None of the revellers in the Boar’s Head noticed Reverend Fallowfield return to the pub, as he slipped inside, a hood pulled over his bald head. Neither the living customers enjoying the warmth on that cold winter’s night, nor the ghost of Paddy O’Twain saw him enter and find a seat in a corner. Had Mrs O’Twain not been so rushed off her feet she would have spied him, and reminded him that the seats were for paying customers only. But Mrs O’Twain was distracted by a gang of spirited young Irishmen, leading the entire pub in a rousing singsong. Paddy’s was an unheard voice as he joined in with ballads he hadn’t heard in years, while his wife was busy batting off one of the more amorous members of the gang. Paddy didn’t mind this. He had never been a jealous man in life and was not going to start now. He was having the time of his death.
Even when Reverend Fallowfield began to mutter to himself in the corner, no one paid him any heed. The Boar’s Head had seen its fair share of mutterers over the years.
The first Paddy knew of the priest’s presence was a sudden violent tug in his chest. He wondered whether it was a side effect of his latest batch of spirit ale, but a second tug soon convinced him otherwise. Before he knew what was happening he had been dragged across the bar onto the table in the corner and was spinning round like a puppet with tangled strings.
Reverend Fallowfield threw off his hood to reveal the three-pointed birthmark on his head. His burning eyes focused on Paddy.
‘Devil spirit,’ said Reverend Fallowfield. ‘Now, we see your terrible form.’
The raucous rendition of The Irish Washerwoman petered out as one by one each singer noticed the strange occurrence in the corner of the pub. Mrs O’Twain pushed her way through, demanding to see what the trouble was. When she saw her dead husband suspended above a table, spinning around, she gasped. ‘Paddy?’
Paddy O’Twain felt very much like he used to feel when his wife would discover him downstairs late at night working his way through a bottle of whiskey.
‘Ah, well, hello there, dear,’ he said.
‘Ah well, hello there, dear?’ she squawked. ‘You return from the grave and that’s all you can bring yourself to say? These are the words with which you chose to haunt me?’
‘Haunting,’ said Paddy. ‘Now, that’s a strong word.’
‘Silence,’ cried Reverend Fallowfield, his clawlike fingers tightening their grip, making Paddy wince in discomfort.
‘Oh, it’s you again, is it?’ said Mrs O’Twain, turning to confront him. ‘I thought I made it clear what would happen if you returned.’
‘You doubted my assertion,’ hissed Reverend Fallowfield. ‘Now see for yourself the demon that lies within your place of sin.’
‘That’s no demon, Father. That’s my husband.’
‘No longer,’ exclaimed Reverend Fallowfield. ‘Before you, you see a shape of your husband but this thing, this apparition, this aberration is no longer human. God had no part in making it. ’Twas a redder hand which formed this creature.’
‘Steady on now,’ said Paddy.
‘He still sounds like my husband,’ said Mrs O’Twain, causing laughter from the drunken crowd.
‘I am here to release this spirit from its imprisonment,’ said Reverend Fallowfield.
‘Release,’ said Paddy. ‘Yes, that would be good. You’re making me dizzy with all this spinning, so you are.’
Reverend Fallowfield muttered something under his breath. He raised his hands and the muttering grew louder. ‘Damnable spirit, uninvited wretch, unrequested, unwanted . . . unliving. The other side awaits you. You must be gone from this place. You must be gone.’
Mrs O’Twain, who could see plainly enough the discomfort these words caused her husband, shouted, ‘Leave him alone. I told you I didn’t want this.’
‘It is not for you to want,’ replied Reverend Fallowfield. ‘This trespasser shall be chased out, eradicated, exterminated. Be gone, foul spirit. Be gone.’
Paddy’s discomfort turned to pain. He could feel himself being pulled in all directions, as though wild horses were tied to every part of his body. Dark cracks appeared all around him. He could no longer focus on his wife’s face. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ he managed to utter before pain was all that he knew and Paddy O’Twain was torn apart into nothingness.