The chirruping of her phone woke Melanie with a start. She was momentarily disorientated by her positioning and the light visible through the window until she remembered she hadn’t fallen asleep in her own bed the night before. Truthfully, she hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but evidently she’d been more exhausted than she previously thought.
Before she bothered with her phone, she crossed over to the window. The fresh taper she’d lit the night before had melted down to nothing, the wax pooling and coating the holder it had been placed in. Next to it sat a plate with three squat buns arranged neatly upon it. Three glasses of wine stood next to it. As was the case every year, none of them had been touched.
Melanie’s shoulders slumped. Sometimes she didn’t know why she bothered.
Then again, she’d made her living chasing down ghosts and hauntings, and she’d spent most of her childhood and young adulthood either running down or running from terrifying supernatural entities that wanted very much to kill her, or worse. And if Gerry wasn’t enough of a proof that the dead could conceivably come back for a visit at least, nothing would be.
Still, it would be nice if they actually would.
Her phone chirruped again, and Melanie turned from the window with an aggrieved, “All right, all right!”
It was her text alert, which meant it wasn’t too terribly urgent…yet. Probably it was Martin wanting to know if she’d had better luck than he had this year. Possibly it was Gerry with a lead for her to hunt down. There was an extraordinarily slim chance it was Jon sending her a link to the latest news about the surviving members of Sinner’s Gin, but things had been rather quiet with them in recent months, so it was highly unlikely. She flipped the phone over and unlocked it.
Sure enough, there were two text alerts from Martin, but before she looked at them, Melanie took a moment to study her phone’s background. The lock screen was an ever-shifting mix of album art and promo pics from Ghost Hunt UK—right now it was a relatively minimalist stylized black horse’s head on a blue canvas-looking backdrop—but the background, which wouldn’t be seen unless she unlocked it herself, was of her family. It was the last picture they’d taken together before Gerry’s death, an impulsive shot taken under the sign for the Tube stop where they’d reluctantly parted ways, Melanie’s chin tucked over her brothers’ shoulders and all of them laughing.
Now, though, Melanie really let herself see the details she’d spent so long avoiding—the pallor of Gerry’s skin, the dark circles under Martin’s eyes, the bitterness in her own smile. Martin fussed over both of them, so them both being out of town on wild-goose chases had told on his mental health more than she’d acknowledged in the past. She’d been having trouble with the Ghost Hunt UK team even before Aldershot, in a lot of ways, if she was being honest. And Gerry…had he known then how sick he was? He’d sworn to them both that he hadn’t really believed anything was wrong until his first seizure, but it was possible he was just saying that to keep Martin from feeling guilty about not knowing somehow. Had he known in the very moment he’d promised to come to them the second his boots touched English soil again that he was likely to end up dead inside of six months? Was that why he’d promised to send for them?
She shook her head impatiently. Whatever the case, she told herself firmly, it was in the past. She wouldn’t say the past can’t hurt us, because it absolutely could, but they couldn’t change it, so what was the use of obsessing about it? It’d just make her angry. Melanie was really good at being angry, but she hated being angry at her brothers, which usually made her angrier. She took a deep, steadying breath and tapped over to Martin’s messages.
Neither of them mentioned soul cakes or the spirits of the dead. Instead, it was a pair of questions, sent about five minutes apart.
[Hey, do you want me to invite the rest of the crew from the Archives to come with us today, or would you rather it just be Gerry and me as usual?]
[Or do you even want to do anything this year?]
It actually took Melanie a few minutes to realize what Martin was asking about, and she smacked herself on the forehead as soon as it hit her. How she could have forgotten, she had no idea, but she had. Quickly, she texted him back. [Just us, but maybe the others can join us for ice cream after?]
[Deal. Meet you at the usual place and time. Jon says I can cut out early.]
Feeling a little better than she had right after waking up, Melanie set her phone back down and set to cleaning up the previous night’s offerings before she let her new furry overlords out of their isolation chamber.
As it happened, she encountered Martin a bit earlier than the usual place and time—they both got to Notting Hill Gate at the same time—so she accepted his hug and grabbed his hand as they jumped onto the train. Two stops later, they hopped off to find Gerry waiting for them with a smirk and a very battered bag over one shoulder.
“Hey, Neens,” he said. His voice was the warmest thing about him—the hug he gave her was ice-cold. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” Melanie hugged him back, then stepped back with a grin. “Come on, we’re burning daylight.”
“I warn you both,” Gerry said as they emerged into the fading daylight, “I am going to be absolute rubbish at this.”
Martin snorted. “As opposed to every other year?”
“Yeah, well, I’m considerably more out of practice than I was the last time we did this.”
“We didn’t do it last year either,” Melanie said. “Or the year before. Last year we were both…going through some stuff.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Martin agreed. “And the year before that it rained most of the afternoon, so we went to the movies instead. So we’re all in about the same boat.”
“Good.” Gerry grinned. “Then we can all make fools of ourselves together.”
They all had their birthday traditions; Melanie’s was just the only one that carried back to before they’d even met. And it was always the years that they didn’t do one tradition or another that everything blew up in their faces. There was a part of her that ascribed Martin having survived Jane Prentiss’ attack—to say nothing of Gerry’s return—to the fact that they’d taken their traditional picture in Regent’s Park on the eighteenth of April, even if Gerry hadn’t been there for it. It was honestly hard to tell sometimes which of their traditions and rituals actually kept them safe and which were just…comforting.
She’d take both, though.
After twenty years, they knew the paths of Hyde Park well enough that they knew exactly where to go and where to avoid. They stopped at the bench they considered their bench—the one they met at in years when their trips on the Tube didn’t line up—to change. Well, Gerry and Melanie changed, at least, a process which took both of them a considerable amount of time. Martin could simply tie his over his shoes, although he had to turn the key on the left one a couple of times.
“You can’t possibly have grown in the last three years,” Gerry said, grumbling under his breath and tightening his buckles.
“It must’ve shifted in the bag.” Martin held the skate level with his eyes and sighted down the bottom. “God, I hope the teeth aren’t wearing out.”
As she did every year, Melanie paused, half-bent over in the act of tying her laces into a double knot, to marvel again at the way their personalities shone through even in something as simple as roller skates. Hers were the white quad skates with purple wheels Martin and Gerry had jointly given her for her twenty-first birthday, well cared for and sized perfectly for her feet. Gerry’s were a pair of battered black roller blades; he could only just balance on them and frequently fell against the others, but he was stubborn and refused to buy quad skates because he couldn’t find them in black. And Martin’s were a pair of vintage metal skates he’d found when they were thirteen and carefully, lovingly restored to the point that he could wear them.
It helped mitigate the disappointment of the previous night, every year, to have her brothers alongside her as they skated the paths of Hyde Park, stumbling and laughing and teasing each other. Martin’s skates rang cheerfully with every step, and once they got going, they could get a decent speed going—as long as Gerry didn’t fall, which happened a lot. He wasn’t as winded as he’d been in years past, which was good…well, probably good anyway…but he seemed even clumsier than usual. Still, Melanie’s spirits were higher than they’d been since…Aldershot.
As the shadows lengthened, they came up to Melanie’s favorite part of the path—a straight stretch that went on for a good ways, rarely traversed on the best of days and certainly not this late in the afternoon on a gloomy Thursday, with a sharp turn at the end leading to the wide patch of cement where she’d learned to skate twenty-five years previously. She elbowed Martin and grinned up at him. “Race you?”
Martin laughed. He, too, looked more carefree than she’d seen him since Gerry’s death. “You’re on.”
Gerry waved at them. “Go on. I’ll catch you up. Ready, steady, go!”
Melanie took off as fast as she could. Martin’s longer legs put him at a bit of an advantage, but she’d tried roller derby one summer, and while they’d deemed her too small to actually compete, she’d at least retained the basics of speed. She just had to hope they didn’t run into a park officer. Focusing ahead on the end of the path in the gathering dark, she charged ahead like she could outrun everything that had bothered her in the last two years.
Unable to hold in her delight, she flung her arms wide to either side and crowed like a rooster as she let herself glide along the path. She heard Martin’s bright gurgle of a laugh and didn’t even care that it sounded like it was right next to her.
Hang gliding, parasailing, skydiving, even bungee jumping—just because of the nature of the lives they led, and how close they came to the Fourteen, she knew she’d never be able to risk any of them. Roller skating like this was the closest she would ever get to flying under her own power.
She reached the turn in the path and leaned into it as hard as she could, overbalanced, and went skidding on her (thankfully padded) elbows across the path before spinning to a stop. Even that seemed funny to her, and she flopped over on her back, laughing as the helmet thudded against the concrete.
Martin’s face appeared upside down over hers, his curls peeking out under the edges of the helmet. “Are you all right?” he asked, sounding like he was barely containing his own laughter.
“I win.” Melanie smirked up at him, and Martin gave in to laughing. “Help me up, would you?”
She held up her hands, but Martin had other ideas. He grabbed her under the arms, making her squeak with surprise, and hauled her to her feet. Only then did he take her hands, from behind, and start skating slowly forward.
Melanie started laughing again. She couldn’t help it. The joy of the evening had got to her, the delight of being a kid again, at least for a little while—carefree and happy and loved…
“Neens?” Martin had stopped moving, and somehow he was in front of her. He took her cheek in one hand and swiped his thumb against it. “Melanie, what’s wrong, are you hurt?”
Melanie hadn’t realized she’d started crying, but now that she did, she couldn’t stop that, either. She fell against Martin’s chest, nearly knocking him backwards, and clung, burying her face in the soft wool of his jumper and copiously bedewing it with tears.
“I miss her so much,” she whispered.
Martin wrapped his arms around her and held her close, stroking her back and murmuring to her the way he had when she’d woken up from nightmares after they found out about Ivy Meadows, the way he had when they’d sung what they had thought would be their last farewell to Gerry. The way he had after her eighth birthday party when she’d tried to hide so her father wouldn’t think she was ungrateful, even though he hadn’t understood that she didn’t want a skating party, she’d just wanted to go skating, the way she always had with her mother on her birthday every year.
Martin had understood. He’d always understood. He’d always known what to say, what to do, to make it…maybe not all better, but at least bearable.
After a few moments, she heard him crooning softly and realized it was the song he used to ward off the Lonely. She didn’t know if it was subconscious or intentional, but she clutched him a little tighter all the same. If the Lonely was encroaching…she didn’t want to meet it.
After several long minutes, she took a deep breath and straightened up, pushing away from him. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be silly.” Martin squeezed her hands before letting her go. “Feel better?”
“A little,” Melanie said honestly. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying not to get the Velcro stuck in her eyebrows, and looked around. “Where’s Gerry? Hasn’t he caught up to us by now?”
Martin stiffened. “Now that you mention it, no. Christ, where could he have gone? It’s a straight shot.”
“You keep those glasses on your face,” Melanie said firmly. From the slight shift of his shoulders, she knew she’d been right—he’d been thinking about Looking to spot Gerry’s glow. “He can’t be far. Hang on.” She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.
There was a surprisingly long pause before an answering whistle came, and in straining to listen for it, Melanie heard shouting. A chill ran up her spine, and she looked up at Martin again. “You don’t think he…”
“He wouldn’t.” The look on Martin’s face clearly said that he not only knew he would, but that he probably had.
Without another word, they began skating back up the path towards where they’d come from. Sure enough, there was a minor commotion, someone on a cell phone gesticulating wildly while someone else knelt on the ground. She could just make out Gerry, barely visible in the gathering gloom, standing off to one side. To his credit, he looked incredibly shaken.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, as soon as Melanie and Martin were close enough that he noticed them. “I swear, it was an accident, he just bumped into me—”
“Of course this isn’t your fault,” an elderly woman said soothingly, reaching out to pat his arm.
Gerry jerked back, looking panicked, and lost his balance, toppling over backwards. He held out both hands, palms out, when Martin reached for him. “No, don’t, don’t touch me—”
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Martin, as he always did, went instantly into caretaker mode, positioning himself between Gerry and the crowd and talking in a low, gentle voice. “Melanie, see if they need help.”
Even though Melanie knew it was useless, she did as Martin instructed, kneeling down next to the hysterical teenager frantically pressing on the prone body’s chest and offering to take over. She kept it up until the paramedics arrived and took control, then went over to join Martin in comforting the teen, who turned out not to know the dead body personally except as someone who regularly turned up to feed the pigeons but felt responsible for not being able to save him.
“It’s not your fault, love,” Melanie said gently, and she carefully didn’t look at Gerry as she said this. It wasn’t his fault either. “You did everything you could. You gave him the best chance you could.”
Twenty minutes later, once the paramedics had received permission to call it and the teen’s friends had led her away, Martin touched Melanie’s arm. “You still want ice cream?”
“Yes,” Melanie said firmly. “You still okay to call the others and have them join us?”
“If you want them. Ger, you ready?”
Gerry nodded. He’d managed to calm down and right himself, and he’d already changed back into his regular shoes, but he still looked miserable and guilty. He took Martin’s hand on one side and Melanie’s on the other, and they made their way out of the park.
Melanie tried not to think about the fact that his fingers, where their bare skin touched, were only barely colder than her own.