After the euphoria of Friday evening's events it's back to the more normal routine again... apart from that little thing called National Novel Writing Month. Not really sure if it's going well or not; I seem to be writing a different story from the one I set out to, but one of the characters is intriguing me - he's in a bit of bother and I'm interested enough to see how he gets out of it to stick around.
We're also not far off the launch party for Writers in the Rafter's year end anthology, this year called 'In Sight of Fallen Walls', and being based on Kirkstall Abbey, Abbey House Museum and its environs.
So I'd like to reprise for you the story I had in 'A journey Through Leeds', the first WITR collection.
Enjoy.
The
Ghostwalker
Alexandra took a moment to allow the group to
gather together in front of her, supremely aware of the impact of the vista
behind the place where she stood. Church
Gardens had formerly been a graveyard attached to Leeds Parish Church opposite,
and at her back, bedded into the side of the embankment that rose to support
the railway line, the flat slabs of dozens of Victorian gravestones tessellated
the slope, ran out around her feet like graffitied paving, the dark lettering
in stark relief under the winter night’s streetlamp glare.
‘And so, my friends, as our Leeds Ghostwalk
draws to its close, I will leave you with one last thought. Behind me, you see the gravestones of those
whose eternal rest was rudely interrupted by the building of the railway;
although the stones have been retained, they no longer cover the bodies for
which they were intended. Rumour has it,
that these souls no longer sleep quietly, that they wander, looking to find
where their markers have gone…’
She paused, allowing a silence to drop
between herself and her audience before she spoke again.
‘But as you leave for home, remember this; no
matter how terrible the stories you’ve heard tonight, bear always in mind: it’s
not the dead we need to fear, but the living. Goodnight and have a safe journey
home.’
Inclining her head towards them, a gesture of
finality and dismissal, she walked swiftly away and turned abruptly into Church
Lane where she ducked into the shadow cast by the arch of the viaduct; someone
always lingered afterwards, a local historian or a ghost hunter wanting to
cross examine her about the stories and stepping out of sight for a few minutes
was the easiest way of avoiding them.
After a suitable time had passed, she emerged
from her lurking place.
‘I was beginning to wonder if anything had
happened to you in there,’ a voice accosted her. She whipped her head round and halted,
stifling a sigh. Hiding didn’t always work, and now she would have to take a
moment to listen; until she got to the office and handed in the tally of the
night’s customers, she was officially still working.
The owner of the voice was propped against
the low wall of the gardens, eyeing her with a friendly smile. His long legs were crossed neatly at the
ankle and he wore a dark pea jacket with a scarf at his throat. In the streetlight, his face had a sharp,
carved look and his hair glinted pale.
He looked clean and respectable, unlike most of the eccentrics who
usually lay in wait.
She smiled, aiming for
friendly-but-professional.
‘Was there something you wanted to know about
the walk?’ she asked.
‘It was very… entertaining,’ he said, his
mouth working around a smile of his own.
‘But they know, you know. When
you’re making it up. They’re not
stupid.’
‘Well,’ she began, her voice falling back
into crisp, professional tones. ‘We do try to check all the stories before
including them. But absolute evidence is
difficult to come by, and so the best we can hope for is to provide an
informative glimpse into the mysteries of the city’s past. Certainly, people do comment afterwards from
time to time, but…’
He shook his head. ‘I meant the ghosts,’ he said. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you
mentioned the Grey Lady who haunts the Palace, over there?’ He nodded his head in the direction of the
pub. ‘And you added that it’s been said she could even be the ghost of a man in
drag… have you stopped to think about her feelings? Isn’t it bad enough to be
stuck here, haunting, without being insulted by a… a tour guide?’
Bewildered, Alex shook her head numbly.
He shrugged.
‘Well, don’t worry about that now.
Although I was wondering why you didn’t include Tottery Annie? Or Cornelius Prendergast, crushed to death in
a mudslide when the viaduct was built? Not a mark on him when he was dug out,
but every one of his ribs had smashed down into his flesh and a look of such peace
on his face… Or Bilious Bill the Butcher
of Black Bull Street, choked to death on a chunk of his own black pudding?’
She shook her head again, but this time had
an answer ready.
‘Unfortunately, although there are lots of
really interesting ghost stories, some of the locations are a little out of the
way; it’s a ghostwalk, not a ghost route march, and Black Bull Street
‘Ah, but you could combine it with Jenny
White’s Steps…’
‘We could, but there’s never been any
suggestion that Jenny actually haunts…’
‘You’ve heard of her, though? I’m impressed…’
‘Poor Jenny is said to have committed suicide
by throwing herself down some steps into the river after ‘finding marriage vows
as false as dicer’s oaths’…
‘Tottery Annie, though,’ he said. ‘Surely you’ve heard of her? No? Met her end in Pitfall Street
Pushing himself away from the wall, he strode
off along The Calls, turning his head to call over his shoulder to her. ‘It’s not far.’
Shaking her head at his back, she began to
follow.
‘It had better not be,’ she said, catching
him up.
He led the way along the street, past the
tired white façade of Atkinson’s Builders’ Merchants, past the mock-old brickwork
of Chancellor’s Court, past the New Penny pub. At the corner of the refurbished
buildings that made up Riverside
Court
‘There was a water mill along here, pumping
water up to Briggate and supplying electricity in the process; Tottery Annie would
have known it as she worked Call Lane and Kirkgate, in and out of the yards…’
‘Was she a hawker, then?’
He gave a twisted smile. ‘In a fashion. She only had one thing to sell, though.’ He
stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. ‘Or, rather, rent, I suppose… It
was hard, then, if you weren’t wealthy or healthy. And Annie had one leg
shorter than the other, result of a fall when she was younger. She was lucky, really – you could die of a
broken leg, those days.’
‘And that’s why they called her Tottery
Annie?’
‘That, and the fact that she liked a sip of
gin to keep out the cold. Step back a minute…’
‘Why?’ she asked as she tucked herself into a
corner of shadow beside him.
‘Wait,’ he said softly. ‘Just watch, now. Look. Towards Call Lane
Something in his voice sent a shiver
running through her and it was almost with a sense of dread that she peered out
to see.
‘Oh, my… look! There’s… Is that..?’ A chill
gripped her as she peered through the dimness under the railway bridge where a
small woman was wandering unevenly along.
There was a wide brimmed bonnet, a long dark dress with a shawl
over. The figure was humming or mumbling
under her breath and progressed in a series of slow lurches.
In her shock, Alex had grabbed hold of her
companion’s arm and now he pulled her gently back even further.
‘Best not disturb her just yet. She’s not done.’
‘Not..? You mean that’s..?’
‘Hush.
Wait.’
Unsteadily the woman approached, went past.
Alex caught a glimpse of straggling hair, the glint of an eye, and she was
gone. Peering out, Alex saw her weave
her way round the corner on the left.
‘Pitfall
Street
Questions thronging her, Alex followed him
along to the corner. Pitfall Street ran steeply down to the river and Tottery
Annie was hurrying unsteadily down the slope, keeping up a low monologue as she
went, as if her feet were carrying her away.
‘What can we do?’ Alex whispered. ‘It is her,
isn’t it? Can we stop her?’
‘Yes, that’s Annie.’ He ghosted a sigh. ‘But we
can’t help; we can only witness.’
To Alexandra’s horror, Tottery Annie came up
hard against the railing that was all that separated her from the river below
with a squawk and a gasp; for a moment she stayed there, hand across her chest
as she caught her breath.
Then she spoke, her voice suspicious,
anxious.
‘Who’s there? Billy, was that you?’
‘Can she see us?’ Alex asked.
‘Hush.
No; she’s talking to someone else… Billy doesn’t haunt, that’s why we
don’t see him as well.’
‘Billy, what..? No, Billy, don’t be daft…’
Annie’s voice trailed off into a shriek and
Alex watched with despair as the little woman bent backwards over the railing,
teetering for a long moment before she pivoted over and down. There was a soft, distant splash.
As if released from paralysis, Alex rushed
forward down Pitfall Street
‘She’s not there, she’s gone, Annie’s gone…!’
‘Of course she’s gone,’ her companion said,
his voice soft in her ear. ‘Every night
she relives her fall, and then she’s free. Until the next night.’
‘But I heard a splash! But the river’s low
here, she couldn’t have drowned…’
‘The levels were different then. But she didn’t drown, not at first, anyway;
the water was too shallow for that. Instead, she broke her neck when she fell,
and eventually, when the water mill discharged, it washed her free and she
drifted into the central channel where the water soaked into her skirts and
dragged her slowly down…’
Alex shuddered. ‘That’s horrible!’ she protested.
‘You tell ghost stories for a living and it
never occurred to you how awful these stories are until now?’
‘Well, I…’ She faltered. ‘I suppose I thought of them as just that;
only stories. I don’t - didn’t even
believe half of what I… ’
He gave her an odd look and set off back
along The Calls; she followed, feeling in some odd way that she ought to
apologise, that she’d let him down, somehow, and as she followed him, she
thought again about all the ghosts that featured in her walks; the pianist in
the City Varieties Theatre, the Bond Street Centre cobbler, said to resemble
David Bowie… the unfortunate, man-faced Grey Lady of the Palace public house.
‘Wait.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘It’s just… I’ve never seen a ghost
before. Three years I’ve been doing this
and poor Tottery Annie’s my first.’
He gave her a long stare.
‘Not quite the first,’ he said softly, and
strode off again, turning when he got to the wall where she’d first seen him.
‘Has it occurred to you to wonder why this is the first time?’
‘I…’
Gently he took her arm and led her into the
darkness of the Church Lane
‘…straight
down, caught on the metal bollard… flipped over, somehow, and she was under…’
‘Driver
just took off…’
‘I know
her, it’s the Ghostwalk woman; we only just left her…’
Alex turned horrified eyes on her companion.
‘That’s not…?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice quiet with
compassion. ‘But don’t worry. You never
knew what hit you.’
***
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