Caroline Deacon
Journalist and author based in Scotland, UK

Only nutters believe in ghosts

Melissa emerged harassed and sweating from the tube at Euston. Travelling at this time with a suitcase, even a small one, wearing her thick coat in anticipation of Inverness in January, was not good. The mild air outside was refreshing, and she began to calm down, looking forward to her meal, to seeing Mickey again; even to the journey ahead. She walked briskly down Eversholt Street, pausing only in her mind to consider the incongruous Euston bookshop. What was odd? Oh yes, no books in the window, instead an open door screened by plastic streamers. Must be one of those bookshops. The plastic streamers were a painful reminder of Granny’s house in Limehouse. She’d had curtains like that over the kitchen door; they used to brush you like cold fingers when you walked through. Vivid primary colours, the plastic was hard and had a slight ribbed pattern; she remembered rubbing them between her fingers, and then wrapping herself in them, spinning round and round till they enfolded her like a huge plastic chrysalis, and then her Dad, cuffing her round the earhole “before you have the whole lot down!” Her guts contracted like a glove turned inside out. Dad. Where are you, Dad. She’d never seen Granny again either after Dad disappeared. She was probably long dead now, the plastic curtains in some landfill.

Smells of josssticks hit her as she walked into the rosy gloom of the Great Nepalese. Mickey was already seated, his tall body now at the same height as the other eaters, his long legs stuffed under the white tablecloth. He waved at her, smiled, ordered beers for both of them without checking if she wanted one, ordered the house specialities. Oh well, he was paying.

The conversation developed like the warm up of a Wimbledon final, batting innocuous pleasantries back and forth. Food arrived. Mickey leant forward over his plate, slowly and carefully pushing a mound of rice and peas and curry into a small mound, which he then stared at, as if waiting for something to emerge, then suddenly shovelled it down his throat, fork after forkful, as if it were the last known meal. As he bent to this task, she noticed that what he had proudly called his double crown was now a discernable hole revealing pale pink, shiny skin like pig flesh. He looked up at her and smiled again, plate empty.
“I need to go, Mickey, I’ve got to catch my train”
”Sure thing honey, let’s get the bill.” He gestured to the waiter, then started tapping his jacket pockets, frowning. He reached under the table, tried his jean pockets, then covered his mouth with his hand. “Shit!”  She knew what was coming.
“What is it, Mickey?”
”My wallet! I’ve left it on my desk at home – I remember now, I was ordering stuff off Amazon. Jesus, babe, I’m so sorry….” He trailed away, grinning at her, like some naughty schoolboy who’d “forgotten” his homework. She knew it.
“OK Mickey, I’ll get it,” she sighed. That was it, full stop, the bloody end.

The train was waiting in the bowels of Euston station, blue livery made dull by the dirty concrete surrounds, which stretched onwards towards the horizon. It seemed a remote idea that this train might actually leave here now and arrive in the Highlands tomorrow. A young woman in a dark blue wool uniform with a peaky cap stood waiting by the carriage door, clipboard pressed against her chest. She looked as if she had fallen unscathed through some time warp from 1970s British Rail, an inferior model of air hostess, surrounded as she was by concrete instead of blue skies. Melissa wondered if she would be greeted by soft Highland brogue or broad estuary twang, but instead, “Vuld you like tea or caffee in ze morning?” Polish. Well, who else would wear a naff uniform and sit awake in a cupboard all night?

No-one in the shared compartment so far, but it was unlikely she’d have the place to herself. She squeezed herself between the sheets, trying not to untuck the blankets, turned off the compartment lights and dozed off. Later the door opened and shut quickly but not quickly enough to prevent a stab of bright light from the corridor teasing her eyelids. Melissa listened to her companion for the night slowly mounting the ladder, creaking at the retaining straps, and then gratefully stretching out flat on the bunk above her. Boots thumping onto the shelf, bags rustling, clothes being extracted in the narrow space.
Then, faint bleeps; the woman was texting someone. Just bloody loud enough to hear. A few minutes later, just as Melissa was dozing off again, a bell sounded. What the? A jazzy text alert. Bloody hell. More muffled bleeps as her cellmate accessed the texts.

Back and forth, back and forth, the texting went on. Melissa ground her teeth. Did she not realise that Melissa would be able to hear her – that she was keeping her awake?

She dozed off and dreamt. Dreamt the unknown woman in the top bunk had slithered into her own bunk and was lying on top of her, hard pubic bone and wiry pubes pressing into her buttocks, breasts pillowed into her shoulder blades. One hand was squashing between the mattress and her body, searching for her nipple, the other was pleasuring her with the intensity that only another woman could inflict. Oh yes, oh yes.
She awoke as the orgasm crashed onto her, to become aware of the engine juddering to a halt, crashing the carriages together in a squeal of metal on metal. She had moaned – in her sleep? Or in reality?
Her cheeks burned. Oh God, she had only herself to blame for agreeing to meet up with Mickey. Got her going again. Hope to God the woman was asleep. Jesus, it was probably a ninety-year-old granny up there! She listened. No sound from above, no indication that her companion had even an inkling of the disturbing dreams going on below.
How old would Bernadette be now? Bernie, eternally soft and pliant in Melissa’s memories, skin of marshmallow, nipples like wine gums. She still missed Bernie so much, but thinking about her only brought back more painful memories, of a small boy, eager smiling face, trusting face, Star… and then the horror of metal smashing into small body, throwing it into the air like dust, discarding it in the gutter, twisted, broken, useless.  She had to stop the train of thought before it wrenched savage howls out of her like some alien birth.
A knock at the door. The polish woman stood there, “Your tea, modom.” And handed her a stiff paper bag. “Inverness in harlf an hour.” She pronounced the words as if sounding each letter were essential, tongue lingering on the ‘l’, breathing out the ‘h’s. The door was closing.
“What about tea for the lady up there?” Melissa asked
Miss Pole looked blank. “Oh no, novun got in dis room at all. You haf had it all to yourself.”
Door shut, Melissa extracted herself from the tangle of sheets and blankets as quickly as possible and stood upright to examine the bunk above. Miss Pole was right. The bed had not been touched all night.