He was joking. Still, the Ghost could see there was a degree of spontaneity in him back then. Excitement and hope and a desire to turn their love into an adventure. Back then he was open to everything. Back then – even after the grief he went through – he was still wanting to feel. To a degree.
Their wedding and honeymoon had obviously come at an interesting point in his life. Yes, he had been working hard. He had thrown himself into every business opportunity. Chatting to every customer and sales rep like they were the most important person in the world. Placing the week’s new books out on the shelves himself before the shop opened. Stocking the books his customers didn’t know they wanted yet but were always satisfied to read. It was a determination that had led him to be where he was: in chargeof a booming Bagdale’s Bookshop. And one day it would be turned into a successfulchainof bookshops under the name Budd Books.
But that was the future, just one of many. Nothing back then was written in stone. Yes, sure, he had an appointment with the Yorkshire Bank on his return. And, yes, within that appointment an offer would be finalised by the manager, a damp pork pie of a man called Geoffrey Baxter. The loan to set up a second shop would be his if he wanted.
Wilbur was now in two minds, and he liked it that way. The sense of open possibility. And right now, with enough wine and Venice inside him to feel quite bohemian, he felt the pull of a more adventurous life.
‘What would we do?’
‘You could be an artist … or do art tours.’
‘And you could set up a little bookstall like that one back there on the bridge …’
The Ghost leaned in close to Wilbur and whispered in his ear: ‘You need to keep hold of this.’
This whisper seemed to cause Wilbur to brush his ear.
‘You all right, love?’ asked Maggie.
‘Oh, aye. Just a mosquito or something.’
The Ghost kept talking as they walked. Ignoring every warning Agnes had given him.
‘You need to keep hold of this feeling, Wilbur. Can you hear me? Because soon after you get home, it’s all going to go to shit. Because you’ll be scared again. Of scarcity, even though you already own a successful business. Of your nightmares starting again. You will become scared of loving Maggie with your whole heart. But you need to. Because she is the best thing that will ever happen to you …’
The Ghost was walking ahead of them now. He stopped outside a little shop on the bridge that was selling glass sculptures.
He knew this was the spot. He knew this was where he’d been seen. Or, rather, where he had seen himself.
The Ghost stayed there watching Wilbur. Not saying anything. Just watching.
And, of course, it happened.
Wilbur saw his ghost, wearing the exact same clothes he was wearing, with the same hair and sideburns. The Ghost smiled at him and waved. And Wilbur stared back, in shock.
It was then the Ghost heard the familiar whistle and chug of the Midnight Train. He turned and saw it pulling in, waiting for him on the other side of the bridge, beside the Grand Canal.
Agnes leaned out of the front cab, her face concerned. ‘Come on, Old Bean. No time to dilly-dally.’
But the Ghost just stood there and realised something. He wasn’t going to do as Agnes said. He wasn’t going to get back on that train. In fact, he had something approaching a plan.
The Rialto Bridge and the Quantum Wave Function
The Ghost started walking back the way he had come.
Agnes, however, was following him. ‘You can’t do this, Old Bean.’
‘I’m not getting back on the train. You can’t make me get on the train. Everything after this moment in my life was a mistake. This day here. This was as close as I ever got in life to heaven. So this is where I want to spend my eternity.’
He was now overtaking Wilbur and Maggie, who were crossing the central portico of the bridge and about to start walking down the ramp towards the church they were wanting to visit. Maggie, mid-stroll, tilted her head and briefly rested it on her new husband’s shoulder. She gave him a quick, concerned glance.
‘You look like you’ve had a funny turn,’ observed Maggie. ‘Like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I think I might have.’
The past wasn’t set in stone. Life wasn’t set in stone. And neither was death, thought the Ghost. He could change things.
Death was beyond time, so the past it had once left unaltered could also be altered.
