An Erotic Ghost Story
When I went to visit my friend H in Manchester where he was studying, I had a good laugh when he showed me his little blue notebook where he kept track of every single penny he spent. £1 17s 6p R.T, 3s 6d M.T, £1 5s B.F. etc … with the last item £1, with the cryptic letters D.R after it. R.T. means rent, he said, M.T. is for meat, B.F, was bus fares.
What’s D.R? I asked. H was very apologetic, and explained that if he did not go to D.R at least once a week, he’d never be able to complete his degree. The volume of work was punitive. You mean the doctor? Are you suffering from depression? No, he replied. D.R. stands for Denmark Road, and this is where you can get, eh, relief. If I don’t get the relief, he confided, I have sleepless nights, and I nod off during lectures, and my grades will suffer.
You mean sex? I asked, and he nodded. That’s a lot of money, I said. They let you stay half an hour, and when I am lucky I can manage two goes. Good on you mate, I said.
On my next visit, six months later, I arrived on a Friday. He was really happy I had come over, but also a bit put out, as he had been planning a visit to D.R. Don’t mind me, I said, since you’ve got a telly, and in London I don’t, I’ll be quite happy to spend a couple of hours in front of it whilst you attend to your business. You’re a true friend, he said. We had a chicken curry that he had cooked and he said he’d be back before ten.
When he came back, he was over the moon. First, for no reason that he understood, Denmark Road was very quiet, so he kept walking until he found himself in Ardwick Green, where he knew there were possibilities. He was right. Outside a large house in a very dark street he found this young thing smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t sure if she was waiting for punters, but happily she asked if he was after business.
She led him up the stairs to the fourth floor. and when she put the light on he couldn’t believe his eyes. She was the most gorgeous looking young thing he had seen in years. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Bluish green eyes, high cheekbones, silky platinum hair. Rather petite, which was perfect because H was not tall. She was slim and well-proportioned. Usually the girls he picked, he told me smelled of sweat or cologne, but Rebecca had a strange smoky fragrance. When she took her clothes off_ oh what a delightful sight, and he put his arms round her waist, he was shocked at how hot she was. She must have read the surprise on his face and she smiled. I’m always quite hot, she explained.
There was a greater surprise waiting for him. Rebecca did not behave like a working girl, she was more like a girl friend, passionate, clinging to him like she wanted to be part of him, kissing him full-mouthed, purring like a satisfied kitten while they were at it. When my friend had had his relief, he got up, but she held on to him. Don’t go, she said, stay with me for the night. H explained about my coming all the way from London for only a couple of days.
As he was getting dressed, he complimented her. You really know how to do this, he had said, you must have had a lot of experience. She laughed.
“No, it’s my first time.” Of course he didn’t believe her.
As he was leaving H said that he would definitely come see her again soon.
:If you don’t, I’ll come for you,” she laughed.
I had never seen him so elated. There were so many things I wanted to talk about, not having seen each other for months, but he could not stop talking about Rebecca.
In the morning he was still on a high, and this was compounded by the fact that he had found the pound note he had paid her with in his trouser pocket. I don’t remember her giving it back to me, he said, she must have slipped it in there without my noticing, he concluded. Maybe you had two pounds, I suggested, but I knew that he accounted for every penny. Nothing could have persuaded him that his Rebecca was less than saintly.
He apologised, but said that he was going to leave me again on Saturday. He simply did not have the strength to resist going to see Rebecca, and if she wanted him to, he was going to stay the night in Ardwick Green. Besides he still had his pound. We had a principle: Women come first.
Although we had cooked a fine dinner, he said he had no appetite, and left me to eat it on my own, but I did not begrudge him his serendipity.
I was not expecting him until Sunday morning, but was surprised when he turned up before ten. He simply had not been able to find the house. He was sure he was in the right place, he recognised a few things, or thought he did. A motorcycle under a green plastic cover which was still there, a large rubbish tip etc. But it was just a coincidence. He was sure it was just one turn from Ardwick Green, and he thought he had a good sense of direction. He had checked all the side streets to no avail. There was a house which he thought was where he had been last night, but it was boarded after a fire. He had tried everything, he said in desperation.
I suggested that we did a descente de lieux (judicial examination of the spot) together. After breakfast we took a bus to Moss Side; the streets were empty, but bore witness to a riotous night, with broken bottles, sick and unfinished food all over. From there we went along Denmark Road until we got to Ardwick Green. He clearly remembered turning into the street we discovered was called Cotter Avenue. We saw the rubbish tip he had mentioned, the motorcycle, and he remembered a house without a gate. He could swear that the boarded house was where he saw Rebecca, but the fire was not recent. An Indian man came out of a house opposite and as he looked enquiringly at us, we thought we could ask him a few questions.
When did that house catch fire? H asked. Three weeks ago, the man said shaking his head sadly. It was due for demolition, but one family had not left yet. They were all burnt to a cinder. Father, mother, little boy, Robin he was called, and his sister Rebecca. Sweet young thing, had just started a nursing course at the Royal Infirmary.
I went back to London, and never had a bigger shock when a week later, I got the news that H had died when there was a gas leak in his flat. I immediately remembered Rebecca’s final words to him: If you don’t, I’ll come for you.
