J. H. Sked by Basement Blues Read Free Book Online Page B

him.
     
    Phan pushed his own untouched food towards the other man. He rose and wandered over to the window, resting his forehead against the glass. It was cool against the heat of his face.
     
    “I’m being haunted.” His words misting against the window.
     
    There was a snort from behind him. “And this is news?”
     
    “I’m serious, damn it!”
     
    “So am I.”
     
    Phan turned to glare at his grandfather. The wall lamp caught the grey stubble around his mouth, the age-wattles that creased his neck and face like a carelessly bunched napkin.
     
    “What do you mean?”
     
    Grandfather sighed.“What I mean, is that you are the most haunted man I know - and I’ve known a few. You are haunted by her every moment you are awake, and most nights when you should be dreaming.”
     
     
    For a moment Phan thought he meant Janey. He stiffened as the truth sank in. But the old man carried on, knowing that he would be unable to unsay what he was about to finally put in words after eight years.
     
    “When was the last time you put on a shirt, without wondering if she would’ve liked it, or bought a book she would not have borrowed from you? You do not cook what she would not have approved of; you fear changing the job you worked when you met her.”
     
    Grandfather shook his head, feeling the first tear on his cheek. “You do not walk down the street without your dead wife beside you, holding your hand. If you are seeing ghosts, my child, it is because you have become one yourself.”
     

Six
     
    P han wobbled down the steps at Piccadilly Station.
    At just past six o’clock, London stirred, a restless corpse, a vampire suffering from nightmares. Phan’s movements were jerky, uncoordinated. The tapping heels echoing as loudly as the old man’s voice in his head.
     
    "When the dead cannot release the living, there is always a reason - always."
     
    Grandfather scowls emphatically.
     
    "Sometimes it is love."
     
    An unsteady heel caught on the stairs. Phan slipped and clawed at the handrail. A long red-painted nail peeled back and fluttered to the concrete.
     
    The rapid tattoo of his passing could have been his heartbeat, the sardonic applause of his life.
     
    "Sometimes they are seeking justice."
     
    He peered into the blind eye of the convex mirror before stepping around the corner.
    The distorted surface showed him, all black rimmed eyes and bleeding mouth. Phan looked away, adjusted the hem of the little black cocktail dress, and proceeded onto the platform. The clumsiness was gone now.
    He drifted the length of the platform, feeling the sensuality of silk stockings sliding across skin.
    The platform was empty, but there would be someone along soon. There always was.
     
    "Often, it is the only revenge they can take."
     
    Had she felt like this, his wife, as she waited for the train to carry her home to her husband? Had she smelled the scent of her own perfume, or had the reek of illicit sex been overpowering? Had she smiled that little cat smile, sharp and knowing, the little black dress and the high, high heels glossy with the patina of lust?
     
    Phan sat down on the bench, demurely crossed the long, shapely legs, and began to search through the little clasp bag. Frowning, he searched again. And again.
    He buried his head in his hands.
     
    “No,” he whispered. “NononoNONO!”
     
    A whisper of satin, and the black gloves slid over his shoulder and slithered into his lap.
     
    Phan froze into stillness, into marble, into glass. He dared not look around.
     
    “You left them on your pillow,” Grandfather whispered.
     
    He raised the material and rubbed it gently against his cheek. They were elbow length, almost impossible to replace. It had taken months to find them; the ones she had been wearing – like everything else – fit for nothing but burning once the train had spat what was left against the screaming rail.
     
    “You never asked me, Phan, the one question you should