Free Ghosting by Jonathan Kemp Page A

tenses.
    ‘They should know they had an auntie,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to say any more than that. You don’t have to tell them how she died.’ Her voice starts to crack as her throat tightens, and Paul hears it.
    ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
    ‘I don’t know, it’s just…’ She pauses at the sound of a knock at the door.
    ‘Mum, are you all right?’
    Another knock at the door, this time followed by a woman’s voice calling, ‘Hello?’
    Grace says, ‘I’ve got to go, love – Pam’s just arrived. Give the kids a kiss from me.’ She hangs up. ‘Hold on a minute,’ she calls to Pam, and quickly puts the honeymoon photo back in the book. The one from Aden, however, she takes to the kitchen and stashes away in her purse, though for what reason exactly she doesn’t know; with every memory of her love for Pete comes a memory of how that love died.
    She opens the door.
    Pam is standing there with a look of concern. ‘Is everything OK, love?’ she says. ‘What was all that smashing?’
    ‘I had an accident.’ Grace’s head feels dizzy from the shame, the fear of seeming mad. ‘I broke a plate. No harm done,’ she says with a smile that strains to hide her nerves, wondering if she’s believed. Nothing in her body feels as though it is working properly: rusted cogs and creaky joints.
    ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re OK, I’ll leave you to it…’ Pam says. Grace invites her in for a coffee. ‘Go on, then,’ she says. ‘Eric’s out metal-detecting.’
    Pam moves her large frame through the door and follows Grace into the boat; watches her lift the bundled tea towel from the table and place it in the bin below the sink. She notices the hammer but chooses not to mention it.
    ‘So how long’s he been away?’ she says.
    ‘He left this morning,’ Grace replies, taking two mugs from the draining board and dropping a teaspoonful ofcoffee into each. In a rush of adrenalin she tells Pam all about smashing the plate. ‘You should try it some time, it felt bloody marvellous!’ she says, going on to explain about the Polish Jew. Becoming aware of a disturbed look on Pam’s face, she looks down: she’s lifted the hammer and is gently batting the handle into her open palm as she speaks. ‘Anyway,’ she says shoving the hammer back under the sink, ‘kettle’s boiled!’
    She knows it’s futile to try to explain what’s going on inside her – she can’t even explain it to herself – so she makes no more reference to it, focusing instead on giving the best impression of herself she can. And as they chat she begins to feel a bit more like her normal self again, whatever that means: enjoying this communion with another soul, even laughing once or twice. But as soon as Pam leaves it returns: that rushing tumble of liberation and panic; the creep of a leaden pain, a hurtful ache. Hemmed in by her thoughts and the walls around her, she leaves the boat and catches the bus to Hampstead Heath, needing to clear her head with its open space, to lose herself in its colours and solid air. With her heart in the grip of some eager fever, she measures out with each footfall the progress of something she is still afraid to name.
    The Heath never fails to lift her spirits. Today, though, she’s too weighed down with the memories and emotions that have been stirred up. Today, the Heath’s green fuse pushes through her like a blade. She wanders restlessly, chewing on her anxiety, the world no longerknown, no longer safe. She retreats to that first day in Malaysia.
     
    THE FIRST THING she saw on opening her eyes was two small lizards on the ceiling directly above her, fighting noisily. At that very moment one of them shed its tail, which landed on her face, making her jump up with a scream as she swiped it away. Looking up, she saw the scream had scared them off, and remembered something from Pete’s letters about how the geckos ate the mosquitoes. A mixed blessing, she thought, wondering how the children