On Thursday morning Matthew woke up to the sound of a fog horn drifting up from the harbour. He gazed out of the window into thick fog. All he could make out were the spectral shapes of trees and parked vehicles. The glass was soddened with condensation; big drops of water were racing one another down the pane.
He dressed and headed downstairs. There was the usual assortment of junk mail and charity letters lying waiting for him on the mat behind the front door. He grabbed the letters and threw them onto the small telephone table in the hall.
He drank coffee while watching the morning news. Depressing images of starving people in Africa made him promise himself to donate something to Oxfam. At least the weather forecast was cheering: the fog was to give way to a bright sunny day on the east coast.
Matthew left his house and walked down the misty street. The street lights were still on due to the fog and cast an orange glow. An engine ignited behind but he didn’t see any vehicle pass by, which was unusual because he lived in a cul-de-sac. As he turned into Carnegie Street, he was certain he heard the steady hum of an engine. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he quickened his pace.
When he reached Ernest Street, he was almost running. Matthew looked back still convinced he heard an engine close by. When he returned his gaze forward, he crashed into a man.
“Hey watch where you’re goin’.”
“Sorry!” Matthew said picking up the man’s work bag.
At work he was uneasy and brusque with people. During lunch time Brian, the boss, came through to the common room.
“Matt, there's two gentlemen to see you. They’ve got Home Office badges and are official looking. I’ve shown them into the reference department, it’s empty at the moment,” he said.
With some trepidation Matthew walked into the room where the men were. When he saw them, sitting at a reading desk, his adrenaline surged. They were clean shaven, and both wore dark suits.
And, something more worrying: they were big. They reminded him of the bouncers that stood at fashionable pub doors at weekends.
As he approached them, the bigger of the two men rose from his seat.
“Mr. Wilson… Matthew Wilson?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” replied Matthew, “what can I do for you?”
“We’re from the Home Office, here’s my card.”
Matthew took the card, embarrassed by his trembling hand, and studied it. The card looked official but then again, he had never seen a Home Office card. It had a government stamp over the man’s photograph. His name was Roger Hamilton.
“This is my associate - Jonathon James,” Hamilton said, nodding toward the other man.
“We’re investigating… this is delicate... strange phenomena,” he said, taking his card back out of Matthew’s hand.
“What like the X-Files or something." Matthew scoffed.
Hamilton moved closer to Matthew and stared into his eyes.
“Mr. Wilson I am serious,” he said, sending shudders down Matthew’s spine. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?”
There was something about the way he talked which Matthew couldn’t fathom. Ah yes, there was a slight French accent.
“No, I haven’t seen anything strange I’m afraid, and now I must get back to work.” Matthew said turning to leave.
“One moment Mr. Wilson, if you see something please telephone this number.” Hamilton said, handing Matthew a yellow card.
Matthew walked out of the room with his mind churning. What was he mixed up in here? First ghosts, and now those two. They knew he had seen… things.