be, and lurched out of bed. His feet were tangled in the quilt, so that he almost fell headlong as he floundered to the window. The rumble of the sash blotted out the guide’s next words, which surely couldn’t be responsible for the behaviour of her customers. While Stu couldn’t see many people on the bus, as it passed his house they were pointing and laughing at him.

The tour was almost out of sight before he managed to laugh in response. He supposed he might have reacted like them if he’d seen himself standing naked at the window, blinking dozily at the world. He didn’t mind being a Scouse joke for once, especially since the wall under the windowsill had preserved his decency. He used the bathroom as speedily as he was able and dressed on his way back to the window. As he fumbled to fasten the strap of his wristwatch he was disconcerted to find it was nearly noon. He’d been roused hours later than he’d planned to sleep.

He still didn’t feel awake. Surely he had time to make himself a coffee before the next tour, but he left the front door open so that he would hear the guide while he was in the kitchen. The mug spattered his hand with drops that felt like embers as he tramped down the slippery path to his gate. There was no sign of the tour, but might he have failed to hear it by straining too hard? His shaky hand was smarting in half a dozen spots by the time he succeeded in carrying the mug to the chair at the bedroom window. He didn’t know how many bitter sips he’d swallowed when he saw the bus sneaking up the road.

He hadn’t been hearing his pulse, but now he did. Could it have deafened him to the commentary, or was the guide waiting until her passengers saw his house? She didn’t speak as the bus nosed past the gate, but she must already have mentioned him, since the scattered passengers were gazing up at him. Although their faces didn’t change when he waved and stuck his thumbs up, he was overtaken by the notion that they were trying not to laugh.

He had to be mixing them up with the earlier tour, and he just needed to be more awake. He took gulps of coffee that felt as if they were skinning his mouth. His head was throbbing with caffeine, not to mention his attempts to hear the guide, before the tour reappeared. As he watched the bus cruise towards his house she didn’t utter a single word, and he was suddenly convinced that she’d been talking about him while he couldn’t hear. Was the bus slowing to give the passengers a better look at him? Faces turned up to him, and as his arms shivered with his struggles not to gesture he was sure he saw lips writhing in an effort to suppress mirth.

He heard laughter as trees hid the bus. What had she said about him? He dropped the mug, splashing his ankles, and stalked downstairs, grabbing the banister at every step. She must think he was stupid if she imagined she could prevent him from hearing her remarks. He marched to the end of the road to watch for the next tour.

When it showed up on the main road he withdrew behind the first tree, but he must have taken too long over making sure it was her bus. The tree wasn’t quite broad enough to hide him, and as the bus turned the corner a passenger craned to watch him. Stu dodged around the tree, but more people twisted in their seats to spy him. As the bus sped towards his house he heard it trailing laughter. He was unable to catch up with it, not that he knew what he would have done if he had, and so he retreated into the house.

He oughtn’t to have let the guide realise he could hear. On the next tour she kept her comments well out of earshot, but he wasn’t fooled. Even if the passengers didn’t point and laugh, he could see how their faces were hiding whatever she’d said about him. Each reappearance of the bus enraged him further, and when he started breaking splinters off the windowsill he stormed down to stand at the gate. Staring fiercely at one consignment of passengers didn’t daunt them; some of them didn’t even bother withholding their amusement until they were out of sight, while the guide pretended she was too busy driving to notice him. His drumming on the gate failed to impress the next group, though the performance scattered bits of wood across the pavement, and his vocals fell short of restoring his image, however high he strained his voice. It left his throat raw, and he’d had enough of trying to counteract her mockery. He snatched out his phone—for once he was grateful to his last wife, who’d nagged him to buy the mobile so that she would be able to locate him—and found the number for the Beatles tour.

He might have known the office would be shut on Sundays. He needn’t think they were refusing to answer, having recognised his number. The chilly twilight sent him into the house, but he wasn’t about to close the window. How many tours did he still have to watch? It seemed there was just one, and perhaps ending her day made the guide careless of whether Stu heard, unless she wanted to provoke him to put on more of a show. As the bus entered the road she grew loud enough for his neighbours to hear. Scotty and the Scousers had become a cult band, she was saying, partly thanks to the Beatles. John Lennon had told their drummer he was Ringo’s favourite as a joke. People in the know packed the Scousers’ gigs out because the drummer was the best in the business—the best laugh. He’d earned the nickname Chicken Drumsticks because he played as if he was using them.

“I never heard that,” Stu told her passengers. “I never heard any of it. It’s not true, none of it. What’s wrong with you?” He scarcely knew whom he was addressing, let alone how high his voice had risen; his wives would have been covering their ears by now and telling him not to screech. They’d managed to incite him to put on the wrong kind of show—the guide had. She wouldn’t think it was so funny when he told her employer.

The tour was out of sight by now, but who else had it started talking about him? How many of his neighbours might be? Even with the window open as wide as his shoulder could heave the sash, he was unable to decide if the muffled voices were on television. They seemed to be repeating one another’s words, but was he the subject they were agreeing about? He shivered whenever he craned out of the window, to be met by another faceful of frosty air. Eventually the dawn became daylight that was just about as grey, and he began phoning Vin’s Vintage Vinyl.

If Vin was there he wasn’t owning up to it, and the tour firm didn’t answer. Stu had been trying both of them for most of an hour by the time Vin made his weariness audible. “What’s up now, Stew?”

“It’s Stu.” Having established this, Stu said “It looks as if I’ll have to be late.”

“What’s keeping you? Don’t say your tour.”

Stu wasn’t going to admit that until he’d dealt with it, and so he said “I think I’m a bit sick.”

“You’re not telling me anything. Anyway, don’t go rushing back. I’m working on a girl like I said.”

She wouldn’t replace him, Stu promised himself. Nobody could. He cut Vin off without replying and tried the tour firm once again. He was answered so immediately that he almost forgot he didn’t want to be identified—not yet, at any rate. He did his best to elevate his voice even higher than the woman’s that had greeted him. “Can I ask about someone you’ve got on your tour?”

“Someone who works for us, do you mean?”

“Not her, no.” In some haste Stu added “Somebody you talk about. Stu Stewart.”

“Who’s that, sorry?”

“Me,” Stu was almost provoked by her tone to blurt. “The drummer with Scotty and the Scousers,” he said aloud.

“He isn’t part of our tour.”

“You can’t tell me that. You’ve always gone along my, gone along his road and now you’re talking about him.”

“Which road is that, sir?”

Her last word nearly robbed him of speech. When he named his road and then told her where it was, hiking his voice higher still, she said “We’ve never used that route. We don’t come within a mile of it.”

She’d recognised him, of course. By calling him sir she’d betrayed that she had. He didn’t need to hear her start to laugh as he cut her off. How much of an idiot did she take him for? Did she really believe she could trick him into doubting the evidence of his own senses? She and the other one would have even less of a chance when he took the tour. He would have to go downtown to catch it from the terminus, and he hurried to the bus stop on the main road. A bus was approaching, and Stu hadn’t finished fumbling for his travel pass when the doors opened to him. “You’re all right,” the driver said. “We’ll let you on.”

For an instant he thought she meant because he was Stu Stewart, and then he recognised her voice. Her accomplice must have been in touch with her, and now they were trying to convince him that he’d caught an ordinary bus. He didn’t need to scrutinise the passengers to see they knew better. “That’s kind of you,” he said through his teeth, and sat behind her as the bus swung into his road.

She wasn’t going to deliver her commentary. That was obvious as soon as he met her eyes in the mirror. Perhaps she had already ridiculed him; in fact, when he twisted around to peer at the passengers he was sure she had. The knowledge brought him to his feet, and he grabbed a seat on each side of the aisle as he faced his audience. “Now you’re on my part of the tour,” he declared. “Stu Stewart, as if you didn’t know.”

They needn’t try to look as though they didn’t. The guide who was posing as merely a driver demolished all the pretence by saying “Can you sit down, sir.”

Could he have spoken to her on the phone? It hardly mattered; they were all the same. “Ringo’s favourite drummer and don’t let anyone tell you different,” he said louder and higher. “People came to see me right enough, but it wasn’t for a laugh.”

“Sir, if you don’t sit down—”

“What’ll you do? Tell your lies about me, like you haven’t already?” His pitch was rising out of his control, and more than one passenger had covered their ears, though he wondered if they had because they didn’t want to hear the truth. The bus was slowing, and he let go of the seats to demonstrate a few riffs on them. “That’s just a taste. You know what, I think Ringo learned from me,” he said and felt bound to explain the falsetto he couldn’t bring down. “And this is how we used to have to sing.”

He faltered, because his was no longer the only voice. The other one was repeating the tale about John Lennon’s joke at Stu’s expense. As the bus stopped outside his gate Stu lurched at the guide, but her lips appeared to be pinched shut. Was she devious enough to be throwing her voice? “Here’s what you’ve all been waiting to see,” Stu announced, “my house,” but he could still hear the commentary underlying his own. “I’ll find you,” he cried. “I know you’re there. You aren’t hiding from me.”