Read by Silas Hawkins
Lockdoon’s gettin tae me. Ma dug, Neville, took a turn fur the worst efter tannin a fit-lang tube o Jaffa cakes, and noo ah’m well and truly oan ma tod.
Neville wis the apple o ma eye. He wis a mongrel, who’d black fur dotted wi white patches that made the wee bugger look like he wis always wearin a suit. He wis a sleekit bastart, and treated me like wan big tit efter he left his mammy a few weeks too early. But fur aw his tricks and licks, Neville could dae nae wrang in ma eyes.
‘Alexa,’ ah say, ‘Pretend tae be a dug.’
‘Aye, awricht.’
Naught happens. No even a wee bark. Alexa cannae make heid nor tail o maist o the words that come oot ma mooth.
Loneliness is a bugger.
Everythin fades intae nothingness. That’s the hing ah’ve learnt aboot life durin lockdoon. Doesnae matter whether it’s yer dug, wife, or even jist yer memories. Everythin hus its time, and ma best days are behind me.
The doorbell rings.
‘Meals oan wheels!’ a voice shouts fae ootside.
Ah smile. Ah cannae stand the food, but the wumman who droaps it aff is sommat else. She’s gat hair every colour o the rainbow, bats fur eyebroos, and wears tichtly-fitted clothes the Grim Reaper would approve o. But fur aw she probably scares maist o the pensioners roond here, ah hink she’s brilliant. Ah’ve always hud a saft spot fur folk who dinnae gie a fiddler’s fart aboot whit others hink.
‘Whit’s fur ma dinner the day?’ ah say, openin the door.
‘Stew,’ she says.
Ma face says it aw.
‘Are ye feelin awricht, Mr Smith?’
Ah’m jist missin wee Neville the day. Council says ah cannae get another dug. They made an exception fur him, and look,’ ah say, gesturin tae ma leather couches, ‘he chewed and scratched the place up sommat stupid.’
She gies me a sympathetic nod before openin hur mooth. A few seconds pass.
‘Are ye a spiritual man, Mr Smith?’
‘Born and bred Catholic like maist folk in Thistlegate.’
She pauses.
‘Why d’ya ask, hen?’
‘If ye’ve gat an open mind, well, ye could try spirit keepin.’
‘Spirit keepin?’
‘Aye. Ye buy a vessel online wi a spirit attached tae it. Ah gat a dug durin lockdoon, and ah dinnae ken where ah’d be wi’oot Sparky noo.’
‘Ye’ve gat a ghost dug callt Sparky?’
‘Ye probably hink ah’m mad, and ah thocht it wis mad too until ah gat ma first spirit. Creepy Hollows. Look it up,’ she says, turnin. ‘And enjoy yer meal.’
Creepy Hollows, ah hink. Mair like creepy bastart. Nae offence tae the lassie. Ah take the meal and go back inside.
Ah take bite o the stew. Fur aw it’s no winnin any points wi Gordon Ramsay, it’s no hauf bad fur a meal oan wheels. Ah look across the empty table. Neville used tae love eyeballin me as ah ate ma dinner.
That’s it, ah hink. Ah’m an auld duffer, and naewan will hink twice if ah buy a ghost dug fae the internet. When ye’ve gat naught, ye’ve gat naught tae lose.
Ah take oot ma mobile phone as ah chew oan another moothful o stew. Ah’ve become an auld haun at usin the Google durin lockdoon.
‘Creepy Hollows,’ ah type.
*
Ma dinner’s soon staun cauld. Before ah ken whit’s happenin, ah’ve read a forum post fae somewan who wants tae rehame three o their ghosts, a bugger who’s oan the hunt fur a ‘highly active’ haunted dolls hoose’, and somewan else who’s convinced themselves that their pet ghost is really their faither.
In aw ma days, and there huv been a lot o them, ah’ve seen naught like this. Ye’d huv tae be three pence short o a pound tae believe any o this. Then ah remember the meals oan wheels lassie. She said she wis a skeptic an aw.
Ah stumble oantae the shoap. Ghosts dinnae come cheap. Ah’ll huv tae fork oot hauf a week’s pension fur a ‘Custom Conjuration of a Wolf Hound spirit’.
A wolf hound, eh? Ah hink. That’s a big man’s dug. Oh well, if there wis ever a time tae be guid tae yersel, it’s the middle o a global pandemic. A press buy.
Ah’m oan tenterhooks waitin fur the postie. Billy, ye stupid auld duffer. That money could o gat ya wan - naw, twa - guid bottles o whiskey, and ye wur desperate enough tae haun it ower tae a charlatan fur a bloody ghost.
Who the puck sells ghosts anyway? Dae the ghosts get nae say in this? So when ma number’s up, is some witchy bastart gonnae attach ma spirit tae a Celtic mug and flog it fur hauf a week’s pension oan eBay? God. Ah kin see it noo.
‘Ghost o an auld, Scottish duffer. Bids startin at wan pence.’
The doorbell rings. The postie hauns me a package wi an American stamp oan it. Cannae even wring this charlatan’s neck.
An nervously open it. It’s a wee bone. A real wan an aw. Looks like it could be fae a dug - or mair likely a butcher’s bin.
The instructions fall oantae the flair. Ah strain tae pick them up.
‘Dear Mr Smith,
Congratulations on your purchase of Custom Conjuration of a Wolf Hound spirit. Have a happy future together!’
Ah shake ma heid. Whit the puck am ah meant tae dae wi this bone? Use it fur a stew? Au rub it like it’s a genie. Naught happens. Ah fling it across the room.
Ah bury ma face in ma hauns and look up at the wall.
If this dug is anyhin like ma Neville, he’s jist hangry. Ah walk intae the kitchen, open a cupboard, and take oot a tin o Pedigree chum that’s been gatherin dust. Ah pull oot Neville’s reid, polka-dot bowl, which ah’ve no hud the heart tae bin, pull open the tab, and let the chunks o meat fall intae the bowl. Plop. Plop. Plop.
Ah walk back intae the livin room, pick up the bone, and put it next tae the bowl. The wee fella micht no like his food gettin mixed. Ah sit back doon oan ma leather couch and watch. Naught. A wait a guid hauf an hoor. Still naught.
‘Waste o puckin money!’ ah shout tae the silence.
Ma eyes drift tae the gairden. A few o Neville’s big sticks must be still kickin aroond. Mibbie this bugger’s no hungry. He jist wants tae play fetch.
Ah stand, walk oot the livin room and intae the gairden. The fence is fallin doon, and the pots are overgrown wi weeds. But there they are, richt next tae the bins, Neville’s sticks. Ah slowly walk ower, pick up the biggest, and take it inside.
‘Here boy,’ ah say, droppin the stick oan the groond. ‘Where are ye?’
Ah catch sicht o masel in the mirror above the fireplace. If ah dinnae wrap it, ah’ll be gettin carted oot o here in a straicht jacket.
Ah plonk ma arse back oan the sofa. There really is nae fool like an auld fool. Ah feel sommat behind wan o ma feet. Ah manoeuvre it oot fae under the couch. It’s Neville’s favourite toy: a wee yella baw.
Ah tear up, kick it intae the dug bed next tae the fireplace, and shut ma eyes. Ah’ve naught better tae dae than sleep.
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
Ma eyes burst open. Ah wipe away the sleep. It’s jist gone 3 in the mornin.
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
Surely no? Ma eyes drift tae the dug bed. The baw’s floatin fae side tae side. And there they are. The wolf hound and ma wee fluffy son, Neville!
‘Get that spooky bastart!’ ah shout.
Neville’s no losin this game o tug-o-war oan ma watch.
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
Ah smile fur the first time in weeks.
(c) Emma Grae, 2021
Emma Grae is a Scottish author and journalist from Glasgow. She has published fiction and poetry in the UK and Ireland since 2014 in journals including The Honest Ulsterman, From Glasgow to Saturn and The Open Mouse. Her first novel, be guid tae yer mammy, is published by Unbound in June.
Silas Hawkins continues the family voiceover tradition (he is the son of Peter 'Dalek' Hawkins & Rosemary 'Emergency Ward 10' Miller). Favourite voice credits: Summerton Mill, Latin Music USA & podcasts for The Register. Website: silashawkins.com
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