Black Bess

  Black Bess

  a ghost story

  by

  Jeannie Wycherley

  Copyright © 2017 Jeannie Wycherley

  Bark at the Moon Books

  All rights reserved

  Publishers note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holder.

  The motorcycle and its rider were silhouetted against the evening sunset at the end of the road. The bike rumbled deeply; a throbbing sound that pulsated deeply along the quiet street. The rider was clad from head to toes in black: leathers, boots, and helmet with a black visor. Even so, I knew the man behind the mask was staring at me as I walked away from

  him. His eyes were boring into my back and I could sense his gaze. I was compelled to turn and glance back at him, and every time I did, the bike inched slightly towards me. Each time, I hurriedly faced forwards again and increased my pace.

  I’d loved Dave once, and he’d loved me, but now here he was haunting me.

  It’s true that we had split up in the year before his death but the separation was

  complicated and hadn’t been caused by a lack of love on either side really. That’s just the way life goes sometimes. People grow apart, or their needs are different, and life drags them in separate directions.

  It had to be Dave. I knew it was Dave. But Dave was dead. So what the hell was

  going on?

  ***

  When Dave died I was bereft. Since I’d found out about it, I’d struggled, unable to

  move on emotionally. I had never found another man to take his place. In fact, I had never really tried to. I tried to put some physical distance between me and my memories by moving across the country and settling down in my old home town of Exeter. The intention was to start a new life and put the past behind me.

  So far I hadn’t succeeded.

  You see, memories fade but the scars linger for a long time. I’ll admit that it was my

  fault that we had split up in the first place. Dave and I had been together so long, that one day I had forgotten what being in a long-term loving relationship was all about. I’d taken my eye off the ball. I’d become complacent. Hell, I’d gotten drunk while out with an old University friend, had a few glasses of wine too many and ended up back at his place. It had been

  anonymous drunken sex, unremarkable.

  But I had been racked with guilt. I’d agonized about whether to keep it quiet or come

  clean. Eventually I realized I wanted to tell Dave the truth. Maybe that was selfish of me.

  Was I trying to make myself feel less guilty? Assuaging my own guilt by destroying Dave’s trust? In retrospect I think so. Dave had reacted badly and why shouldn’t he have? He

  stormed out of the house, roared off on his beloved Triumph Bonneville, and holed up

  somewhere with a friend.

  Hours later, by text, I’d been ordered to pack my things and leave the house we’d shared for eleven years.

  And so here I was. In the gorgeous city of Exeter. Surrounded by the memories of the

  life I’d had growing up BD: Before Dave. BD was a time when my parents had been alive,

  when I’d had plenty of friends and no worries.

  My parents were gone, my friends had moved on, but it was Dave who was haunting

  me.

  Like I say, I was certain it was him. I’d recognize the throaty rumble of that Triumph

  anywhere. If you ride you’ll know; every motorcycle has an inimitable torque, and that

  coupled with the habits of the rider, the gap between gear changes and the heaviness of the throttle control, means you can hear each bike’s unique signature. I’d listened to Dave head off to work every morning for 11 years. I knew how he rode a bike; I knew what his Triumph sounded like.

  Initially hearing that sound, the bass ticking of the engine, I thought I’d made a

  mistake. It was familiar, sure, but perhaps just a coincidence. I would be walking down a road, through the city to work and somewhere in the distance I would pick out that familiar timbre and my ears would prick. Instantly I would envisage his handsome face in my mind.

  See the twinkle of those roguish eyes, his ready smile. Then I would shake myself and return to reality. The noise of the bike would quickly be camouflaged by ordinary city sounds: cars, buses, taxis, pedestrians.

  Then one Saturday morning I headed into town to visit the library. I was feeling sorry

  for myself. Lonely. All of my old school friends had either moved away or they had their own families. I hadn’t kept in touch with them when I’d moved north to attend University. I met Dave at a rock club and we’d started to see each other regularly so my life had been busy and complete. I hadn’t needed anyone else. Or so I had thought. The upshot of that of course, is that now, when I needed people, I had no one around. I missed having company. I missed affection.

  I caught sight of my vague reflection in a shop window: slouched, my head down.

  Pathetic. “Come on!” I reprimanded myself. “Head up, shoulders back. Look lively!”

  I walked on, pep talking myself into a positive frame of mind and with every step,

  striving to stand taller and prouder. As I approached the library I sensed someone watching me, I swung my hips a little, hoping that my observer thought me a confident, happy, woman with a purpose. As I walked in through the automatic doors, I flicked a quick look across the road to the car park, searching for whomever was watching me.

  A figure in black leathers straddling a motorbike. My heart stopped. Dave?

  The automatic doors shut as my momentum carried me forwards. I turned in

  confusion, shuffled, tried to re-open the doors. Useless. I had to wait for someone to follow me in. Once the recalcitrant glass doors had opened again I could see that the man who had been watching me had disappeared.

  But I was convinced it was Dave. I’d recognize the shape of him in his leathers

  anywhere, his posture and the way he would sit astride the bike. Black Bess he’d called her, his motorcycle. She was his pride and joy and he always took exquisite care of her. Her paintwork was pure black, apart from a cold silvery blue strike on each side of the tank, painted to resemble lightning. Dave had spent hours painstakingly polishing her silver

  chrome and it had sparkled in the slightest light. Bess was very distinctive.

  I raced outside, looking for him everywhere but there was no sign. I crossed the road

  and searched the car park. I scrutinized every motorcycle I could see. I stood and listened for her engine. There was no trace of Bess or of Dave.

  But of course there wasn’t. Dave was dead. It might have been Bess, but it couldn’t

  have been Dave.

  What little I knew about Dave’s death had been gleaned from the internet. Most of his

  friends had refused to speak to me after I broke his heart, so nobody was in touch to tell me the bad news. I had trawled the Internet for local news reports and contacted the few mutual acquaintances who would message me back with information. It had been messy. That much

  I knew.

  Bess had been in the garage having her annual MOT, and Dave had been riding

  pillion on a friend’s bike heading back to collect her. They were in a collision with a heavy truck on a dual carriageway, whose driver had been on his phone and not seen the bike as he pulled into traffic from a slip road. The bike, the friend and Dave had all been mangled under the wheels. I w
asn’t invited to Dave’s memorial service or his cremation. That was fine. I hadn’t wanted to see the accusation in the eyes of his mother and sister, or face the disdain of his friends, knowing I had betrayed his trust and squandered his love so recklessly.

  So I lived instead with a kind of self-hatred and self-blame. What wouldn’t I give to

  turn the clock back and undo the wrongs I had committed?

  Back in the library I headed for the ladies’ room and washed my hands and face. I was

  shaken. Looking in the mirror I pinched some color into my cheeks in a vague attempt to look more presentable. Then I headed to the main desk and returned my library books, before

  scurrying home, hands in pockets and chin tucked into my chest.

  ***

  For the next few weeks, I saw glimpses of Dave or Bess everywhere - usually when I

  least expected it and when I wasn’t concentrating. I was being stalked. Everywhere I went I looked for them – the man and his mount. I was convinced no-one else could see or hear him except me, because I was the only one that ever seemed to react to his presence. I’d look up and there they would be. Look away and they would vanish.

  One damp evening I was standing in the queue at the fish and chip shop when a

  motorcycle roared past the open door. The engine sounded exactly the way Bess once had, when she’d had a hole in her silencer. The vibration of the bike was so fierce and the sudden noise so violent that I jumped out of my skin. It was as though she was right next to me, and she sounded angry.

  I whirled about in fear, stepping out of the shop. The bike was disappearing down the

  street and I couldn’t see it or the rider. It could have been anyone. When I returned to the counter, my hands were shaking. A lone man, tall and broad, standing behind me and waiting for me to order, obviously found my reaction amusing. He chuckled. My face burned with

  embarrassment. I paid for my supper and left the shop but my appetite was gone and I threw my meal away as I walked home. Tears slid silently down my cheeks and in shame, I hid my face from anyone heading towards me.

  That night I poured over the photos of Dave I had kept on my Facebook account.

  Dave with me. Dave with Bess. Dave with beer. Bess on her own. “Why?” I asked. “Why are you doing this to me?” And I wept because I had been a fool and I was sorry and I was

  frightened. I’d hurt Dave in life, and he seemed to want to hurt me back from beyond the grave.

  After that he seemed to be with me constantly. Any time I left my house he was there.

  The bike would appear, but just out of my decent eye line. I could never quite see whether the figure riding was really Dave, but it didn’t matter. I recognized the bike – I knew it was Bess.

  The silvery-blue strikes on each side of the tank were distinctive.

  ***

  Without access to my own transport I tended to either walk or use the bus. Exeter is a

  small city and it’s easy to get around. The relentless gentle thundering of a motorcycle engine 20 or 30 meters up the road became a constant feature of my daily life. A black depression settled on me, a heavy cloud, as I began to contemplate my sanity. I started to see Bess as a harbinger of doom – a portent of death. Instinctively I knew it was just a matter of time

  before Bess and Dave hunted me down and sliced me into miniscule pieces and fed me to the city’s rat population.

  My doctor was concerned by my mental state and extreme anxiety and prescribed

  tranquilizers. On the one hand I loved these – they took my fears clean away – but in the end I knew I couldn’t keep taking them. Besides being dangerously addictive, they were making me woozy, and when I was woozy I let my guard down.

  Working late one night and faced with a long walk home alone in the near dark, I

  popped a pill and waited until I began to relax. Thirty minutes later I was feeling nicely abstract. I packed up my personal bits and pieces and headed out of the office and into the fresh, chill air of the early evening.

  Outside, all was relatively quiet. A soft rain was falling, the kind that soaks through to your bones without you even noticing. I lifted my face up into its gentleness and let it settle on my lashes. It coated my lips and I licked them dry. I felt oddly content. Perhaps there would be no visitation tonight. I could hear the quiet sounds of evening traffic, post rush hour on the main street. Car tires made shushing noises on the wet tarmac. No motorcycle sounds.

  It would be a nice walk. I contemplated getting a takeaway en route, but I was tired and decided that I would prefer to have an early night. Instead I popped into the local coffee shop and ordered a hot chocolate with whipped cream, to sip as I continued my journey

  home.

  Home was a small Edwardian house tucked away on a side street. I had to cross the

  main road when I drew level with the turning. I headed out onto the zebra crossing, looking right and then left as I did so. As I turned my head for a final visual check, I saw someone coming up quickly behind me. I twisted in alarm, as a man began bearing down on me

  rapidly. I stepped way in fright, my brain trying to process what was happening and what the threat was. Simultaneously, I heard the angry roar of a vintage British motorcycle to my right.

  I was momentarily confused. The anti-anxiety drugs slowed my reaction. I turned to

  face the motorcycle as it raced in my direction and I was blinded by the headlight. I put one hand up to shield my eyes and the bike thundered towards me. I was a rabbit in the

  headlights. There was no way it could miss me.

  But it did.

  It brushed behind me. My coat rippled as it went past. It was so close I could feel the heat from the exhaust and smell the fuel. I was left standing on the crossing in the middle of the road, clutching my half empty hot chocolate in one shaking hand while the rear lights of the motorcycle sped away from me, glinting bright red in the darkness as the bike slowed. I

  was alone. Whoever the man had been that had followed me to the crossing, he had made a hasty exit. I looked around me in confusion.

  A car waiting at the crossing hooted its horn. Startled afresh, I hurried to the other

  side of the road and into my side street. I heard the sound of Bess heading back towards me.

  Maybe Dave wanted to finish the job off. This time he would, I knew it. Dave would get his ghastly revenge. I began to panic.

  I scuttled some way down my road and then paused, looking back the way I had

  come. As I did so, Bess and Dave curled around the corner and halted. The sheer fluid

  movement of turning into my street was beautiful. When Dave rode, it was like poetry,

  complete synchronization between rider and motorcycle. I’d learned to ride a motorcycle in the early days with him. I’d taken my test and had owned my own bike at Dave’s insistence.

  He had never wanted a women constantly riding pillion as though I was his possession. He’d wanted me to be independent, but more than that he had wanted me to experience and

  understand what it meant to control my own ride, and feel the natural elements of the world all around me. However, I could never ride the way he did, as though I was at one with my bike. No. Unfortunately, I always rode in the knowledge that I would one day come off. With me it was always “What if? What if?”

  So here we were in the final showdown. Man and machine were silhouetted against

  the gorgeous Autumn sunset. The sky was on fire. Black as coal in the heavens, orange flame at the horizon and all the colors of a blaze in between. I saw the helmeted man, Dave, nod at me, and my throat was suddenly dry with a strange combination of fear and longing. Fear because I was scared of what he wanted to do to me. Longing because I loved him and I

  always had. The mistake I had made had ruined both of our lives.

  When I looked his way again, he inched the bike forwards. Disconcerted, I turned and

  walked a little faster. My house was at
the bottom of the road. Not far.

  I flicked my eyes back again. Once more he moved Bess forwards. Swallowing I

  quickened my pace. I was nearly home. It would be OK.

  Suddenly my vision exploded into stars and I was knocked off the pavement and into

  the gutter. I landed with a gasp, stunned more than hurt. I watched my hot chocolate spill out on the road in front of me in slow motion, creating a dirty puddle. Something irrelevant in my mind regretted the loss of my drink. Shaking my head to clear the befuddlement, I wondered what had hit me. It had felt like a slab of rock but it was more likely to have been a fist. Then something – someone – grabbed my arm and lifted me to my feet. Whoever it was, he was

  strong. He half lifted and half dragged me into a passageway that was used as a cut-through

  to the gardens behind the terraced row of houses. It was an alley full of weeds and rubbish, and it was pitch black.

  He threw me against the wall and I cracked my head again. Crying out I put my hands

  up to try to ward the guy off. He slapped me hard, splitting my lip. My head started to spin and my knees buckled. I tried to scream and he grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the wall. Masonry dug painfully into my back.

  “I’ve been watching you for weeks, bitch!” The man snarled down into my face. He

  stood nearly a head taller than me and was broad with it. “Always looking around you.

  Always after some attention. Well I’m going to make sure you get some now.”

  He ground his knee into my groin hard, trying to force my legs apart. I grimaced and

  cried out. I gripped his one hand that encased my throat with both of mine and attempted to prise his fingers away. He was too strong for me. When I tried to lift my knee up and kick him he gripped my throat harder. I was going to pass out. In a last ditch attempt to free myself I released both hands from his and made for his eyes. I got lucky and my right thumb made contact with his left eyeball. He yelled and slapped me so hard, that this time I began to lose my grip on reality.