need.
Because houses dream, too, and sometimes those dreams become nightmares. Some places don’t need ghosts to be haunted. I am the only ghost in this place, the lost spirit that walks between the walls. This unseen row of houses is inhabited at last, but only by the sound of my screams.
WHEN ONE DOOR CLOSES
Another day, another failed interview...
Nick was beginning to suspect there was something wrong with him—some physical or mental imbalance he could not see but everyone else picked up on as soon as he walked into a room. That would explain how, no matter what he did to impress them, no one wanted to employ him. He had attended several job interviews over the past month, since losing his job at the packing factory, but nothing else had come up to fill the gap and replenish the coffers.
Maybe he had somehow become unemployable (an awful word; the one they spoke only in a whisper at the Job Centre). Was it like a permanent mark on his flesh, or a giveaway in his walk or the way he held himself? Was it so obvious he didn’t really want the fucking jobs anyway? That he saw nine-to-five work only as a way of paying the bills while he waited for the world to notice his novel?
Nick walked down the high street with his hands stuffed in his pockets, fingers clutching his empty wallet and the scant few coins he’d managed to salvage to pay his bus fare. It was all becoming so depressing; all these job interviews amounting to nothing, not even a paltry second interview.
He ambled to the bus stop and joined the back of the queue. He stared at the back of the head of the man in front of him: greasy hair, flaky scalp. When the bus finally arrived the queue shuffled forward, as slow and orderly as a Russian bread line. The people climbed aboard one by one. When Nick reached the doors he was shocked to see them jerk shut, and to hear the bus hissing at him like a big, angry cat.
He looked through the grimy plexi-glass, at the fraught and overweight driver. The driver shrugged, fiddled with his control panel, and when the doors still refused to budge he shrugged again. The bus moved slowly away from the kerb, joining the traffic like a fish entering a migrating shoal in some busy gulf stream.
Feeling like this was some kind of metaphor for his day, Nick set off on the short walk home. At least this way he could save some money; the coins in his pocket might be put to better use elsewhere.
Annie was there when he got home, eating a sandwich and reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. “Hi,” he said. “I didn’t get it.” He had learned some time ago to pre-empt her questions; this way the conversation did not go on for long and he was spared at least some of the shame he associated with constant rejection.
“Another dead end, eh?” Her eyes remained focused on the paper. “Jesus, you could use some luck.” She frowned, but he could not be sure if it was over the news item or his report of yet another unsuccessful meeting.
Annie finished her lunch and put the plate in the sink, then leaned forward to distractedly kiss his cheek. Her lips were cold and damp. They left crumbs on his skin when she pulled away. “I have to rush off—only came back for lunch, to save some pennies.” The smile didn’t touch her eyes; they remained narrow and hard and unfocused.
“See you tonight.” Why did that sound so much like a question?
Annie didn’t reply. She just went out the back door and disappeared through the gate.
Nick shuffled over to the sink and filled a glass with water. There was a chip in the glass—a small imperfection—and he twisted it so the sharp edge faced away from him, so it wouldn’t touch his mouth.
He wasn’t hungry so he didn’t bother with lunch. Instead he made instant coffee and read Annie’s paper—the Guardian, the fucking Guardian ? Who the hell was she trying to impress? She only ever used to read the tabloids, but since starting her new job at the
Because houses dream, too, and sometimes those dreams become nightmares. Some places don’t need ghosts to be haunted. I am the only ghost in this place, the lost spirit that walks between the walls. This unseen row of houses is inhabited at last, but only by the sound of my screams.
WHEN ONE DOOR CLOSES
Another day, another failed interview...
Nick was beginning to suspect there was something wrong with him—some physical or mental imbalance he could not see but everyone else picked up on as soon as he walked into a room. That would explain how, no matter what he did to impress them, no one wanted to employ him. He had attended several job interviews over the past month, since losing his job at the packing factory, but nothing else had come up to fill the gap and replenish the coffers.
Maybe he had somehow become unemployable (an awful word; the one they spoke only in a whisper at the Job Centre). Was it like a permanent mark on his flesh, or a giveaway in his walk or the way he held himself? Was it so obvious he didn’t really want the fucking jobs anyway? That he saw nine-to-five work only as a way of paying the bills while he waited for the world to notice his novel?
Nick walked down the high street with his hands stuffed in his pockets, fingers clutching his empty wallet and the scant few coins he’d managed to salvage to pay his bus fare. It was all becoming so depressing; all these job interviews amounting to nothing, not even a paltry second interview.
He ambled to the bus stop and joined the back of the queue. He stared at the back of the head of the man in front of him: greasy hair, flaky scalp. When the bus finally arrived the queue shuffled forward, as slow and orderly as a Russian bread line. The people climbed aboard one by one. When Nick reached the doors he was shocked to see them jerk shut, and to hear the bus hissing at him like a big, angry cat.
He looked through the grimy plexi-glass, at the fraught and overweight driver. The driver shrugged, fiddled with his control panel, and when the doors still refused to budge he shrugged again. The bus moved slowly away from the kerb, joining the traffic like a fish entering a migrating shoal in some busy gulf stream.
Feeling like this was some kind of metaphor for his day, Nick set off on the short walk home. At least this way he could save some money; the coins in his pocket might be put to better use elsewhere.
Annie was there when he got home, eating a sandwich and reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. “Hi,” he said. “I didn’t get it.” He had learned some time ago to pre-empt her questions; this way the conversation did not go on for long and he was spared at least some of the shame he associated with constant rejection.
“Another dead end, eh?” Her eyes remained focused on the paper. “Jesus, you could use some luck.” She frowned, but he could not be sure if it was over the news item or his report of yet another unsuccessful meeting.
Annie finished her lunch and put the plate in the sink, then leaned forward to distractedly kiss his cheek. Her lips were cold and damp. They left crumbs on his skin when she pulled away. “I have to rush off—only came back for lunch, to save some pennies.” The smile didn’t touch her eyes; they remained narrow and hard and unfocused.
“See you tonight.” Why did that sound so much like a question?
Annie didn’t reply. She just went out the back door and disappeared through the gate.
Nick shuffled over to the sink and filled a glass with water. There was a chip in the glass—a small imperfection—and he twisted it so the sharp edge faced away from him, so it wouldn’t touch his mouth.
He wasn’t hungry so he didn’t bother with lunch. Instead he made instant coffee and read Annie’s paper—the Guardian, the fucking Guardian ? Who the hell was she trying to impress? She only ever used to read the tabloids, but since starting her new job at the
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