Father Ghost

By Olivia Peters

Sharon was five years old when she learned of her fathers untimely demise in his homeland Jamaica. Sharon had not been particularly moved to hear of her fathers death. She had met him just once before, and the encounter had been an unpleasant one. 'I'm glad your dead.' She proclaimed on the day of his funeral, secure in the knowledge that he could scare her no more now that he was dead, could he?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Peters
• Release date: May 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463176313

Book preview

I sat on the ground fitted between my mother's knees on the orange and brown swirly patterned carpet that grossed the floors of several households in the early seventies as she patiently combed and plaited my thick kinky hair. The smell of Dax hair grease was thick in the air. Every so often mum would take a little grease from the thick blob which she had rested on the back of her hand, to save her from dipping into the jar, and would rub some on my scalp, and then from root to tip of my hair, combing it through with a thick black plastic comb, affording no time for my comfort or her patience. Over my short years of existence I had grown use to the discomfort of having my hair washed combed and plaited and the throb of my entire scalp that always followed. The nit nurse was due at the school the next day, this had prompted my mid-week hair groom was which was usually reserved for the weekends, normally a Sunday.

The theme tune of the soap opera Crossroads sounded from the television set. The television was working properly on that night, and we could actually see the pictures effortlessly in colour. Mum often had to partake in much fiddling, twisting and manoeuvring of the television aerial for the picture to show in colour, in fact, the same process often had to take place for the picture to appear on the television at all on occasion, especially if the weather was bad; but that Thursday night, the weather outside was perfect, and so was the picture on the television screen. The opening scene of Crossroads started to play across the screen with the character Benny standing at the reception of the Crossroads hotel speaking to Miss Diane. I smiled, Benny was my favourite character; he was such a childlike character considering he was an adult.

'Turn your head straight.' Mum tried to manoeuvre my head, holding a bunch of my hair at the root and guiding my head in the direction she wanted it. I resisted a little, as turning my head would mean me not being able to see what was going on, on the television, but having to stare at the horrible purple and brown patterned paisley curtains that adorned the windows of my mother's bedroom instead. I found those curtains creepy. If I stared at them for long enough, I would swear the patterns would begin to move of their own accord, a slow and deliberate movement, twisting and turning and rotating around the fabric. One time, I had become hypnotised by the movement of the patterns, when I stared for too long. I witnessed the patterns morph into what I could only describe as paisley hedgehogs that once fully formed began to crawl off the curtains, floating down towards me in the air threatening me with horrible things, the descriptions of which I fail to remember. I had avoided looking at the curtains let alone staring at them as much as I possibly could. Mum dragged the comb through a section of my hair with what I deemed to be unnecessary force.

'Ouch, mum.' I protested.

'I did tell you to turn you head.' She replied before she muttered an apology. Her hands left my hair. My shoulders sagged, I relaxed, grateful for the temporary respite from my grooming. I rolled my head from left to right and back again, trying to ease the stiffness that had developed in my neck and returned to watching the television until mum decided to resume the combing of my hair. She sniffed loudly behind me after some minutes had passed and Crossroads had cut to a commercial break. I did not turn around to see if she was alright, I already knew that she was crying.

She had been trying to hide the fact that she was upset ever since I had gotten home from school that evening. She had told me she had received a collect call from Jamaica in the day informing her that my father had died following a road accident, there was no other details of when the accident had happened, was anyone else involved nothing, he was dead and that was it. I had no real reaction to the news. I had stared at her a little blankly not quite sure what to say, so I apologised. She had smiled. The light brown skin of her face was blotchy, and there were dark circles around her eyes, the whites of her eyes were bloodshot, signs that she had cried probably for a long time that day. The sound of the phone ringing had broken our silence. Mum had reached into her handbag and handed me a Twix chocolate bar which I accepted gratefully, and found much more interesting than the news of my father's demise. I munched happily on the chocolate as mum stood below the yellowing black and white picture of my father that hung on the wall in the living room while she chatted on the phone relaying the news of my father's death to whoever had called her. Her distraction had allowed me to take the remainder of the chocolate upstairs into her bedroom without her noticing, though she had told me off for my action afterwards.

A few minutes passed and mum recomposed herself enough to continue the grooming of my hair, my eyes away from the television and back to the paisley curtains. I closed my eyes rather than staring at the monstrosity that hung before me as I tried to remember what my father looked like. I was five years old at the time of his death, my only memory of my father was of years before when I was in my cot, and he had popped into my room for a moment to say hello.

Chapter Two

The weekend following the death of my father came around all too quickly for my liking. I normally did not mind the weekends, I enjoyed having a sleep in like any other person, but this weekend in particular I knew was going to be irksome. The number of phone calls that came to mum over two days increased fourfold to the norm’ for that period of time, and each one of those phone calls ended with the dreaded words to me anyway, 'Yes, see you Saturday.' I managed to have my wash, and my breakfast, and watch Saturday morning children's TV before the foretold visitors began to arrive. By 1pm the living room the kitchen and the hallway was full of people offering their condolences, expressing their shock at mum's news. 'Anything me can help you with, anything at all, just ask you hear.' Mum was the centre of attention, playing hostess the best she could with everyone wanting to speak to her, wanting more information about the accident than she had to offer, wanting information about a funeral that she would not be permitted to attend, under the circumstances of her relationship with my late father. My father was living at his home in Jamaica with his wife and their four children at the time of his untimely demise. The story as I heard it was that he had been returning home from a blues party in town when he had driven his car off road and down into a gully at speed. He had been rescued, but had died well before his arrival to hospital. His wife had taken his death badly. She had been sedated and hospitalised as she had suffered severe shock when she found out that she was a widow. Apparently she had suffered a similar fate when she had found out about my existence derived from one of my father's trips to London to see his brother, my Uncle Clifford some years before. I found it amazing the amount of information one could gain by sitting quietly and unobserved in the corner of a crowded room, especially when said crowded room was filled with emotional, grieving and slowly increasing intoxicated adults. I pondered that perhaps, when my father's wife got better she wouldn’t be hospitalised again, because he was dead he would not be able to do anything that would cause her to go into shock any more. In a way that had to be a good thing my five year old brain argued. I had siblings in Jamaica, half brothers and sisters, my father’s children who mum told me in no uncertain terms that I would never meet. I had always wanted a brother, or a sister, preferably a sister, but mum had always left me with no illusions that there would be any additions to our small family. I think perhaps if she had known in time of my existence, I wouldn't have existed at all. She never actually said so outright, but as years went by and phrases, and conversations remembered started to make sense with a more mature brain and understanding, there was very little doubt, I was an accident, in her eyes anyway.

I spent much time in the hallway sat on the bottom step of the stairs playing with my threadbare teddy called Thomas as quietly as I could, somewhat ruing the fact that mum had brought the television downstairs into the living room, and the living room was full of people therefore I had no use of the television set whatsoever. My one attempt at changing the channel that day had not gone well.

'Jean, what the child doing, who tell she, she can turn over station when big people a watch.' Well it is my mum's television, I wanted to reply to the portly ugly looking man that was reprimanding me for the having the audacity of touching what I considered to be my own property. 'Come out a big people business.' No sympathy from you then fool, I fumed inside. I did not cry as I walked past some smirking adults, amused at my humiliation of getting my marching orders out of my own living room for wanting to watch my own TV leaving them to continue watching Grandstand.

'Ah obeah kill Michael. Rose have enough a him cheating so she kill him.' Mum's friend Miss Eileen exclaimed loudly from amongst the crowd, her shrill accent carried over the crowds chatter chatter, catching my attention. I liked obeah stories, I did not really believe that they could be true, but I liked listening to them anyway. I perched close enough in the crowd where I would be able to overhear the conversation Miss Eileen was about to start, hopefully without getting into anyone’s way. Miss Eileen was a pretty lady with long black shiny hair and dark brown freckles that ran underneath her eyes and across the top of her long straight nose complementing her brown complexion. Her unusual looks often made her the centre of attention, and she relished it. She was mums best friend. She had been the first to arrive at the house that Saturday armed with a large bottle of Ray and Nephew and a bottle of cola. Her and mum had sampled the drinks before anyone else arrived. Some people around Miss Eileen muttered their agreement to her sentiment about my father's wife Rose and obeah. Mum's friends were always talking about obeah back home in Jamaica. Anyone who had any sort of misfortune in their life it causes was normally attributed to obeah.

'Ah Eileen stop you stupidness.' One male voice responded strongly. The voice belonged to Mr David, a tall dark and handsome man who had a large amount of moles on his cheek and a huge white smile. He kissed his teeth as he took a swig from his can of Guinness in disdain over Miss Eileen’s obeah comment. (Mr David always had a can of Guinness in his hand it seemed, if not in his hand, there would be one in a blue plastic bag which he would open and indulge in shortly after his arrival at our house when he visited)

'Obeah is real David.' My mum interjected, her Jamaican accent always coming to the fore when she was around her friends and family; to everyone else she had what she described as her speaky spoky English accent, which she used so people did not think that she was stupid.

'Oh Jean.' Mr David exclaimed exasperated.

'No David, ah true'. You never hear ‘bout de woman who did live up in a de hill with she husband who did cheat on she?'

David rolled his eyes skyward before he took a large gulp of his drink as if to compose himself for what was about to hear.

'Jean, I knows who you is talking about.' Mr James added. Mr James was an elderly man with stark white hair, very dark skin and yellow watery looking eyes. Everywhere he went he carried around a large black umbrella with a wooden handle which he would use like a walking stick. I never noticed him limping, I guessed he carried it out of habit, but regardless you would never see Mr James without his umbrella, even in the height of summer. Mr David gave Mr James an exasperated look.

'Yes David, the woman, she name was Ingrid. Ingrid was a beautiful woman, I tell you man, very beautiful. She did married to a school teacher.'

'Who tell you she was beautiful?' Miss Eileen asked. Mr James continued with his story as if Eileen had not asked him a question.

'Ingrid had a younger sister, I forget what she name was, but the sister, she was not as pretty as Ingrid. The sister was wild I tell you, she liked to have fun. Anyway, it so happen, de little sister take a shine to Ingrid husband, and she make up her mind that she have to have him. One day, when she know Ingrid left the house, she go round knowing the husband home alone you see. Well she get her way, she seduce the husband, apparently it did not take a lot of persuading.'

'Typical man!' Eileen grumbled, mum and a few other females who were listening to Mr James muttered their agreement to Eileen's statement. Mr David sucked air through his teeth once more.

'Anyhow, Ingrid come back home and catch the two a them in a bed.' Mr James continued amidst the interruptions. 'Needless to say, Ingrid was mad, mad as hell. Her and did sister put down one piece a fighting right in the house, the husband to pull them apart to stop one from kill the other. Ingrid beat the sister bad, she end up in a hospital.'

'Serve him right.'

'Eileen let the man talk and stop chat.' Mr David grumbled. How you turn so stupid when you drink so?' Mr David added the insult. Miss Eileen was well known for overindulging when it came to alcohol, something she would always deny, even when blind drunk.

'Both a you quiet and let James speak.' Mum reprimanded her friends as she encouraged Mr James to continue with his story.

'Oh so you believe in obeah now.' Eileen shot back at Mr David who chose to ignore her snide remark.

'The sister was mad when she come out a hospital.' Mr James continued. 'She was mad with Ingrid for beating her up so badly, her face scar up and she lose some hair too but she was also mad at Ingrid's husband because she believe he should a stop Ingrid from beating, even though she was in de wrong, that's what she believe. Weeks pass and she couldn't calm down over what Ingrid do to her, so de sister go visit one obeah man. She tell the obeah man what happened. She tell him she want revenge on both Ingrid and she husband. Well as you all know, as long as you give a obeah man what he ask for in payment, he will give you whatever you want, whether it right or wrong. The obeah man give the sister a potion to give both Ingrid and the husband and then tell her to sit back and wait, after five nights, she would see her revenge manifest. The sister, she make a big pot a food bring round to Ingrid and the husband as a peace offering, and ask them for forgiveness. Ingrid, she did not want to know, so she run the sister, tell her o take her food and go. But the husband when Ingrid back turn, he take the food from the sister.'

'You see me dying trial.' Mr David exclaimed in exasperation. Mr James chuckled.

'The husband, him eat all the food de sister bring. When Ingrid fine out she vex with him, but the husband tell her that the food was nice and at least the sister was making an effort to make up and apologise.'

'What happen then? Mr David asked. I heard mum sigh out loud impatiently, I had to stifle a giggle behind my hands. Adults were just an impatient and inquisitive as kids were, Mr David a prime example, the only difference, kids got into trouble for their impatience. Mr James continued with his story.

'Five days after the sister visit, the husband begin to complain that he not feeling too good, just a little headache, nothing serious at first, but by the next day, the husband couldn't leave him bed, and a then he start complain how Ingrid must a poison he as revenge for sleeping with she sister. Ingrid never pay him no mine, she tell him that whatever illness he have was making him talk foolishness. By the seventh day, the husband say he feeling better. That night, the two a them go a bed happy, and fall asleep and the husband start dream, and the dream appear so real to him he couldn't believe it was only a dream. Him dream see Ingrid sleeping with one a him cousin from town, he see them together, right there in his house. Before the husband wake up fully, him start to scream. He could hear the voices ah him friend and family a laugh after him in his mind. He could hear the sound a Ingrid and he cousin having sex as clear as if they were right there next to him. Only when the husband wake up good he realise he strangle Ingrid in she sleep till she stop move.'

'God a heaven.' Mr David exclaimed, amongst a chorus of gasps and muttering from the listeners around.

'The husband, him start to panic when he wake up good an' see what him do. He start scream and shout and cry out for help for he 'fraid. He run in the kitchen, and pull out the biggest knife he can fine and stab himself in he side because he can't live with the guilt a killing Ingrid, plus, him 'fraid a jail. Him fall to the ground outside the kitchen door. Then guess what happen?' Mr James teased leaving the question hanging in the air much to the annoyance of Mr David.

'Man just finish de story no man.' Mr James chuckled amused by Mr David's impatience to hear the end of a story based on what he did not believe in.

'After him stab himself he scream for help when pain take him and him senses return after he realise a dead him a go dead.' Mr James continued. He scream again and again. The neighbour hear the noise come knocking on the door calling out for he know something wrong. But guess what, the neighbour is not the only one that hear him. Ingrid run out a de bedroom to see what happening, frighten when she hear the commotion her husband making up.'

'Me think she did dead.'

'So did the husband, but he never kill her, she just pass