Unfulfilled
Step, step, step. Halt – silence.
Francis Bonnefoy, a self-respecting Frenchman, had never been of the paranoid kind. He hardly ever felt uneasy even alone in remote areas, and nothing had ever given him any reason to start feeling otherwise.
Which was why it was so weird that Francis, soon after moving into a small English town by the Atlantic coast, had started feeling cold shivers running up and down his spine whenever he showed himself outside his smallish house.
Step. Step, step, step.
It wasn't that he was afraid, no. It was just the creepy feeling of somebody's eyes on him, of somebody's presence somewhere nearby. As if he was being followed.
What made it even creepier was the fact that the feeling of being followed wasn't there all the time when Francis was out. It wasn't some constantly nagging paranoia, which would have proven the whole feeling to be just silly nonsense. But no, since the nervous tickling hit Francis at random times, he slowly started to believe that somebody was truly following him every now and then.
Step, step, step.
And yet the steps echoing on the street were undeniably Francis' own, and only his.
Step, step, step.
Or were they? He couldn't tell.
"Silly man," he muttered to himself when heading home one evening. "You have lived here for over a month. Why start developing paranoia now, when there was nothing wrong with the place in the beginning? Well, nothing wrong save for the utter English-ness, but..."
Another point that made the whole matter feel so real was that when Francis had first moved into the town, he had found it only charming and pleasant, not disturbing in any sense. The unexpected paranoia had first appeared after two or three weeks since his arrival.
Step, step, step.
A logical explanation could be that the odd feeling had something to do with an article Francis had read in the local newspaper a couple of weeks earlier. Apparently some young man had gone missing, leaving not a trace behind. But then again, it had even been written in the article that there hardly was anything suspicious about the disappearing; the man was known to have had very bad relations with his family, and he had talked openly of leaving the town for good. This was confirmed by the man's family, acquaintances and boyfriend, so probably the man had really just ran off as he had threatened. But what if... Despite the town being perhaps the most peaceful place in whole England, there was a possibility that the man hadn't 'disappeared' of his own will. That's why the police was looking into the matter, and that was also why Francis felt slightly restless. If the missing man had been murdered or captured or something of the sort, the offender might still be somewhere in town, looking for a next suitable pray. Like for someone like Francis, for instance.
Or maybe the Frenchman was just being silly and exaggerated the whole situation. Maybe Francis had simply got a secret admirer, who was too shy to show himself and that's why constantly followed him from afar... Wait, no, that was almost creepier than hiding murderers.
Step, step, step. Step step step step step – open, close, lock. Safe.
Francis leant against his door, breathing deep. You silly man, he scolded himself. You are letting your imagination run wild, that's all there is to it. Satisfied with such a logical explanation, Francis sighed and took off his jacket, preparing himself for a relaxing evening with a good French film and a glass of wine.
Nonetheless, he decided to make sure his door was properly locked. Twice.
xXx
Arthur Kirkland, unknowingly to himself, had signed his own death sentence the moment he had laid his eyes on the Frenchman new in their town. Or perhaps, more accurately, his fate had been sealed further in the past, when he had started dating Ivan Braginski. Whichever it was, he would never know, but he would never know of his death, either, not until the very last moment when he finally saw it coming.
Yet, from the moment when Arthur started seeing Ivan Braginski to the very last second, the Englishman had never been unhappy with the Russian. Perhaps he hadn't been particularly happy, either, but Ivan had always treated him well and with respect like a true Russian gentleman, and Arthur had been comfortable around him. However, there hadn't been any great sparks of love, ever, on either side of the couple; Arthur and Ivan's relationship was based more than anything on the fact that neither of them truly felt like they belonged in the peaceful, smallish town and its habitants. They both were black sheep, in a way, and thus them drifting into a relationship together had only been natural. If dating Ivan Brakinski had ever felt like a bad idea to Arthur, it was only because of the Russian's younger sister, who seemed honestly speaking mental from time to time.
Since life in the town offered variation from little to none, the appearance of one Frenchman shook Arthur's world utterly and unconditionally.
It was a normal day – no work, only a sunny, idle Saturday noon at the docks with Ivan. The Russian was sitting on a quayside, his feet splashing in the water, and Arthur leant against his side, half napping, half watching people on the market place come and go.
"Look," Ivan said suddenly, tapping Arthur's arm. "I don't think I have seen that man before."
Since newcomers were almost unheard of in the town, and Arthur had nothing better to do, he turned his head to look. "Where?"
"Over there, talking in his phone outside the bakery. The blond man. Do you see?"
Arthur looked where Ivan pointed to and saw the man. And when he did, his heart just stopped beating and he felt like someone had struck him on the head with some heavy object. Suddenly he couldn't breath, and all sounds around him disappeared. His vision was restricted to see only the man pointed to him by Ivan, and for a moment he couldn't think of anything at all.
Arthur had always been somewhat cynical and believed himself to be as unromantic as it was possible to be. He didn't believe in love at first glance – hell, he didn't even believe in love to begin with, and yet, as a jape of fate, he experienced something that writers and poets love to express in their writing, and what every little girl dreams of at night. He didn't know what it was, though, not yet; all he knew was that the blond man at the bakery had somehow struck him so hard that he didn't know what was what any more, and that they were destined to meet.
"Arthur?" Ivan's voice was concerned, but Arthur had hard times registering it. "Arthur, are you alright?"
The man at the bakery left, unaware of his effect on a certain Englishman, and Ivan's voice got through the dizzy mind. Arthur shook his head, shaken and confused. "Yeah," he said. "I- I think I just got a sunstroke."
The statement wasn't even far from truth; the man with the golden hair and heavenly blue eyes couldn't be anything less than incarnation of the sun itself.
xXx
Francis decided that he hated his new home town.
It was everything he found unpleasant and boring: people treated him with distant courtesy or were openly rude, and Francis knew he was referred to as 'the foreigner'. The town itself was too quiet, too – plain and boring, dull as its habitants. The only person who treated Francis nicely was his new boss, the owner of the town bakery, and even he – an aged man – kept his distance. In one word, there was nothing to the Frenchman in this cursed village, and he cursed his sister for advising him to move there 'to get some rest' after his busy journalist life.
The only thing that Francis liked about the town were the docks. Or, more precisely, he didn't particularly like them – he just found himself being drawn to them for whatever reason. Soft singing of the waves hitting the platform and the few boats around was calming, and if Francis closed his eyes and let his imagination run, he could imagine that water was trying to say something to him. He could also imagine that wind – there was always wind by the sea – reached to caress him as it went by. Francis shivered slightly; the wind was chilly and it almost felt as if cold fingers lightly brushed the side of his face, gently and carefully but oh so cold...
Francis' eyes snapped open and he inhaled sharply. That had most certainly not been mere wind, for sure his face had just been touched, it must have been, it felt so real, the wind wasn't as cold as the something brushing his face had been, but, it wasn't possible, there was no one around, his imagination was merely doing tricks on him, Francis calm down, you fool.
His heart beating unnaturally fast, Francis quickly turned and left the docks. Dear Lord, I must be going crazy, he thought, this terrible village is making me crazy.
It wasn't even evening yet, and yet Francis once again felt like he were being followed.
Step step step, the sound of his steps, and his steps only, was driving him mad. "Calm down, you idiot," Francis repeatedly urged himself, counting seconds to reach his own door. "Calm down, you are feeding your own paranoia. There is nothing there. There is nothing there."
To prove his point to himself, Francis abruptly stopped and looked in a shop window which he happened to stand by. It was an ordinary daily goods store and it was still open, there were some people inside. His breathing slowing down little by little, Francis looked into the eyes of his own reflection. "See?" he said, quietly, not to rouse any suspicions of passers-by. "Nothing's wrong."
The emerald green eyes of his reflection met his own blue ones.
Francis' heart froze in his chest and he found himself rooted to the ground, muted by sudden flash of terror. He stood still, staring at his blue-eyed reflection, and-
His blue-eyed reflection. His own reflection.
He drew in a shaky breath. What..?
His knees felt weak, so he placed his hands on the glass and leant against it, shuddering. What on earth was happening? Was he just imagining? Of course he was, what else could it be but imagination? And yet... But no. No. It was just his own silly imagination. The paranoia he had been feeling for the past days was affecting his mind, so his subconsciousness came up with imaginary... things. That had to be it. Had to be. Otherwise Francis should start to worry about his sanity.
He left the window, intending to get home where no such sensations plagued him, but as he walked, he happened to glance back.
A man stood there, a real, large man with ashen hair and a scarf loosely wrapped about his neck although it wasn't even that cold yet. He stood there and stared at Francis, hands in his pockets.
As soon as Francis got behind a corner, out of the weird man's eyes, he ran.
He ran until his chest was burning, but he didn't stop until he was at his own door.
What is happening here, he thought as he frantically tried to open a bottle of wine once he reached his kitchen. What is happening in this village? I must be going crazy. This village drives me crazy. Lord help me, I'm going insane...
xXx
Arthur had always wanted to leave his home town, had wanted since he had turned nine.
He had always wanted to get away from his bloody insane family, with his mother gone, his father drinking himself to oblivion and abusing whoever he got his hands on by the way, and his brothers who had inherited his father's habits, only they didn't need alcohol to be abusive. The only reason why Arthur hadn't left yet was the sad fact that he had nowhere else to go. He wanted to study in a university to become a journalist or maybe a doctor, or maybe even a lawyer – frankly, anything would do as long as he was away from this blasted town. But for university he needed money, and so far he hadn't been able to land himself a job outside his town.
That was before. But then Arthur had caught a glimpse of the new Frenchman (Ivan had heard him speaking French once, hence the conclusion), and everything had turned upside down.
It wasn't that Arthur had changed his mind about leaving, heavens, no. It was just that he felt as if this new man had somehow tied Arthur to himself, and if the Frenchman was going to stay, so was Arthur. It wasn't a question of choice – it was fate's decision. Arthur hated how foolish it all sounded – that he and the man were destined to be together, although Arthur had only seen him once and the Frenchman wasn't even aware of Arthur's existence – but the Englishman had obtained a good piece of knowledge concerning things not generally understood by most people. That's why he knew better than to fight it when he realised there was a string attaching his heart to the Frenchman's.
Yet however he tried, he never managed to meet the man again, not even see him, and it frustrated him to no end; being tormented by someone who didn't even know you were there was truly annoying. But every time Arthur tried to approach him, something hindered him: when he tried to cross the road, several cars passed him and meanwhile the Frenchman had got out of sight; or then the man managed to disappear in a crowd; or then he simply was nowhere to be seen.
Aside that, what also gave him headache was the fact that he would have to tell Ivan. It grieved him to leave the sad Russian alone, but when one found his soulmate there was nothing to be done about it. Ivan would understand. He would be sad, but he would understand. Arthur knew he would.
xXx
Francis' boss clicked his tongue and put the newspaper aside. Francis gave him a questioning look while making sure that everything was in order and the bakery could be closed for the day.
"Have you read the newspaper yet, Francis?" bakery owner asked, and as Francis shook his head, continued, "Have you heard of that young man who disappeared a while ago? Yes. Well, the police hasn't found any trace of him in any nearby town or city. No one has seen him. So now the police is suspecting that that poor lad would have been killed. Either here or nearby. Or then he has committed suicide."
Chills ran up and down Francis' spine. "Why?"
"One can never know with young people. He had always been an odd one. And he was always hanging out with one Russian, just as odd as the lad himself. Might be they had a lovers' quarrel and the Russian killed him. That's what they do, you know. The poor lad never knew how to choose his company." The owner looked at Francis funnily, and added, "You know, once he came here to ask for you, but it was your free day."
Suddenly blood ran cold in the Frenchman's veins. "He... he did?"
"Just as I said. Did you know him?"
"Not at all."
Francis took the local newspaper, opened the right pages and stared at it for a moment. Then he gave the paper back to his boss. "Well," he said. "I believe it's time for me to go home. I will see you tomorrow."
But Francis didn't go home. For some unknown reason he was drawn to the docks again, so he went there instead. His mind was empty, empty save for the image of a photo in the newspaper where the article of the 'poor lad' had been. He had seen that face before. He had seen those eyes before. He had seen them reflected in the shop window not many days earlier, and the thought frightened him so much that he, paradoxically, felt calm in some strange way, or numb with fear at the very least.
Rain clouds covered the sky. Hardly any people chose to go out at that time in the evening, especially with a promise of rain, so when Francis got to the docks, he saw no one around. It made him somewhat nervous, but he found himself unable to leave just yet. The sound of waves was relaxing, and the wind, though strong and cold, didn't seem unfriendly. Francis shivered when he remembered the cold fingers he had felt in the wind the other day, and then he shivered again because he truly was alone and there was not a soul around. Every now and then a car would pass nearby, but aside that and the sound of wind and waves, there was only silence to keep him company.
"Why am I so nervous?" Francis muttered to himself, slightly annoyed at such childish behaviour. "I should be relieved instead." He truly should, because he had just got a rational explanation to his paranoia: with all the talk of a possible murder, it was no wonder that Francis was anxious. Even more so, because he was in a new, unfamiliar town, where didn't know anybody yet. That's why he kept imagining touches in the wind or reflections of missing people – his mind was merely overreacting due to its anxious state. "Don't feed your own fears," he whispered to assure himself, just like his father used to do when Francis had had nightmares as a child.
Francis refused to question how it was possible that the first time he had seen the face of this missing Englishman had been in a reflection in a window – before he saw an actual photo of the man.
A breath of wind kissed Francis' cheek and the Frenchman turned his face to the sea. He didn't know what he was doing there – on the docks, in the town, or even in England, to begin with. I should go home, back to France. There is nothing to me here. There is nothing to keep me here. I should have never even come.
When Francis turned around to leave the platform, he halted as abruptly as if he had met a wall.
A pale figure... no, a translucent figure. Slender form. Messy short hair. Expressionless face. Serious, sad eyes. Green eyes. Standing there, only few steps away from the Frenchman.
Francis forgot how to move. He forgot how to run, how to speak, how to scream. He forgot how to breath, so all he could do was merely stand where he was and stare at this sad figure before him.
The figure observed him in silence, but Francis got the feeling that the serious green eyes were full of unsaid words, words that needed to be voiced, but had to be silenced for ever. Such heavy sadness seemed to hang in the air around the figure that Francis felt his heart sinking of its weight, so heavy it was hard to breath. He tried to speak, to say anything, but all he managed out of his dry throat was a pathetic wordless sound.
The figure took several steps backwards – not quite walking, not quite floating – but it never took its eyes off the Frenchman. When Francis didn't move, the figure raised its both hands and extended them towards him, taking a few more steps back, eyes almost pleading.
That was when Francis found himself again. "Go away!" he shouted, trying very hard not to lose his mind. Where just a moment earlier his heart hadn't been working, now it started beating so rapidly that Francis heard its drumming in his head... and surely the terrifying figure heard it too. "Get away from me!"
The figure seemed to flinch, dropping its arms to sides. It took one more step backwards, eyes intently on the Frenchman, looking sadder than ever.
Francis took it as a good sign. "Yes, get away from here, disappear! Get away!"
And suddenly the figure wasn't there any more. Francis remained where he was, panting heavily and looking frantically around to see if the frightening figure would appear again. He saw nothing, and then finally his feet remembered what to do.
Step step step step step step step step step step step step step.
Francis slammed his door firmly shut and leant against it to make sure it truly remained so. His chest was aching from the run, and his mind was empty and full of terrible visions at the same time. Not even bothering to take his coat or shoes off, Francis headed straight to his kitchen, grabbed an unopened wine bottle, opened it and drank. He drank until he couldn't any more, and then everything faded into darkness, sweet darkness where no disturbing thoughts or images could reach him.
xXx
Ivan Braginski had incredibly enticing eyes. The colour of them was pale violet, but it changed slightly according to the Russian's current mood. When Ivan was angry, his eyes darkened considerably, but when he was sad or content with something, his eyes got a pale violet shade to them – purplish pale when content, paler shade when sad. Arthur wasn't quite sure how the Russian's eyes looked when he was truly happy.
But now, however, they were pale violet, paler than Arthur was used to seeing them.
"I understand," Ivan said, quietly but with a small, sad smile. "I kind of expected this after seeing your reaction to him, and how restless you were afterwards."
Arthur knew that Ivan didn't love him the same way that couples usually loved one another, but there was a special bond between the two of them, anyway, and that bond couldn't remain how it was if and when Arthur left. They both knew it, and they accepted it – at least, that's what Arthur believed. They accepted it with heavy hearts perhaps, but there was nothing they could do about it.
"You should leave this hell hole," Arthur told Ivan. "You will never belong here, and you will never find happiness here."
"I have been thinking of returning to Russia," Ivan admitted, eyes gazing into distance. Arthur knew that his heart rested only in his homeland, and he sincerely hoped that Ivan would return there.
"Good to hear."
"Goodbye, Arthur," Ivan said, and looked the Englishman in the eyes.
"Yeah," Arthur replied. "Bye."
When Arthur was leaving the house, he bumped into Natalia in the hallway. The girl stared at him sullenly, and as a passing thought the Englishman was momentarily happy of Ivan and his break up (if it could be called that); now he wouldn't have to meet the creepy little sister any more. Arthur didn't doubt that she would jump with joy as soon as Ivan told her what had happened – she had always hated Arthur and been overprotective of her big brother, although she was a girl and even the younger sister, and Ivan was tall and strong and didn't require any sort of protection. At least not the sort his sister could provide.
Natalia didn't say anything to him, she rarely did, so Arthur said nothing, too. However, even as he had closed the front door behind himself he had an uneasy feeling of the girl's eyes boring into him.
Now all Arthur had to do was to finally manage meeting the root of everything – the mysterious Frenchman. He didn't know if the man would feel the same as he did, but he had to find it out if he wanted to achieve any sort of peace.
xXx
Tick, tick, tick.
The clock hands went on and on, continued going in a never-ending circle. Francis had already lost count how many times they had made a full circle.
He hadn't left his house since the incident on the docks. First it was because he was frightened to death, but then he had started to think. He had dug out all the local newspapers he had, and read through them all, trying to mark any mention of the disappeared young man.
Arthur Kirkland, that was his name. And he hadn't run away, as the newspaper had suggested at first. Arthur Kirkland was dead.
Now, Francis Bonnefoy had never believed in ghosts. There had never been room for such things in his busy, satisfying life, and he had never given them much thought. But now... now the issue required some serious reconsidering. There were only two options: it was either that Francis was truly losing his mind, or then ghosts did exist, and he had seen one.
No matter how frightening the latter option was, the first one was even more dreadful, and that's why, however reluctantly, Francis chose to believe that existence of a ghost wasn't truly impossible.
When he had reached that conclusion, he started replaying his surreal experiences which might have included the ghost.
First, there was this feeling of being constantly followed.
Second, the cold fingers on the docks.
Third, the reflection in the shop window.
And fourth, the appearance of the ghost himself, on the docks again.
Plus, Francis remembered the discussion with his boss from the other day, about Arthur Kirkland – that the man had asked for him in the bakery before his disappearance.
The more Francis thought about it, the more he started to feel that the ghost wanted to somehow speak with him, and the more he also started to feel that he was somehow oddly connected with it.
After coming to that conclusion, Francis' fear seemed to decrease considerably. It was odd, but Francis felt that even if the people in the town chose to treat him as a stranger and a foreigner who would never be one of them, the ghost acknowledged his presence and even wanted something of him, of him, and no one else in the town. It almost felt like the true purpose for moving into the town was meeting that ghost.
Or better said, meeting Arthur Kirkland. Who just happened to be now dead.
But what did the ghost – Arthur – want of him? That Francis would have to find out.
And so, resolved to solve the matter once and for all, the Frenchman collected all the courage he could muster and stepped out of his house. He drew a deep breath of chilly evening air to calm his rapidly beating heart, and headed towards the docks, where he supposed was the best chance of meeting the ghost again.
He just hoped that he hadn't driven Arthur away the last time he had shown himself to Francis.
xXx
Arthur had been looking for the Frenchman for the whole day, ever since his 'break up' with Ivan in the morning, but of no avail.
The Frenchman hadn't been in the town centre – not on the docks, not in the bakery, not in any of the shops and boutiques. Arthur had even asked for the Frenchman in the bakery, for he had seen him entering it a couple of times (yet he had never been there whenever Arthur had tried to reach him), but once again, the owner of the bakery just shrugged and said it was the Frenchman's day off.
After the whole day of result-less searching, Arthur, exhausted, decided to try again the following day, and started walking towards his own home. His family's house stood almost at the edge of the town; it was one of the last houses before fields and, further, a forest.
But before he reached his home, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Starting slightly, he turned to see Natalia's sullen eyes staring into his.
"Huh," he said, both surprised and slightly annoyed. "What do you want?"
"You broke my brother's heart," she hissed in reply, hatred flaring in her eyes.
"That's not exactly true," Arthur started, but the girl didn't let him finish. "Then why has he been so sad since you left this morning?"
Arthur's massive eyebrow twitched. He wasn't answerable to this girl, not even if she was a sister of his past sort-of-a-boyfriend, and he also told her that.
Anger flashed in Natalia's eyes when she heard him. "Even if you weren't answerable to me," she hissed, "you are to my brother."
"Everything is clear and settled between us."
"Come and see him."
"We talked in the morning."
"Come and see him," she insisted.
Arthur sighed. He wasn't in the best of moods – he was hungry, tired and still somehow shaken due to recent events – but he knew that the quickest way to rid himself of Natalia was to agree to her demand and be done about it. Arthur didn't doubt that Ivan was sad, but he also knew that the Russian wasn't sad mainly because of the end of their relationship – Ivan couldn't feel truly happy so long as he remained outside the borders of his own country. He had left too much to his homeland when he had had to leave it.
"Come," Natalia demanded again and tugged at his sleeve. Arthur shook her hand off, but turned to follow her nonetheless.
"Did Ivan send for me?" he asked as they walked.
"No."
Thought so. Of course brother-obsessed Natalia would act on her own when it wasn't needed.
The Braginskis lived closer to the town centre, nearer to the docks, and Arthur and Natalia had chosen a short cut through narrow, hardly used alleys. Heavy clouds covered the sky, wind blew wildly and chilly, carrying a smell of rain. Arthur tried to wrap his leather jacked more tightly around himself, hoping the meeting with Ivan would be brief. It was late already, late and cold, and there was nothing much he wanted to discuss with the Russian at the moment. In all honesty, he suspected that Ivan felt the same, and all was just Natalia's overreacting.
He soon discovered that he was more right than, if looking back, he would ever want to be.
Every sensible habitant of the town was already in their own, warm home by that hour, so there was no one to see how a pretty, slender yet strong Russian girl suddenly hurled herself at a young, unsuspecting man, surprising him enough to tackle him into an abandoned warehouse. No one was there to see her draw out two knives, or to hear him yelping as they were thrust deep into him in darkness. Not a soul knew of struggling and a doomed fight, and when it all ended, there was only one bloodied person to witness Arthur Kirkland's last breath.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the town, Francis Bonnefoy went to bed and dreamt of Paris and roses and a pair of emerald, laughing eyes. In the morning, when he woke up, the dream was forever forgotten.
xXx
He was already there when Francis neared the docks. It was a sunny day for a change – the Frenchman dared not wait until dark – but Arthur Kirkland was on the spot nonetheless, standing at the end of a platform and gazing to the sea. People were passing by, chatting about this and that and basically living their lives, none of them aware of the lonely, unseen figure among them. None, but Francis.
His back was facing the Frenchman, but Francis still had the uncomfortable feeling that the ghost was fully aware of his presence. His suspicions were confirmed when Arthur Kirkland turned to look at him even before Francis' hesitant foot touched the platform. It wasn't easy, walking towards the terrifying, sad figure – a ghost for heaven's sake! – especially if you just started believing in such creatures only a day or two earlier.
Francis didn't dare look at the figure directly, not when he felt his heavy gaze upon himself, but the more he neared the ghost, the greater an urge he got to meet the his eyes. Only few feet away from him, Francis finally mustered enough courage to do so. And when he did, his breath got caught in his throat.
The form of Arthur Kirkland was entirely transparent... save for his strikingly green, no, emerald eyes. It was a shock to see so bright a colour in otherwise almost invisible figure, and Francis had to stop to draw a deep breath and assure himself that it was too late to back off now. But those eyes, dear Lord, those eyes...Francis couldn't tear himself free from the hold of those fascinating, sad orbs. He felt being drawn into them, felt like he was falling, swirling, twirling, flying, flying... He felt as if he had known the owner of those eyes for a lifetime, or that at least he should have known him, should have been allowed to meet him, and an overwhelming rush of unspeakable ruefulness washed over him with such force that he almost lost his footing, and the eye contact with the ghost unlocked. Francis gasped for air, distraught, but not really afraid any more.
Arthur hadn't moved from his spot, he merely watched the Frenchman from where he stood, and waited. When Francis was finally able to get himself more or less back in hand, he didn't hesitate any longer. With several brisk steps he stood right before the ghost, and met his green look again.
"Who are you?" he demanded hoarsely, his voice low.
The ghost did not reply and Francis remembered that he already knew the answer to his question. At least the superficial answer.
"Arthur Kirkland," he pronounced, never taking his blue eyes off Arthur's. Something moved in the eyes of the English ghost at that, but otherwise he gave no reaction.
They stood like that for quite a while, then, face to face. Francis tried to come to the terms with the fact that he was speaking to a ghost, and calm his storming feelings and thoughts, and Arthur... Who knew.
"What..." Breathless, and half fearing, half craving for an answer, Francis had to restart his question. "What do you want of me?"
At that, the ghost of Arthur Kirkland finally reacted. He took a step – no, not really a step, not quite floating, just like last time – backward, away from the Frenchman, then turned around and took more of his odd steps. He stopped and turned to Francis. Like the Frenchman remembered him doing last time he had seen him, the ghost raised both his arms in silent invitation to follow.
This time, Francis obliged.
No one paid them – or him – any attention as they walked through the town, the Frenchman following the ghost. It was surreal, and quite difficult to comprehend that he was the only one who even saw Arthur Kirkland. How could somebody not? Those green eyes were far too radiant to be unseen!
Arthur led him to the part of the town which Francis had not yet explored; it had always looked rather repugnant to him with its narrow, dark and smelling alleys. Even now, in the bright sunlight, the alley was practically empty of people, and rays of sun didn't quite seem to reach its dark corners... Or maybe it was just the Frenchman's own imagination's doing. Either way, as he followed the ghost, a foreboding feeling started creeping up Francis' spine. He tried to recall everything he had heard about ghosts, and this is what came to his mind: ghosts were born of feelings such as regret and vindictiveness... and if they wanted to find peace for their earthen remnants. These ideas weren't really lifting the Frenchman's spirits, but he couldn't back off any more. Not even when the ghost of Arthur finally stopped at a decayed little house. A nauseating smell attack Francis' sense of smell and he tried not to gag. Arthur was looking at him again with his sad eyes, and when the Frenchman met his heavy gaze, he suddenly knew what was inside.
Covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief Francis backed away a few steps to lean against the opposite building. He couldn't go inside. He didn't want to go there, and he didn't want to see. But then he saw Arthur's ghost hanging his head and entering the small building through the closed (but apparently broken) door. Seeing that happening Francis was struck with an unnameable sensation – there was a body inside, there was Arthur's body inside (or what was left of it), the murdered young man's body. Life had ended abruptly for the Englishman, before he and Francis had even had a chance to meet, and it was beyond imagination to understand what the ghost, the soul of Arthur, had to be feeling when he had to look at his own corpse rotting to nothing. However disgusting and horrifying it would be for Francis to go in there and see the corpse, it would be nothing compared to the ghost's feelings (and he had feelings, Francis knew it – the never ending sadness in those green eyes was a proof of that).
So, though dreading what was awaiting him, the Frenchman pressed the handkerchief more tightly against his face and, shaking and shuddering, reached to push the wooden door open.
It was dark inside, but dirty, occasionally broken windows provided enough light to locate the ghost in the middle of an empty room, standing above something that looked like... looked like... that was...
Francis stumbled backwards and retched violently, falling to his knees. Then he retched again, until nothing came out any more, nothing but tearing, shuddering gasps and gags and tears. Arthur Kirkland watched him, sadly as always, and when Francis dared look back again – at the ghost, not the corpse – he couldn't help wondering how someone so young and good-looking could turn into something so revolting.
There before the Frenchman's eyes the ghost suddenly faded away, and panic struck Francis. "Arthur?" he shouted, desperately looking for the ghost. "Arthur!" Terror filling him, he got to his feet and rushed out of the building, running and running and running to never stop again.
xXx
Apparently only the sky had enough decency to weep at Arthur Kirkland's funeral. No one looked happy though, no one was smiling, but none of the few people attending the young Englishman's simple burial ceremony was shedding any tears.
Francis wasn't crying, either. And really, why would he? He had never known the man. He hadn't even talked with him... well, save for his ghost, and even then only a couple of short sentences. And yet, dry-eyed or not, he felt as though he was the saddest one of those present.
Francis didn't know anybody at the funeral, he didn't recall seeing anyone at the town. Yet the three men, who were now each in turn tossing a handful of dirt into the grave, looked like they could be Arthur's brothers (all had the same kind of eyebrows Francis had seen on the ghost's face). An elderly couple might have been his parents – or maybe not, because they didn't really look like mourning parents with their frozen, stern expressions. The rest were probably friends or acquaintances. And yet no one looked like they had just lost a friend. No one seemed to have a same kind of deep, desperate feeling of loss inside as Francis, a stranger, did.
The lack of tears bothered the Frenchman. Too distant. Too cold, had nobody here truly love him?
The priest shut his Bible and gave his audience a look that announced the ceremony to be over. The coffin with a corpse inside was in the grave, everybody – including Francis – had thrown some dirt on it, the words of power of hope even in the deepest grief had been spoken. One by one, or in small groups, the people left the open grave with its new habitant. All but two.
"There he now lies."
Francis started on hearing the voice and turned around to see a tall man with a long scarf wrapped around his neck. There was something familiar about the man, and suddenly Francis remembered catching him staring at him, Francis, when the Frenchman had seen Arthur Kirkland's reflection in his own. Shudders ran down his spine.
The man walked past him to stand right at the grave. He crouched to take a handful of dirt and dropped it into the grave, like everybody else had done earlier. Then he just stood there, letting the drizzle wet his face instead of tears. Francis watched his back, his slightly slumped, large shoulders, his ashen hair sticking to his head, and waited.
"He wanted to get out," The man spoke again after some silence. He had a heavy Russian accent, Francis noted. "He wanted to get out, and that's where he ended up."
Something clenched in the Frenchman's heart. He hadn't talked about Arthur with anyone, and no one had talked about the young man to him, either. No one had spoken to him at the funeral, no one had inquired what business he might have there. No one but this Russian. And in his voice Francis heard the grief he hadn't really seen on anybody else's face. Saying nothing, he took a couple of steps to stand on the Russian's side; the man clearly wanted to talk about Arthur, and that was precisely what Francis needed, too. He wanted to hear of this young, mysterious man, learn something about him, hear someone speak of him like he had been a real, living person, not only a dream.
"He was the closest person to me in this whole town," the Russian said. "And I was to him. At least I think so."
Francis shifted uncomfortably. Had this man seen Arthur's ghost, too?
The Russian turned to face the Frenchman and offered his hand. "Ivan Braginski."
"Francis Bonnefoy."
They shook hands. Violet eyes locked into Francis, boring deep into him.
"Well." Francis withdrew his hand, uneasy. "You were friends?"
Ivan Braginski shrugged. "Somehow, I guess." Then he added, "We were dating, sort of."
"Oh." Francis couldn't tell why his heart had dropped at that, so he tried to ignore the feeling. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"I would have lost him anyway. Not this way, though."
Francis had no idea what to reply to that, so he remained silent.
"You two never met." For some unknown reason, Braginski's tone was sad when he said so.
"No." Except for his ghost and his rotten corpse, but neither is an appealing way to meet a person.
"He tried to."
"What?"
Ivan's pale violet eyes bore into Francis' again. "He tried to."
Francis' mouth went dry. Arthur had tried to meet him when he had still been alive? Oh yes, now he recalled his boss mentioning that the Englishman had once asked for him... But he didn't dare ask Ivan, why.
Both were silent for some time, then, thinking. He and Arthur had been dating. But what did he mean by saying that he would have lost him anyway? Arthur had tried to meet me. What did the Russian know about me? Had Arthur known me? Why, why, why had he tried to reach me? Why, why, why, why, why? And now I will never know. Never know why. Why? Why? Why?
Suddenly the Russian covered his face with both his hands. "It was my sister."
Francis was confused. "Who was?"
"Arthur," Ivan Braginski said. "It was my little sister who killed him. My own blood."
The Frenchman's vision flashed white. For a fraction of a second he wanted to push the Russian down into the open grave and fill it, to have him suffocate and die and rot there together with Arthur. But the moment of madness left Francis as quickly as it had come, and sense returned to his mind. But his body started to shake, and he shoved his fists into the pockets of his black jacket.
"Why?" He forced the question out through his teeth with effort.
Ivan told him why. He told him how possessive Natalia Braginski had always been over her big brother, how she had always despised everyone who tried to 'take him away' from her. She had tolerated Arthur, because the Englishman had seemed to make Ivan less sad, but when he had broken up with the Russian, Natalia had thought that Arthur had destroyed her brother by betraying him, abandoning him. She had wanted revenge. When Francis had found the corpse and informed the police about it, all the traces had led to the young Russian girl: her blood on Arthur's fingers (he had managed to scratch her neck raw), her long, ashen hairs found at the place of crime. Having been caught, the girl didn't deny anything – she had done all for his brother's sake and regretted nothing. Soon she had been diagnosed mentally unstable and was sent to a mental institution of criminals in another town. All this would come out in the local newspaper in a couple of days.
"I was planning to return to Russia," Ivan said in a chocked voice. "But now my sister is locked here for life, and Arthur... I can't leave any more. Not when this all ended like it did. I owe to him. And to her, despite what she did. She is my blood after all."
Francis didn't say anything for a long time, but finally he felt obliged to confess, "It was me who found the body."
"I'm sorry," Ivan said.
"This... isn't your fault."
"I'm sorry for you." Ivan looked at him again with his sad, pale violet eyes and shook his head. "I need to go. It was a pleasure meeting you, Francis Bonnefoy. Perhaps we can keep in touch if you will stay in this town."
If I will stay in this town..? Francis thought as he watched the Russian walking away. How could he not stay? Just like Ivan had said, how could he leave now when Arthur Kirkland was buried in this soil?
"You tried to catch me," Francis spoke into the air, raising his eyes to the clouded sky above. "To meet with me. I didn't even know of your existence. And when I finally learnt of you, you were already dead."
The drizzle started to turn into a real rain, but it weren't only raindrops that run down the Frenchman's cheeks. He wiped his face with his hand, shocked and at the same time oddly relieved to be finally crying. His mind was only coming to realise the fact that Arthur Kirkland had been a real, living person, someone with a life, with a social circle (however small). Now he was dead, dead before they had the chance to meet, to get to know one another, to...
"I can't get rid of the feeling that we were meant to meet one another," the Frenchman half sobbed, half whispered into the air. "Is this some kind of a prank fate decided to pull on us? We were supposed to meet!" The last sentence came out as a yell, as a bitter, angry, devastated cry.
Something cold brushed the side of Francis' face – something else than rain, something else than wind. Eyes snapping open, the Frenchman saw the already familiar bright but sad emerald eyes looking at him, saw the fading figure of a man he never got the chance to love, felt the touch of his cold fingers on his face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered through his tears. "I'm sorry for not knowing of you when you were alive, of not being there when you were looking for me." He reached with his own hand, gently and carefully trying to touch Arthur's face, but his fingers slipped right through it. Arthur Kirkland was out of his reach, would always be. "We were supposed to meet," Francis repeated, the sadness of the ghost and his own despair weighting his heart down. "But not like this. Not like this. Alive."
He tried to touch the ghost again, but in vain. "Why?" he whispered, expressing with that one word all the confusion, all the strange but strong feelings storming within him. "Why?"
Arthur Kirkland did not reply, as he never had. Instead he leant forward and briefly placed his lips right on the lips of the Frenchman. His emerald eyes captured Francis' sapphire ones, and that one look revealed more than thousand words could ever have revealed. For the shortest second he felt as though their souls had met, touched, understood, but then the moment was gone and Arthur Kirkland smiled. Francis blinked, but Arthur was already gone and the Frenchman was left alone at the open grave.
His hand rose to brush his lips where Arthur's cold lips had touched his. Arthur's lips had been cold, but the still lingering feeling of them was warmer than a kiss from a sun could ever be.
"Goodbye," he whispered, turned around and walked away from the grave.
Francis Bonnefoy never left the small English town by the sea after that. He never grew to love it, nor did it ever love him, but he was tied to it by a man buried in its soil. Francis kept visiting that grave regularly for the rest of his life – meeting Arthur Kirkland, or his ghost, had moved something deep within the Frenchman, and that something never stopped moving as long as he was alive.
But he never saw Arthur's ghost again.
X
Requiescat in pace.