“Can’t promise there won’t be a ghost but I know a pub with the quietest ghost ever,” Cliff chuckled. He was referring to a pub in Croydon with the ghost of a kind old friar who sometimes stole patrons drinks when they weren’t looking. “Its no problem,” George put his hand on Cliff’s shoulder. “I should probably go. Ambra hates it when I’m out too late.” Cliff nodded, “see you around, mate.” He gave a cursory salute.
“My mother’s the same about me goin’ out, but good thing she kicked my arse outta the house. Now I can’t disappoint her further anymore,” Paul commented as he rubbed his neck, his mind wandering back to his band. He wondered if the rehearsal rooms were haunted too. By Cliff’s words, it was pretty likely and it explained why his drumsticks kept on bloody disappearing ever time he left them somewhere. Shit, what if tomorrow’s gig has a spook? Malcom said it’s gonna be held at that abandoned house down at Hammersmith because he can’t afford a real place at the moment. “So tell, Cliff, what’s the most haunted place in dear old London?” I just pray I won’t have to play there.
