The Tower by Anne-Marie Ormsby

Author:Anne-Marie Ormsby [Ormsby, Anne-Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: darkstroke books
Published: 2020-01-09T16:00:00+00:00

Nine

Talking to Dead People

It had been almost a week since Natalie was reported as missing. There was still no sign of her, other than her face plastered on every lamppost and shop window from Hackney Town Hall to Liverpool Street. It was 8am and I was on the 48 bus headed towards the city where I was going to jump on a train at Fenchurch Street and make my way back to Essex for auntie Alice’s funeral.

I had my headphones on and there was a Lord Huron song playing in my ears to drown out the noise of other commuters that cold late March morning. The morning light was not getting to me as I was hiding behind a pair of huge sunglasses, my hangover leaning towards nausea. I know, a hangover on a Wednesday isn’t great, but I’d ended up at The Ship with Stevie after work and it turned into a bigger night than planned. I know I was drinking to cope, but it was all I had.

It had been a weird night. It started out fine, drinks with our friend Sandy who used to work with Stevie, but now worked at a private school in the Barbican. The Ship was lively and the mood was good. Far too much wine was had so once Sandy had packed herself off home, Stevie and I had wandered home via London Fields on our usual route to stop off at The Dove, a cosy and popular pub on Broadway Market.

London Fields by night was creepy, mostly busy. But some nights, if you happened to go through when no-one was around, it was desolate. The path we used clung to the east edge of the park and, by day, it was a route clogged with joggers and dogwalkers. In the summer, the vast expanse of trees and grass that swirled away from the path across to its far edge where it met London Fields West Side, Gayhurst Primary School and rows of expensive and beautiful townhouses was, on summer afternoons, full of young people having tin foil barbecue’s and drinking cans of Red Stripe. But by night it was a gloomy blanket of dark, punctuated by the glow of streetlights that followed the paths across and through to the far side.

It was still surprisingly busy most nights for as long as the bars in Broadway Market were open, but for some reason that particular night it was just me and Stevie. The long lamplit pathway stretched out ahead in a straight line to the bright lights of the junction where the Broadway met Lansdown Drive and Westgate Street. I knew the Cat and Mutton pub on the corner would be busy. It seemed miles away as we walked, laughing about something that had just happened at the pub.

Then Stevie turned back to look behind us.

“What?”

“I thought I heard someone.” I slowed and turned to and as I stopped. I heard footfalls stop. Was it the echo of our own feet?

We turned and carried on walking, but this time in silence.

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