Jim wiped his eyes and packed away his things. He left the library and headed for the Metro station. A day in town had suddenly lost its attraction. Approaching Haymarket Metro station, an image caught his eye. White down jacket, blue jeans – instinctively, he called.

“Margueria!” The young woman turned, a puzzled look on her face. A stranger’s face. Jim looked down at the black and white Converse on her feet. Suddenly, everything had lost its purpose. 

“I’m so sorry, I thought…” Picking up the free paper, he knew that his life would never be the same again. He couldn’t just file away the last few hours. He sat on one of the new benches which had been constructed at considerable expense. 

Bringing the heart back to your Northumberland Street: 

Creating a calm and welcoming space for all,

the sign read. Placing his elbows on his knees, he buried his head in his hands.

‘When we die, we die. That’s it. I have this on good authority. There is no afterlife, no Heaven and no Hell.’

He felt like he’d been handed the Poisoned Chalice and the Holy Grail in one sentence.

‘Spirits are not ghosts. Nor are they dead people who can’t find rest in the other world. There is no other world.’

Her statement could have been just so many words, but it gained currency through the life of a young Yemeni woman thousands of miles away. It began to dawn on him that there wasn’t anything else. Life was, indeed, precious.

“Y’alright mate?” A voice interrupted his thoughts. Looking up he vaguely recognised one of the many homeless people who frequented this area. The man could have been aged between twenty and fifty. His clothes, and appearance spelled grime. The only thing which shone through the dull, matt aspect were his crystal clear blue eyes. Jim recalled his name, Alan. He had a dog called Fanny and Jim had written a story about them both following a real life incident nearby.

“Oh, hi young Alan. Where’s Fanny?” Jim’s response took the lad by surprise, followed by a flash of recognition.

“Jim? The coat man! Agh, I lost her two weeks ago. Hit by a 308 bus just over there.” He pointed towards the barrier at the nearby bus station. A shrivelled, brown bunch of flowers hung from the rail.

“I’m sorry to hear that. She was a good ‘un.” Jim replied, taking out his wallet and peeling out a ten pound note. “Replace the flowers and get yourself a pie.”

“Cheers mate. I’ve still got the coat you gave me. Very handy on the cold nights up the park,” Alan said, folding the note up and shoving it in his threadbare jeans pocket. “Now you take care. You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Kind of. Take care too, young fella.” He watched the lad shuffle off to the nearby bakery. As he did, he wondered if animals became spirits as he pictured the poor dog under the wheels of the bus. Another question for Marguerita, fuelled his desire to see her again.

*

The train rumbled into the station. There were people around him, but they no longer existed in their previous form. As he boarded the carriage, Charles Darwin came to mind. On the Origin of Species had lit a bonfire under the religious establishment at the time. What Jim had witnessed that morning was an inferno. Something else nagged at him.

When we are alive, our brains are full of millions of thoughts, hopes, dreams and plans. When the brain suffers fatal trauma, most of these are lost. The last such notion escapes the confines of the meninges, to be released into the environment.

What happens to the majority of people who die a natural death or are taken slowly from a progressive disease such as cancer or MS? Jim thought of his late wife, who lasted three months from diagnosis to her last breath. The questions began to multiply in his mind along with the desire to see Marguerita again. He sat back, closed his eyes and waited for a spirit–nothing.

He took his book out of the backpack and immersed himself in Stevenson. The words leapt from the page, unlike that morning. He could empathise with the great man’s thoughts like never before. In fact, everything in his life appeared different. Things that had seemed important became less than trivial. What was paramount to Jim was how to connect with Marguerita. He decided that he would make it his mission, the next day, to track her down. The train announcement sounded for his station. The place where it had all begun.

As Jim exited the carriage, he recognised the gang of youths from the other platform earlier. He decided to engage with them, while everyone else gave them a wide berth, having a good knowledge of streetwear thanks to regular conversations with his grandson.

Jim addressed the boy who’d been sitting on the ticket machine. He was dressed to merge into a jungle environment, in natural shades of green.

“Jordan Retro Family Affairs, are they threes?” The older man asked the lad, nodding at the trainers that had been millimetres from his face that morning.

“Aye, what business is it of yours, Grandad?” The youth sneered, looking at his three pals for support.

“They’ve taken a dip in the market. Is that why you’re out in them?” he continued, gaining eye contact. He knew that collecting trainers was a popular custom of the youth of today. It was very rare to see such a valuable pair on the boy’s feet. The young man looked down, placing one foot behind the other as if trying to hide his footwear.

“Suppose so.” His intonation softened to that of glass. His mates became animated, and the tables turned on him.

“I told him not to get old man’s trainers,” one of them laughed. They all chuckled together, and Jim joined in their levity.

“Take no notice, you look cool,” Jim quipped, walking away. He wondered what sort of life they would have before the light was switched off permanently. He desperately wanted to tell them to cherish every second of what life they had left.

“Thanks, Grandad,” the first youth called to the derision of his mates. Jim smiled to himself. One-nil to the spirits, he pondered as he exited the station. For the first time in months, Good, Sober, With Her  Jim joined him on the way home, and he decided to check out the Mandi recipe.

*

Jim dried the last items of cutlery and put the leftovers in the fridge. A warm feeling embraced him above the waist, where the Yemeni delicacy was digesting. He offered a silent prayer to Fatima for the first decent meal he’d had in months. Then it hit him again.

Prayer? She no longer exists in any form, physical or spiritual. 

Recalling the search engine pages from earlier, Jim lamented the pointlessness of war. Most conflicts revolve around religious differences; the Middle East and Africa host many such disputes. Then there’s colonialism and the so-called super powers who interfere in other countries’ affairs with devastating results. If only they knew. So many lives would be saved to appreciate and savour until it was time to leave this existence for good.

Jim’s thoughts wandered to his late wife. He desperately tried to recall their time together. Something which usually came of its own accord. But there was nothing forthcoming, not even her image. He settled in the living room of his small flat and opened his book. As the story took shape, he recalled Stevenson’s brief encounter with Atheism before relenting and embracing Christianity again. He had been so close to what Jim now knew to be the truth.

*

Closing the book at the final page, Jim suffered a paradoxical dilemma. He was desperate for his next encounter but dreading what suffering it would bring with it. In addition, the questions were building in his head. This fuelled his other desire, to be reunited with the young Mexican woman. He turned on the TV as a distraction, in time to witness the six o’clock news. He shuddered at the images of bombed-out buildings and the pall of black smoke over Gaza. The banner below screamed out.

More than one hundred children were attending the school when it was hit by an Israeli missile.

Jim switched off the set and slid down the sofa, hands over his eyes.

‘Pointless, pointless, pointless!’

There was no side to take in this conflict. Both parties were in the wrong, and the only ones to suffer were the innocent, whether it be the original hostages or the people of Gaza. Jim imagined the spirits being released in their hundreds every day, both there and across the globe. Any melancholy concerning his own trivial life was obliterated with the concrete and steel reinforcement of those Palestinian homes.

He padded to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He needed to rest, physically and mentally. Half an hour later, he was lying under the duvet, awaiting an itch or prickle. Any irritation to signal the materialisation of his next ethereal visitor. Sleep came and brought with it vivid dreams of catastrophic death around the world.