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‘Can you see them?’ he whispers.
I look over my shoulder. The room is empty.
‘I hear ’em, too,’ he says, his eyes full of sadness rather than fear.
‘Who?’
‘The ghosts.’
‘What do they say?’
‘We can’t breathe. We can’t breathe.’
A single tear rolls down his unshaven cheek, getting caught in the greying stubble.
Suddenly, a car horn sounds outside, breaking the spell. Finn fixes me with a stare, scowling and squeezing the empty glass. Lumbering to his feet, he takes two paces towards me, lunging. I duck his fist. He stumbles and crashes to the floor. The glass shatters and pieces bounce across the floorboards.
‘Those voices you’re hearing. I can help you silence them,’ I say. ‘I’m a psychologist.’
‘Get away from me.’
‘Who are the ghosts? Why can’t they breathe?’
He gets to his feet and cries out as he steps on a shard of broken glass. Hopping on one leg, he lurches for me again. I’m at the top of the stairs. Slipping, I grab the handrail to slow myself as I clumsily bounce down the steps on my arse. I turn and see Finn swaying on the landing.
‘Who are the ghosts?’ I ask again.
‘They belong tae me,’ he says. ‘Ah deserve ’em.’
7
Evie
I used to be good at keeping my own company, but I’ve become spoiled or needy because of Cyrus. That’s what bothers me about him finding a girlfriend. One day he will get married and I’ll be surplus to requirements, the wonky spare wheel.
I’m hungry, but I want to wait for him. There must be an off-licence or a supermarket nearby where I can buy snacks and bottled water. As I leave the guest house, I pass the lounge. The same three men are playing snooker. One of them is leaning over the table, ready to take a shot. He pauses and straightens, watching me, which makes me self-conscious. Why do men stare at women the way they do – like they’re hungry or hunting?
I walk as far as a rocky beach, which stinks of seaweed. Nobody is swimming because the wind has made it too cold. Instead, children are playing on a climbing frame and slippery slide. Two older girls are paddling on the edge of the water. Their pushbikes are resting on the grass. Both are wearing denim shorts and T-shirts, not feeling the cold. I recognise one of them – the would-be thief from the guest house. Addie. She’s with another girl about her age, with frizzy hair and freckles.
Miss Frizzy pulls a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. Four hands are needed to shield the flame from the wind. White smoke surrounds their heads and vanishes just as quickly. Addie notices me watching and gives me the stink-eye. I turn away and walk back the way I came.
I pass a group of people getting off a bus outside a factory gate. At first, I think it might be a tour group, but they’re dressed in shabby clothes and look more likely to be queuing for food than sightseeing. They wait for a security man to unlock the metal gates. I step onto the road to move past them. A different guard yells, ‘Hey, where are you going?’ He grabs the back of my hoodie and almost yanks me off my feet. ‘Get back in line.’
‘I’m not with them,’ I say.
‘What?’
I say the words slowly as though I’m talking to a moron.
A woman from the same bus says something to him in a language that I don’t understand.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ he says, and without warning he backhands her across her face. It is so sudden and violent that she doesn’t have time to protect herself. Stumbling backwards, she sits on the kerb, holding her cheek.
‘You can’t do that,’ I say, protesting. ‘Leave her alone.’
He takes a step towards me and raises his hand. ‘You want some too?’ I move further away. ‘Yeah, I thought so. Piss off!’
The woman is still sitting in the gutter. She’s Asian, in her forties, with her right arm in a blue sling that is knotted around her neck. The others from the bus are being herded through the open gate into the factory. A different group is leaving, getting on the same bus. Shift workers.
