This happened a long time ago. Peter was my best mate, we were like brothers. I wonder where he is these days. I wonder if she’s still with him.
       
I continue to have dreams, now and again, about that period of my life. Memories can jump out of the shadows even when I’m awake. One of them did just now — an image of Richard’s face, his pale blue eyes lighting up with pleasure. It took me back more than twenty years, to when we moved into our new flat. We were both chuffed about being truly independent for the first time in our lives.
       
We had known each other from early childhood, shared our toys, been to the same schools, played the same sports. Now we were at the same uni, a long way from home, not yet ready to go our separate ways. Attached at the hip, as my father used to joke. But that didn’t bother us, we were best mates.
       
It must have been my idea to live off campus. I was never a fan of communal living, competing with others to be first to the communal stove in the communal kitchen. Peter, as ever, went along with my plan. He was the laid-back one in our partnership, not given to innovation, happy to go with the flow. But he was as keen as me on having separate bedrooms. Privacy. We were both thinking about girls, naturally.
       
Our new flat took up most of the ground floor of an Edwardian semi, carved into student accommodation for the greater good of the landlord’s bank balance. The place was fairly spacious, with a decent living area, even if the kitchen was small and the bathroom must have been a cupboard at one time. But the two bedrooms were just right.
       
With visions in our heads of nubile female neighbours, we were disappointed to learn that the upstairs flat was empty. Mr Choudhary must have found us very easy to read. "Don’t you boys worry," he said with a wink. "Soon have some lovely ladies up there, innit?"
       
We didn’t care that much, too chuffed about striking out on our own. We both came from families that wrapped their kids in cotton wool in return for good exam results. Even the campus environment had been cocooned, students moving everywhere in herds, a uni employee guarding the foyer of every accommodation block. This was different. It felt exhilarating to be alone at last in the big bad world.
       
To be honest, we were never really in any danger, from ourselves or anyone else. We were shy, middle-class boys. All the drug-taking and casual sex was happening to other people, in other places. Neither of us wanted to take risks, too inculcated by our parents with the desire to be respectable, and well-paid, members of society.
       
But playing it safe tends not to attract the girls. And so, once the immediate excitement died down, we found nothing much had changed. In the first two weeks, neither bedroom saw any action.
       
The first hint of a break in the monotony came when we were watching TV one evening. "What was that?" Peter said, glancing up at the ceiling. I switched down the telly. We both listened. Nothing.
       
"Thought I heard someone upstairs," Peter explained.
       
"Wishful thinking," I muttered.
       
The next day, though, Peter was grinning from ear to ear when I got back from class. "Someone has moved in. I saw her going up the stairs just now."
       
"A girl?" I asked, seeking confirmation.
       
"A girl," Peter echoed. "Long blonde hair, very pretty. Gave me a smile."
       
Shyness won out when we talked about going up to introduce ourselves. I offered a more acceptable rationale. "It would look like we were really desperate."
       
Later on, I turned down the telly for several minutes. Still nothing. No noise of any kind. I glanced across at Peter. "You sure she’s moved in?"
       
"Why else would she be going up the stairs?"
       
"Must be tucked up in bed then, having an early night."
       
Peter looked wistful as he glanced up at the ceiling. I couldn’t resist teasing him. "You fancy her. Don’t you?" He threw a heavy cushion at me.
       
Mr Choudhary came to collect the rent the next day. Before we could say a word, he burst out, "What I tell you? Lovely ladies in flat, innit?"
       
He seemed surprised that we weren’t surprised. When Peter enlightened him, our landlord’s teeth clicked in disapproval. "Naughty ladies, they supposed to be not moving in until today. My wife must have give them key already." He chuckled without humour. "Naughty old lady."
       
I had no class that afternoon and headed straight home. As I opened the front door, I caught a glimpse of long blonde hair going up the stairs. The girl half-turned, but then continued to climb. She ignored my embarrassed greeting.
        
Not long after, our new neighbours began to haul their worldly goods into the house. Peeping through the nets, I could see the blonde head among them. It partly restored my self-esteem that she wasn’t quite up to scratch. (That was our other excuse for not approaching women. They aren’t that nice anyway, we can do a lot better. Pathetic, I know.)
       
More of a worry was the presence of a couple of blokes, lugging the bulkier stuff. Boyfriends. Just our luck, I moaned to myself.
       
We had no problem hearing them upstairs that evening. Not that the sound was intrusive or anything, just the murmur of female voices, an occasional footfall, muted dance music. Peter asked me, in a round-about way, about the blonde girl. He’s definitely taken with her, I thought. I agreed with him, feeling some guilt, that, yes, she was a bit tasty.
       
The following morning, one of the girls came to our door and asked to borrow some milk. Peter had already left. Seeing my expression, she laughed. "I know what you’re thinking, but it’s genuine. We really need some milk."
       
I didn’t believe her. That’s the thing about us blokes. Given every piece of evidence to the contrary, we still think we’re God’s gift. It fuelled my fantasy that Jane was petite and auburn-haired, much more to my taste. Being a good mate, though, I asked about the blonde girl.
       
"You fancy Babs?"
       
"God, no." Feeling instantly ashamed about the vehemence in my tone.
       
But Jane smiled sweetly. "So your friend fancies her?"
       
I was too engrossed to say anything, caught up in her hazel eyes, daydreaming. Anyway, it was the truth.
       
When I told Peter my news, he had some of his own. "Babs," he mused. "Saw her on the stairs again just now. I’m sure she fancies me." I felt jealous for a moment, lucky sod, but thinking about Jane cheered me up.
       
It was a couple of days later when I bumped into her in the hall. She was with another girl, whose uni scarf muffled the lower half of her olive face. Jane introduced us. "This is Rita, she’s from Malta."
       
Seeing my confusion, she explained that there were four flat-mates altogether, some of the attic having been turned into a double bedroom to maximise Mr Choudhary’s profits.
       
I walked with them to uni. As we parted, Jane gave another of her cute smiles. "Tell him she’s not going out with anyone," she said. That depressed me, to be honest. Wondering about who was going out with the blokes I’d seen on moving day.
       
That night, we both had pensive faces. I knew that Peter was thinking about Babs.
       
"What’s up?" I asked.
       
"Nothing much."
       
I could always get the truth out of him, though. Normally I persisted until he gave in, anything for a quiet life. This time, however, a single meaningful stare was enough. He must have been dying to get it out.
       
"I saw Babs again today. People would kill for the smile she gave me. Stupid, I know, when we haven’t even spoken, but I think we’re crazy about each other."
       
"You haven’t even spoken?"
       
He looked sheepish. "I know. I said hello, but all she did was smile."
       
Though my own encounter with her had left me feeling that Babs was a snooty bitch, I tried to be diplomatic. "Christ, Pete, there’s shy and there’s shy."
       
"It was like there was nothing to say. Like we were really, you know, close."
       
"Think you might swap a word or two before you get really, you know, intimate?"
       
Peter laughed when I speculated how he could use mime to get Babs into bed. But he soon went back to being thoughtful. I couldn’t help noticing something else in his eyes — as if he couldn’t work out what was going on. That made two of us, I decided.
       
There was a knock on the door while we were having breakfast the next morning. It was Jane. "Can’t stop. Just wanted to let you know we’re having a flat-warming party on Saturday. Of course, you’re both invited." She gazed coyly at my pal. "Babs can’t wait to meet you."
       
Peter was still blushing as she walked off. My own feelings involved challenging her boyfriend to a fight.
       
As he prepared for the weekend by buying a new shirt and some fancy deodorant, Peter didn’t talk much about Babs. Not wanting to tempt fate perhaps. The big day itself brought an attack of the nerves. I practically had to drag him up the stairs.
       
As we walked into the crowded room, Jane rushed across to us. "About time too." She nudged Peter. "Go on, speak to her."
       
He stepped forward and looked around. Babs was standing on her own with a drink in her hand, waiting expectantly. I thought at first that the dim lighting was the problem. Seconds went by, and Peter continued to survey the other guests. Then his face creased in bewilderment.
       
"Can’t see her," he said.
       
Jane was equally puzzled. "You’re looking at her. That’s Babs."
       
Peter’s answer would have been comical but for the catch in his voice. "No it isn’t."
       
The mystery only deepened when the fourth flatmate, Melanie, joined us. Curly black hair and ugly glasses. For some reason, a little shiver ran down my spine at that moment. Call it a premonition.
       
The inquest that followed was inconclusive. Their friends were always popping around to the flat, Melanie suggested. Could it be one of them? But there was no obvious candidate for the role of Peter’s mystery lady. He seemed on the point of tears by then. When Jane went to Babs and started whispering, the blonde head bowed in disappointment. On the whole, their first date wasn’t a success.
       
We retreated downstairs soon after. I still wasn’t sure if Jane had a bloke.
       
Peter talked even less in the next few days, spending most of the time in his bedroom. When he did make an appearance, the troubled glint in his eyes spoke volumes. I was doing some brooding of my own, to be honest. Mostly about whether I’d missed my chance with Jane.
       
Then he saw her again.
       
"In the street outside, just now," he told me, in a disbelieving voice. "Chased after her, but couldn’t catch up. She just sort of disappeared." When we exchanged glances, I knew we had the same thought. Something weird is going on.
       
The next time he saw her was seriously scary. On the stairs again, still giving him a big smile. "I followed her up. When I got to the landing, nothing."
       
By then, unheard of, he was missing classes. And he obviously wasn’t sleeping well — the bags under his eyes could have been used for our weekly shop.
       
What made it worse was that he assumed I didn’t believe him. More than once, he asked if I thought he was going mad. But as I confided in Jane, "If Pete is crackers, then God help the rest of us."
       
I’d seized the chance to ask her out for a drink after she approached me in uni and enquired about Peter. It helped to share my concerns with someone else. The bonus was learning that she’d finished with her boyfriend.
       
I had genuinely begun to worry about my mate, was on the point of phoning his parents, when Mr Choudhary came to collect the rent. Peter drifted into the room as we were concluding our transaction. Our landlord looked at him and burst out, "Bloody hell, innit, you seen a ghost?"
       
The smile Peter gave us would have frightened off any ghoul. I could tell he was on autopilot, didn’t care what he said. "Yeah, I have," he muttered. "And she’s blonde and very pretty. Lives up the stairs."
       
Mr Choudhary’s mouth had formed a big O. "What you talking about?" he blustered. At the door, he tapped the side of his head and whispered to me, "Your friend is crazy man." As he scurried off, though, I couldn’t help wondering why he looked so scared.
       
I gave a lot of thought to Mr Choudhary in the days that followed. I thought about the house, and about Jane and her friends moving in. I convinced myself that something spooky had happened, was still happening. If Peter was crazy, then so was I.
       
Since our landlord lived in the same street, it was easy to keep track of his movements. I waited until he drove off in his enormous purple car before crossing the road. Mrs Choudhary, a mousy little thing, opened the door to me. I tried to be subtle, saying that I was doing a favour for the girls upstairs. The previous occupants had left something behind and they wanted to get in touch with them. Did Mrs Choudhary know where they were?
       
Her answer came too quickly. "No, no, I cannot help you."
       
Abandoning tact, I leapt into the dark. "I know one of them had long blonde hair and was very pretty."
       
The woman looked frightened for a moment. The words stumbled out of her. "Y—you, have seen such a girl?"
       
"Yes. Me and my friend."
       
I practically had to help her to an armchair in the cluttered front room. After drinking a glass of water, she was able to speak. "My husband said we must not talk about what happened. People will not want to live in house." She looked at me plaintively. "He will be very angry with me."
       
She relaxed a little after I assured her that I wouldn’t say a word to Mr Choudhary. Then she told me the whole story.
       
The girl’s name was Sharon. She had hanged herself from the bannisters on the stairs after breaking up with her boyfriend. "She fall in love too much, her friend tell me afterward. Never want to let go of him."
       
She showed me a newspaper cutting from a couple of years before, apparently kept as a gristly sort of souvenir. This confirmed that Sharon’s over-clinginess had driven her boyfriend away.
       
Now for the really strange part.
       
Peter laughed in my face at first. Then he turned deathly pale when I showed him the newspaper story, with its photo of Sharon. She certainly had a nice smile.
       
I had to tell Jane, of course. We were going strong by then, and I couldn’t keep anything from her. The girls moved away as soon as they could. Not long after, I saw Mrs Choudhary in the street. Before she scuttled off, I caught a glimpse of her black eye.
       
Peter never finished his course. Worse still, after returning home, he had some sort of breakdown. When I went back at end of term, I was shocked to see him slumped on the sofa like an old man as his mother and sister fussed over him. But I could tell he was dying to talk in private. In spite of female protests, we went for a walk.
       
"Can’t get away from them," he muttered. "Possessive bloody women."
       
I laughed uncertainly. "Families, eh?"
       
Peter stopped and stared at me. Another premonition flashed into my head — he is going to tell me something I’d rather not know. I was right. It’s lived with me ever since.
       
"Thought I’d left her behind," he announced.
       
My brain couldn’t adjust quickly enough. "Who?" I got out, before I realised what he meant. Horror then, enough to make me shiver in spite of the summer heat.
       
It freaked me out even more that Peter’s tone was so matter-of-fact. "Yeah, I see her every so often. Still smiling like she’s soppy about me."
       
There was pain and confusion in the pale blue eyes. But no madness. Not that I doubted him for a moment. After all, hadn’t I seen her myself? The half-turn on the stairs, the non-return of my greeting.
       
We met up several more times during my holiday. Curiously, he never mentioned Sharon again. Since he obviously wanted to keep off the subject, I respected his wishes. We were still best mates, like brothers, but something had changed between us. Boy, was I glad to get back to uni and the flat I shared with Jane!
       
She soon got this new aspect of the story out of me. We discussed it many times afterwards, and Jane even began to swot up on the subject. One evening, she read aloud from one of her library books. "Since they are the psychic imprint of events on inanimate objects, such as buildings, apparitions are inevitably tied to specific locations." She laughed. "So much for that theory!"
       
Wandering ghosts I can just about accept. But ghosts that fall in love? Doesn’t seem possible somehow. And yet it happened. To be honest, I wonder even now what she saw in my pal. Then I thank my lucky stars.
       
When I next phoned home, my mum told me that Peter had gone away. I heard from him not long after. The postcard eulogised Indonesia, with only the postscript striking a darker note. It said, Can’t seem to shake her off. Months later, another card arrived from Freetown in West Africa. This simply said he was OK. The postscript was written in block capitals. GUESS WHO I SAW YESTERDAY? STILL SMILING.
       
After that, nothing. It was a long time ago. I wonder where he is now.
       
I wonder if she’s still with him.