Haunted by Alma Alexander Page B

with a jersey tied loosely round his shoulders. His hands
were still stuffed into his pockets.
    “Will this do?” he inquired hopefully.
    I glanced around. Nobody was paying us any
attention. A jeans-clad youth was not an unusual sight, and anyone
who had seen this particular youth appear out of nothing had
already hurried home to take two aspirins and call the doctor.
    “Now, about the case…”
    It transpired that Wally’s father had given
him the cigarette case when he had joined the RAF in February 1940.
And then, towards the end of August in that same year, he had
scrambled with the other pilots in his squadron to a warning of the
approach of enemy planes.
    Wally’s plane was hit at the outset of the
battle. It plummeted and exploded into a ball of flames…
    “They didn’t find much,” Wally said sadly.
“Only bits and pieces. The case got flung free and they never found
it.
    “It was discovered three weeks afterwards by
a local urchin who sold it to a pawnshop in town. And from there it
was bought by a man, left on a train, picked up by another man,
lost again... and so on for a year or so.
    “Then some chap chucked it into the cases
when he was packing for his trip to South Africa. Found it when he
got there and wondered why he’d brought it. He got rid of it… and
you picked it up off the stall in the market.”
    “Well-travelled case,” I commented. “Do you
mean to tell me that you haunt a cigarette case? I thought that
ghosts always lived in grand old houses and rattled their chains
around four-poster beds and floated down wide staircases with their
heads in their hands…”
    “Well, the truth is, most of such places are
actually already occupied,” Wally said. “Besides, I’m a bit young
to be toting chains… there you go again. What’s so funny?”
    “You really are one of the most unorthodox
specters I have ever met… not that I’ve met many, of course.”
    “I can see that,” Wally said, aggrieved. “I
got left behind on earth when I died, and I had to get attached to
something, and this case was the only thing that survived the crash
more or less in one piece. All right?”
    “OK. I am sorry. The truth is, I don’t quite
know what to make of you. Or what you want of me.”
    “Just send the case back to my family,” Wally
said plaintively. “Tell them what happened, and if they can bury it
where they buried what they could scrape together of me, well,
maybe then I can finally go and rest in peace.”
    “A ghost in the post,” I said, and fought
valiantly with another attack of hysterics.
    “What?” Wally said.
    “Never mind. All right, I’ll send it. Does
that mean I’m stuck with the pleasure of your company until I do
get rid of it?”
    “Well, you don’t have to…” Wally began,
affronted, and his edges began to blur.
    “No! Wait!” I said, flinging out an arm.
“Don’t do that to me again! And besides, I must admit, I quite
enjoy having you around.”
    He firmed again, and grinned. And you’re
nice, too. It’s a pity I didn’t meet you back in 1939.”
    “That would be a fine thing,” I snored. “My
parents were toddlers then. By the way, how old are you?”
    “Forever nineteen,” he said, with infinite
sadness. “That’s when I stopped growing old.”
    I did some mental arithmetic. “Well, you’re
younger than my grandparents, but not my much,” I said. “It’s hard
to think of you as a grandfather.”
    “I don’t want to think of myself as a
grandfather,” he retorted, “especially not yours. I wish I could
take you to dances, not dandle you on my knee!”
    “I wish you could, too,” I sighed. Too
deeply. He looked up.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Read my mind?”
    “Don’t be silly, we can’t do that,” Wally
said with asperity. “To take a good guess, though. I would say it’s
to do with dances and partners. To take it a guess further, I would
hazard the dance is the Battle of Britain Ball, and the problem is
that there is