Writing Magazine Grand Prize 2021 - Winner

‘Isaw a ghost, once, perhaps.
It was in daylight, right in front of me, in a coffee shop off the high street. There were others around, it wasn’t just me. I don’t know what they saw. I was sat in a corner at one of the fake wooden tables, scattered with tiny crumbs and screws of torn paper napkins, and faint brown circles from the base of my cup, like animal tracks. Janet had a name for them, those circles, and I was trying to remember what it was.
‘Danny? Danny, are you listening?’
I looked up into Janet’s face and saw her expression. It was one I’d been seeing a lot recently, I thought. The one that said she wasn’t angry, or cross, or even disappointed, but felt that there was something that needed to be resolved; and that we could resolve it, but we both had to just focus, if we could. If we could try. I nodded.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
She sighed. ‘Well… it’s what they say, isn’t it? It’s not you, it’s me.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘But it really is, I promise. I’m just in a place where, well, things aren’t the same anymore. With me, I mean. This new job, and the travel, and… and…’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That is what they say.’
Her brow crinkled. ‘Danny, it’s just—’
A door clattered behind her, and a man entered, and I watched him. Just for somewhere to look, really, somewhere that wasn’t Janet. He struggled with the door; he seemed to find it very heavy, and one of the large metal handles had caught in his jacket. No one came to help him. I wondered if I should go across, but I didn’t, and eventually he disentangled himself and staggered inside. He stood just inside the doorway and ran his hands along the side of his head as if to smooth his hair down. His hair was black, and long, curling at the base of his neck, and his face was long, and he had long, pale fingers.
‘I mean, it hasn’t been easy for either of us, these past few months, has it? You’ve not been happy. I’ve not been happy.’
‘I was happy,’ I said, surprised. ‘I thought I was happy. I thought you were.’
She lifted her hands in a half-shrug. ‘Well, really, Danny, how could you…’
My eyes drifted towards the man again. He was wearing a dark-green linen jacket, far too large for him; it hung around his thin shoulders like a sheet on a clothes horse, slipping from side to side. Underneath was a T-shirt with a print faded almost to nothing. His trousers were black, and too short, and on his feet were black pumps and no socks. His ankles flashed pale and white. Was he homeless, come in for the warmth? But there was something about his face that didn’t seem right. His eyes were very round, the pupils a flat pale green that reflected the lights of the café. He had high cheekbones, and his mouth sagged, hanging open with something like fear, but something like delight, too. He gazed at the menu above the counter, and the pictures of coffee cups, as if they were holy relics.
‘And I know that what happened with work wasn’t your fault. It’s not that, believe me.’
I blinked. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you know, the promotion,’ said Janet. She seemed embarrassed. ‘I mean, it wasn’t your fault, I’m sure, it just—’
‘Oh.’ I shrugged. ‘Hadn’t really thought about it.’
She shook her head. ‘But— But I thought that was why you were being, you know. Like this.’
‘Like what?’
She blew a sharp breath of exasperation. ‘Danny, we were just talking about this. This distance. With you. Like at Christmas, I mean, I know you don’t like Dad, but you could have made some effort…’
The man was still staring at the board, entranced. Customers bustled around him and he twitched at each one, as if not knowing what they were there for, or scared they might hurt him. But they ignored him, and he relaxed. His skin was waxy in the warm café. He must have been very cold outside in that thin coat, the rain was freezing, although in fact he appeared completely dry. He glanced away from the board and around the room, and for a moment we made eye contact. I looked back at Janet.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know I’ve not been my best recently.’
Her face collapsed into sympathetic misery. ‘Oh, Danny, please, I didn’t mean to…’ She moved one hand hesitantly forward, in vague exploration, not quite finding mine. ‘It’s awful, this, isn’t it? I’m sorry.’
‘But really, isn’t this something we can sort out?’ I tried. ‘Like before? We can do that, can’t we? Remember, we were going to try a retreat, get some time to ourselves. Remember, we said we’d do that?’
She paused. Then her hand returned to her side of the table, and her face darkened. ‘Yes, Danny,’ she said, quietly. ‘You said you were going to arrange something.’
‘Exactly—’
‘You said that six months ago.’
‘…Ah.’ I nodded. ‘Yeah.’
The man was watching a couple in the corner, two teenagers eking out their drinks and cooing over them. He stared at them in frank fascination, his mouth an ‘o’ of wonder.
Janet shook her head. ‘Look, isn’t there anything you want to say?’
I thought. I wondered how I felt, but everything seemed far away and happening to someone else. She was always the one with the energy, I was always the calm. I’d thought that made us a team. Now, when I needed energy, I’d lost the knack of it. I studied the table.
‘Coffee ghosts,’ I said. She frowned, and I gestured at the faint brown rings under my cup. ‘That’s what you called them, remember? When we first met. You were so quick. I loved that.’
I shrugged. ‘I loved you.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Danny…’
The man, perhaps swept along by the other customers, had joined the queue, and was shuffling towards the front. He was still looking around, as if uncertain. The people in front walked away, and the barista smiled at him.
‘What can I get you?’ she asked.
He gaped at her.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. His voice was thin, and dry as fireplace ash. It carried a strange accent, perhaps posh, perhaps old. ‘I’m not…’ He hesitated, then pointed to the tray carried by the people before him. ‘That?’
The barista frowned in puzzlement. ‘Large cappuccino?’
‘Yes?’ he whispered.
‘And a pot of tea?’
He swallowed, and nodded. The barista shrugged. She rang it up. ‘That will be four seventy-five, please.’
His lips moved, and I was sure he wasn’t going to pay, but then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, of all kinds. They were filthy, and some looked far too ancient and small to be proper currency. The barista watched in horrified politeness as he counted out the newer ones and carefully pushed them across the counter. He seemed to concentrate hard as he pushed them.
‘What are you doing, Danny?’ I snapped back to Janet. ‘You’re drifting,’ she said. ‘Work… us… I mean, what is it you want?’
I opened my mouth to answer, but couldn’t think of anything to say. She watched me.
‘It was nice, at first,’ she said at last. ‘I mean, when we met. You know me, I’m always rushing about, arranging stuff, parties, mad crazy, right?’ She smiled. ‘You were so calm. It was… nice. It was like I could relax with you. I thought… But we don’t do anything. We stay in. We sit in coffee shops. We’re wasting our lives, Danny! I want to do something.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, anything!’
Behind Janet, the man received his tray, a brimming coffee cup and a white teapot, and regarded them with that same expression of delight and terror. The barista pushed it forward, and he retreated a half-step, then steadied himself. He placed his hands at the sides of the tray and gripped it in shaking fingers.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked the barista. ‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, thank you, madam.’
He glared at his hands until they stopped trembling, and then – as if with every ounce of his strength – he lifted the tray and tottered a few steps away.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Janet.
I sighed. ‘It’s okay. I understand.’
Now her face twisted. ‘That’s it? You understand? That’s all you’ve got to say?’
‘Well, what do you want me to say?’
‘For God’s sake, doesn’t this mean anything to you?’
‘I—’
There was a crash.
The man stood alone in the middle of the café, shaking and sweating. At his feet was the tray, and the coffee cup and the teapot smashed on the floor, scalding liquid everywhere, a teaspoon bouncing away with a tinny noise like a bell. Janet turned and stared. Everyone stared. The man’s face was ridden with dismay.
‘I’m… I’m so sorry,’ he said, in his strange accent. ‘I’m so terribly sorry, I—’
The barista came around the counter with a tub and a cloth.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘Not to worry.’
‘I just wanted to… to feel again…’ He stopped. His trousers were soaked to the knee, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was… faint, suddenly. Washed out, as if the light could shine right through him, and his hands, he lifted his hands and I could see, I thought I could see…
Janet turned back, her lips pursed. She said nothing. The barista was still collecting broken crockery, and someone at the back was laughing. The door swung open and the man was there, heaving at the handle. He squeezed through the gap, still looking back in shame, and the rain lashed around him, but not on him, and for a moment, I was sure, I saw the handle under his hand, through his hand; and his green jacket was pale and faint but more like velvet, and the white T-shirt was a blouse with a ruffled throat…
And then he was gone.
Janet fastened her scarf and jacket. She seemed annoyed, but also relieved, as if having completed an unpleasant job. I felt a little sorry for her. It couldn’t have been easy.
‘Most of my stuff is sorted,’ she said. ‘I’ve been boxing it in the back room. I’ll come around and collect it sometime when you’re on shift. I’ll leave the key.’
I sighed. ‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘Well, then.’ She stood, and hesitated. ‘Good, ah. Good luck.’
I shrugged. ‘Thank you.’
Then she left, and I was staring at the table, and at my own hands, examining them in the light. They seemed solid, but I watched them for a long time, wondering if they were about to change, wondering if she would come back, wondering what to do.
The coffee ghosts were still there on the table. After a while, I took my napkin and rubbed them away.