head into his hands and turn her to face him, tell her: "I'm lying in Blue Bell Woods. I crashed and died there. And now I'm dying inside, because I never got to say the thing I most wanted to say. Not that I love you, you know that already. But that I'm sorry. Sorry about that other woman."
He replayed the scene in his mind, the last time he had seen her. The woman at work, with whom he'd had the affair, had told him she was leaving her husband, and that had freaked Ricky. He had ended it right there and then headed home, and kneeling before her in the living room, he had told Alison everything, stressing at the end that it was very over. But he hadn't said sorry; he now wished only that he had. But it was too late now and she would never know his remorse: his bike crash had taken from her any relief that an apology might have offered.
He had hurt her with his affair, and then he had intensified that hurt with his death.
"I'm sorry," he said, but of course nobody heard.
Ricky cried, and Alison cried, but each cried alone.
15
Leaving Alison alone again was the hardest thing he ever did, but it was important he do so, he knew. He went through the wall, out into the front garden. Sensing him, Roswell again started barking and growling into the night, gnashing at his wooden cage. Ricky wanted to kick its teeth in.
Instead, he went to find his own body.
He ran all the way. It was a five mile journey, but he did it in just a few minutes because he didn't get tired, didn't have to worry about obstacles. He just ran in a straight line and at top speed, through fences and buildings without a care, without even a glance or thought for the people he passed. At one point he even raced through a caravan inside which a couple was making love; it started their dog barking and that was the end of their passion, but Ricky just raced on.
He followed the path through the woods, seeking the spot where his life had ended. It was hard to see in the dark, made worse by the fact that the thick canopy of branches overhead snared most of the moonlight. However, Ricky soon stumbled upon the body of the dead fox, now splattered across the muddy path by his bike's passage over it.
He was suddenly nervous. Although he had accepted his death with relative ease, he knew he might not so easily hold his nerve if he came face-to-face with his own mutilated body. How long had he been dead? Long enough for visible decomposition to have begun? Long enough for forest parasites to have set up home in his eyes and mouth?
The human curiosity for the ugly and obscene is hard battled against, however, and it was partly because of this that Ricky approached the edge of the embankment and peered down. Shadows stared back, impenetrable. He thought he could make out the shape of his bike, but knowing for certain would mean going down the slope. He had no fear of slipping in the rain, because he had no physical body, and it wasn't as if he could die again anyway. No, it was the thought of stepping through something he shouldn't, like his own head, that stayed his progress.
He looked up at the thick canopy of branches overhead. The blackness was broken in places, exposing the dark blue of the sky. The rain pattered down, its sound on the carpet of dead leaves too much like rumour-mongers' chatter for comfort. Ricky could almost imagine that the ghosts of all the animals that had died here were watching him, seeing but unseen because of their own set of ghostly parameters. The raindrops passed through his upturned face, through his cheeks and his eyes; it was a strange non-physical sensation he could endure only for a few moments before turning away.
It was suddenly as if his night vision had increased, although given that he had no irises, that wasn't possible. Except it had happened; he suddenly saw the ground much more clearly than before. He saw his mangled bike at the bottom of the embankment, tangled in a bush, covered in mud. But it was not the bike that had his attention, it was the torn, dirtied coat lying nearby. His coat.
16
Ricky paced between the kitchen and living room, nibbling on his ghostly fingernails, ignoring the wall that went back and forth through him. Alison was trying to watch the television, but she was shivering too much with fear and a host of other emotions. Her eyes were blank, almost as dead as his own.
Ricky sat in front of the TV, facing her. She stared right through him, almost right though the TV. What he wouldn't have given to be able to speak to her, to touch her just this once, he could have itemised on a postage stamp. But at least the TV helped created the illusion that she was watching him, he could pretend that much at least; it was better than loneliness.
"What shall we watch later?" he asked. Outside, Roswell began wailing again. Was he answering? Ricky wondered. Or had his voice simply alerted the dog to his proximity. He stood and approached the window.
Roswell was out there alright, but he wasn't barking at the house. Somehow he'd gotten out of his cage; he was at the far end of his garden, yelping out at the empty street.
It was quite dark now. Ricky could see nothing but black beyond a few dozen metres in each direction along the road. Consequently, a new fear rose within him. Dogs could sense ghosts; this dog hated them, and this dog was barking at something out there.
Ricky felt cold.
Now Roswell was leaping at the gate, his fury in overdrive, and his head was aimed left along the road. Ricky did not doubt that the animal was snarling at someone.
He saw a shape near a van parked across the road and a little way down. It moved behind the van before he could analyse it. He shivered.
Again the shape, this time moving! It darted out from behind the van and covered the distance between that vehicle and the one behind it in moments, and was gone. But the second vehicle was a motorbike: something far too small to conceal the bulk of the creature he'd been hoping it wasn't.
Habitually, he rushed for the front door, only realising his error when he reached for the handle and gasped nothing but thin air. He passed through the useless barrier and rushed into the garden. Roswell sensed or heard him and turned, but only momentarily. Then the animal was barking at the thing behind the motorbike again.
As Ricky rushed down the neighbour's garden, he saw feet and white clothing behind the bike, and he knew for sure.
"Hey, shit-head!" he shouted. The dog turned, saw him and came for him.
It was unnerving and still scary, despite knowing that he was in no danger. But Ricky steeled himself as Roswell thrashed about literally through his legs, trying to tear them into pieces. He wanted to kick the damn animal. Instead, he bent, put his face literally through the top of the dog's head, and screamed as loud as he could. Whether it was the volume of his shout or some effect created by sound entering the head without using the ears, he didn't know or care. But Roswell scampered away with his ears drooped and that suited Ricky just fine.
"You're safe now," he called across the street. "You were safe anyway."
Lucy popped up from behind the bike like a Jack-in-the-box. She didn't look convinced.
"I know that dog," Ricky added. "He'll go bully some cats for a while to cheer himself up."
Lucy came across the road, quickly. "We should go."
"How did you find me?"
"It is dark and the Conductor will be out soon. We all know the newest dead in this town. So does the Conductor. Let's go."
She took his hand and turned to head back the way she'd come. He halted her with his weight.
"No, I can't. I live here. My?" The truth was sinking in. Lucy saw this and smiled.
"It will be safer with us," she said at length. She was a smart girl and he didn't want her to get harmed.
"I cannot leave, not yet. I need to know?" He decided not to finish.
Lucy sat on the kerb and tugged on his hand, urging him to sit with her.
They sat in silence for a time. He watched the road and she watched him. He knew she was waiting for him to speak in his own time, and he loved her for that. Loved? He would have to love someone in this new world; loneliness would kill his ghostly form as quickly as that bike crash had -
Bike crash. His min
d turned once more to his bike and what had happened.
"I couldn't find my body," he said. "I remembered, kind of, what happened. Some crash, bike crash. I found the bike, but my?the body?" He stopped. "Let's walk. Walking's peaceful and it helps me think."
So they walked around the block, ignorant of anything but each other. Occasionally they sidestepped to avoid passing through vehicles or people, but otherwise they strolled as might two people in a barren desert.
The story told itself. It was a broken tale that fell rather than eased out. Lucy listened with a sincerity that teachers could only wish for from children so young. He knew then that he would go with this girl tonight; she would take him into the ghost haven she called Baxter Mine, and he would live his new life as they did: yearning for loved ones during the day and running from the enemy at night. And if that didn't sound like much of a life, it didn't matter: he was dead.
"Did you speak to her yet?"
He looked down at the girl. "Sorry?"
"You know? Same way as the dog. Put your head inside, that thing you did? Sometimes we can make them hear."
"I want her to find my?me. Woods.