Giving Up the Ghost Read online

  John sighed, looking uncomfortable. It wasn’t like him not to take responsibility for what he did, but the whole mess had been full of so much blame on both sides that Nick couldn’t blame him for wanting to find something that would absolve them both.

  “I wish it, too, but I should know better at my age. Aye, well.” John glanced down and arched his eyebrows. “I’m thinking we need to get cleaned up a bit before we go out. Because I love you, I’ll let you go first.”

  “You’d better not. Come with me.” Nick smiled at John and got up, tugging at his hand.

  They showered efficiently and got dressed again; Nick was beginning to realize that they were going to be here long enough that they’d have to do laundry at some point, a thought that he found pretty depressing. He’d assumed that being back in the States, regardless of the reason, would feel like coming home, but it didn’t.

  It wasn’t until they were standing on the hillside where the airplane’s wreckage lay, though, that he really felt out of place. He didn’t belong here, and he didn’t want to be here.

  But he didn’t have a choice.

  Chapter Ten

  “Just us, pretty much,” John commented, glancing around. Some emergency lights shone, illuminating the wreckage, the hum of the generator powering them a constant thrum in the background. There were two security guards in a small, temporary cabin, one of whom had come out to check their credentials and nodded when Nick had mentioned his father, glancing down at a list of names. After warning them not to get close to the plane itself, he’d gone back to the cabin and left them in peace. “Or am I wrong about that?”

  “Wrong and wrong.” Nick closed his eyes and breathed, feeling the presence of one spirit and then another coming closer. “Two. Three. Four.” He looked toward the makeshift cabin again, but he couldn’t see the guards and hoped that meant they couldn’t see him. “Let’s go around the other side where we’ll have a little more privacy.”

  John nodded and they started around to the left, away from the cabin. The ground was smooth and grass covered, but the grass was dry where they were walking, crunching under their shoes. Still, they had to step carefully around smaller pieces of debris, and concentrating on that gave Nick a few moments of reprieve before they found a likely spot to stop ‑‑ there was a large rock that provided a decent place to sit ‑‑ and they were at him again.

  He reached for John’s hand. “God, there are ‑‑ five, six of them, and they’re all ‑‑ I can’t do it all at once. You’ll have to take turns. It’s okay, I won’t go until you’ve all had a chance, I promise, it’s just ‑‑” It was hard to reason with them, and he searched out John’s eyes, looking for strength.

  “That many?” John swallowed and nodded. “Right.” He glanced around. “You heard him. He’ll stay. Just…get in line, will you?” Nick couldn’t remember John actually talking to the ghosts before, and although he wasn’t sure they could hear him, for some reason John doing that made him smile, just a little, which helped.

  John patted the pockets of his jacket and took out a pen and the receipt from the last meal they’d eaten at Stella’s restaurant, back on the island. There was something incongruous about seeing the familiar scrawl of Stella’s writing here in Florida, but Nick didn’t have much time to think about it. Trusting John to scribble down anything he said that might be useful, Nick opened himself up to the clamoring voices swirling around him, pressing close.

  Amazingly, one of the spirits’ voices stood out more clearly than the rest; they faded into the background, grumbling with impatience but willing to wait for now.

  The woman who talked to him then had four small children at home and a husband who she believed ‑‑ and Nick didn’t have any reason to think she was wrong ‑‑ loved her very much. She didn’t have a message to pass on to them; she just needed reassurance that they’d be all right without her; that it was okay for her to move on. “Celia,” Nick said to John. “Harris? Harmon? It’s okay; they’ll be okay. Really.” The woman’s ghost wasn’t convinced. “You can trust me, I know. It’ll be fine. They’ll grieve, and then they’ll heal and go on living.”

  Celia’s spirit sighed, sad but resigned, and faded away. Nick opened his eyes in time to see it ‑‑ a wisp of white vapor in the vague shape of a woman, becoming more and more transparent until there was nothing left to see. Nick’s head ached just beneath his temples, and he lifted a hand to rub at the right side of his head just as the other five ghosts converged on him at once, all of them wailing and reaching for him.

  It was unexpected enough that Nick gasped and reeled.

  You have to ‑‑ and I’m ‑‑ under the bed, and he needs to know because ‑‑ five, oh six nine eight nine ‑‑ mother that I always did, because I can’t rest without ‑‑ me, I can’t wait ‑‑ her not to trust him, he acts honest but he’s not, and ‑‑

  Too much; too many voices at the same time, men and women, vehement and none of them willing to wait. Nick wrapped his arms around his head, only dimly aware of John talking to him, and stumbled forward, fell to his knees. The voices were sharp, stabbing into his brain like knives, icy hot and not belonging there.

  Can’t! You have to ‑‑ you’re the only one who can ‑‑ in the inside pocket of my leather jacket at the back of the closet ‑‑ I never meant to hurt him, that was the last thing I wanted to do, please ‑‑ NOT READY TO ‑‑

  The ground was strangely cold against Nick’s hip and upper arm, but he didn’t care. He made a sound of pure desperation, hands over his ears like that would stop the noise, and felt his body spasm as it rebelled against the cacophony.

  * * * * *

  This was the part John hated. Nick was being attacked ‑‑ and anyone who said it was all in his head would get his fist in their face because the man was suffering; you only had to look and listen to get that ‑‑ and there wasn’t a thing he could do to help.

  A fight, bodies bruised and bloody at the end of it, that he could understand. It was something he’d grown up seeing and doing, wading in with Michael beside him, exchanging fierce grins.

  The struggle Nick went through with the spirits, well, that was something entirely different. It was never a fair fight, not really, but at least it was usually one on one; this was an onslaught, a deluge, and Nick was drowning before his eyes, words spilling out of his mouth, senselessly spurting, a jumble of worries, petty and serious, from God knew how many lives.

  “Back off. Get the fuck away from him ‑‑” John was yelling the words even as he fell to his knees beside Nick, the paper he’d been holding fluttering away in the freshening breeze, carrying rain now.

  Nick was huddled, rocking, his hands over his ears, the sight enough to make John’s breath catch thick and rough in his throat.

  “Nick ‑‑ Nick, love. Come away, we have to go ‑‑” He cradled Nick, trying to lift him. “You! See what you did?” Pointless, but he had to yell at something, someone. “He’d have helped you if you’d just given him some fucking space, damn you all to hell…”

  It occurred to him, a sick, soft punch of guilt, that if it existed, that might be where some of them were going. Nick didn’t believe in hell, and John didn’t either, not really, but a lifetime of churchgoing on a Sunday ‑‑ that had ended abruptly when Nick arrived, as the minister wasn’t fond of having his kirk desecrated by the likes of John and Nick ‑‑ had left him superstitious to a certain extent.

  He had some of what Nick had blurted out locked safe in his mind; some of it he hadn’t been listening to because concern had distracted him, and he hoped Nick could recall it later, but enough was enough. They had to get out of here while Nick was still sane.

  Nick’s head lashed from side to side, the heels of his hands pressing hard to his eyes now as if to keep out whatever it was he was seeing. He burrowed in close against John’s chest ‑‑ would have been clutching at him if he’d had a free hand, John suspected. He wasn’t screaming or shouting or making any of the sounds John thought
that he himself would have been making under the same circumstances, but his breathing was tight to the point where it almost whistled, and John’s attempts to get him to uncurl and straighten out were fought as if Nick didn’t even know who he was.

  “Nick…” John kept talking to him, his words almost as sense-free as Nick’s had been, his hands stroking at skin, tugging at Nick’s arm. It wasn’t working. None of it was working, and he wasn’t sure he could carry Nick, not like this.

  He wasn’t going to leave Nick. That was certain. The security guards might be ‑‑ no, they wouldn’t be helpful, not really.

  It began to rain, big, warm, splashing drops pouring silently down, then increasing in number and volume, falling hard enough to sting. John had stood under showers and stayed dryer. Gasping, his clothes plastered to him in a matter of moments, he tried to shelter Nick at first, curving over him as much as possible. Then he noticed that the rain seemed to be doing what his efforts hadn’t managed; Nick was still thrashing about, but one hand had slackened and was batting at the water drops, and he seemed to be aware of the fact that he was getting wet.

  Leaning closer still, John put all the appeal he could into his voice. “Nick. Nick, I need you. You’ve got to stand up, love. Or let me carry you. Nick?”

  “I can’t,” Nick gasped, making John’s heart sink for a moment before he continued. “I can’t ‑‑ there’s too many, they have to stop…” His hand found the front of John’s shirt and closed around a fold of the fabric in a near death grip, the other hand moving to press knuckles against his temple hard enough that it looked painful. His body jerked as if he’d been struck by an invisible fist. “I can ‑‑ just ‑‑” He made an obvious effort to get his limbs to work, and John shifted quickly to support him, getting him onto his feet, reeling like a man who’d had far too much to drink. It was difficult to hold onto him properly; Nick was so wet that his clothes slid across his skin, gravity threatening to take him right out of John’s grasp leaving him holding onto nothing but a sodden shirt.

  John murmuring encouragement, they made their way back toward the car. Twice, Nick jerked again like someone had hit him, whimpering and trying to wrap his arm around his head. Bloody ghosts didn’t have any respect, John thought fiercely, wishing he could do something to shut them up.

  He had to lean Nick against the car to get the door open, had to practically manhandle him into the passenger seat. The whole time Nick said nothing, and as soon as he was sitting he curled in around himself again into what was nearly a fetal position, rocking slightly.

  John got in quickly, the rain beating a violent tattoo on the roof of the car, making it less of a haven than a besieged space. He managed ‑‑ just ‑‑ to get Nick’s seatbelt fastened, pushing, gently at first, then with more force, on Nick’s knees, trying to get him into a more normal position.

  Then he drove, as fast as he could, tires spinning in the mud, the car sliding on greasy slickness, until they got to the road.

  Nick gradually relaxed as they got further from the crash site, but his hands were still splayed over his face as if he was shading his eyes from too much sunlight, his knees still pulled up as close to his chest as they could be. He didn’t say anything, though. Didn’t look at John, didn’t reassure him. Just sat, tense and silent, as John drove.

  Finally, the reaction from what had happened catching up with him and making him feel shaky, John pulled into the hotel car park, the rain beginning to ease, and turned off the engine.

  “We’ll stay here until you’re ready,” he told Nick, unfastening both their seatbelts and slipping his arm around Nick’s shoulders. “It’s going to be all right.”

  He felt Nick’s body twitch convulsively, a reaction which answered him well enough. All right was a long way off, but he had to say something…

  It felt like a very long time that they sat there, the sound of the falling rain a gentle patter and the lights of the hotel and other cars passing by like diffused halos in the darkness, Nick tense in his arms. John was starting to get to the point where he was worrying over what he’d do if Nick didn’t come out of this, if he stayed like this, when Nick finally gave a little sigh and a whimper and turned to press closer to John.

  John got both his arms around him and kissed the side of Nick’s face, trying to find the right words and settling for a questioning “mmm” that let Nick reply if he wanted to. He wasn’t sure Nick was able, even yet, for anything too involved in the way of conversation or movement, although he wanted quite badly to get them both to their room and lock the door.

  Not that it would keep the spirits out, but it’d make John feel better.

  “Mm hehdurs,” Nick muttered, or something like it.

  “Try that again, love.”

  Nick shifted and inhaled sharply, his hand resting on John’s thigh curling into a fist. “Head,” he said more clearly. “Hurts.”

  “Aye, well, you’ve had people tramping around in there with their hobnailed boots on,” John said, the anger in his voice all directed at those people, not at Nick. “Bloody stupid gits, the lot of them. Could they not just wait?” His hand, gentler than his words, pushed through Nick’s hair to the back of his neck, massaging the knotted, tense muscles carefully. “I want to get you inside, love. Tell me when you’re up for that, will you?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  They stayed that way for at least as long as they’d already been sitting. John continued to massage Nick’s neck and the back of his skull. Eventually, Nick tensed up slightly and straightened, pulling away from John and reaching for the door handle.

  “Hang on.” John got out quickly and went around to help Nick out. Nick was a little unsteady on his feet and his green eyes were sunken in a face that was the same color as the cheese John’s aunt used to make from her goat’s milk, but he was walking at least.

  The hotel had side entrances as well as the one leading to the main lobby, and John had parked close to one of them, which allowed him to get Nick up to their room without encountering more than a few curious stares from people who most likely thought Nick was drunk.

  Once inside their room, with Nick going to their bed immediately and collapsing onto it, curling up again, although looking less withdrawn, John felt himself relax, just a little.

  “God, that was awful.” He sat beside Nick and started to take off Nick’s shoes. “Can I get you something to drink? Water, or coffee, or maybe one of those wee bottles from the minibar?”

  “No.” Nick opened his eyes and looked at John. “Actually, a wastebasket would be good. I think I’m gonna throw up.” He did have a sickly tinge to him all of a sudden, and John didn’t hesitate in grabbing one of the small rubbish bins and holding it for him as Nick was wretchedly ill. “Head thing,” Nick said afterwards in what was meant to be an explanation, and John patted his shoulder and went to rinse out the bin in the bathroom.

  Nick had pushed up to the pillows and was lying on his back, well propped up, by the time John sat down on the bed again.

  “Sorry,” Nick said. His eyes glittered with tears in his pale face. “Not the first time. Maybe the worst, though.”

  “Aye, it looked pretty bad from where I was standing, too.” John reached for the bottle of water the maid had put on the bedside table, uncapping it and holding it to Nick’s lips so that he could rinse his mouth out. Then he got a handful of tissues and wiped the clammy sweat from Nick’s forehead before handing him a clean one and saying firmly, “Blow.”

  Nick couldn’t even muster up a proper look of bemusement, but he blew his nose as directed, then rubbed at his temples fitfully. “Feels like they’re still in there,” he muttered. “You think it would show up on some kind of brain scan?”

  “I don’t know. Have you ever been tested? You know, to see what happens when you do…what you do?” Visions of horror films and medical shows jostled in John’s head and he shivered. “Maybe not a good idea…”

  “Probably not.” Nick’s eyes closed again. “I don�
��t think they’d be able to tell.”

  “No…” John didn’t want anyone digging around inside Nick’s brain anyway. “Is there anything you can do to keep them away? Or at least away enough that they’re not all…” he waved his hands around helplessly, “in your face like that?” Still thinking of the horror films he’d seen, he finished vaguely, “Like garlic and vampires?”

  “Maybe.” Nick rolled onto his side and curled up again; come to think of it, this probably wasn’t the right time to find a solution to the problem. Not until Nick was feeling better, at any rate. “Do we have any aspirin or anything?” Nick sounded truly pitiful.

  “I think there’s some, aye.” John got off the bed and went into the bathroom to root around in Nick’s toiletry bag, sure he’d seen a small bottle in there. He found it and shook out two pills, then changed his mind and made it four. His head was aching, too.

  Nick sat up, took the pills, and sighed, leaning back against the propped-up pillows John had been using. “Thanks.” His eyes slid closed again.

  “You should get undressed. Get some sleep.”

  “Don’t wanna move,” Nick mumbled. “Can’t I just sleep like this?”

  “You won’t be comfortable.” John patted Nick’s shoulder. “Just let me, okay?” Trying not to jar Nick, who was slipping into a drowsy haze before his eyes, he began to strip him, easing damp, clinging clothing off and tossing it aside. When Nick was bare, his chilled skin covered in goose bumps, John tugged the covers down, lifting Nick’s legs unceremoniously, and then pulled them back up over Nick. “There…”

  Getting undressed himself, and taking the time to towel his hair dry, he crawled in beside Nick, feeling completely exhausted.

  Nick curled up around him; neither of them was exactly warm, but their shared body heat and the embrace were both comforting, as was Nick’s slow and steady breathing. “You okay?” Nick asked, his mouth against John’s bare shoulder.