Open Writing

It all started when I entered a competition to write a ghost story.

Since I had never written a ghost story in my life, I took guidance from the organisers. A ghost, they said, is ‘the remaining spirit of a person who has existed in this life, but who is known to have died.’ ‘Ghostly fiction’, they went on, ‘is really successful only if the ghost has a reason to appear. The reason is not usually benign. The ghost may seek revenge or retribution for what happened to it in life and the presumption is that, once this is obtained, the haunting will cease.’

Since the competition was announced on the day following the tenth anniversary of the death of the Princess of Wales, I wrote my ghost story about her.

It will not surprise you to learn that it didn’t win.

Those few friends whom I told about the story called me a pratt, an idiot, asked me what possessed me at the time and generally assured me that it didn’t have a chance.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” they said. “No way is anyone going to publish that kind of story.”

“Why not?” I said. “Diana existed in this life and, it is pretty generally agreed, is now dead. And, by all accounts, she has every reason not to be benign. Don’t you reckon she, of all people, has good reason to seek revenge or retribution for what happened to her when she was alive? In any event, she must be pretty pissed off with the way people have gone on and on about her these last ten years.”

“You’re mad,” they said.

And they could have been right.

But some weeks after the winner had been announced and I had shrugged my shoulders and just got on with life, I was reading in bed one night and had just chucked the book on the floor, switched off the light and was snuggling down when I heard a very distinctive female voice.

“Do you really want to help? You still could, you know.”

I wasn’t frightened. I don’t believe in ghosts, of course, but even if I did I don’t think there’s any need to be afraid of them. Particularly if there’s no reason at all to believe that they mean you harm. Why should someone I’d never met, let alone wronged, mean me harm?

I opened my eyes quite calmly and pushed the sheet aside so that I could be heard.

“Do you want to talk in the dark,” I said, “or shall I sit up and switch the light on? If there’s anything of you to see, I hope you won’t be in your glad rags with a tiara, dangly ear-rings, lots of cleavage and so on.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Track suit and trainers would be fine.”

“All right. But I don’t want you to fall asleep, so you’d better sit up in the light.”

I did that.

Diana was sitting at the bottom of my bed dressed according to my preference. She looked as she had done all those years ago. She smiled and blinked slowly.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, girl.” I said in genuine admiration. “You’re certainly a stunner. No wonder they worship you.”

She frowned.

“Forget about that,” she said. “Let’s talk business.”

“What sort of business would that be?”

“You’re a writer. Am I right?”

“Wannabe,” I said. “Unpublished, undiscovered, unknown. So?”

“I want you to write a book about me. Diana In Her Own Words, that sort of thing.”

“Christ, not another. The world’s awash with books about you. You’re an industry, dear. You really must get out more.” Then I remembered. “Sorry about that. Forgot. In any event, what more is there to say?”

“I liked your competition piece,” she said reflectively, brushing her hair aside with one hand. “But it hadn’t a chance, you know. Too slick, flippant and - well, let’s face it - irreverent.”

“And the book you want me to write for you - ghost-write, if you’ll forgive the pun - will be none of those things, I suppose?”

She ignored the question.

“There’s a lot people don’t know. The Royal Family, Charles and my-in-laws, that old trout the Queen Mother, not to mention the paparazzi and my so-called lovers, bastards all of ‘em, I can see that now.”

“And the Al Fayeds?”

“Them too. I could open a few eyes, believe me.”

“Any nice things?

“You mean the campaign against land mines, AIDS victims, sick children, the sad, lonely, neglected, despised … ”

“You’ve got the vocabulary, I’ll give you that. Got a publisher in mind?”

“I can point you in the right direction,” she said, tapping the side of her nose. “I had offers in my lifetime, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure you did.”

She waited. I thought.

“Couldn’t you put it all on tape for me?” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a little laugh. “Whoever heard of a ghost putting stuff on tape? No, I have to tell you and you write it down. I can fit in with your work schedule,” she added helpfully, adding the irresistible smile. “After all, I’ve got all the time in the … “

“Yes,” I said. “Several worlds, no doubt. D’you reckon this is going to make me a millionaire?

“It is certainly not. You’ll get a reasonable reward for the donkey work. The rest goes to my charities.”

“What do you get out of this?” I said. “Can’t you let bygones be bygones? In any case, whatever I write, nobody’s going to believe I’ve been talking to the horse’s mouth.”

“You don’t know much about ghosts, do you?” she said. I could have sworn there was a pitying note in her voice.”

“Apart from there being no such things, you mean?”

She leant forward, a mischievous grin on that perfect face.

“Shall I touch you,” she said.

“No.” I drew back. I was suddenly aware of how cold the room had become. Although the windows were closed, a slight breeze ruffled my hair.

“No party tricks,” I pleaded. “This is a business meeting.”

She laughed and stood up. For a ghost, at that moment she looked very corporeal.

“Think about what I’ve said. I’ll be back. Same time tomorrow. Never forget - I could take my business elsewhere. But” - here she leant her head to one side and studied me - “I quite like you, you know. You’re not easily intimidated, are you? I like that in a man.”

Then she was gone.

I got my pad out of the bedside table drawer and wrote down as much of our conversation as I could remember. Whether or not she returns, I reckon I’ve got enough material for another short story. Sadly, I suppose, again no-one will want to look at it.