Work Text:
It was unusually warm for New Year’s Eve – not that Julian could tell, being dead and all. He and his fellow ghosts were gathered on the driveway, where Mike and Alison had dragged the sofa out and settled themselves in to watch the Beg-Chetwynde’s firework display. That berk, Barclay, had been round earlier in the day, not to invite Alison obviously, but to give her permission to watch his fireworks, from her driveway. Just showing some real neighbourly spirit, he’d twattled, and promised not to charge her for the privilege – this time, at least.
Alison had been all for shutting themselves up inside the house with a film and the curtains drawn, just to spite him, but Mike had said they may as well make the most of the opportunity since they weren’t going to be able to afford their own fireworks any time soon. Julian was with him – might as well take an advantage where you could. Allison had remained reluctant, but after some copious begging from Kitty and excitement from Pat and Robin, she had relented. And so here they all were, outside at five to midnight, Alison and Mike in the middle, the ghosts around them, Robin sitting on the floor at Julian’s feet, the Captain hovering impatiently behind the sofa, Kitty next to Allison barely able to contain herself, Fanny looking down at her with a repulsion that was belied by her constant checking of the sky.
Mike had cracked open a bottle of wine and if Julian tried hard enough, he could almost smell it, taste it, almost recall the wonderful oblivion of being completely and utterly drunk, instead of the slightly tipsy he had to make do with for eternity. Funny, he could hardly remember what it felt like to be actually sober these days. Still, this evening’s so-called festivities were remarkably sombre compared to the New Year’s Julian had enjoyed in life. He’d spent the final hours of 1992, for example, at what he presumed was a similar event to the one the Beg-Chetwyndes were hosting now. It was held in a house that probably looked remarkably alike to Barclay’s, by people of the very same ilk – just some boozy, drug-fuelled jamboree disguised as a modest party get together.
Julian had no recollection of the beginning of 1993, only that the following morning, he had peeled himself out of a strange bed, redressed in yesterday’s clothes and snuck out, deliberately ignoring the two bodies still beneath the covers. He’d intended – he really had – to go home to Margot and Rachel, but once he’d got in the Jag, once he’d stopped for some food that he vaguely recalled as being disgusting, one thing led to another, and he’d never reached home. Instead, his next memory was driving towards the office on the 2nd of January, shoving painkillers into his mouth, thinking of the strong, expensive coffee his secretary would brew him.
Would he have done anything differently, had he known what was to come in the following months? Would he have made some rash resolution to give up the booze and actually spend his evenings in the house he’d invested so much money in, with the wife and daughter who were supposed to be a priority? Julian Fawcett MP, probably not. Julian Fawcett Ghost, possibly. Still, it was no use dwelling on what was past. He was dead, as Alison so frequently liked to remind him, and besides playing games of Pong on the laptop, or knocking over mugs and altering words in Mike’s emails, he could no longer have any proper impact on the world at large. No use ruminating on that one, was there.
Still, maybe Julian Fawcett Ghost, knowing what he knew now, might have done things just slightly differently on New Year’s Eve, if he was alive. He wouldn’t go so far to say he wouldn’t have a drink – he would have had numerous, unquestionably – but would he have spent his time with the Beg-Chetwynde type? No, probably not. It had struck him, when Barclay had come in that morning and Julian had let out his usual snort of disgust, calling him a berk, a sleaze and a self-serving twat, shaking his head at the inconceivable notion that he, Julian Fawcett, had willingly spent time with such people. Across from him at the chess board, Robin had given him a look. From the sofa, Thomas had given him a look. From her place by the window, Fanny had given him a look. And two things had hit him in quick succession: they all believed him to be one and the same with Barclay. Then, that he, Julian, preferred his present company to those he had known when alive.
The first thing – well, there was little he could do about other people’s opinions – but the second? Who would have thought it, that he, Julian Fawcett, would actually, willingly, want to spend time with a peasant from the 1600s, an uptight Edwardian woman, a repressed war captain, an over-enthusiastic Scout leader, a whingy layabout poet, a painfully naïve and excitable girl, a decapitated head, two ordinary people with terrible luck, and an actual caveman? For all the bets he’d placed in his life, Julian would never have put money on that one.
But it was true, wasn’t it? He would never admit it to any of them, but they’d become a sort of haphazard, mismatched family, a group of – dare he say it – friends – the sort he’d never had in life. Thirty odd years ago, he’d rather have faced another enquiry than been caught playing a game of charades or listening to a talk on limpet mines, Scout badges or the correct way to milk a cow. He’d rather have gone a week without booze than been caught watching Love, Actually or turning the page of a book for someone else or marching round a table, chanting the words to some ancient moon ritual.
And yet, here he was. Unbelievably, Pat’s words had come true. There was, and he hated to admit it, a fun side to being cut off indefinitely from the life he’d lived and the people he’d loved. All the misadventures, causing chaos, the increasingly ridiculous clubs, the parties – playing chess with Robin. This strange group of people had somehow managed to worm their way in to his stone-cold heart in a way that no one in life had managed to do, and though he doubted they felt the same, he was glad to have met them. Julian felt himself screw his face up. God, he was going soft; that or being without trousers for nearly three decades was a truly humbling experience.
From inside the house, he heard the clock strike twelve and the fireworks began. Kitty squealed in delight, Thomas gasped and clutched his hand to his shot wound, Fanny pretended to look away and Robin actually hit Julian’s bare legs several times in his excitement. Julian found himself smiling. It was just another year of being dead, but if he had to see it in, then he’d rather do it here, with these people. The only thing missing, of course, was the booze. Ah, getting Robin drunk – now, there was an idea.