Chapter 8: Eight - A London Haunting: A Christmas Ghost Story

“Mr Lord, I’m sorry––”

“I’ve said. I’ve specifically said to that girl at the agency that you were not to come back here. Damn it, I told you the same thing.”

“I know that, but––”

“And yet here you are, as bold as brass. Letting yourself into my house – my house, remember? – when you’ve no right to.”

“Mr Lord, don’t get upset. I’m not here to cause trouble. What I did was wrong––”

“Wrong?” His voice climbed higher, though he remained seated in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests. “You weren’t supposed to go snooping. A simple enough rule, but you failed to understand it. Just how much of a dullard are you?”

A dullard? Lottie frowned. What the hell was a dullard?

She spread her arms wide. “The thing is, I needed to clean up in here. We can’t sit all day long in a mess like this, and to do that, I needed some––”

“I pay your wages – or whoever it is who’ll be replacing you. If I want you to sit among rubbish, then you will. Do you hear me, girl?”

Girl. Girl. Girl.

She had a name every bit as much as he did. How dare he keep calling her that?

As for dullard, old people said some funny things sometimes, but she got the gist. She was an idiot. That’s what he meant.

“All I wanted were bin bags, nothing else––”

“I’d told you not to go elsewhere in this house!”

For the love of God, would he let her speak?

Her voice rose to match his before she could stop it. “Impossible! That’s just impossible, Mr Lord, and you know it. The way you live, shut up in one room, cut off from everything, is exactly that: impossible. Shut off from yourself too. Is that what you really want? Or are you hiding because something’s…frightened you? Either way, it’s not the way to beat it. But I can help you. I can. I am not a dullard.”

Goodness, she could hardly believe she was speaking to him like this. It was like being strapped into a rollercoaster – the Colossus at Thorpe Park – getting more and more irate at every turn when it was the last thing she should be doing.

Grovelling. That’s what she’d intended to do. But oh no – Lottie Beck had her hackles up, and now there was no getting off the ride.

“I’m not a dullard,” she repeated, her breathing growing somewhat heavy too, “and don’t address me as ‘girl’ either, like I’m your servant. I’ll respect you, I promise I will – and your wishes – but you’ve got to show me some respect too.”

“But…but I don’t want you here!” he spluttered.

“I know! I know you don’t. But who else would put up with you? No one, Mr Lord. That’s the truth of it. And actually, while we’re at it, I’m not calling you Mr Lord anymore either. I’m calling you Reggie. This is the twenty-first century, and Mr Lord is just too formal. By the same token, you can call me Lottie.”

“I’ve no wish to––”

“That’s unfortunate, because Lottie’s the only name I’ll answer to.”

“Get out or…or…”

“You’ll call the agency again?”

“Them or the bloody police!”

“Reggie! Please try to understand! I’m here – I’m back – despite the…intolerable conditions, and I want to help, that’s all. Please, please just give me another chance. For your sake as much as mine! Reg––”

An ashtray – a bloody ashtray – a big old thing, thankfully empty of butts, caught the corner of her eye, stopping her mid-tirade, which surely had reached its peak.

It had just moved.

Hadn’t it?

Lottie turned her head slowly, hardly daring to breathe.

Yes! There it was. One inch closer to the edge of the table than before.

Then another inch.

And another.

As if pulled along by invisible fingers.

“The ashtray…” she began, but her voice faltered as the air shifted – not just thicker now, but charged, as though the room was holding its breath too.

It moved again – it shuddered – scraping its way further along until––

It flew.

Straight off the table, smashing into the wall before hitting the floor with a thud.

She wasn’t the only one staring at it. So was Reggie.

“Oh no,” he was muttering. “Oh no, no, no.”

Not confusion. Not shock.

Dread.

As if he’d seen this before.

Silence stretched between them until Lottie found her voice again.

“That’s why I’m staying, Reggie,” she said. “That’s what I mean when I say I’m the only one who would. Because drawers and cupboards rattling, and ashtrays flying off tables…that isn’t normal. It’s far from normal. You want a companion – enough to pay for one – but with stuff like that going on, most people would run a mile.” She stepped closer, her voice steady now, surprising even herself. “But I won’t. Okay? I’ll stay. And together…well, together we can work it out.”

Lottie had gone over to the ashtray and picked it up – tentatively – wondering what unseen hand had swiped it off the table in the first place, and whether it might still have a grip on it, ready to bash her with it next.

She was right about it being heavy. It was carved from some kind of stone – pink quartz, she guessed – though the colour was nowhere near as appealing as it should have been, but faded instead, stained. Clearly, Reggie had been a smoker once, which would explain the yellowed walls in the hallway too.

If the thing had hit her, she’d have been out cold. But it hadn’t.

She set it back where it belonged, far back this time, and watched it for a moment, but it remained still.

When she turned to Reggie, seeking an explanation, all he did was shake his head, and she knew – just knew – he wouldn’t oblige her on that score.

And if she pressed him…

No, it was a time for calm now, for both of them.

Much needed calm.

“Remove it,” he said instead. “I don’t want it in here anymore.”

“Where shall I take it?”

“There’s a bin outside, isn’t there?”

“Yes…but you’re sure you don’t––”

“Just get rid of it. You want to tidy up, don’t you? Start by removing that.”

She did as he said, then came back to tackle his wardrobe – the clothes that were spilling out everywhere – checking what he wanted to keep and what to throw away.

By the afternoon, she’d finally settled into the chair opposite him.

As hard as she’d worked, it was he who looked tired. Exhausted, in fact, dark rings beneath his eyes – evidence of restless nights. He’d drunk water but hadn’t eaten a thing, though she’d brought extra sandwiches for him: cheese and ham.

“I’ll order food tonight,” he’d said, shaking his head.

“Fair enough,” Lottie had replied, sighing. “Just make sure you drink plenty of water in between. I’ve also got tea in my flask.”

“I’m perfectly happy with water.”

She had to conceal another sigh. “Fine.”

It was another hot day, but Tony had dropped the fan off – successfully, this time – and she’d placed it between them, ignoring Reggie’s scowl as she switched it on.

Quality time. That’s what he was paying for, as well as a few practicalities, and so she’d taken Mabel’s book from her rucksack.

“You want to…read to me?” he said.

She shrugged. “Or we could play cards?”

That prospect seemed to horrify him even more. “I hate card games.”

“So reading’s the preferred option?”

Reggie’s lips pursed. “I read the newspaper, that’s all. I do the crossword. Occasionally I peruse a few magazines.”

“You don’t read books?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“Of course I have! In the past.”

“It’s Dickens I’ve got. Great Expectations.”

“I don’t want to listen to that.”

“Why not?”

“Because… Because…”

“It’s a classic.”

“I don’t care what the hell it––”

“Reggie, don’t get riled again. Neither of us should.”

This man before her – who’d finally relented to her presence, who’d agreed after the ashtray incident she might have a point – hung his head and took a slow breath.

Such a temper, Lottie thought. But he wasn’t giving in to it this time. When he looked up again, his expression was blank, a mask settling back into place.

Oh, he was like a rock, was Reggie Lord – stubborn as stone. His…disapproval at being read to obvious, but to hell with it, she was going ahead, if only for her sanity.

Maybe – just maybe – if she made her voice soothing enough, he’d fall asleep. Because so far, despite his obvious fatigue, he was fighting it. His eyes had closed for a moment earlier as she’d sorted his clothes, only to snap open again.

If he slept, she could gently take hold of his hand. Or simply rest hers over his.

Read him instead.

Before opening the book, she ran her fingers across the leather-bound cover, awe-struck, she realised. The book had existed longer than she had, the story inside older still. It had its own energy, its own weight, with characters who lived and breathed just like she and Reggie did. Not just on the page, but in people’s minds. It would endure for decades more – generations – so long as people kept reading.

Even if he was dismissive, she found herself looking forward to discovering this new world Mabel had spoken of – anything to take her away from this one for a while, though the fan, at least, made it slightly more bearable.

Like the world in the book, Reggie’s was a world removed too – one that might prove harder to navigate than a Dickens novel, with just as many layers to it, as many secrets.

Before she began, she made a show of clearing her throat, earning an exasperated sigh and an eye-roll from Reggie. She was actually excited about the opening lines, when before, at school, she’d behaved much like Reggie now, determinedly unengaged with reading, Matt nudging her to pay attention. Ah, clever Matt. Swotty Matt. Matt who’d aced everything – because he put in the effort.

Smiling at the memory, she turned to Chapter One, reading the first paragraph silently to catch its rhythm.

My father’s family name being Pirrip…

“Hello, Pip,” Lottie murmured, before reading aloud, her voice soft but clear, her eyes flicking up now and then to see whether Reggie, at last, would surrender to sleep.