Dead Man’s Footsteps

99

Lorraine lay in bed, wide awake. The sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her were about as effective as a double espresso.

The television was on in the room, the shitty little portable that had been in the guest bedroom, the only one that hadn’t been repossessed by the bailiffs, as there wasn’t any money owing on it. There was an old film playing. She hadn’t caught the title, but she kept the set on all the time, as if the screen was wallpaper. She liked the light from it, the noises, the company.

Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway were playing chess in a swish pad with moody lighting. There was a seriously erotic, charged atmosphere between them, with all kinds of nuances.

She and Ronnie used to play games together. She recalled those early years, when they had been crazy about each other and did wild things sometimes. They played strip chess, and Ronnie always wiped her out, leaving her naked and himself fully clothed. And strip Scrabble.

Never again. She sniffed.

She found it hard to focus on anything clearly. Hard to get her head around anything. She just kept thinking about Ronnie. Missing him. Dreaming of him on the rare occasions she slept long enough to dream. And in the dreams he was alive, smiling, telling her she was a silly cow for thinking he was dead.

She was still shaking from the contents of the FedEx envelope that had arrived at the end of September, containing photographs of Ronnie’s wallet and his mobile phone. It was the picture of the singed wallet that was the worst. Had he been burned to death?

A massive wave of grief flooded through her suddenly. She started crying. Clinging to the pillow, she sobbed her heart out. ‘Ronnie,’ she murmured. ‘Ronnie, my darling Ronnie. I loved you so much. So much.’

After some minutes she calmed down and lay back, watching the movie flickering on the screen. And then, to her complete and utter terror, she suddenly saw her bedroom door opening. A figure was coming in. A tall, black shadow. A man, his face almost in total darkness inside a cagoule hood. He was striding towards her.

She scrambled back in the bed in terror, reaching out to her bedside table for something to use as a weapon. Her glass of water went crashing to the floor. She tried to scream, but only the faintest sound blurted out before a hand clamped over her mouth.

And she heard Ronnie’s voice. Sharp and hushed.

‘It’s me!’ he said. ‘It’s me! Lorraine, babe, it’s me. I’m OK!’

He took his hand away and tossed back the cagoule hood.

She snapped on the bedside light. Stared at him in utter disbelief. Stared at a ghost who had grown a beard and shaved his head. A ghost who smelled of Ronnie’s skin, of Ronnie’s hair, of Ronnie’s cologne. Who was cupping her face with hands that felt like Ronnie’s hands.

She stared at him with complete and utter bewilderment, joy steadily catching fire inside her. ‘Ronnie? It’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Course it’s me!’

She stared back. Open-mouthed. Stared. And stared. Then she shook her head, silent for some moments.

‘They all said – they said you were dead.’

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘I am.’

He kissed her. His breath smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and something slightly garlicky. At this moment it was the most beautiful smell in all the world.

‘They sent me pictures of your wallet and your phone.’

His eyes lit up like a child. ‘Fuck! Brilliant! They found them! That is so fucking great!’

His reaction confused her. Was he joking? Everything at this moment was confusing her. She touched his face, tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, caressing his cheeks, touching his nose, his ears, stroking his forehead. ‘It’s you. It’s really you.’

‘Yes, you daft cow!’

‘How – how did you – how did you survive?’

‘Because I thought about you and I wasn’t ready to leave you.’

‘Why – why didn’t you call? Were you hurt?’

‘It’s a long story.’

She pulled him towards her and kissed him. Kissed him as if she was discovering his mouth for the first time, exploring every part of it. Then she pulled back her face for a moment, grinning almost breathlessly.

‘It really is you!’

His hands had found their way inside her nightdress and were exploring her breasts. When she’d first had her boob job, they had driven him wild for a time, then he seemed to lose interest in them, the way he had lost interest in just about everything. But tonight this apparition, this Ronnie in her bedroom, was a totally different man. The old Ronnie she remembered from happier times. Ronnie who had died and come back?

He was undressing. Unlacing his trainers. Dropping his trousers. He had a massive erection. He pulled off his cagoule, his black polo-neck sweater, peeled off his socks. Now he pulled back the bedclothes and roughly pushed her nightdress up over her thighs.

Then he knelt over her and began to make her wet with his fingers, finding her sweet spot the way he used to, so brilliantly, finding it, working it, moistening his finger from his lips and from herself, setting the fire raging in her now. He leaned forward, untying the front of her nightdress, freeing her breasts, then kissing each of them for a long time, in turn, still working on her with his fingers.

Then his cock, bigger, harder than it had felt in years, hard as a stone, was pushing deep up inside her.

She screamed out in joy. ‘RONNIE!’

Instantly he pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Ssshhh!’ he said. ‘I’m not here. I’m just a ghost.’

She wrapped her arms around his head, pulled his face as close to hers as she could, feeling the bristles of his beard on her skin and loving it, and pushed against him, pushed and pushed and pushed, feeling him further, deeper, then deeper still inside her.

‘Ronnie!’ she panted into his ear, breathing faster and faster, climaxing now, and feeling him exploding inside her.

They both lay very still, gulping down air. The film was still playing on the television. The fan heater was steadily blowing out air, with an intermittent rattle.

‘I never realized ghosts got horny,’ she whispered. ‘Can I summon you up every night?’

‘We need to talk,’ he said.