There was snow on Pen-y-Ghent that morning and frost, hard and deep rooted clinging to every structure turning it all smoky white. Jackie ignored me when I said goodbye, but that was no surprise, we’ve not seen eye to eye these past few months. I think you could say our relationship was strained, artificial at worst and amiable at its best; we were living a comfortable lie just because it was easier than tearing ourselves apart with hatred. In part, it was most of the justification for me giving up the job I’d held for twenty years, but that’s a tale for later.

The sun was yet to rise; there was a hesitant ring of gold blossoming on the horizon as I closed the door behind me and headed down the street, lazy foot falls echoed down the alleys and bounced back from the gable ends of the stone terraces. The place was deserted, no other souls daring to brave the chill wind as it hustled and busied itself around the corners of the village. I stopped outside Rennards Bakery and peered inside, the bright glow of the fluorescent lights inviting and warm; there was a smell of bread and cakes freshly baked. Everybody inside working hard and quickly, arranging the displays, heading in and out of the back room with trays piled high with multi shaped confectionary, rainbow coloured and longing to be eaten. Mrs. Saphoretti looked at me and I nodded back, a small smile escaping from those otherwise difficult features, we never did have much in common, but I managed to cope with her Italian awkwardness. There’s a poster in the window and I rub over the glass with my sleeve to move the winter grime, the bright yellow of the high vis coat reflected back like the glow of a small fire. ‘Staff wanted’ it said. ‘Apply within.’ I didn’t know they were looking for anyone else, I’d been there a few months, Saturdays and several afternoons, but Mrs. Saphoretti had not said a word about more staff. Still, what would I know about it being only a lowly part time worker these days?

The other shops are still closed, the shoe repair man, Butlers Clothes Emporium, the booze shop, only the newsagent’s shows any life with a dull glare from the strip lights inside. I can hear Mr. Patel singing in his weird and odd Asian voice. Why would the other stores be open at 7.30 in the depths of a miserable and bitter winter’s morn, only fools and workers like me tread the streets at this unearthly time? My clothes feel tight and heavy around my scrawny body, the brisk wind exposing the gaps in the fabric I never realised were there. I never did bulk up much with muscle, even when I went to the gym during those misplaced three months. There are no answers I can give to my stupidity, a lost cause to my own vanity and ideology is what I became in that time and what an idiot I was to expect Lucy to think more of me with a little extra definition around my chest and a six pack abdomen. It’s not the first time I’ve been a fool over another woman! Setting off early keeps me fit, no point using the car to travel the four miles to town and St. Cuthbert’s Primary School, anyway Jean needs the thing to get to work, she has twenty miles to travel and our income can’t stretch to two vehicles.

On a dark morning like this when the sun is hidden and the night was as cold as the Arctic I feel like a child again, looking into the pools of water, exposing the flaws in the virgin ice that coats the puddles created by the rain of a previous day. One stamp and the whole lot collapses inward with a splash of liquid and rattle of ice crystals as it cascades back onto the tarmac and I’m back inside the memory of my childhood, smelling the frost , kicking the stones on the hard earth and listening to the chatter of other kids occasionally drowned out by a passing car. The sixties was a whole different era, I’m not sure if it was better or worse than it is now, just different I guess, more distant and lazy, thoughts and actions seemed to take their time, nothing was urgent as I recall.

Sometimes I sing, when I get a melody that trips of the tongue or a phrase that sticks in my head I repeat it over and over again, honing the voice, making the notes right and mapping out the tonal quality, then I take out my phone and record it dreaming of the money that’s coming my way when it makes the top of the charts. It’s all about pretending; being something I’m not, rock star, writer, racing driver or gigolo? Needing the girls to like me, love me even for being elite in my enterprise, a guiding star in a profession that gains respect, no – demands respect. Does that make me a fraud or just a misguided romantic; I have had my moments, a pretty good job for the last decade and well paid, with benefits and girls in the office like Lucy. Beautiful Lucy all tantalising and obsessive made to melt in your mouth like the sweetest of chocolates. The bitch knew how to keep me on my toes and then played me like a deck of cards till the whole lot blew apart quicker than a hurricane destroys a shanty town in the Caribbean. Doing well now though, with all that upheaval and despondency behind me, Jean is my only problem, it’s all left a heavily mark on her forgiveness of my infidelity. Still with a bit of luck and some affection things will go back to normal, they always have done before. There is nothing for me to be ashamed of anymore, I have a cosy number in Rennards bakery with fringe benefits most afternoons, free Danish pastries and Battenberg if my luck holds, no point in letting it go to waste says Mr. Saphoretti, my nemesis. And now, here I am, walking these streets a free and solitary man with not a care in the world, but an upturned collar and the breeze sharpening the goose bumps on my neck and a nose so cold it may break if I attempt to blow it. Happy days and the children love me and sometimes the mothers too. ‘Good morning Mr. Daniels’ they say as I guide them across the road safely shielding the smaller one from the grumbling cars and accusing stares of the drivers. Screw the lot of you I think, what the hell do you know about my life anyway, so get back to your small lives and bigoted opinions. Yeh – the kids love me.

Slowly the miles pass by, rhythm is a dancer I sing, the steps I take give a backbeat that splits the air like a rim shot on a snare drum. I couldn’t feel better, the world owes me nothing and only the cold of the morning stilts my enthusiasm. Spring is around the corner, soon the birds will sing and the trees will leaf and heaven will be a place on earth. The watch hands point to 8.30, traffic is building quickly, trucks rumble by, heavy with aggregate and stone their engines droning under accelerating power. Mothers, fathers gather up their offspring’s and prepare to present them to school for another day of education, the working masses pass me by in an endless stream of tin and rubber only thinking of solutions to problems, remembering key points to questions that may arise in today’s sales meeting and as I walk my long yellow coat swishes and flaps at my frozen legs and I feel as lucky as a squirrel with an everlasting supply of nuts in the winter months.

There are no lambs yet, maybe in a few weeks time, but the fields and hills are abundant with expectant mothers waiting for the right moment, endlessly feeding, making sure their young will be strong and healthy to endure the last days of winter. A stretch of wall by the road side is missing, the frosty dry stones are scattered amongst the dull lifeless grass and in their place a makeshift barricade of wire and old pallet wood. That wasn’t there before; surely I would have remembered the damage as I only drove passed it yesterday in the car. There are flowers laid hastily on the tarmac and a few more intertwined into the woodwork of the fence. Someone has died. It fills me with a sadness I can’t explain, another motorcyclist lost to the grim reaper no doubt, another family loses a husband, a father, a son. It sickens me to dwell on this stupid loss of life, why the hell can’t they be more careful, modern riders have to go everywhere at a hundred miles an hour and with ice on the roads, it’s just a tragic waste.

I walk on, the spring in my step undiminished as I travel the last half mile and ahead I see the lights of the school bright and full of life, the odd trickle of parents already arriving. Another coat of brilliant yellow stands in semi darkness, half hidden by a wall and railings, the light reflects abruptly off the crossing lollipop the stranger holds. What is all this, a replacement? I’m on duty this week. This is my week, nobody told me anything difference. Suddenly I’m blazing with hatred, not for the person taking my job, but with the establishment, typical government agents, no thought, no bloody responsibility to tell a fellow worker that changes have been made. Disgusted I turn and head home, not caring a jot; I’ve wasted my time and frozen my bollocks off in the process without a care for my own welfare to make safe the passage of the children and parents across the road. Well they can all go to hell . . . and the school . . . damn the whole lot of them. If this is a real bad mood, then it’s the mother of all tempers. Selfish, no good, mindless teachers, my faith in human kind has just nose dived into the shit heap that is common civilisation.

“Good morning Mrs. Falmer,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me as I start to walk back up the road home.

“Shame,” I hear her say and I stop in my tracks. There’s a tone to her voice that makes me inquisitive to the abstract comment.

“I know.” Is the reply from another woman whose stands close by and has a scarf neatly tied around hair of golden brown? “Who would have thought it, a nice man too by all accounts?”

“Hit and run they say,” confirms Mrs. Falmer.

“Still looking for the car I hear. Too dark it was to make out the colour. Some say blue, others think it might be green, but it don’t matter none. Killed him outright, knocked the poor man clean through the wall. Dead as a door nail when they found him, my Tom says.”

“Who is it, who’s the man,” I say perturbed needing to find out who it might be. I do have some friends? A teacher calls from the playground and the two ladies move away towards the distant voice, drawn in by the aggressive nature of her waving arms. “Damn it,” I say loudly, cursing openly in my head afraid any verbal comments might offend the more mature parents hanging around waving off their sons and daughters to another day of study.

I walk back home, there’s nothing more I intend to do and not a chance I’ll prejudice my pride by demanding an explanation from the headmaster. He’s a jerk and will stay a jerk the rest of his life as far as I’m concerned and I’m done all to hell with him. I’ll hand in my equipment and clothing as soon as I can . . . this episode is now properly closed. The journey back is miserable, the air seems cooler, the frost more harsh and the cold finds every little gap it can in my garments to try and freeze me solid and turn this black mood I savour to the edge of despondency. What is it I’ve done that garners such a change in circumstances? I always knew I’d been born under a bad sign, but this . . . recompense for the treatment I gave Jean? More than likely I guess?

I slam the door behind me and lean back as if relieved to have locked out a monstrous intruder and sigh like a ball that’s losing air, happy to be back within the safety of my own house. The fear is gone and the cold and all the doubts I may have harboured these two hours gone. I listen, Jackie is speaking, she’s emotional, almost upset but I don’t hear the words. They sound garbled, frozen in panic, half sobbed through streaming tears. Common sense tells me to go comfort her but I stop after the first step.

“The cars gone Jackie, it disappeared like I said it would.” A man is talking, he’s being over generous with my wife’s emotions as if he’s known her for some time, like they might be more than good friends. Suddenly my heart stops and crashes down into my stomach and there’s a stabbing ache of jealousy and fear I don’t want to believe. I know this man, there’s a familiarity in his voice and an underlying hint of panic in his presentation. The muffled sobs continue in the background but I’m beside myself with confusion, having no idea what the hell is going on, yet I dare not move, or intervene over a notion that’s beginning to scare me half to death. What am I to do but listen to the story unfolding?

“Will it be found, are we safe David?” Jackie chokes back the tears struggling with the words.

My god . . . it’s David Chambers, manager at the local bank. Why is he in my house talking about cars that don’t exist?

“Don’t worry it’s all going to be fine. It was gone in a minute, sucked right down into the sand. Nobody saw me; it will lie in that stinking quarry pool until it rots to rust and every scrap of evidence with it.” There is a muted laugh, “I reckon that water has to be toxic by the colour, even kids don’t swim there the water is so foul.”

“Will they come?”

“Of course, but you don’t know anything, it was just some stupid hit and run accident? What can the police do, arrest you for conspiracy because he just happens to be your husband? Stand fast Jackie and it will all work out for the best. That’s all we have to do right now.” There is movement and the rustle of clothes, arms becoming entwined, an embrace and the slick wetness of a passionate kiss. “I love you,” whispers Chambers.

There is a comforting giggle and the murmur of pleasure. “I know,” she replies with a tender moan. No, no, no . . . the worst fears I could ever imagine have come to pass, they are lovers. Was that something I had already known these past months, but never seen or had the courage to admit to myself? However, there was one further question that needed an answer, one other desperate question at the front of my mind . . . what else could they be?

I move into the living room, the fire is already alight and blazing in the hearth and the breakfast things are laid out on the table where I left them this morning. Chambers has Jackie in a tight clinch and he’s nuzzling into her neck kissing the lobe of her right ear. I’m sick with hatred for the both of them; if I had a knife in my hand right now I would stick them both in the neck with it and laugh as their life blood pumps out of their useless bodies onto the floor. It’s okay being quiet and without anger, but this is the time where I need to be confrontational. Any other day I’d remain calm, but today I’m at boiling point and I’ll beat the shit out of Chambers if I get the wrong answers, he’s the opportunist at this point, but what’s his game? Let’s pray this is not what it seems, of course it isn’t – that’s only me being the naive fool.

They don’t see me coming; their torsos are entangled with only thoughts of each other, as I stride right up to them and shout as best I’m able in my state of emotional perplexity, tears streaming across my cheeks. “She’s my wife Chambers, what the hell is going on?”

There is no answer to my question, no movement to recognise my presence. “Jackie, I know I wasn’t the best guy in the world and I’ve made some bad mistakes, but really – Chambers – a banker?” I continue.

Like the intervention of a referee in a boxing match, they break apart, releasing each other from their embrace and look around puzzled. “You hear something Jackie?” asks Chambers straining to hear every tiny sounds. The fire splutters and spits in the background as if the coal is wet.

Jackie sniffs and clings with all her might onto the body of her lover, sudden fear griping her like a madhouse straight jacket. “There’s something wrong David, something unnatural in this house, I can feel it and its close. I’m frightened.”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re bound to feel anxiety and guilt. You haven’t exactly behaved like a girl guide have you?”

“Jackie it’s me,” I shout, “your husband.” Like she doesn’t know, like it’s the most absurd question ever posed. They don’t see me, hear me, my temper rises and I hear the pressured blood coursing through my narrow veins that could tear apart as easily as if they were made of paper. The pain is almost immeasurable, I feel on the edge of a breakdown, who are these people that don’t hear me. I reach out and jab at Chambers with my fist to gather his attention, he doesn’t notice me, does not feel me, I pass right through him. I seem invisible.

“You have the best alibi, tell me why the police wouldn’t believe the local bank managers truthful story. You couldn’t have a better card in the pack to play Jackie; it’s the perfect ace up your sleeve. Once everything dies down then you’re free.” He kisses her full on the lips and I feel powerless, deflated because I should have known all along and understood the spoken words and plain truth that was entering my ears, rather than brushing off the facts like worthless words in a pulp fiction novella. “And the money Jackie, remember the money. It’s not a pointless game without a prize. You devised it and I carried it out, we won, there’s not an insurance company in the world that wouldn’t agree to pay out. It’s a perfect partnership Jackie, one made at the very gates of heaven. Anyway, just think of us Jackie, that’s where the future lies, so forget the past, forget your husband. It was just an unfortunate hit and run death, very sad, I know but that’s all! ”

What the hell does that mean . . . ‘unfortunate?’ That’s all I am, just an awkward complication in an elicit love affair. What wrong did I ever do Jackie, never hurt her, never unkind and looked after her. Yeh – I guess I was not overly faithful these last few years but – hey, I’m a guy, so that’s just normal – right? I’ve gotta tell the police and right now, tell them everything, blow the whistle on the whole murderous plot, because they’re not getting away with this crime, not for one ridiculous moment.

I point fingers and shout at them both. “Prison is a beautiful place for ordinary folk, so look forward to it, you’re gonna need all the help you can get?” There is no response, Jackie looks around and there is fear in her eyes. The phone sits on the table by the window surrounded by papers and unopened letters, a couple of cups and a half eaten slice of toast. I start to dial but the buttons don’t move, I push again – nothing. I reach for the handset, it stays on the receiver, I cannot grasp it, it’s out of reach like mist evaporating in the heat of a sunny day. There has to be revenge, has to be retribution, but what am I, what am I right now at this time. I am invisible, I am ghost?