“Local Haunts”

People get up to all sorts when they think nobody is watching. The pub landlord spies an insect crawling out from a bowl of peanuts, but says nothing five minutes later when a ravenous drunk plunges his bloated sausage fingers in and raises a sweaty handful to his mouth.

Likewise, a tart with the look of a Carry On alum sneers at a younger, prettier lass across the room. Shortly after, when the younger girl is being carried out by the man who has secretly been slipping her doubles all night long, the older woman chuckles. Schadenfreude is the word, I think, and I can tell that the older woman feels no sympathy for the girl who will wake up tomorrow feeling sore and alone.

This place is a dive. Let's go somewhere else.

Now the George & Dragon, that's what I call a pub. Pool tables, jukebox, dart board... I used to love a pint of lager and a good game.

Under one table, a young gentleman's fingers disappear into the shadow of his female companion's skirt. In a toilet cubicle, a youth dressed in the foppish attire of a literature student sits, pants still on, trembling. He took some ecstasy with his beverage earlier and now he's on the brink of a comedown, convinced that the toilet walls are closing in on him.

The bar manager doesn't hear his nervous, muffled shrieks though. He is still thinking about this afternoon, when he took the new delivery boy from the brewery down into the cellar. The memory alone is almost too much; his grip tightens on the glass he is polishing, and his already pink cheeks darken. In fact, it's all he can think of and the younger man's half-choked grunts echo in my own nonexistent ears. I have to tear myself away from those images and step out of the barman's mind. I miss sex even more than beer and darts.

The George & Dragon disappears behind me and I pass a Friday night lad vomiting in an alley as I try to decide where to go next. I've spent so many days and nights wandering these streets, a lost soul if you will, and by now I know that the night is by far the most interesting time to be out and about.

I float around for a bit, then inspiration strikes. Where do you go of an evening when you're in search of a good time? Follow me, you'll soon find out.

I leave the pubs and clubs behind, and head for a quieter street. Pimlicoe Avenue, to be exact. I pass straight through the solid wood of the front door at Number 9 and hover up the stairs to the rooms that are rented by a certain Madame Smedley, psychic and medium extraordinaire.

By the time I arrive, head first through the living room wall, several other people are there and the séance is already in full swing. Not that you get up to much swinging at your everyday séance.

Mme. Smedley has got everybody holding hands around a table. Arranged carefully on the tablecloth in a circle are twenty six cards spelling out the alphabet, as well as two more for 'yes' and 'no'.

Odd, you might think, that these amateur spiritualists are holding hands and not touching the upside down wine glass that sits in the midst of the letters... after all, isn't that how a ouija board usually works?

The answer to that is yes, that's usually how it is done. But the great Madame Smedley had such faith in the spirit world and her own powers that she believes the glass will move without any physical contact. That, and also she doesn't want any bullshitters pushing the glass around to spell out words on purpose. She takes this psychic business very seriously.

The truth is, Smedley had absolutely zero ESP. At least, she's never caught sight of me. And so far this evening, that glass remains unmoved.

“Be patient,” Mme. Smedley informs her guests. “The spirits will not always appear at our very first command.”

Too damn right, I say, not that anybody can hear me. Mme. Smedley suggests that they try again, from the top, so to speak.

“We are gathered here tonight,” she intones dramatically, “to request the company of our dearly departed. Is there anybody there?”

I hesitate for a moment before making the glass slide across the tablecloth.

No.

Madame Smedley chortles.

“Some spirits, I'm glad to see, retain a sense of humour.” She says.

Yes.

“Do you have a message for somebody in this room?”

Yes.

“For whom?”

I take my time spelling out a response.

Mariella.

Mme. Smedley's round red face suddenly pales. Yes, that's right, Mariella Smedley. Tonight I am here to play with you. The other people in the room look unsure as to what they should do; it's clear that most of them are first timers.

“Pray do tell, spirit,” her voice is shaky now, “what is your message for me?”

I ponder that for a moment. Previously, I've never bothered with the medium, instead preferring to make up shit for the other people who paid to come and talk to their dead relatives. I do nothing for several minutes, enjoying her apprehension. Then I reply.

You.

Are.

Fat.

After the last letter, I lose control and the wine glass topples the edge of the table, smashing on the floorboards.

I fly out the window and land weightlessly, soundlessly, on the cobbles below. Alright, so as pranks go, that was quite juvenile. But if you were me, you'd soon run out of decent ways of having a laugh.

I end up back near all the pubs, and instantly wish I'd gone elsewhere. These places end up depressing me after a while. You have no idea what it's like, to know that you'll never again feel the cold wetness of beer flowing down your gullet, or the warm flush after. To know that you'll never feel any kind of sensation again.

I drift into a narrow side street, and there right in front of me are two people are going at it. The woman's back is to the wall and the man's back is to me. As he buries himself in her, her empty stare meets mine. Chills go down a spine that isn't physically there anymore, before I realise that she's drunk, off her head, and she can't see anything at all, let alone little old me.

I sigh silently and continue down that narrow lane with high walls on either side. A stray cat seems to follow in my invisible footsteps. He, or she, can probably see me, but you can't have a conversation with a cat. Then again, I'm on the right side of desperate enough to try.

People get up to all sorts when they think nobody is watching. The same is true of ghosts.