Ghost stories are rubbish, complete bollocks, every word – you know the ones I mean. We don’t appear in wavery form or stare out of mirrors. We don’t rescue the lives of those who loved us, drawing a heroic father to a drowning younger sibling, like a barking dog. Poltergeists? Don’t get me started. If I could move objects I would have done it by now; it’s been over eighteen months and it feels a lot longer. If I had the power to move objects, I could have entertained myself at least, pushing people off platforms when I was in a malevolent mood, tipping a cup of tea into the lap of a bad-tempered commuter in the Pumpkin Cafe when I was feeling impish. It must be a lot of pressure, having that kind of power or any kind of power: you’d have to be wicked or cute and, let me tell you, I don’t fancy either.

I’m feeling bitter, as I sit by Lockhart. If I had one fraction of a poltergeist’s power, I could communicate the whole story to him – I could depress the keys on his computer, one by one, as he sat aghast in his seat. I can just picture it – him pushing the chair back and gripping the arms as, on his screen, a few words appear, then sentence after sentence. I could tell him the whole story. He would be pale and shaking and call out in a high voice to the officer in the next door room, ‘Er, Sarge, do you want to come here a minute …?’

All I can do is drift sadly away … I leave the police building, cross the road, and wait for Andrew to come back from work.

*

I see him straight away, exiting the station through the open barriers, just one young man in a suit a little too large for him, average height, slender build, an office worker amongst all the other commuters in suits and macs. I follow him, just like I did that first time, staying a few paces behind and watching his back – something is bothering him again, I can tell by the slope of his shoulders. His head is tilted a little as he walks, as if he is facing a hard oncoming wind and needs the momentum to carry him forward.