Ragged Claws

The whole idea had always been that one first had to be killed in a reasonably gruesome way. One didn’t become a ghost just like that. If one hadn’t been drawn and quartered or publicly beheaded, one didn’t stand much of a chance.

Unfortunately – and like those horrible people who can’t sing but still do so in kareoke bars – many a starter corpse came to my counter, to submit an application for the much sought after postion of residential ghost.

“Manner of death?”

“It was horrible. I was on my way home…”

“Manner of death?”

“It was raining heavily and when that hare crossed the road…”

“Manner of death?”

“When my horse bolted…”

“Application denied. Next!”

“But look! Its hoof went straight through my skull!”

“I am very sorry, sir, but this is not the road kill counter. Next…!”

Before one would be handed the sheet, the much desired ball & chains and the ever popular hollow laughter, one had to be able to prove that one was worthy of these attributes.

Alas, times have changed. I do understand that people reading these memoirs might well think:

‘Dear oh dear, yet another retired civil servant going on about the good old days. Four hundred years behind the desk and then sent into the wilderness: that’s how you grow these querulous grey-beards.’

I do admit that I am old-fashioned. In my day God was still the God of Ire, not some all-forgiving hippy lout. The Devil and Hell itself still inspired terrible fear in the hearts of mortals and hadn’t been demoted to cartoon status.

Yes, so I am old-fashioned and I want my angels winged and my demons horned. Black and white; good and evil – the works. And if that’s an unpopular and outmoded vision these days, so be it. Then, by all means call me a boring, authoritarian and hopelessly uncool, old fogey. No problem.

They want modern and stream-lined – and these days, of course, digital and wireless too? You know what? Just go ahead; see if I care. I will just go talk to my chrysanthemums.

But my old counter, the centuries’ old directives and recommendations, the old guide books and all those very proper forms: they should have kept their grubby, post-modern paws off all those things!

I mean, just look! Look down for a moment. Can’t you see them down there, sitting in that cemetery?! Isn’t it too sad for words?! Just listen:

******   ******   ******

“You have to open yourself to the pain, to the memories.”

The group nods; they so agree.

“It simply won’t do to say: ‘Okay, this is eternity: bring it on.’”

The group does another group nod.

The speaker is sitting on a gravestone, in the approved lotus position; his hands held up in the old Hindu prayer mode; his eyes fixed on the great beyond.

“Thomas…?” the speaker addresses one of his flock.

Thomas is puppy-lifted from the warm and comfortable group. His eyes seek, rather panicky, those of the others but they watch this thoughtfully isolated victim now as if from great and impartial distance.

“Thomas, last week you told us of your parents…”

Ah yes, his parents! If the sorely missed deceased could still have breathed, this would have been the moment that Thomas would have taken a deep breath:

“Right! I must have been four years’ old – maybe five. We had just moved to Blackpool and my parents had forgotten to pack my teddy bear. To make it up to me they bought me a new bear.

To Make It Up To Me…” Thomas repeats, with leaden emphasis; thus showing the horrendous lack of empathy on the part of his parents.

The group mutters in perfect sympathy. The first speaker, obviously the alpha mealy-male, smiles encouragingly.

“What went through you at that moment?” he asks; “What did this do to your self-image and your self-esteem?”

Thomas takes another no longer provided for deep breath.

“It was terrible, just terrible! I can see now that this did result in a trauma that marked me for the rest of my life.”

Group and group guru nod and smile their totally understanding ‘we’ve-all-been-there’ smiles. If they still would have had their mortal bodies this would have been the perfect moment for one of those comforting and self-rewarding group hugs.

******   ******   ******

My God, just look at that pathetic lot! It makes one want to puke. And there are millions of these pitiful creatures down there, these days. ‘Bring it out in the open’, they say. ‘Let’s talk about it: we now truly have all the time in the world.’ Yea Gods, it’s simply intolerable. And they call themselves ghosts?!

A real ghost knows its place and its responsibilities. A real ghost is punctilious and purposeful. The clock strikes twelve and out come the hollow laughter, the sheets and the old ball & chains. And now, now?!
Now we have group discussions and group therapy in graveyards and crematorium parking lots. Soul massage and adaptation and coming-to-terms courses. Vomit-inducing side-shows, loosely based on the oh so popular American talk-shows.

Alright, call me old-fashioned, a dusty fossil who doesn’t understand modern mortals: those disgusting new oafs and equally horrendous, assertive frumps.

Take it from me though: there are no true ghosts anymore. Yes, all that’s left is the spirit of Oprah Winfrey.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 3rd, 2006 at 9:42 pm and is filed under Short stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.