Burial of Ghosts

Prologue

My nightmares feature knives and blades and blood. I don’t do falling down holes or being chased through deserted streets. And though usually I dream in black and white, the blood is very red, glossy, and it slides out from the rest of the scene, which is flat and dull. The worst thing is that when I wake, I realize it wasn’t a dream at all.

I’m in Blyth. It’s market day and I’m there to shop for Jess. There’s a stall where she buys all her fruit and veg – she knows the bloke who runs it and he always gives her a good deal. It’s mid-morning, with lots of people about. It’s not long before Christmas and everyone’s in the mood when they have to buy, even if the stuff’s crap, otherwise they feel they’re not prepared. A foggy, drizzly day, and cold with it. There’s a raw east wind which cuts into the skin. But it doesn’t draw blood. Not like the scissors I buy in Woolworths. I ask the assistant to take them out of the plastic packet to check that they’re sharp. I run my thumb across the blade and there’s a small red line and then tiny, perfectly round red drops like jewels. I fumble with the money when I pay, not because of the cut, which is already healing, but because my hands are freezing.

From Woolworths I wander back into the market square to pick up Jess’s vegetables. I stop for a couple of minutes to look at the cassettes and CDs and chat to the ageing punk who sells them, and again to buy a quarter of a pound of coconut ice from the sweetie stall. I have a very sweet tooth. It’s all still in pounds and ounces, of course. There are no kilos in Blyth. Then I notice a lad coming towards me with a pile of Big Issues. He’s wearing combat trousers and big boots, expensive boots, new not second-hand. I walk round him, trying not to catch his eye. Why? Because his thin face reminds me of someone I don’t want to think about. A lad called Nicky with a poet’s face. Because I don’t have a pound and I don’t want to wait for change. And anyway he must be working some sort of scam because of the boots.

I’m almost at the vegetable stall. There’s a smell of cabbage leaves and oranges. Someone behind me touches my shoulder.

‘Big Issue, Miss?’ Aggressive, sneering, so close I can feel his breath on my neck.

I swing round and stab him in the fleshy part of his upper arm with the scissors. He’s a Blyth hard man, only wearing a sweatshirt despite the cold. I get him first go, feel the rip of the skin and the crunch of the bone as the blade hits off it. But when I lift my arm to strike again, someone holds me back. The bloke from the veg stall recognizes me and shouts, and the crowd joins in. They’re all screaming. The lad has dropped the pile of papers. The blood soaks through the grey sweatshirt and spatters the newsprint in slow motion. Black and white and red all over. Like the joke.