A Private Haunting by Tom McCulloch

that told him his free sessions were over and he would now have to pay for anymore.
    A few moments later Fletcher returned fully to the present. He was sitting inside the big fibreglass Skull. Through an eye socket he could see the beer-can-strewn fairway. Hole thirteen was a challenge. You had to navigate the ball between the tombstones of a mini cemetery then up a steep incline into the mouth of The Skull. Inside, there was room for his bed roll.
    In some ways Fletcher liked it here. There was no chance of some drunken bastard waking him up by pissing on his face. Still, he’d come home to sleep in a bed, not a bizarre, giant skull in an abandoned crazy golf course. He remembered it being built just before he had to leave, part of the grand stoner folly of some Home Counties trustafarian to create a seaside-type attraction by the river. There would be camping and kayaking, slot machines and burgers, as well as Britain’s biggest, FUNNEST Crazy Golf Course! Fletcher had found the sign lying face down in the dried-up moat around hole six, as the entire project had fallen flat.
    Beyond the sagging security fence thirty metres away someone walked a dog along the river path. It was just after seven, the kids wouldn’t be streaming past to the river pools for hours. When the dog walker disappeared from sight Fletcher slipped out of The Skull. The Norwegian would be away from End Point from seven thirty until four thirty. Fletcher knew this from the shift rota on the fridge which he’d read at Mortensen’s party the other night.
    The Norwegian was clearly the welcoming sort. It was inevitable that the side gate to the back garden would be unlocked. Fletcher walked through. He was wearing a high-vis jacket and high-vis jackets made people invisible. He was slightly surprised that the sun room was locked. This wasn’t a problem. It took less than a minute to pick the lock. Inside, he made a coffee and a cheese sandwich, wandering the rooms with a reaction that swiftly replaced any maudlin sentiment about the return with the purely functional: how to get the Norwegian out of this fuckin house. He flicked through Mortensen’s books and records then sat on the sun room steps, looking out on the lawn, the bonfire scar that reminded him of ordnance scorch.
    Later, he decided to have a bath. As it was running he looked in the bathroom cabinet and found some little bottles of oils. Never in his life had he used bath oils. The idea amused him. He chose one at random, sprinkled a few drops and lay in the water sniffing, trying to decide if he liked the smell. Later, stepping out the back door as Jonas stepped in the front, he decided he didn’t.

Eight
    â€˜Darling, I’m home!’
    The one-eyed doll looked up at Jonas from the hallway table and said nothing. It looked quite serene. Yesterday so angry and today so calm. The doll was clearly a bit high-maintenance.
    â€˜Had a good day then, my –?’
    Jasmine?
    An unmistakeable hint. Jonas put the mail down on the table and listened intently. Then he walked through to the kitchen and saw a half-eaten cheese sandwich on a plate beside the kettle. And an empty mug. Coffee. The mug was still warm. Wake up and smell the coffee.
    He hesitated at the foot of the stairs then took them at a run. A second towel was draped over the landing banister, the airing cupboard door open. The jasmine smell was stronger in the bathroom. Water spray in the bath. He backed out, hesitating again as he considered his bedroom door before cutting off the cascade of possibilities by flinging it open. But there was no one sleeping in his bed. And no one hiding under it either. Jonas checked.
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    Insidious. Jonas rolled the word round his tongue . In -sid-ee-us . He sat on a deckchair in the back garden, facing the house. The drink in his hand was hefty, a big Highland Park. End Point gawked back and a crow scrawked. He looked around but couldn’t see it, suddenly