By Martin Pearson

“It will be absolutely fine, honestly,” said Reggie. “I know it’s been a few years since I last had a hand in making absinthe, but I can assure you, I know what I’m doing.”

Philomena Bucket, peering through the scullery window of The Squid and Teapot, wondered who Reggie was arguing with.

“Yes, I know my alcohol intake has not always been as moderate as it should be but… what was that you said? Louche? You’re calling me louche? How dare you!”

By now the old soldier was waving his silver-topped walking cane angrily. Philomena was concerned that he might strike out at whoever was talking to him. Deciding that it was time to intervene before someone was hurt, she picked up a tea-towel, dried her hands and marched outside.

It came as something of a shock to see that Reggie was apparently remonstrating with a length of driftwood, propped innocuously against the wall of the inn.

“Are you alright, Reggie?” she enquired.

“What? Oh yes. Absolutely top-notch, m’dear.”

“I thought I heard you arguing with somebody.”

“No… not me. It must have been someone else.”

Philomena gave him a meaningful look, but said nothing. It was not like Reggie to lie, but something was definitely not right.

Rhys Cranham pulled on his boots with a weary sigh. While he enjoyed his work as the island’s Night-Soil Man, it took its toll upon his joints and back. He really needed to recruit another apprentice, but having lost two in as many years, the lads at the orphanage had become slow to volunteer their services. Things were not all bad, however; at least, these days, he had someone to talk to. Ever since Reggie Upton’s admission that his sense of smell was defunct, the old boy would turn up, from time to time, and join him on his round for a while.

“Will you please leave me alone?” said Reggie.

“Sorry, what was that?” asked Rhys. “I didn’t see you standing there in the shadows.”

“Just wishing you a good evening, my friend,” said Reggie, quickly. “Might I join you for a while?”

The two walked through the night, chatting companionably. Neither noticed the pale watcher who regarded them from a distance, or the skeletal dog who padded quietly by her side. For once, Drury was behaving himself.

Reggie left Rhys after twenty minutes, and took the path that wound back towards The Squid and Teapot.

As soon as he was sure that he was out of earshot, he said,

“This is getting beyond a joke. You are supposed to be a confidante, not nagging at me all the time.”

Philomena, keeping in the shadows, heard every word. Out of concern for her friend, she decided that she would have to confront him as soon as possible.

Reggie flopped into a seat in the deserted snuggery and regarded Philomena with tired, sad eyes.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “I know you mean well, but if I told you the truth you are unlikely to believe me.”

“Try me,” said Philomena. “You would be surprised at some of the stuff that I’ve had to take on board over this last couple of years.”

Reggie took a large swig of ale, and laid his tankard on the table.

“As you know, for much of my army career I served in India. The place is rife with all sorts of religious sects and holy-men, fakirs, mystics and the like. It is a far more spiritual country than anywhere you could find in Europe. As a consequence, India has always attracted those whom you might describe as seeking some sort of enlightenment. One such was a lady named Annie, who became very dear to me.”

Philomena said nothing. She was wondering where this story was going.

“She told me that she belonged to a group who called themselves Theosophists. I must admit, I had never before heard of them, but, dash it, although neither of us were in the first flush of youth, she captivated me from the very day I met her, and I was sufficiently ensnared to want to share her interests. Although, as a serving officer I had certain responsibilities, I also had the freedom to do pretty much as I liked. Inevitably, Annie’s obsessions rubbed off on me and together we delved quite deeply into some of the more esoteric practices of those mystics whom I mentioned earlier. That is how we learned to create a tulpa.”

“Tulpa? I’m none the wiser,” admitted Philomena.

Reggie sighed.

“I don’t know if Annie actually made the word up, or if it exists in some exotic vocabulary, but a tulpa is what you might describe as being an entity created by nothing more than the power of the mind.”

“A thought-form!” said Philomena. “I know all about those.”

“You do?”

Reggie was surprised, knowing little of Philomena’s history.

“Well, to cut a long story short,” he went on, “my regiment was eventually posted back to England, and thence on to South Africa. We have not seen each other since then. It is probably just as well, she being much more devoted to the spiritual life than I could ever aspire to.  But I haven’t lost her completely; I have always had the tulpa to remind me of her. In fact, I have given it – or should I say her – Annie’s shape and name.”

“So, do you mean that you’re being haunted by this Annie?” Philomena asked, confused.

“Good heavens, no,” said Reggie. “As far as I am aware, the dear lady is still alive and kicking, and doubtless making it her business to bother someone or other. No, my tulpa is purely a facsimile of the original. In the past, she has been a great comfort when I have been in a tight spot, or just needed someone to confide in. Lately though, since I’ve been on Hopeless, she seems to have taken on an existence of her own and nags me endlessly.”

“Can you actually see her when she does this?” asked Philomena.

“More often than not,” said Reggie. “And she never alters – she is the image of my Annie as she was when I first met her.”

Philomena’s curiosity was roused.

“Would she be visible to me? I would really like to meet her.”

“I wouldn’t think so. She is a product of my mind – a part of me. No one else has ever seen her, to my knowledge.”

“That’s a pity,” said Philomena. “Is she with us now?”

“No, thank goodness,” replied Reggie. “These days she comes and goes as she chooses. I just wish that she would behave as she used to.”

“Or leave forever?” asked Philomena, pointedly.

“No, not that,” said Reggie, sadly. “She has been with me for almost twenty years. I could never wish for that to happen.”

They talked for a while longer, then Reggie stretched and announced that he was going to bed.

Philomena watched him wander along the passage. As she turned away she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

A small, brown-haired woman with strong, but kindly features was standing at the foot of the stairs. She was dressed in a brightly coloured sari that seemed to light up the dingy passageway. She smiled at Philomena, raised a hand in greeting, then gradually faded away.