A mumbled ‘thanks’ poked its way out of Robert’s mouth as Daniel brought a fresh pair of drinks from the bar over to their table. If sitting through another of his mini-regional reports from the local council meant a couple of free drinks, it felt like a worthwhile sacrifice. Robert and Daniel had known each other since attending the local primary school. They weren’t exactly best friends; in fact, they barely qualified as friends. Just local lads of the same age who never quite managed to escape the aged grip of the village they lived in.
Daniel thrived on local matters, whereas Robert longed for escape. A tricky thing for a photographer who struggled to acquire anything beyond freelance work. Fixed term contracts occasionally reared their head, but they proved increasingly rare as the decimation of local media became accelerated by generative AI. Robert drew his whiskey and coke to his lips, absent-mindedly allowing his eyes to clock Daniel’s to allow the impression that he was continuing to listen to where Daniel had led off.
“I think the Councillors are secretly relieved that the complaints about these housing developments are getting less. It rather feels as if residents are becoming increasingly used to new homes being the norm.”
“Mm-mmm,” Robert mumbled as he took a deep swig. Just how worthwhile was this sacrifice?
Daniel was a decent sort, really. Just the overenthusiastic type; naturally gravitating to anyone who looked like they needed informing of all the local developments. Robert was quite well-versed in avoiding such social collisions. Before he took his regular evening walk across the canal, he thought he’d enjoy a smooth, loosening drink. It was just his rough luck that Daniel caught him unawares.
“I suppose from their perspective, it’s all fresh meat for their subordinates to be pushing campaign leaflets through their letterboxes,” Daniel continued. Did he even hear Robert’s mumble of acknowledgement?
Still maintaining some cordialness, Robert placed his half-finished drink down on their table.
“Still no shops, schools or doctors to go with all these new homes, though. And I never like how, uhhh, tall these places are. They’re too tall and not wide enough, you know?”
Robert’s attempts to politely drag the conversation towards some sort of acceptable conclusion made Daniel spit out a heartly laugh. “Yes, yes! They appear so cramped! Not too much in the way of neighbouring greenery, either. Not even developments of the 1980s forgot the inclusion of greenery. It’s a hard truth though that these new homes make use of land that the farmers don’t care to maintain, anymore.”
Robert grabbed his drink and rose it to his lips once more; eyes fixated on the semi-carbonated velvety black drink.
“Less chances of disturbing the ghosts, I think. Or at least, what people think were ghosts. You know how superstitions can persist in these rural parts.”
Robert hadn’t intended on finishing off his drink in one final gulp, but Daniel’s words were the encouragement he needed to be on his way. Having his lips wrapped around the glass meant that he avoided managing to tilt his head in slight disbelief, as well. Trying to appear forthright, he firmly placed the glass on the table and rose to his feet.
“Right, uhh, I’d better be off, then.”
“Oh yes, you can’t forget your constitutional canal-side stroll, especially now that the weather’s improved” Daniel eyed Robert with something of a smirk. “But you won’t be able to avoid me for long. Like it or not, you’ll one day learn about the spectral presences we have out here in the Wolds. We’ve got all the classics.”
“He hee, sure,” Robert cranked out a zig-zagging reciprocal smile. “I’ll catch you soon, yeah? Thanks for the drinks.”
Daniel raised his glass and bowed his head in response, finally allowing Robert a socially agreeable means of escape. Out of the pub and taking up the stretch of street that eventually decayed into pot-hole ridden bridleway that led to the canal, Robert’s relief was palpable. Daniel’s enthusiasm for local matters wasn’t restricted to council bureaucracies. He was a self-appointed authority on regional folklore. Robert didn’t entirely dislike the subject, or Daniel, but his evening had already been mapped out in his mind, and no number of overenthusiastic reports from the local council or probably untrue ghost stories was going to deter him.
Much as he disliked the rural nothingness of this village, he still enjoyed the lengthily walks that living out on the flat marshlands of the Wolds gifted him. The shabby canal ran through the marshlands, seemingly forever, mostly in straight stretches only occasionally interrupted by bends. It was a disused canalisation of some actual river, allowing canal boats to pass through villages and towns in pre-industrial times. A formerly vital artery of local economic means carved out of the nearby North Sea, it was nowadays used as a system in supporting the drainage of neighbouring fields, a final destination for the network of smaller, maze-like ditches caressing an abundance of fields.
The sheer flatness of the area meant that there was no discernible point where the canal appeared to run out. It poked and sliced through the horizon in either direction. In one direction, the canal ran past huddled groups of faraway wind turbines. The canal had a levelled embankment running either side, allowing Robert his lengthily stroll along the higher section. The lower bank was just as walkable, but suspectable to flooding. It was nobody’s job to look after the canal, really. Is it the council’s? The farmers? Daniel would probably know, but Robert enjoyed basking in the ignorance of it all. Did it have to be anyone’s responsibility? Did it need to be disturbed in the name of neatness?
In the summer months, the canal was strewn with green algae, but only if you’re able to spot it above the cow parsley, brambles and other guff that rose up from the ground along the bank. The flatness of the bank made it perfect for lengthily walks. This was the scenery that Robert most enjoyed, the soothing calm of it all where anxieties over zero-hour contracts didn’t have much use. Robert passed the industrial turkey farm that marked the last major landmark before crossing the footbridge that allowed the bridlepath to span the canal. You could always smell it before you saw it.
As Robert crossed the footbridge, he felt a rapid sinking of his mood. Nausea clouded his equilibrium, but it appeared to pass as he crossed to the other side. Must have downed the last of that whiskey too quickly, he thought. He then forked left where gravel transitioned to smoothed greenery and his walk could be enjoyed proper as he strode along the bank. Around Robert were the notable clumps of neighbouring villages sullenly hidden behind trees, but the open fields and raised nature of the top bank made Robert feel like he was peering down on a toy-sized model world.
Would these fields eventually become subsumed by solar panels or new home builds, too? Probably not, Robert mulled. There’s usually some laminated file stumped in the ground notifying any passing resident of future planning development. You spot them all over the fields immediately outside of the nearby towns. Never out here, though, in our village absent of pubs or corner shops. Robert’s Mum informed him that this September will be the first year that no new children will be attending the local primary school. This village was a dying concern. No chance of any new homes coming this way, surely. Rural life is kept that way as an excuse to let the good roads run out. Besides, Daniel would be the first to know.
But there’s always walking, whether it was a bracing stroll in the colder months or a leisurely stroll in the clammier times. That evening, Robert had taken one of his usual strolls keen to witness just how high the canal had risen after the last few days’ worth of heavy downpour. A consequence of the canal being rarely looked after is the risk of flooding. That’s all it ever is, though – a risk of flooding. It had never actually happened. Everyone in the village was always so excited by the risk of flooding that Robert didn’t think anyone would know what to do if the banks ever burst.
Sure enough, the canal had ballooned in size when Robert had crossed the footbridge. It was always a slight thrill to be within kicking distance of the water. The spring sun doesn’t set until the evening, so Robert could enjoy a nice stroll along the higher bank, a silently soaring cascade of water inches from his feet. He generally walked from the left-hand bank to the road gate that marks some 20 minutes of distance each way. It felt like he was walking along the circular rim of a pot that’s been filled with too much water.
In the cool evening sun, finally freed from heavy clouds, the sky cast a pinkish layer over the marshlands. Pea-soup green and boggish browns are rendered almost pleasant to gaze over. Something else filled in the air. Or should that be the absence of something? The pre-bedtime chatter of birdsong usually mingled with the hiss-like droning of traffic on the distant main roads, regularly punctured by the unnatural grinding of intrusive lorries that shuffle along the decaying road to the turkey farm. There was always the sound of engines revving before slowing down as those cumbersome lorries navigated the pothole-ridden nature of these roads, like the vehicles are sighing in frustration.
This particular evening, though, only the birdsong coloured the air. The mechanical noises weren’t detectable. The world immediately within Robert’s earshot sounded as if it had been pushed backwards. Was this what the village sounded like when we had shops, pubs, and a well-stocked primary school? When the village was more self-sufficient? As he walked along, the sounds of engines revving returned. But they hung different. These didn’t sound like rubber tires speeding along tarmac. This sound was grainier. Lower pitched. Something almost like a growl, and with its own echo. Robert kept strolling, absent-mindedly trying to place the sound, when a rupturing sound, deafening in volume but slow-motion in its delivery, made him freeze. Spinning around, he instantly figured that a lorry he hadn’t noticed before had finally overturned into the ditches that ran alongside the bridlepath. But no such vehicle was in his sight. Atop that high bank, he couldn’t be mistaken. He had a perfect view of the road leading into the village. No vehicle was visible.
Looking back further from where he had come, Robert was seized by something else he couldn’t see. Where had the turkey farm gone? The increasing softness of the pink sky seemed to dazzle his vision, as if a fog had rolled in from the nearby North Sea. Could that explain why he couldn’t make out the farm?
The absence of artificial sound regained itself after the detonation, until he became aware of a rustling sensation. A tarpaulin that had become loose in the wind? But without any notable breeze occurring, that seemed a stretch. Looking around, nothing seemed to be billowing in the fields. It sounded fast. And nearby. So too do the grunting sounds, like someone struggling to release themselves from being tied down.
A watery, rippling clap of something hitting the surface of the canal made Robert instinctively flinch backwards, nearly tumbling down the other side of the embankment, for fear of being splashed. Robert rubbed his eyes and regained some of his equilibrium from the dazzling pinkness that encircled him. There was no mistaking that nothing had broken the calmed surface of the canal. Robert’s eyes zig-zagged across as much of the canal as possible, but nothing was there. It never occurred to Robert that the splash occurred further up or down the canal perhaps, where it bends and some stretches are temporarily out of view, because the crash had sounded right next to him. The recognisable sound of a splash had given way to a watery thrashing. How could there be someone in the canal when there so clearly wasn’t?
Robert stood on the embankment, eyes still darting, but otherwise, weirdly paralyzed. How could he call out to them when there was quite obviously nothing visible in the water? The water itself was an impenetrable thickness, like a dirtied sink that needed the drain unplugged. Whether through all the shit inside the river or the dying sun, it was tricky to discern what colour it was meant to be.
After what felt like an eternity, but, in reality, two minutes, the thrashing faded. Stillness resumed. What the fuck had just happened? Nothing at all, that much was visibly obvious. Only when Robert unfroze himself and decided to walk back home with a more quickened pace than usual did he notice the rush of traffic fill his ears and the turkey farm fill his view as he approached the footbridge.
Robert stayed away from the canal for a couple of days, paralyzed by an uncertainty of what he may encounter if he next ventured there. For such a pleasingly familiar place, it felt like a betrayal. For all of the signs stapled to the field gates altering members of the public know that this pathway was for their use, he thought of it as his domain. Nonetheless, he plucked up the courage to go back there once he knew the water must have subsided and the canal returned to its normal height. Walking back along the same stretch of embankment as before, but this time in the morning, Robert figured that the crisper daytime sky might make it tricky for him to pinpoint the exact spot where he must have heard the splashing. Nausea had once again spiked as he crossed the bridge, but he put that down to the anxieties that had occupied him in dulled waves for the last few days.
The body in the water marked the spot for him. Robert knew it was a body the second he turned the corner from the footbridge, climbed the embankment where gravel meets greenery and recognised its protruding limbs, outstretched across the surface of the water. There was some huge white sheet with numerous strings that seemed entangled around the body as well. Running up, he saw that the body was attached to a parachute. There was nothing that could be done. In the daylight, Robert couldn’t help but notice how white-pale the body’s hands were. Face down in the water, the body was entombed in what seemed to be a soaked blue uniform. The torso appeared encased in a puffed up brown jacket, but the hairless skull was a leathery blacked brown. There were no markings to indicate what the suit could be, other than several downward facing arrows on the sleeves, but floating nearby was a blue cap with a gold marking encrusted across its top. A pair of outstretched wings, perhaps? It was tricky for Robert to tell from that distance.
The canal had indeed lowered, but the embankment that led to the lower, walkable path was subsequently moist in slipperiness. Drags of greenery hung low from dampness, clinging to the soil. Dirtied branches stuck to the lowered path in jagged dump. Clumps of soil had even been dislodged. Just how heavy was the water that fell that night? It was tempting to grab the parachute and drag the body out that way, but Robert would have had to crawl down to the lower embankment and risk not being able to pull himself back up again.
No, this was a matter for the authorities. Someone had to find this body, which it was. And not a ghost. Ghosts don’t appear in the daytime, and already drowned – right?
Staring down at the unfortunate human wreckage, Robert, once again became aware of the solitary birdsong. The regular motorway rumblings were, once more, no longer there. Robert hadn’t hauled aboard when they might have ceased. His senses were dragged elsewhere to the fields the other side of the canal where the tang of petroleum tickled his nostrils.
The birdsong was briefly overcast by the audible gasp he let out when the canal began rising. The body failed to rise with the water. Instead of staying buoyant, it and the parachute were slowly swallowed in the treacle-like substance, the victim forced to drown a second time. Robert started to move, but as the final trace of parachute lining and cap submerged, he could have sworn that he saw the body fade into nothing. Not by drowning but simply… evaporating out of existence, as the water noiselessly sealed over the body. Robert didn’t know how far along the canal kept rising or if the motorway sounds returned as he bolted along the embankment and back to the footbridge.
Several days passed without any severe reportage in the village of the canal suddenly rising or of a body being found. The talkative postman, who travels around the canal to the few farms dotted along it, never spoke of any surreal occurrences. Robert began to think that what he’d seen had been some elaborate con. Was he being secretly filmed for his reaction to dump on TikTok, maybe? God knows the kids round here don’t have a lot else to do.
Robert’s anxieties subsided but flared up again when he spotted two white vans roaring past his home near the pub and towards the road’s end where the footpath began. He was already late for work, late rises from struggles to settle into calming sleep ever since the body was eaten by the canal, so he was forced to leave the vans to attend to whatever business they had travelled for. The day passed in a blur as the thoughts of the splash, the body, and the canal became a fog wrapped around Robert’s ability to focus on anything else.
Wearied from churning the same surreal events in his mind, Robert drove straight to the pub from the office. Another whiskey and coke would pleasingly numb whatever sense were left. Staggering to the bar, Robert was about to ask for his drink, when a hand clasped his shoulder.
“Evening, Rob! Well, what did you make of the new memorial?”
“The- What memorial?”
“Oh, I’m surprised you didn’t spot it. It’s surely the first thing you’ll see from now on, when you enjoy your walks.”
Robert could only gaze in the vicinity of Daniel’s face, mouth quickly drawing up and down as he attempted to make sense of the words falling out of Daniel’s mouth. How did he manage to catch Robert like that?
“I, uhhh, I haven’t been up there for a few days,” Robert drawled.
“Ahh, then it’s something for you to enjoy – a new war memorial, stylised like those metal silhouettes you see dotted on the roundabouts. Take a good look at it next time you’re up there, it’s worth savouring.”
Daniel began to shuffle away, twisting round to see which other residents may be occupying the pub this evening. Robert, blinking his way back into focus, grabbed Daniel’s arm.
“W-why is there a war memorial down by the canal? Is that what those vans were doing?”
Daniel appeared a little drawn-back by Robert’s unexpected enthusiasm for local matters.
“Indeed! It’s to mark an aerial accident that occurred over this stretch of marshland during the Second World War. A pair of bomber aircraft collided with each other due to particularly thick fog rolling from the North Sea obscuring their vision. Some believed faulty radar equipment was more to blame, still a new technology when installed in aircraft during the war.” Daniel didn’t at all appear to mind the firm grip Robert had on his arm. He was buoyed by someone at last taking an interest in what he had to say. “Both crews died instantly aboard each craft. It took a year to identify most of the bodies, and even then, no-one was ever certain that all of the men were recovered. Hard to tell from all that debris.”
Robert’s grip on Danie had relaxed as he absorbed the story. A slight smile managed to break free on his lips.
“How fascinating.” His smile widened and he found himself nodding vigorously to Daniel, in appreciation. His smile drooped as a sudden thought dawned on him. “When you say, debris, I guess there must have been a hell of a mess?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Daniel answered. “Farmers afterwards insisted that the fuel leakage from the two aircraft ruined the harvests for several years. There’s plenty of first-hand accounts of the smell of the aviation fuel lingering across the fields. That very quickly became the focus of the clean-up, instead of looking for any missing bodies.”
“Well, it’s nice to finally remember him, I guess.”
“Hm-mmm,” Daniel murmured.
Both stood rooted to their spots as the sudden silence descended over their conversation. Robert felt himself lifted by this revelation as he connected the events to his own experiences. Yes, yes, they had to have been the same. What Robert had seen, what he’d heard, they felt so re-
“I shan’t keep you from your refreshment, then,” punctured Daniel, increasingly aware of Robert’s weirdly dumbfounded state.
“No, wait,” Robert broke from his internalising and reached to touch Daniel’s arm once more. Maybe it would bee too much to confide in Daniel of what had been experienced, but Robert couldn’t last recall when a history lesson had brought him such peace of mind. “Did- uhh, did you have any ideas on what happened to the missing bodies, maybe?” Robert felt himself overcome by a sheepish tone.
“Well, any number of things I suppose. If indeed one or more were missing. They could have been so disintegrated by the impact that whatever was left of the body was beyond recognition. But if they did manage to escape the plane, mid-impact, which strikes me as unlikely, then they may have…” He left his thoughts unspoken. It was rare for Daniel to not have an answer to these things.
“Drowned?” Robert answered with unshakable confidence.
“Perhaps…” Daniel mulled.
Robert calculated the wording of his follow-up question as best as he could muster.
“Have there ever been any… um, sightings, of pilots in the area? Like, after the crash?”
Robert felt his ears burn as Daniel fixed him with a frowning stare.
“Do you mean sightings of a, shall we say, spectral persuasion?” Of course I do, thought Robert, and of course you’d know. Daniel restrained himself for unleashing one of his knowledgeable smirks at Robert. Naturally, Daniel could bore anyone within spitting distance of the area’s ghost stories. But something in Robert’s haggard demeanour had a touch of sincerity about it. Robert wasn’t amusing Daniel; he was genuinely curious. “Well, everywhere has their unique flavour of ghosts, and we’re no exception. This is Bomber County, after all.”
Robert’s eyes fell to the floor.
“Would you maybe have the time to, uhh-“
“Absolutely!”
Robert’s eyes shot back up at Daniel, surprised at the speed and perception of his response.
“I mean, only if you’d want-“
“I’ve always time for the ghosts around here,” Daniel beamed at Robert, his rounded features emanating warmth directly towards Robert’s gaunt expression. “We’d better make ourselves comfortable. There’s plenty of first-hand accounts to explore.”
The pair took a table away from the other patrons.
“Thanks for this,” Robert enthused.
“Not at all, it’s an unexpected thrill to see you take such a sudden interest in our local heritage,” Daniel eyed Robert cautiously as they shuffled comfortably at their table. “Why haven’t you been down your canal, recently? I don’t think you actually said why.”
Robert felt the paralysis from the canal bank overtake him once more. Avoiding Daniel’s gaze, he realised that he’d need to be a few drinks deep before he could confide any further. This was already the longest conversation he’d ever had with Daniel.
“Why don’t I get us some drinks?” He bounced out of his seat and flung himself towards the bar.
“Sounds good,” Daniel felt his smirk involuntarily spread. “Then you can tell me what it was you heard on the canal bank.”
Fred McNamara 