‘What would you do if you saw a ghost?’ said Iain.
‘I would run,’ said Daial, ‘I would run like hell.’
‘I don’t know what I would do,’ said Iain, and his words seemed to echo through the silent night. ‘I might drop dead. Or I might . . . ’ He suddenly had a terrible thought. Perhaps they were ghosts themselves and the ghost who looked like a ghost to them might be a human being after all. What if a ghost came towards them and then walked through them smiling, and then they suddenly realised that they themselves were ghosts.
‘Hey, Daial,’ he said, ‘what if we are . . . ’ And then he stopped, for it seemed to him that Daial had turned all white in the frost, that his head and the rest of his body were white, and his legs and shoes were also a shining white. Daial was coming towards him with his mouth open, and where there had been a head there was only a bony skull, its interstices filled with snow. Daial was walking towards him, his hands outstretched, and they were bony without any skin on them. Daial was his enemy, he was a ghost who wished to destroy him, and that was why he had led him out to the Corner to the territory of the ghosts. Daial was not Daial at all, the real Daial was back in the house, and this was a ghost that had taken over Daial’s body in order to entice Iain to the place where he was now. Daial was a devil, a corpse.
And suddenly Iain began to run and Daial was running after him. Iain ran crazily with frantic speed but Daial was close on his heels. He was running after him and his white body was blazing with the frost and it seemed to Iain that he was stretching his bony arms towards him. They raced along the cold white road which was so hard that their shoes left no prints on it, and Iain’s heart was beating like a hammer, and then they were in the village among the ordinary lights and now they were at Daial’s door.
‘What happened?’ said Daial panting, leaning against the door, his breath coming in huge gasps.
And Iain knew at that moment that this really was Daial, whatever had happened to the other one, and that this one would think of him as a coward for the rest of his life and tell his pals how Iain had run away. And he was even more frightened than he had been before, till he knew what he had to do.
‘I saw it,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Daial, his eyes growing round with excitement.
‘I saw it,’ said Iain again. ‘Didn’t you see it?’
‘What?’ said Daial. ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw it,’ said Iain, ‘but maybe you don’t believe me.’
‘What did you see?’ said Daial. ‘I believe you.’
‘It was a coffin,’ said Iain. ‘I saw a funeral.’
‘A funeral?’
‘I saw a funeral,’ said Iain, ‘and there were people in black hats and black coats. You know?’
Daial nodded eagerly.
‘And I saw them carrying a coffin,’ said Iain, ‘and it was all yellow, and it was coming straight for you. You didn’t see it. I know you didn’t see it. And I saw the coffin open and I saw the face in the coffin.’
‘The face?’ said Daial and his eyes were fixed on Iain’s face, and Iain could hardly hear what he was saying.
‘And do you know whose face it was?’
‘No,’ said Daial breathlessly. ‘Whose face was it? Tell me, tell me.’
‘It was your face,’ said Iain in a high voice. ‘It was your face.’
Daial paled.
‘But it’s all right,’ said Iain. ‘I saved you. If the coffin doesn’t touch you you’re all right. I read that in a book. That’s why I ran. I knew that you would run after me. And you did. And I saved you. For the coffin would have touched you if I hadn’t run.’
‘Are you sure,’ said Daial, in a frightened trembling voice. ‘Are you sure that I’m saved?’
‘Yes,’ said Iain. ‘I saw the edge of the coffin and it was almost touching the patch on your trousers and then I ran.’
‘Gosh,’ said Daial, ‘that’s something. You must have the second sight. It almost touched me. Gosh. Wait till I tell the boys tomorrow. You wait.’ And then as if it had just occurred to him he said, ‘You believe in ghosts now, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I believe,’ said Iain.
‘There you are then,’ said Daial. ‘Gosh. Are you sure if they don’t touch you you’re all right?’
‘Cross my heart,’ said Iain.
A Day in the Life of . . .
She paid off the taxi she had taken from the railway station and went into the hotel. She felt sweaty and the palm of her right hand slid along the handle of the red case. She put the case down and waited for the girl at the reception desk to stop phoning. She had been in the hotel three or four times before in the past two years but she didn’t expect that anyone would recognise her, and this girl seemed new as if she were a schoolgirl working there during holiday time. As she waited she looked around her. There were some chairs with olive green covers at one side of the lobby and on one an old man lying asleep, his mouth open, his feet stretched out, and what looked like a guidebook fallen open on the floor beside him. Her eyes traversed him, following the wall upward to the high ceiling with its white edgings like wedding cake. She turned back to the girl who was looking at her enquiringly. She was a very pretty girl with dark pigtails and bare tanned arms.
‘A single room,’ she said. ‘Have you a single room?’
‘I think we can manage that,’ said the girl brightly, turning to a plan of the hotel hung up on a sheet on the wall.
