Conversations with Spirits Read online

  “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I daresay you’ll be all right down here—I don’t suppose anyone will report you.”

  “Report me?” the publican repeated, “I dunno what you’re going on about. I’m jus’ thinking of my stock.” He had adopted a thoughtful, hang-dog expression. “You know, thinking about it, I do ’ave a bottle of brandy upstairs,” he said then. “My own, not the pub’s. I suppose I could let you ’ave some of that?”

  “Well that’s very decent of you.”

  “You understand it’s because I’ve just remembered I ’ad it now—not because of whatever you was talking about?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right then.”

  With a dutiful nod the publican absented himself; shuffling down the slim gangway behind the bar, he retreated into some unknown part of the pub.

  Turning to Billy, I thought I could detect a faint, deferential smile amidst the curls of his beard.

  “Your ‘friend at the Ministry’?”

  “I know,” I responded with a shrug.

  Although the bottle was itself green, it had such a heavy covering of dust that it was imbued with a murky brown complexion. Licking the tip of my finger, I ran it across the label, and, with some surprise, read the words: Heering’s Copenhagen Brandy.

  “My word,” I said in astonishment. “Where did you get this? I haven’t seen a bottle like it for years!”

  “Can’t remember now…” muttered the publican. “People leave things in the pub from time to time—per’aps that was it?”

  It seemed odd to me that the publican should seek to disassociate himself from something he intended to sell and it suddenly occurred to me that the bottle might be the product of smuggling. But, naturally, I said nothing.

  “Well, let’s get it open!”

  “’Old on!” the publican said, turning the bottle around and pulling it back towards him. “If you want it, you’ll ’ave to pay for it first.”

  “How much?”

  “Well…” the publican said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t let you ’ave it for less than a pound really.”

  “A pound?” I replied with surprise. “Seems like a reasonable return for something you found in the pub.” Then, with a long indrawn breath, I added: “Very well. As long as there isn’t cork damage, you can take the money from the five pounds you have already taken from me.”

  “Done!” said the publican. Turning to a back counter he collected a wooden-tipped corkscrew and placed it next to the bottle. “I’ll get you your change. Since you’re leaving.”

  “Oh, and get me some cigarettes.”

  With some difficulty I wrenched out the cork from the bottle, and then poured out two large measures into our beakers. Warming my glass in the palm of my hand for a minute, I held it up to the lamp. A thin reddish-brown liquid sloshed about inside.

  “Looks all right.”

  Putting the edge of the glass to my lips, I swung my wrist back and let half its contents swill into my mouth. No sooner had I done this, my eyes bulged and I felt the sides of my face burning. So astringent was the drink’s bite that my first instinct was to spit it out as quickly as possible. Instead, the liquid wobbled in the back of my throat, rising and retreating with the rhythms of my breathing. Fighting my natural urges, I tilted back my head and pinched the tip of my nose, until, finally, it drained.

  “Good…Christ,” I gasped when I was able. I could feel the drink travelling hotly through my chest. “Be very careful…” I warned Billy, “it’s a damned bugaboo!”

  My words did little to rein in Billy’s enthusiasm, however. Wiping tears from my eyes, I observed his hand flit across the bar and close around his beaker. Bringing it to his mouth, his eyes widened as the drink’s bouquet lifted through his nostrils. Knocking the drink back in one, Billy casually returned the glass to the bar. For a moment I looked up at him, blinking in amazement at the lack of reaction the drink had had. But then, slowly, his mouth crumpled and a hollow growl issued forth. Lurching forward, Billy grabbed hold of the bar with his head lowered. Finally, his shoulders reeled with a number of convulsive movements.

  “Bloody ’ell,” Billy said in a hoarse tone. “What’s en et?”

  “God knows.”

  “It’s like medicine!”

  “Medicine? Hardly that…” I responded, looking fondly at the bottle. “I expect it’s actually terribly bad for you.

  “Look here, Billy,” I said, when he had sufficiently recovered himself to stand upright. “I shall be in Broadstairs for the weekend and I could use someone like you!”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “A guide,” I replied, filling our glasses once again. “I know nothing of the area, whereas by your own admission you know it intimately. I might even be able to pay you—but if not, I’ll make sure you eat and drink well at least.”

  Billy looked hard at me for a moment but said nothing.

  “Well, there it is,” I said, “think about it—after all, it’s not really the postcard season!”

  “Why’re you ’elping me?” Billy said suddenly.

  “Well, for Heaven’s sake,” I said slapping him manfully on the shoulder, “you have already shown you’re a good fellow. Don’t you see? I wouldn’t have found this place if it was not for you!”

  Returning from the cashbox, the publican strode across the bar and uncupped his hands in front of me, causing a deluge of silver and bronze coins to rain down onto the bar before me.

  “Your change,” he said curtly. “If you could take it and go—as I’m closin’ up now!”

  “What?” I said, waving away the suggestion as though intolerably trivial. “Surely you’ll join us for a glass of this fine vintage?”

  “No,” replied the publican, “I’ve been on me feet since six o’clock this morning.”

  Scooping up the coins from the bar into my awaiting palm, I loaded up the front pockets of my trousers until they bulged like hamster cheeks.

  “Well, what about him?”

  I nodded across the bar at the coal-heaver, now curled up in his chair, snoring over his beer.

  “What about ’im?” responded the publican. “That’s me brother-in-law. Unfortunately, ’e lives ’ere.

  “Come on! Don’t you ’ave ’omes to go to?” the publican said loudly and ritualistically, as I slipped an arm into my coat. But before the publican’s words had time to settle, their insensitivity hit him and he threw up his hands. “Sorry, Billy,” he said quietly, “you know what I mean…”

  Replacing the cork in the bottle neck, I collected up the rest of my belongings and trailed after Billy, who was making his way to the door. When we had reached the stools where the fishermen had sat earlier in the evening, I came to a halt.

  “Wait a minute,” I called back to the publican, “what about the cigarettes?”

  “What?” he responded tersely; desperation entering his voice. “Right. Four-pence then.”

  Burrowing into my trouser pockets, I extracted a handful of coins. From this, I selected a penny and a thrupenny bit, which I slapped onto the counter. Rolling his eyes, the publican muttered something below his breath and, crossing to the other side of the bar, disappeared from sight. He emerged a moment later—having come out from behind the bar—and strode across the carpets towards me, holding up a box of cigarettes between his squat fingers. Without another word, he pushed the packet into my hand, and then set about keenly ushering myself and Billy from the building. With the man’s hand pressing hard into the small of my back, I tumbled unsteadily forward through the doorway and out into the freshness of the night. Just as I did, the tavern door was slammed shut and I heard the dull metallic scrape of its bolts being pulled across.

  Looking down at the cigarettes in my hand, I saw, much to my chagrin,
that I was clutching a packet of twenty Sheiks.

  We left the saloon bar by the same door through which Billy had entered, emerging at the top of a steep slope—as it seemed that the pub stood upon the crest of a hill. Whilst we had been inside the pub, the weather had made a change for the worse, and so—with the rain bouncing off the peak of my hat—I pressed myself to the side of the tavern wall and hastily did up the buttons of my coat.

  “We need to get rooms,” I told Billy.

  “You shan’t. Not now.”

  “But there must be a hotel!”

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s one there.”

  He gestured across the road and I squinted up at a large square building of dirty white brick. Standing above it, dominating the skyline, was the large tower I had earlier mistaken for a lighthouse. Seeing it up close, it seemed more like the sort of thing one would expect to see protruding from the grounds of Colney Hatch.

  “Well…” I said. “Let’s try there.”

  “You won’t get en.”

  “We must try!”

  Leaving the carpet-bag and bottle by the side of the pub, I strode away, stopping short when I realised that Billy was not following.

  “I’ll get you a room,” I said, turning back to him.

  “They won’t let no-one en now,” he called back to me. “’Specially not me.”

  I ventured on undeterred. Coasting down the slope, I entered the courtyard of the Pegwell Bay Hotel and saw that stretching out behind it was a vast, meticulously-attended garden. With the rain stalking the grass, it impressed upon me the complete absence of cover in the vicinity. And so, with a great sense of urgency, I bounded up the stone steps that led to the hotel’s main entrance, determined upon admittance.

  Slamming down the brass door-knocker, my rapping created such a noise that it disturbed an owl that had been sheltering upon one of the window ledges. The bird swept through the air above my head, jettisoning a skilfully-aimed pellet that bounced off my left shoulder.

  Despite this, the clamour had no effect on the building’s inhabitants—certainly, no porter came to my aid.

  I slunk away from the doors of the hotel just as a clap of thunder sounded. The rain had begun to descend in torrents, shimmying in bursts through the moonlight like clouds of mayfly.

  Reaching the gate, I gazed across at the sea ahead of me, now just a distant looming darkness. Looking back up the path, all the buildings that straddled the top of the ascent—including both public houses and a cluster of fisherman’s cottages—were lifeless and foreboding in silhouette. I turned the other way and looked down at the valley below, searching for an omnibus shelter or barn which might afford some cover, but, with the gloom and the mist and the damp wind stinging my eyes, I could make out nothing save for a few gorse bushes and a distant grove of silver birch.

  I began to wearily trudge back up the slope, which the rain was fast turning to sludge. My boots squelched down, falling between the hollows of glistening hoof-marks. As I neared the top of the slope, I lost my footing and skidded back—falling face-first into the mud. My body followed and I juddered back down the hill, coming to a halt three feet back with my knees embedded in the sucking earth.

  With little regard for my appearance I scrambled up the slope, still on my hands and knees, grasping at occasional clumps of grass. Reaching the top, I returned to form and rubbed my hands down the front of my fur coat.

  “Billy!” I called out again, my voice echoing about the houses. “Billy? Where are you?”

  I listened intently, but could make out nothing except for the restless drum of the rain falling down around me.

  “Up ’ere.”

  I looked about but saw no one.

  “No,” insisted the voice, “Up ’ere…” Turning my head up, I suddenly saw the dim outline of Billy’s head over the top of The Moonlighters’ pub sign.

  “What are you doing up there?” I shouted. “We need to find cover from the rain—not get closer to it!”

  “Come up!”

  Without uttering any further word of explanation, the darkened outline of Billy’s head disappeared from view.

  I made my way to the wooden stairs I had seen Billy ascend earlier in the evening. Pushing my boot into the top rung, I slipped my foot across the guttering and onto the flat, tarred section of the roof immediately before the chimney stack. As I did, a sudden strong squall of wind threw me back, but, luckily, I was weighed down by my mud-covered boots. Blinking the rain from my eyes, I tensed, and concentrating my weight, staggered forward with bent knees.

  For some minutes I remained there, hugging the chimney stack, waiting for the winds to abate so that I could lessen my grip. When the moment came, I turned and dropped down, so that my back was arched against the cold stone of the chimney.

  With the wind no longer in my face, I scooped my dripping hair from my eyes and scanned the neighbouring rooftop of The Moonlighters, trying to work out where Billy had been when he called to me.

  The wooden stairs I had climbed up were midway between the two pubs, being attached to an outhouse which could conceivably form part of either estates or be shared between them. It was obviously of a newer construction than the two houses that braced it. Apart from the a small cut-away section I was standing on that gave access to the chimney, the building’s structure was of the American saltbox variety, with a long, pitched roof leading down to open guttering at the base.

  It struck me that there were only two ways to get to The Moonlighters’ roof. I could either try to cross the iron guttering at the base of the slope or climb up the roof and—using the chimney stack as a support—push myself onto the ridge. Pressing myself flat to it I would be able to slither across on my stomach, with my legs on either side.

  I stepped forward and pressed my right boot onto the guttering. At first it seemed fairly stable, but as I applied more pressure, it let forth an unnerving creak and seemed to dip under my weight. In doing this, it also suddenly struck me that by proceeding in such a way, I would be required to cross the narrow line of guttering like a tight-rope walker, with one foot in front of the other. Considering my condition, such a plan would be pure folly.

  Instead, I turned and scrambled up the wet, glistening tiles, causing a number of slates to dislodge and clatter down the slope behind me. Coiling my body around the far-side of the chimney stack, I dropped forward and, with a deep breath, wrapped my fingers around the ridge of the rooftop. Stepping up on tip-toes, I heaved myself up, pushing an elbow over the top, and followed it with my chest and, then, finally, my left knee.

  I had no time to settle on my uncomfortable perch, however, before I was very nearly thrown from it. A blast of wind screamed up from the shore below, knocking hard into my left side and dousing me with spray. Losing balance, I flailed awkwardly, struggling to keep upright.

  The damp, freezing air jarred the side of my face, so I dropped forward and buried my cheek into the arm of my fur coat; my fingernails clawing desperately at the slates, and digging into mortar and wet moss.

  Glancing down, I saw the sea thundering in on the beach below—its fierce black waves crashing down unceasingly, pounding the foaming wash that jostled the dark stones in the bay.

  At that moment I became conscious of the ludicrous nature of my situation—and aware that I must get back to ground-level at all costs. My only course of action seemed to be to reverse and slide down the tiles, back to the safety of the chimney stack that I had so thoughtlessly abandoned. However, when I went to lift my left leg, it refused to move. Fear had paralysed me, giving me the dexterity of a limpet.

  I was also becoming increasing aware of a throbbing in the back of my throat; a tightening sensation which I felt instinctively must be the first symptom of some sickness induced by exposure. I had been reciting the Lord’s Prayer, but this had robbed me of my voice—an
d, in my weakened condition, I considered if this were a sign of something.

  Suddenly, a fierce new pain inched through my fingers—and with such sharpness that it succeeded in lending focus to my otherwise fuddled brain. Craning my neck up, I saw that it was caused by my fingertips clipping the successive edges of the roof tiles as they slowly passed them.

  Through some unknown process, it was clear I was being slowly shunted forward across the roof. Looking up, I saw Billy’s straining face ahead of me, his outstretched arm behind my head…

  As I drew closer to Billy I felt the pain in my neck subside briefly, as he adjusted his hold on me. Then it was back, stronger than before, and I was dragged, half-choked, across the slates.

  When he released his grip for a second time, I opened my eyes to discover that I was now hanging over The Moonlighters’ roof looking down upon him.

  Billy jumped down from the beer barrel he had been standing on, splashing into rain-pricked puddles and throwing jets of water through the air. Quickly, he set about shifting the barrel to a distant part of the rooftop. When he had finished, he returned and looked up at me.

  Grabbing the heel of my left boot, Billy tugged hard upon it, dragging me to the very edge of the outhouse’s roof. Just at that moment, another fierce gust of wind was driven up from the sea below, it knocked into my side and threw me over, with such force that I found myself tumbling helplessly forward.

  Billy threw his arms up to catch me, but I crashed down awkwardly on top of him, my chin knocking the top of his head. I felt one of his hands push across my chest, catching me beneath the arm; whilst his other snatched the waistband at the back of my trousers. And so it was that I was jostled into a slanted, weak-kneed stance with the words “I got yer, I got yer,” repeating in my ear.

  I suppose I must have been in some kind of a stupor, for although I was standing, I felt so utterly numb from the cold that I could hardly tell if my feet had contact with anything at all. The moment that Billy released his hold on me, I slid through his arms and dropped to the floor.