Ghostly Hitchhiker Box Set Read online

  Jennifer rose to her feet, brushing imaginary dust from her pants. The children were babbling to their grandmother about stuff, and Oliver uncomfortably shifted his feet. He felt no comfort coming here. He didn’t believe in heaven or life after death, preferring to think that memories were what kept her around. If he had his way he wouldn’t come at all, but Jennifer felt it was important for the children to have an anchor point to remember their grandparents.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked, slipping her hand into his.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied with a smile. Jennifer was the practical one when it came to these things, always wanting to make sure he was alright, pushing him to talk about his feelings. It’s not that he particularly wanted to keep everything inside, he just didn’t think his life was interesting enough to talk about.

  They stood for a moment before he stirred. ‘It’s very quiet.’

  ‘It’s a cemetery.’

  ‘Yes, but our kids are here,’ he replied. They looked around and couldn’t see them.

  ‘REED, ROSE,’ Jennifer yelled. There was no response. Squinting in the sunlight, Oliver caught a glimpse of purple in the distance and pointed.

  Jennifer called out again and Reed’s head popped up. He waved cheerfully, happily ignoring Oliver’s impatient ‘come here’ gesture. Frustrated he stalked through the rows, periodically calling out while Reed dodged around slabs of stone, laughing at the game he thought they were playing.

  ‘Freeze!’ Oliver ordered and Reed became a wobbly statue. ‘This is a cemetery Reed, not a playground. You need to show some respect.’

  Reed relaxed and said, ‘Sorry Dad.’

  Oliver scuffed the boy’s hair to show it was all right. ‘Where’s your sister?’

  ‘Over here.’ Reed started to skip away, then remembered his dad’s words and changed to a slow walk.

  ‘Dad, do you know these people?’

  Oliver glanced at the nearest headstone:

  ANGUS MCMURRY

  BORN 1882, DIED 1960

  ‘Sure son, I knew them all personally.’

  ‘Cool.’ Reed led his father to where Rose was sitting cross legged in front of an old headstone.

  ‘Come on Rose, time to go,’ Oliver said.

  She smiled up at him. ‘Sure Dad. I was just talking to the lady.’

  Oliver glanced about but they were alone. ‘What lady?’

  Rose pointed at the headstone. ‘This one.’

  Oliver crouched next to his daughter. He struggled to read the faded words:

  VIOLET TUMBLETON

  BORN 1925, DIED 1948

  TAKEN TOO SOON

  He reached out and hugged Rose. ‘Okay honey. I’m sure you’re having a great conversation with Violet here, but it’s time for us to go, so say goodbye to your new friend.’

  Rose stayed where she was. ‘Dad? Do you help people?’

  Oliver blinked at the sudden change in direction. ‘Sure I do. I helped you find your unicorn this morning didn’t I?’

  She waved a hand dismissively. ‘I mean real people. Like Violet. You’d help her wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Honey, Violet is dead.’

  ‘Duh, I know that. But if she wasn’t and she needed help, you’d help her right?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’d help them all, now can we go please.’

  Satisfied, she bounded to her feet with an energy Oliver didn’t think he ever had, and said, ‘bye Violet,’ before skipping back to her mother.

  ‘How come she gets to skip?’ Reed complained, then called after Rose, ‘Dad says this isn’t a playground.’

  Oliver looked at the gravestone for a moment longer, then shook his head at Rose’s imagination and trailed his children back to the car.

  That night as he was kissing his daughter goodnight she sleepily asked, ‘Daddy, do you know Violet?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The lady from today, where Nana is buried.’

  Oliver smiled. ‘No darling, I don’t.’

  ‘I thought you knew everyone.’

  ‘Almost everyone. Good night bub.’

  Three

  The next morning was a flurry of breakfasts, packing lunches, and finding shoes. Reed was obsessed with wearing his gumboots, despite forecast promises of high temperatures. Rose had recently started school and was determined to dress herself – something Oliver fully encouraged, except he was the one who had to pick up the discards, and there were a lot of them.

  Once back from the school run Oliver fired up the laptop, removed the cat from his preferred kitchen stool, and settled down to work. He liked this seat because it was close to the power plug, and ideally situated between doors and windows for maximum cross breeze. The cat showed his disapproval at being disposed by jumping onto the bench, then onto Oliver’s shoulders, settling down with head one side and back legs the other. It had been cute when Kaos was a kitten, but was less so now he was a solid eight-year-old. As removal usually resulted in claw marks down Oliver’s back, he reluctantly left the cat where it was.

  The manuscript was a thriller about a disavowed spy fighting for his life. Oliver was attempting to write a pivotal scene where the hero successfully fights off a gang of villains before escaping across the rooftops to a waiting helicopter.

  The problem was the most dangerous thing Oliver had done that morning was walk across his son’s bedroom floor, a graveyard of tiny Lego pieces. Painful but not life threatening.

  When Oliver left his Senior Analyst position at a major bank he had firm plans on being the next Robert Ludlam. Two months into his new life he was in more danger of becoming the next Martha Stewart. There was always housework and baking and cooking to do, and it was easier than developing a world that he only knew through reading other people’s books.

  They say write what you know, but Oliver had quickly concluded that no one would read a book about a mild-mannered analyst who spends his night folding clean clothes and retrieving socks from under the couch.

  An agonising hour later he had a hundred words, probably thirty of them usable, Oliver saved his work and decided to have a shower. In the ensuite he stripped off and stood in front of the mirror. Not bad, he thought. Then he turned sideways and let out the breath he’d been holding. His stomach expanded rapidly, like an escape raft inflating. Not good either.

  He took his time in the shower, washing and rewashing his six-foot frame several times. Not out of cleanliness, but because it was warm under the water and it was better than just standing there. Finally he shut off the water and attempted to towel himself dry. Despite his best efforts and the many hundreds of showers he’d had over the years, there were always a couple of spots he missed.

  He hung up the towel and stood in front of the mirror, but miraculously hadn’t developed a six pack while in the shower.

  (Oh that’s so much easier than a bath.)

  Oliver spun around, but there was no one there.

  (I’d spend all day in that thing.)

  Oliver opened the ensuite door, convinced the radio must be on.

  (Do you think you could put on some pants?)

  Oliver spun again, his eyes drawn to the window. Grasping the latches, he threw it open and shoved his head through, lips ready to swear at the woman hiding outside. But the backyard was empty.

  (Over here.)

  He darted into the bedroom and wildly looked around. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

  (Here.) There was a giggle.

  Thoroughly confused, Oliver searched the room, urged on by the voice. Then the other bedrooms, then the entire house. It was empty. His mind turned to hidden cameras and he suspiciously studied a black mark high on the lounge wall, only for it to fly away.

  (My God, this is going to be fun.)

  ‘WHO’S THERE, he yelled, his heart beating wildly.

  (I’ll tell you if you put some clothes on. I like a naked man as much as the next girl but it’s distracting.)

  Oliver suddenly became aware of his nudity. Racing in
to the bedroom he quickly threw on track pants and a T-shirt.

  ‘THERE. NOW I INSIST YOU TELL ME.’

  (For a start you need to stop yelling.)

  He took a deep breath and forced himself to lower the volume. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised to the disembodied voice. ‘Who are you, or where are you…look just what’s going on?’

  There was no reply for a long time, and Oliver began to wonder if it had all been in his head.

  (The thing is, it’s a bit tricky to explain. And I’m not sure you’ll believe it, so you’d better sit down.)

  On weak knees Oliver collapsed onto the bed.

  (Do you have any whiskey? I’d kill for a whiskey right now. Not that I could taste it, but you might feel better.)

  ‘I don’t drink whiskey,’ Oliver replied.

  (Shame, there was this American serviceman who brought some with him and….)

  Oliver felt a headache nibble at the edge of his brain. ‘What the hell is happening to me.’

  (You’re going mad.) The voice laughed, and the sound filled his ears. The cat, currently sleeping in a patch of sun on the bedroom floor, didn’t even twitch at the sound. (Just kidding, although maybe not. Maybe you’re already mad. It doesn’t matter.)

  ‘Thanks,’ Oliver said.

  (You just need to hold it together long enough to help me.)

  Oliver lay down and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I’m having a stroke, he thought. Or an aneurism.

  (I’m not a sickness.)

  He was only mildly reassured.

  (I’m a ghost.)

  He closed his eyes and tried to think whether that was any better. ‘A ghost,’ he said to the cat.

  (Sort of. I mean I’m dead, though I don’t think you can see me.)

  ‘Oh good, so I’m being haunted by a voice,’ Oliver laughed with just a hint of hysteria.

  (More or less. Okay, more. I’m Violet by the way. Violet Tumbleton.)

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. He searched his mind, then opened his eyes and sat up. ‘Violet? As in buried-at-the-same-cemetery-as-my-mum-Violet?’

  (Yes)

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  (Sorry about that. Only I need your help.)

  ‘My help? With what?’ The cat raised his head and glared at Oliver. ‘It’s all right Kaos, I’m just going mad, but when they come and take me away for a nice padded-wall holiday I’ll make sure the family still feeds you.’ Kaos sat up, stretched, and licked a paw.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Oliver got up and walked into the kitchen and went to the top of the walk-in pantry where they kept the alcohol. He grabbed a half full bottle of peach schnapps, the first thing that came to hand. The shot glasses had been on the shelf for so long they were covered in a thick layer of dust, so he drank straight from the bottle. The first swig burned his throat, causing an eye watering choking fit. When he recovered he took another mouthful.

  (Feel better?)

  ‘Sure, that fixed everything,’ he answered.

  (No need to be rude.)

  ‘There’s every need to be rude.’

  (Then you’d better keep drinking, because it doesn’t get any better.)

  Following her advice, he took another drink. ‘Let’s just assume that I’m not crazy and you are a dead woman. Why can’t I see you?’

  (I’m not too sure. I’m kind of new to this whole thing. I think I’m more of a spirit than a ghost.)

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Oliver found himself curious.

  (Did you just hear me say I’m new?)

  ‘Sorry. So why are you here?’

  (Do you mean why you?)

  ‘I guess.’

  (Don’t know.)

  ‘What do you know?’ he asked in exasperation.

  (I know why I’m back.)

  Oliver waved his hands. ‘Are you going to share?’

  (Someone has taken my name.)

  He scrunched up his face. ‘What do you mean taken your name?’

  (Stolen it, using it when they shouldn’t.)

  Oliver laughed. ‘Is that all?’

  (It’s my name!)

  Oliver winced. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. But I don’t understand what you mean – that someone has stolen it. Surely it’s possible they just have the same name?’

  (I am Violet Tumbleton. After you take away the memories and the possessions and the people who knew me, my name is all I have left.)

  ‘Well what do you need from me. Why aren’t you haunting the thief?’ Oliver asked hopefully.

  (I don’t know.)

  ‘Where is she?’

  (I don’t know.)

  ‘Well why did she steal your name?’

  (I don’t know.)

  ‘You don’t know much do you?’ Oliver said in frustration.

  There was a pause. Then she was back with an amused tone. (I know you do more than wash yourself in the shower.)

  Oliver felt another wave of cold, although this time it had nothing to do with the spirit in his head. ‘Ahhh, exactly how long have you been here?’

  Laughter rang through his skull. He took a long drink.

  Four

  Maybe the never-ending washing and tidying had finally driven him to the edge of sanity. It was better than considering the alternative. That a woman who died – he struggled to remember the dates on the headstone – seventy years ago was haunting him. Out of habit he folded some washing. It didn’t help. He sat down at the laptop and stared at the words he’d produced earlier. At the time he’d thought they were pretty good, but now they seemed like a load of rubbish.

  (Do you mind if we get started?)

  Oliver jumped.

  (Sorry.)

  ‘You don’t sound sorry,’ he muttered sullenly.

  (Well it is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.)

  ‘I’ve been thinking. I can’t possibly help you. I’ve got work to do, and the house won’t clean itself, and the kids need to be picked up from school at 3pm. I couldn’t possibly track down anyone for you. Why don’t you try someone else?’

  (It doesn’t work like that.)

  ‘Are you sure? You said yourself you don’t know how it works,’ he said triumphantly.

  (Do you think you’re my first choice? If I could have picked anyone else to help I would have.)

  ‘Oh.’

  (Anyone would have been fine.)

  ‘Okay.’

  (Anyone at all.)

  ‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ he snapped.

  Violet giggled, which tickled at his brain.

  ‘So what happens if I do help you? Say we get your name back. Do you go back to being dead?’

  (Technically I’m still dead, but yes I will go away and leave you alone. I think.)

  ‘This is all too much,’ Oliver mumbled and went and lay down on the bed. At first sleep escaped him as his mind raced with the events of the morning. Eventually fatigue won and he drifted off into restless fragmented dreams.

  He came awake abruptly, blinking several times to bring the world into focus. A glance at his watch sent him bolting off the bed, stubbing a toe on the corner, stumbling and bashing his knee on the wall, and rushing swearing down the hallway. It was 2.50pm and the kids would be out of class in ten minutes.

  The short drive was sound tracked by a constant commentary from Violet.

  (I never drove a car.

  What does that button do?

  What about that one?

  What’s that song? Why is she singing about milkshakes?)

  Oliver gritted his teeth and tried to ignore her.

  He got sympathetic looks from the other parents as he rushed through the school gate. Rose was sitting outside her classroom, legs swinging back and forth. Her teacher wouldn’t release her until Oliver, or some other authorised person arrived.

  ‘You’re late,’ Rose pointed out, a perfect miniature of her mother.

  ‘Sorry bub, Daddy got a little distracted.’

  She thrust her school-bag at him and ran ove
r to the playground. Moments later Reed dumped his bag and joined her. Oliver sat and watched his children mingle with others on the slide and climbing frames. Not for the first time he felt a warm glow of satisfaction that he had made the right decision leaving the nine-to-five job. Sure he now had to rely on Jennifer for money, but being able to pick the kids up so he could be ignored by them was a priceless opportunity.

  He chatted to a couple of the mothers before dragging his reluctant kids from the playground.

  ‘Can we get an ice cream?’ Reed asked.

  (Oh yes please.)

  ‘Not today buddy.’

  ‘But we didn’t have one yesterday?’ his son reasoned.

  (Don’t be mean.)

  ‘And now you’re not going to have one today,’ Oliver informed him.

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  Rose had been listening carefully, waiting to see how it was going to play out. Now it seemed like her brother was going to lose the argument she decided to throw him under the bus.

  ‘We shouldn’t eat ice cream all the time, Reed – it’ll rot our teeth,’ she said with air of superiority.

  That set off a fight that lasted until they got to the car. Oliver tuned them out. He decided the voice was a result of the stress of writing. Obviously, his mind had retained the name Violet from the cemetery and used it to create a fictitious conversation.

  The comforting thought lasted him until later that night. He and Jennifer had sex, a comfortable, and uncomplicated act that lacked the fiery passion of new relationships. He was initially reluctant, worried that maybe the voice in his head wasn’t a result of stress at all, but between work and kids and cats, they didn’t have sex as often as they used to, so he didn’t want to turn down the opportunity.

  Afterwards they lay in each other’s arms, her slim body naturally slipping into the crook of his arm. She wasn’t as comfortable with her appearance as she used to be, after two children had taken their toll, but he loved every inch of her. He wondered if she still enjoyed it.