Jim woke without the usual post alcohol fug. For the first time in many months, he could think clearly. His first thought was food, a nice bowl of oatmeal with honey and raspberries. He awoke to another world, something clean and clinical. Every second seemed to count in this new existence. Watching over him was the image of Marguerita, his guardian, but not an Angel. In his mind, they were two in seven billion,
‘When I said our synchronicity was rare, I did it a disservice. It is unique. Never before have I had 100% compatibility with a spiritual experience.’
As Jim prepared breakfast, he gazed around his little flat. It was as if the place had welcomed him back as the home he’d chosen after losing his wife. Safe and secure. Today was the day he’d find Marguerita.
*
He strolled determinedly the half mile to the Metro station; the cold crisp air of late November cleansed his lungs. Leaf-shaped stains dotted the dry pavement, in contrast to the previous day. Winter was pushing at the door of twenty twenty-three. His Pop card was fully topped up, the train was on time, and he was on a mission.
He was looking forward to another encounter on the Metro. Would it be an impending house purchase or anticipation of Newcastle’s next Champions League game? Above all of this, though, was a deeper anticipation: Jim was in search of his tutor, the doyenne of supernatural investigation, determined to thank her for his newfound gift. (Or was it a curse?) The good news was that with singular Jim, any thought of beer or other stimulus had vanished. Good Jim, Sober Jim.
He chatted briefly with his new friends at the ticket machine about tracksuits, trainers and general youth fashion. When the train arrived, he fist-bumped each one, then jumped aboard. It wasn’t long before he was joined by the first spirit.
Jim closed his eyes and welcomed the invisible feather that tickled his cheek. The sky was azure, the sea was blue-green and as still as a mill pond. Palls of black smoke drifted across this idyllic scene. His nose was the first to detect the smell of burning oil and fresh kerosene.
“Konichiwa,” the voice of a young boy invaded his consciousness. “For many decades, I have wandered this place. I have been swatted like an annoying housefly, scratched and rubbed. You, sir, are my first success. Arigato Guzaimas.” His words crackled and squeaked with oncoming adolescence. Then the questions started.
“Konichiwa. May I ask who you are and, erm, what happened to you? How old are–were–you?” Jim asked the young man, in his head.
“I am a small rice-paper bag containing fingernails and a lock of hair. My name is Araki Yukio. I was the youngest member of the Divine Wind Special Attack Unit. These are the gifts I left for my parents to place in the cemetery.” Although breaking, his voice was assured and confident. “I was seventeen years, two months and seventeen days old.”
“Isn’t that the Kamikaze Division of the Imperial Japanese Army Air Service?” Jim enquired, again by silent thought. He opened one eye and observed his fellow passengers’ indifference to his cerebral exchange.
“Hai, sir, I am afraid my demise was self-inflicted, and I took sixty-six Americans with me. All for nothing. The Emperor is not a God. There are no Gods,” Jim swore he could sense a sob in the youth’s final words. Then he was gone, as quickly as he’d arrived. He’d connected with a Japanese Kamikaze pilot from the second World War!
Jim began to tremble again, and his eyes pricked with tears. He took out his phone and recalled the young man’s name. Yukio. The Wikipedia page popped up through the blurring lenses of his sadness, displaying the monochrome image of a child in a pilot’s outfit, including a leather flying helmet and goggles. His face showed a steely determination, echoing the tone of the spirit’s voice, except for his tragic final words.
Araki died on May 27, 1945 when he deliberately flew his aircraft into the American warship USS Braine, killing sixty six American sailors.He was the youngest Kamikaze pilot in the war.
To communicate with such a tragic figure underlined the senseless waste of life which had transpired in the past. Jim began to question the gift the young woman had given him, which only strengthened his resolve to see her again.
‘Why me?’
Jim echoed the words of the tragic Yemeni woman. He decided to be more proactive in his search for Marguerita. He purchased some wrapping paper and adhesive tape from the stationers on Northumberland Street, then walked over to the university coffee shop and ordered a small Americano. The aroma of the coffee reminded him of his chat with Marguerita, or rather her lecture.
He wrapped the old first edition of The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in the colourful paper. It had been his pride and joy but he needed something to give the young woman for his blessing. Thirty minutes later, he was outside the Faculty of Psychology in the red-brick building of Newcastle University, his heart racing in anticipation.
He entered the reception of the faculty office straight into the clutches of the first gatekeeper. She was the stereotypical academic Secretary, all attitude and highlighter pens. This rottweiler in a twin set grinned at Jim without a hint of humour as he grasped the small parcel in his coat pocket. The gift he’d wrapped for Marguerita was his ticket into the place, as well as a thank-you for his newfound abilities. The only thing missing from the address was her surname.
“Can I help you?” The guardian growled; her chubby pink face was bereft of empathy. Help of any kind was the last thing on her mind. Jim took out his wallet and removed the plastic card.
“Good morning, James Allen. Department of Humanities, Northumbria,” he said. His identity card from last year’s Master’s was still valid for the city’s other university. She inspected the card over her gold-rimmed spectacles, pulling a face as if it had given off a noxious odour.
“Northumbria, I see.” There was no sign of the lemon she’d obviously just sucked to give her the expression she wore at the sight of the card. “What business do you have here?” she clipped like a sharp pair of scissors.
“I have a package for one of your postgrads,” Jim responded, taking the parcel from his pocket.
“Package? I’m sorry we can’t accept such things, faculty protocol.” He could hear the cogs whirring in her brain. The woman’s grin broadened with self-satisfaction, and she returned to her duties without looking up. She closed the conversation with one word. “Goodbye.”
At this point, an older woman entered the reception. The Secretary assumed a subservient demeanour as if The Almighty had appeared.
“Brenda, can you copy this file for me, please? I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” Jim took his chance to get one over on the witch.
“I was just saying to this lovely young lady. I have this package for one of your PhD students. Would it be possible to deliver it personally?” He observed the rage rising in the face of his adversary. The academic smiled warmly in contrast to her subordinate.
“Of course, if they are here. The name is?” She asked.
“James Allen, Northumbria University,” Jim responded.
“No, no, no,” chuckled the older woman, “the student.”
“Oh, sorry, Marguerita. I don’t know her surname, but she’s studying for her doctorate in the Psychology of Grief and Death.” He returned her expression.
“I can’t picture her, although I do recall the name. Are you sure she’s a current student? She could be an Alumnus or an applicant for next year. Brenda?” She turned to the Secretary, whose face was the colour of a blueberry.
“There’s no such student, Dr Brown. I’ve just told the gentleman,” she lied.
“Oh well, I’m sorry we can’t help. Can I have that for this afternoon, please?” She addressed the Secretary, then nodded at Jim before disappearing through the door from whence she’d come.
“Thank you. For nothing,” Jim said to the young woman through gritted teeth. He turned on his heels and left, crestfallen.
“Really!” He heard her shout with false indignation as the reception door slammed behind him. Jim was in a state of panic. The beautiful siren was slipping away. He needed to find somewhere to sit. Wandering the corridors, each door he came upon was locked. The card in his pocket wasn’t currency in this establishment.
Did Margurita really exist or was just another ot his Spiritual guides?