Page 53 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

Mrs Clayton stood in the doorway like an avenging spirit of retail justice, pearl embossed handbag clutched firmly in one hand, her lips pressed into a thin and highly unimpressed line.

Augustine blinked. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Hi, Mrs C.”

“Hi, Mrs C indeed,” Mrs Clayton replied crisply, clearly annoyed. “I came to see you today. Twice, in fact. Imagine my surprise when your shop was locked up in the middle of the day and you were nowhere to be found.”

Mrs C sounded like the world’s most aggrieved but enthusiastic customer, which was odd, given that she never bought anything. “Right. Sorry. I had, uh, an emergency.”

“An emergency?” Mrs Clayton’s expression turned from annoyed to concerned within a millisecond. “What happened?”

“Oh.” Augustine waved a hand. “Nothing, really. Just . . . something I had to deal with.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Augustine cleared her throat. “Are you? Okay I mean?”

Mrs Clayton shrugged. “I’m fine. When am I ever not fine?”

“And how’s Mr C?”

At the mention of her husband, Mrs Clayton sighed. “That ridiculous man of mine,” she said, her expression sad but fond. “Actually, he’s in a coma now.”

“Oh, no.” Augustine reached a hand towards the older woman, but Mrs Clayton stepped aside, straightening her back and fiddling with the clasp on her bag.

“There’s no need to fuss.”

“I’m not fussing,” Augustine replied gently. “I’m trying to offer sympathy.”

“I don’t want sympathy. He’s not dead . . . at least, not yet. I heard the doctors talking though. They don’t think he has long left.”

There was a stark finality to her words, and Augustine felt a knot of grief for the woman.

Mrs Clayton had always been a kind of thorn in her side here. She was a product of her time, deeply unimpressed by incense, tarot, or anything that couldn’t be neatly explained over a nice cup of tea. Even so, Augustine liked her. In a world where so many people spoke in vague terms or whispered half-truths, Mrs Clayton never did. She said exactly what she thought, whether people wanted to hear it or not. Augustine had never enjoyed their conversations — not quite — but she had come to value them.

And now her husband was dying. Slowly. Augustine wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I really am.”

Mrs Clayton nodded briskly. “I sat with him this morning. There was a whole room of them. Men. All asleep. All ill. There were nurses cleaning them, changing their wires, feeding their tubes with medication.” She paused, her mouth tightening. “It’s no way to be.”

Augustine swallowed.

“He’d be better off dead,” Mrs Clayton added, almost matter-of-fact.

Augustine flinched. “Don’t say that. Quick, knock on wood or something.”

“No.” Mrs Clayton shrugged, as though it were nothing. “He’s an old man, Augustine. He’s lived a good life. You should have seen the man in the bed next to him. Couldn’t have been more than thirty. At least my Dennis is old and had his time. All the same, he shouldn’t linger like this. I’m his wife. I want him to die comfortably. Die with dignity.”

A small silence settled between them.

“Do you . . . want anything?” Augustine asked after a moment. “Tea? Water? A candle that smells like cat wee but promises eternal youth?”

That earned her the faintest flicker of amusement in Mrs Clayton’s eyes. Still, the older woman shook her head. “No. I just came to talk. It’s nice to have someone listen to me, once in a while.”

Augustine nodded. She understood that. “Are you going back to the hospital?”

“Yes.” Mrs Clayton adjusted her bag again. “I should go. I want to be there.”

“For visiting hours?”