The Call

Ghosts might be stupid, but I don't care. If this gives me the case I'm longing for. A bit of mystery. A call for some real detecting.

I'm a ghost myself really. A relic. In an age when so much crime is solved by forensics and technology, what use is an old dinosaur like me?

It's early the next morning. The phone call last night fresh in my mind, and my notes from it secure in my pocket, I'm on my way to the crime scene, and an interview with a key witness. This kind of thing used to put a fizz in m blood. What happened?

The bus rattles and sways. I'm so focused on my own thoughts, I don't realise the dead man is sitting next to me.

"Pack it in," he says.

"Pack what in?" I scowl.

"Sitting there all maudlin. Feeling sorry for yourself. Stop it. It's not helping."

"I won't be lectured by a dead man,"

"Keep your voice down, that sounded almost like a threat."

"Why don't you just tell me what I need to know?" I'm being resentful, petulant even, but the more mild-mannered he is, the more I want to punch him.

"It's better if you get evidence the normal way," Mickey is being aggressively reasonable again. Are all dead people this patient? "Solid foundation for an investigation. Smart."

I scowled.

Flats and shops gave way to hedgerows and trees, and when we approached our stop, I reached over to press the bell, unsure if Mickey could manage it. I was careful not to put my arm through him, sure this wouldn't go down well with the other passengers. The thought of it, what it might feel like, makes me feel queasy.

We shuffle off the bus like a couple of old ladies, and he keeps talking as if there wasn't any pause.

"To tell you the truth, I don't know. If I did, I would tell you. I swear. On my honour as a dead man."

We walk a while in silence. I keep my eyes in front, determined not to look and see whether his feet are making convincing contact with the ground.

"To be truthful... If I knew, maybe I wouldn't be hanging around and haunting you until you find out for me."

"What do you mean, maybe?"

"I've never been dead before, so I can't be sure. Isn't it supposed to be unfinished business that keeps us here? This is mine. Once I know..." He's making some ethereal gesture with his hands, but it's wasted, because I'm still not looking at him.

We're approaching his front gate.

"I don't know... would knowing the truth be enough? Wouldn't you want justice?"

Something settles on us, like snow. Quiet. Sad. Tactful. An unspoken thought hovering between us.

There isn't any justice.

I clear my throat, and switch gears. He's right. No more mawkish crap. Business-like.

"Mickey, I don't think it's a good idea for you to sit in on this one," I say.

Mickey doesn't respond.

"Not least because... Well, you know. Your wife isn't just a witness. You know this."

Still no response.

"We always look at the people closest to... look, you know as well as I do it's usually the spouse. I'm not saying Gail did it. I'm saying I have to act as if she might have..."

I'm standing on the doorstep alone. I knock.

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Thank you for reading

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