Wilbur had known, deep down, that he was never actually going to jump that night. He just wanted to feel close to death for a little while. That was why he had walked so far across town after drinking a whisky and six lonely pints of stout in the Dog and Partridge.
‘You need to find a way to live,’ his unheard ghost told him as he was standing there, looking out at the city.
The dark shapes of the cathedral and Bramall Lane football ground could just be seen amid the scattering of city lights, which seemed like fallen constellations, reflecting the night sky.
He turned away from the direction of Middlewood Hospital, then again from the direction of Ecclesall Road. There were whole areas of the city that leaked out a kind of pain for him now, and Ecclesall Road was obviously the worst. He had avoided it – completely – since the night of Dougie’s death. At night he would sometimes wake up, having had a nightmare flashback of his brother’s body crumpled like a concertina at the base of the large sycamore tree.
His home city was full of alarming reminders, and yet he couldn’t leave. His work at Bagdale’s occupied him but his life felt stuck. He felt a kind of soul paralysis.
They were planning to put men on a rocket to the moon, and yet he couldn’t get a ticket out of Sheffield.
It was true that he needed to stay and be near his mother, but there was also something else enclosing him. A tight claustrophobia, as though he didn’t aspire to anything any more. He would have swapped every dream to have Dougie back, so the dreams had lost their power. That night in the quiet and the dark, sobering up in the cold air and contemplating everything, he felt entirely alone. A loneliness that was physical. He felt pathetic.
He thought of himself in some alternate timeline, studying on the sunny quad at Balliol College. He knew, logically, that it probably rained as much in Oxford as it did in Sheffield – or almost – but in his imagination Oxford was always basking in sunshine.
‘Listen,’ the Ghost said, walking across the concrete to him in his soundless sandals. ‘I know you can hear me. Even if you can’tactuallyhear me I sense these words can get in. Over there is the Palace Cinema. And inside is Maggie. And your future. And you will one day marry her … And she is the very best thing that will ever happen to you. And for a little while, you will make each other happy.’ The Ghost thought about what he was saying. And he also thought about the life that waited for his young self. Suddenly, it all became clear, where he had gone wrong. ‘You aren’t going to jump. But you have to listen to me. This darkness will chase you. You will race away from yourself … But it could have been different … You couldbedifferent …’
None of these words were heard, but the cold air was sobering and eventually Wilbur walked back down the fire escape.
There was a lot he wasn’t letting himself feel. And he hadn’t quite worked out the point of living. But at least he wasn’t ruling out the possibility there was one, and in fact he went home that night and began to read a long book that would slowly help to save his life.
The Grapes of Wrathby John Steinbeck.
Wilbur wasn’t American. He wasn’t from Oklahoma and never had to endure the Dust Bowl or the Great Depression. But thattale of resilience and poverty and community was one he needed more than any other.
And the fact that he had chosen to take that book home, of all the books in the shop, made him eventually believe in some kind of higher power or cosmic order. No other book at that time would have been able to reach him, but that one did. It almost made him forgive himself.
‘There ain’t no sin and there ain’t no virtue. There’s just stuff people do …’
The Evaporation of Youth
The Ghost gazed quietly at the portrait on the train as the face became puffy and a frown line on his forehead deepened into a permanent crease. He stared into his eyes and their shine dimmed, like a distant moon disappearing behind a cloud.
Clocks
The Ghost stood in the middle of Bagdale’s Bookshop.
At first he wondered why the train had stopped here.
After all, he was just watching himself stock up a table full of Agatha Christie novels. In what way would this help him understand his life?
It was a Friday. Wilbur was still only employed on a part-time basis. Three days a week. Barely enough to cover his beer budget, let alone anything else.
He was looking hungover, noted his ghost.
And uptight, with a permanently clenched expression.
Mr Bagdale came over. He stared at him through his thick lenses for a while, saying nothing. Then, ‘Did the clocks change, lad?’
‘What?’
‘Well, you must know something I don’t, because I was in here at nine o’clock this morning and I looked around and there was no Master Budd, not anywhere at all.’
‘I was a little late, I’m sorry. My mam wasn’t well in the night. She’s only just back from hospital.’
Mr Bagdale’s wild bushy eyebrows raised with suspicion. ‘You know what they say … Never ruin an apology with an excuse. Wise words indeed, Master Budd. Wise words indeed.’
‘Yes, Mr Bagdale.’
