The Butcher's Husband and Other Stories Read online

  “Charlie,” Frank says after a moment, “before I lock the gate each night, I make absolutely certain that there's nobody left on the pier. I carry out a thorough inspection. It's impossible for anyone to be out there.”

  “Okay,” I reply, not really understanding where he's coming from with this.

  “The only way there could be anyone out at the far end would be if someone somehow got through this gate.”

  “Sure.”

  “Which is impossible.”

  “I understand.”

  “Especially with you sitting here.”

  “Totally.”

  “And that's your job. To make sure that no idiots show up and... Well, we've been over this.”

  “I know.”

  Again I wait, and I'm starting to think that Frank's worried about something.

  “This will absolutely not come up,” he says again, still looking along the pier, “but just in case it does... If, after I leave, you think you see someone out there, at the other end of the pier...” He pauses. “If you think you see someone, maybe a shadow or something like that, you're wrong. Okay? It's just a trick of the light.”

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “And even if the shadow seems to move, even if it looks like it's walking along... It's a trick of the light.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because there's no-one out there.”

  I open my mouth to say “Okay” again, but at the last moment something stops me. Frank seems so worried now, his eyes filled with fear. After a moment I turn and look along the pier again. It's hard to really make anything out at all, but there's certainly no sign of anyone.

  “It can look like there's someone,” Frank continues, “especially out there on the pier's eastern arm, right at the far end. Just ignore it.”

  I wait.

  “Okay,” I say finally.

  “And don't go out there to check,” he adds, turning to me. “Never go out there. Call for help if you have to, but never, ever go out there. Do you understand?”

  “Uh... I do. Sure.”

  I wait for him to continue, but he simply turns to look along the pier again. Frank's always a fairly dour kind of guy, but this time he seems genuinely scared.

  “Stay here,” he continues finally, “and follow your orders, and everything will be fine.” He turns to me again. “And remember. There's no-one out there. If you think you see someone, it's a trick of the light. Do not go and check.”

  II

  There's someone in there.

  It's 2am, and there's still a faint glow coming from the pub over the road. At first I assumed that someone had simply left a light on, but twice now I've seen a faint flicker of movement. I know my friend Abby used to do the cleaning there each night, after the pub closed, but she never stayed for more than an hour. She moved away recently and I guess someone else took the job over. I don't know why they'd still be there at two in the morning, but I guess they must have a reason.

  Everyone has a reason for what they do in life.

  Even total weirdos like me.

  I assumed that I could just sit and read all night, and I thought that would be perfect. As I look back down at my book, however, I feel as if I need to take a little break.

  You have no sense of responsibility, Charles. You're just a useless layabout.

  Damn it, Mum's voice has been ringing in my ears all evening. She's been on my back for so long about getting – and keeping – a proper job, that she doesn't even need to nag me anymore. Her words are somehow part of me, and I can't shake the worry that at some point tonight she's going to show up to check that I'm here.

  Just because you have anxiety, that doesn't mean you don't have to work. Everyone's anxious, Charles, but we get on with things.

  I lean forward and look both ways along the street. There's no sign of her so far, unless she's been watching me from a distance. I wouldn't put that past her, either. In fact, when I check my phone, I'm surprised that she still hasn't sent me a message. It'd be just like her to wake up in the middle of the night and ask whether I'm still here. The worst thing is, she's right. I can't use anxiety as an excuse, and I do need a job. I need money, and I need to prove myself. And I need to move out of Mum's place, because she's driving me nuts.

  I glance toward the gate and look at the far end of the pier. Frank's warning has been popping back into my thoughts a few times over the past few hours, but of course there's no-one to be seen

  How could there be?

  No-one could have made their way past me without being seen.

  I look back down at my book and try for a few minutes to get back into reading. Soon, however, my eyes start to skip lines, and I find myself having to read each paragraph twice. I lean back and rub my eyes, and I can't deny that I'm feeling pretty tired. Looking over toward the pub again, I'm just in time to spot a flicker of movement in the window. There's definitely someone in there, and in some strange way it feels good to know that I'm not completely alone out here. I swear, there's hasn't even been so much as a car going past on the road. Apart from the pub's window, the only sign of movement has been the traffic lights near the roundabout, which have been switching between green, amber and red all night even though there's been no traffic.

  I glance along the pier again, and then I look back down at the book.

  And then I freeze.

  Did I just...

  I stare at the page for a moment, while telling myself that I have to be wrong. For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw a figure standing at the far end of the pier, but I quickly remind myself that that's completely impossible. Still, the image lingers, and finally I force myself to take another look, just to prove to myself that I was wrong.

  I watch the shadows at the pier's far end, and I feel a shimmer of fear in my chest as I realize that there's someone standing next to the entrance that leads onto the pier's left arm. I blink, convinced that this supposed figure is just a trick of the light, but if anything the figure seems to be getting more distinct and apparent as I continue to watch. Sure, the light's bad and I'm having to squint slightly, but...

  There is someone out there.

  I get to my feet, but in an instant I hear Frank's voice echoing in my mind, repeating his words from earlier.

  Remember. There's no-one out there. If you think you see someone, it's a trick of the light. Do not go and check.

  Sure, Frank said those words, but he must have been talking about vague blurs. This figure, meanwhile, is pretty clearly a person, and I don't see how it can possibly be a trick of the light. I mean, I can just about make out arms and legs and a head, and I can't shake the feeling that the figure is staring at me. Sure, shadows can sometimes be a little confusing, but I'm certain that there's no shadow causing this vision.

  There's someone out there on the pier.

  Opening the desk drawer, I take out the keys to the padlock and then I step out of the booth. The night air is cold as I head to the gate, and then I hesitate again and take another look along the pier.

  I don't see him.

  The angle is slightly different from here, but suddenly there's no sign of the mysterious figure. I wait, in case he reappears, but now I'm starting to rethink my earlier conclusion. Maybe the figure was a trick of the light after all. I mean, I'm sure stranger things have happened, and the night can play funny tricks on us all.

  I hesitate, with the key still in my hand, but after a few more seconds I manage to settle the matter in my mind. The so-called figure was just a strange shadow, and it's gone now.

  I turn to go back to the booth.

  At that moment, I spot the figure again. It walks onto the east arm of the pier, and then it's gone.

  Taking a deep breath, I try once again to convince myself that the figure wasn't real. The way it walked, however, was so clear, and I'm not sure I could ever convince myself that that was just an illusion. I swallow hard and try one final time to dismiss my fears, and then I turn back to the padlock an
d slip the key into the hole.

  And then I hear Frank's voice again.

  And don't go out there to check. Never go out there. Call for help if you have to, but never, ever go out there. Do you understand?

  He was so insistent.

  So certain.

  I hesitate, telling myself that there's no reason to be afraid, and then I slowly slide the key back out of the lock. Sure, I briefly thought that I saw a figure out there at the far end of the pier, but there's clearly no-one there now. And the thing about tricks of the light is that they are tricks. If they weren't convincing, if I could dismiss them easily, then they'd be nothing at all. My eyes might have interpreted some shadows as movement, but my mind knows that there can't be anyone out there, and I guess I should trust my mind more than my eyes.

  I'm a man, not an animal.

  My brain is my greatest asset.

  Heading back into the booth, I tell myself to be proud of resisting temptation. I glance one more time along the pier, and there's definitely no sign of the figure now. As I sit down, I slide the key back into the drawer and take a deep breath, and then I grab my book again. It's time to discipline my mind by reading some history, and I'm only halfway through this biography of Mary Queen of Scots. Then I have some comic books to catch up on.

  I don't have time for ghost stories.

  III

  “Yes, Mum, I'm doing fine,” I say yet again, as she continues to whine on the other end of the phone. I glance at the time and see that it's only 2:30am.

  Why can't she just go to sleep?

  “There's nothing to do,” I continue. “Not really. That's the point, I'm just supposed to sit here and make sure that everything's okay. If nothing happens and I do nothing, that's a successful shift. That's what they want.”

  As she rambles on about my lack of initiative, I glance toward the pub, just in time to see that there's a figure walking past one of the windows. I watch for a moment longer, but the figure's gone now.

  “No, Mum,” I say with a sigh, looking back down at my book, “they don't want me to go litter-picking. That would mean leaving the booth. They specifically want me to stay here.

  That's not enough for her.

  When is anything ever enough?

  She starts going on about the need to impress a new employer. I know she's right but, as I glance toward the pub again, I really struggle to keep from asking her to just stop talking.

  Suddenly I see that there's someone outside the pub.

  A woman – well, a girl – well, she looks to be about my age, about eighteen or nineteen – has come out and stopped next to the pub's entrance. She's leaning against the wall, and after a moment I see a faint, brief orange-red light near her lips. She's smoking.

  “Charles?” Mum says after a moment. “Are you still there?”

  “Of course,” I stammer, although I must admit that I didn't hear what she was rambling on about just now. I was focused on looking at the girl, which is probably slightly weird. “I just -”

  Before I can finish, she waves at me.

  The girl, I mean. The girl outside the pub. Not Mum. Why would Mum wave at me? How could she wave at me, over the phone? Without a video call, I mean. Damn it, I'm letting myself get flustered. And then, as if I didn't already have enough to deal with, the girl suddenly steps away from the pub and starts sauntering across the road, heading straight toward me.

  “I have to go!” I gasp, my voice squeaking slightly, and then I cut the call before Mum has a chance to argue with me.

  I sit up straight and try to look calm and relaxed, but I can already see that the girl is really, really hot. The way she walks makes her look so confident, too, as if she feels like she's completely in command of the situation. And as she comes up the steps and makes her way around the side of the giant fish sculpture, and as she comes closer to me step by step, I realize that there's a faint smile on her lips.

  I need to look relaxed and cool.

  “Hey there,” she says, stopping on the other side of the booth's glass window and looking down at me. “And here was me thinking I was the only one out here this late.”

  “No,” I reply, and my voice squeaks again. Just a little.

  “Huh.” She taps the glass. “From over the road, you looked like one of those fortune-telling robots. I wondered whether I'd have to put a pound in you to have my destiny revealed.”

  “No, I'm not a fortune-telling robot,” I reply, somewhat pointlessly.

  “You're the latest guy who keeps watch over the pier at night, huh?”

  “That's me.”

  “Cool.” She tilts her head slightly, before taking a drag on her cigarette and then blowing the smoke against the glass. “You're cute.”

  “I am?”

  “Aren't you cold in there?”

  “No.”

  “Aren't you lonely?”

  “I'm fine.” I pause, but after a moment I realize that maybe it's my turn to say something. “Working late?”

  “Me?” She furrows her brow, before smiling again. “Not exactly. I did some cleaning, and then I kinda hung around for a while, you know? I'm not supposed to, but where I live is pretty grotty so I decided to stay in the pub and read for a while.” She leans closer, until her face is almost pressed against the glass. “Please don't tell my boss.”

  “I wouldn't!” I gasp. “I mean, I couldn't! I mean, I don't even know who owns that pub!”

  “That's good for me, I guess,” she replies, leaning back a little and then taking another drag. “So how's it going out here? Are you out of your mind with boredom yet?”

  “No,” I reply. “I've been... reading.”

  I hold the book up for her to see.

  “Mary Queen of Scots?” she replies. “Is that the one from Alice in Wonderland?”

  “No, that's the Queen of Hearts,” I reply. “Mary Queen of Scots was a rival of Queen Elizabeth. Well, sort of. Well, it's complicated, you see at first -”

  “Sounds cool,” she says, interrupting me. “So you're into that kind of stuff, huh?”

  “Sure. I mean, and other things too.” I pause, trying to think of something that might make me sound interesting. Nothing springs to mind immediately, and I don't want to lie. “History's pretty cool,” is all I manage eventually. “If we know the past, we can try to make the future better.”

  “Cool,” she replies. “I can dig that. I mean, I don't know much about history, but I figure it's good that other people do.” She pauses again, before looking over at the gate. “Then again,” she adds, “the only history I know is stuff that really sucks. Like the history of this place.”

  I wait, but now she seems lost in thought.

  “The history of this place?” I ask finally.

  She turns to me again.

  “You know all that horrible stuff that happened a few years ago, don't you?”

  “No,” I reply. “Mum and I only moved here last summer. I mean...”

  Damn it, did that make me sound really sad?

  “You should look it up online some time,” the girl replies. “I think it was about five years ago. A local guy named John Miller was home alone one night, over on the far side of town, and the police showed up. They told him there'd been a terrible car crash, and his wife and daughter had been killed.”

  “That's horrible,” I reply.

  “It gets worse.” She pauses. “He was distraught. His wife and daughter had been out at some event, and their car had been totally destroyed in a collision with a truck. I mean, the car was flattened. No-one could have survived. And John Miller, he was a real family man. His wife and daughter were everything to him.” She leans closer to the glass. “He couldn't go on without them. The police wanted him to go with them to the station, to discuss ways of identifying what was left of the bodies. He was supposed to follow them in his car, but instead he came here, to the pier. Have you seriously never heard this story from anyone else?”

  “I don't really know anyone here,�
� I reply.

  “He broke through the old gate and went along the pier,” she replies, “and he found some fishing wire. He tied it around his neck, and then he tied the other end to one of the railings out there.” She turns and looks along the pier. “And then he jumped.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Are you saying that he...”

  “Killed himself out of grief?” She pauses, and then she nods. “Apparently he left a note, saying he couldn't go on without them.”

  “That's tragic.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “How?”

  “The next day,” she continues, “the police found out that they'd been completely wrong. Miller's wife and daughter had gone to the event, but while they were inside, their car was stolen. When it hit the lorry, it was the thieves who were driving. If John Miller had just waited a few more hours, he'd have learned that his wife and daughter were fine. How's that for tragic?”

  “It's...”

  I pause as I think about the awfulness of the story.

  “Is it true?” I ask finally. “All of it, I mean. It just sounds so awful, I can't believe it happened.”

  “All of it's true,” she replies. “I think, anyway. That's the way I've always heard it.”

  “Why didn't he wait for the official identification of the bodies?” I ask.

  “I guess grief does funny things to people,” she says, before taking a step back and puffing on her cigarette again. “Some people claim that the ghost of John Miller still haunts this pier, that he's been seen out there late at night. I'm not sure that I take those stories too seriously, myself, but it's what other people reckon. And while I'm not necessarily into ghosts and all that stuff, I'm also not one for denying what other people claim. One thing's for sure, I always find it kinda creepy out here, late at night. Don't you?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Hey,” she continues, “I know this might sound crazy, but do you wanna go and take a look?”

  “At what?”

  “What else?” She looks over at the gate again. “If you've got a key, you could go out there. We could go out there. We could go ghost-hunting. Wanna?”