Constable & Toop by Gareth P. Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

hollerin’. They say it’s them that have been up close to death that get the gift, don’t they? Suppose it’s being surrounded by all these stiffs that did it for you.’
    â€˜I suppose.’
    Jack snorted. ‘Anyway, so I let Brownin’ fall into the gutter. Only when I look he’s still standing there. He’s back on his feet. I go at him again but this time the knife just passes through like he’s nothing but air.’ Jack chuckled but Sam could tell there was dread within his laughter. ‘I don’t know which of us looked more surprised, me or him. He just kept saying, ‘
You’ve done me in, Jack. You’ve done me in,’
over and over again. Eventually I told him that if I had done him in he might as well shut up about it. Then I heard that Knockin’ they all hear. That was the last I ever saw of him, but since then I see Them everywhere. Just with my right eye. At first I thought, maybe I could use them in some way. After all, a man who can pass through a wall has gotta be useful, even if he can’t unlock the door nor make off with nothing. But the thing about ghosts is they’re selfish. They don’t wanna help people like us. They just want us to help them with their petty needs.’
    â€˜I’m going out,’ said Sam. He didn’t want to listen to any more.
    Jack reached in his pocket and pulled out a few coins, which he pushed into Sam’s hand.
    â€˜Bring your uncle a little something back, will you?’ he asked.
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Beer, whiskey, wine . . . I don’t mind. Anything to numb the boredom of this miserable place.’
    Sam pocketed the money and went downstairs. He asked Mr Constable whether he could be allowed to take a short stroll.
    â€˜Of course,’ said Mr Constable, winking. He always seemed to know when Sam was heading out on one of his errands.
    Outside, the streets were wet underfoot, but the air was crisp and the sky was clear blue. He crossed the railway bridge and met the ghost in the nightdress at the bottom of the steps leading up to the church, a spot he often chose. It was secluded enough to speak without attracting attention.
    â€˜My name’s Viola,’ she said. ‘Viola Trump. Thank you for helping me.’
    â€˜If I do this once you must never tell any of the others,’ said Sam. ‘I will not speak to you if there is any chance we can be seen by anyone, alive or dead. So you should not speak to me either.’
    â€˜I just want you to remind my Tom of what he said. That’s all. He said he’d love me forever and now he’s marrying my sister.’
    â€˜You want him to live his life in mourning?’ asked Sam.
    Viola pouted and tilted her head to one side. ‘Not his whole life,’ she said slowly. ‘But I’ve only been dead a month and he’s already engaged to her. I want him to know how that makes me feel.’
    Sam followed the ghost up the hill. His role as messenger for the dead had often brought him into closer contact with matters that should not have troubled a boy of fourteen. It was yet another thing that distanced him from those his own age. Sometimes he wondered whether he had more in common with the lost souls he could see with his right eye than the living ones he could see with his left.
    At the top of the hill he paused to look at the rising smoke of the city in the distance. London was home to so many embittered souls. Viola led him down towards Peckham Rye. Carts and carriages rattled past them, heading down in the direction of the market. Sam and Viola turned into a side road lined with newly built terraced houses. They walked in silence. Eventually Viola pointed to one and said with a huge sob, ‘Here. My Tom lives here.’
    Sam waited for her to stop crying.
    When she had pulled herself together, he knocked on the door. A sombre-looking man opened it. He was tall with red hair and