My So-Called Phantom Love Life Read online

  It was three hours after my journey in the ambulance. Celestine and her boyfriend, Jeremy, had arrived almost immediately and kept me company through a barrage of tests and questions to check for brain damage or memory loss; if one more person asked me who the Queen of England was I’d scream. Now both of them were stood at the side of my bed and Celestine’s gaze was focused a little above the man’s head. I wondered if she was studying his aura to see if he was telling the truth about Megan but then she nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m sure Skye will be glad to hear that.’

  She had that right. Hospitals were grim enough at the best of times but they were a thousand times worse for psychics like me and her. Just think about the number of people who are wheeled in through the front doors and never wheeled out again alive – hospitals are Ghost Central. I’d already seen more than my fair share of ghostly bum cheeks peeking through hospital gowns that didn’t quite cover everything at the back and it was only a matter of time before one of the ghosts clocked that I could see them. It might be selfish but I really couldn’t handle a conversation with one of them and I’m sure my aunt felt the same. Jeremy should be grateful he’s only part psychic.

  ‘Can I see Megan before I go?’ I asked.

  Dr Mohammed shook his head. ‘She’s resting at the moment. Why don’t you come back tomorrow, once you’ve had some sleep yourself?’

  He was probably right; I did need to recover. My legs felt like I’d just finished a cross-country race and my chest ached when I breathed. They’d let Charlie go about an hour before. I’d seen his mum wrap him in an enormous hug and she’d squeezed her eyes shut as though trying not to cry. Charlie had endured the cuddle for thirty seconds before shaking her off, muttering, but secretly I think he’d enjoyed it.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Celestine said, putting her arm around me. ‘We’ll make sure she gets plenty of rest.’

  Smiling, Dr Mohammed said, ‘And save your swimming for the pool in future. The Serpentine is no place to practise your backstroke.’

  He chuckled and I forced a grin onto my face. First the lake attendant and now the doctor; was everyone a comedian these days?

  ‘Trust me,’ Jeremy said, ruffling my matted blond hair in a way that I’d told him a zillion times I hated. ‘Skye is going to be steering clear of lakes for some time.’

  ‘Listen to your parents, young lady,’ Dr Mohammed admonished, pulling the curtains around my bed. ‘And stay out of trouble.’

  He nodded to Jeremy and Celestine, who both looked as though they couldn’t decide if they were insulted or amused at being mistaken for my mum and dad, and left. I swallowed my laughter and decided Dr Mohammed needed to go to Specsavers; OK, so Jeremy was dressed as though he’d been on a shopping spree in Age Concern but Celestine looked more like my older sister than my mother. Both of them had blond hair but since neither was over thirty, they’d have needed to start pretty young to have a fourteen-year-old daughter.

  The comment got me thinking about my own mum and whether or not I should tell her about my brush with the lake-monsters. She was a few months into a year-long placement studying sea-horses on the Great Barrier Reef in Australia and, as far as I could tell, she was having the time of her life. She missed me, of course, but we spoke on Skype a couple of times a week, which was why I’d have to decide whether she needed to know the details of my adventure. I could always tell her I was looking for evidence of freshwater sea-horses – then again, maybe that wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.

  ‘I think we’ll play down the drama when we speak to your mum about this.’

  I jumped as Celestine’s voice cut into my thoughts. How did she know what I was thinking? She’d always promised me she couldn’t read minds but I had my doubts. One thing I did know; if she’d been alive in any century other than the twenty-first, she’d have been charged with witchcraft.

  ‘Fine by me,’ I replied, trying not to look unnerved. ‘She’d probably feel like she should come home.’

  It wasn’t strictly true. I loved my mum; after my dad’s death, she’d brought me up alone but she didn’t have her family’s psychic gift like me. Once she’d realised her young daughter did, her attitude had subtly changed. It was as though she tucked part of herself away from me and I couldn’t reach her the way I had when I was very small. I’d changed, too, and inevitably grown closer to Celestine over the psychic ability we shared, all of which meant that my mum was a little slow to come running when I needed her. I didn’t blame her; it was just how it was.

  Celestine handed me a small rucksack full of clothes, sympathy etched on her face. ‘Well, no harm done. Let’s not worry her.’

  While Celestine and Jeremy waited outside my cubicle, I pulled on the clothes they’d brought and tried not to mind that the Oscar the Grouch T-shirt was one I normally wore in bed. Tugging the hairbrush through my tangled locks, I wondered how the two of them would react when I told them about the ghost at the lake. I’d seen the fear in Celestine’s eyes when they’d first arrived at the hospital, followed by relief when she realised I was OK. I didn’t think either of them would be keen for me to go back to the Serpentine again, even if there was a good reason. If I wanted to thank the boy at the lake, I’d have to do it on the quiet.

  Chapter 3

  I slept for fourteen hours and didn’t dream once. When my grumbling stomach finally forced me downstairs in search of food, I found that Celestine had gone to work at the Church of the Dearly Departed – a spiritualist church – and Jeremy was reading the Sunday papers at the kitchen table.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said, lowering the sports pages. ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Hungry,’ I said and slotted some bread into the toaster. ‘But otherwise OK.’

  He nodded. ‘Good. Your aunt rang the hospital. Megan is up to having visitors if you want to go.’

  I thought for a minute. If I wanted to take a detour to Hyde Park, I’d need to work out the timing carefully. With luck, I could get in and out of the hospital without bumping into any ghosts and then head to the Serpentine to see the one I did want to see. ‘When are visiting hours?’

  His gaze flicked to a piece of paper on the table. ‘Between two and four, then from six till eight. I can drive you if you like?’

  Normally, I’d jump at the offer of a lift but it didn’t fit in with my plans. Shaking my head, I said, ‘I’ll get the bus and walk. After that mammoth sleep I could do with some fresh air.’

  If he thought my sudden desire to use public transport was odd, he didn’t mention it and I thanked my lucky stars Celestine was at work; she was much harder to fool. Grabbing my toast, I reached for the butter.

  ‘How did West Ham get on yesterday?’ I asked, nodding at the paper. I’d never really been into football until I’d met Dontay, the ghost of a talented young player who’d died in a gang-related shoot-out the previous year. He’d turned up at the Dearly D, and before I knew it my aunt had roped me in to talk to him. Dontay had eventually moved on to the astral plane, where ghosts go after they leave the earthly realm, but some of his passion for football must have rubbed off because I was now a firm follower of the Hammers.

  Jeremy peered at the paper. ‘They won two-nil and are up to tenth place in the league. Dontay would approve.’

  I smiled. Until recently, Jeremy had only ever seen one ghost, a teenage girl called Lucy. He knew there were spirits everywhere, even though he couldn’t see them, like the ghost of the sixteenth-century witch who haunted our house. Personally, I thought Jeremy was lucky he couldn’t see Mary; with her rotten stumpy teeth, bird’s-nest grey hair and ragged clothes, she looked like a walking advert for the Black Death, but underneath her crusty exterior lurked a kind heart. And, thanks to Dontay’s influence, she was now a West Ham fan too.

  Jeremy glanced at the clock. ‘Hadn’t you better get ready?’

  Yikes, he was right; although I’d showered as soon as I got home the night before, I could still smell pond slime in my hair and wanted to wash it
again. I hadn’t exactly been at my best the last time I’d seen the boy at the lake. The least I could do was look half-decent when I thanked him for saving my best friend’s life.

  Megan was ecstatic when I turned up at the hospital. Once she’d reassured herself I was OK, she admitted that her mum had forgotten to bring any make-up. I reckoned I knew the real reason she was pleased to see me, then: she was worried Charlie would see her au naturel. Although she’d known him since nursery school, it wasn’t until Year Eight that Megan had developed a crush the size of Scotland on Charlie. They’d become friends through the school athletics teams, but she refused to tell him how she felt and instead lived in desperate hope that he’d somehow work it all out so that they could live happily ever after. It hadn’t happened yet. She made me leave my make-up bag with her when my visit was over and had waved from behind my compact mirror as I’d left. I wondered if her brush with death would make her brave enough to tell him how she felt. The idea made me smile. Poor Charlie wouldn’t know what had hit him.

  Hyde Park was busy when I got there, full of families and couples enjoying the mild weather. I didn’t have any trouble spotting the ghost, though; he was the one hovering on the water. It made getting close to him tricky; he was in the middle of the lake and there was no way I was getting in another boat. I settled on a deserted bench overlooking the island and waited for him to notice me watching him. It didn’t take long.

  His gaze flickered over me several times before coming to rest on my face. I guessed he must be questioning whether I really was staring at him. He drifted closer. I kept my eyes fixed on him. When he was almost at the edge of the water, I fired a deliberate smile his way. Then I touched the hands-free mobile phone earpiece I wore when I thought I might need to talk to someone no one else could see.

  ‘Hi.’

  The ghost stopped. The sunlight wasn’t as bright as it had been the day before and the faint blue outline which surrounded him was clearer; if the whole walking on water thing hadn’t given him away, the glow would have.

  He threw an uncertain glance over his shoulder, and then peered at me again, as though he couldn’t believe I might be talking to him.

  ‘I’ve come to say thank you for yesterday,’ I went on, raising my voice so it would carry. ‘If you hadn’t shown me where my friend was, we probably wouldn’t have got to her in time.’

  If I hadn’t had his attention before, I definitely did now. ‘You can see me?’

  Smiling, I nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m psychic. I see loads of ghosts.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? I always thought all that talking to the dead stuff was fake. You know, things hustlers said when they were trying to fool people into giving them money.’

  I didn’t blame him; I’d heard some terrible stories about so-called psychics telling people that Auntie Florence was happy in heaven and then charging them a fortune. It was called ‘cold reading’, when the pretend psychic picked up unconscious clues from their victim’s responses and used them to reveal things they couldn’t possibly ‘know’. Television programmes about paranormal investigations didn’t help, either. The Ghost’s The Host, a show on one of the satellite channels, was by far the worst offender and ticked all the hokum psychic boxes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Scooby Doo and his gang had appeared as celebrity guests.

  ‘Psychics do get a bad press,’ I conceded, ‘but that doesn’t mean we’re all frauds. I don’t suppose you believed in ghosts either.’

  Head tilted to one side, he studied me for a moment, and then grinned ruefully. ‘You’ve got a point. There are a lot of things I believe in now that I didn’t before.’

  When he smiled it transformed the right-hand side of his face from Disney Channel boy-next-door to model material. The smile didn’t extend as far on the other side, making his expression wryly lopsided and I guessed that whatever had given him the scar had caused some nerve damage as well. I wanted to ask where he’d got it. Ghosts appeared exactly as they had the moment they’d died, but this wasn’t an injury from his death – the skin had knitted together to leave a silvery puckered trail across his otherwise smooth cheek, suggesting an old wound. It must have been the stuff of horror stories when it had happened and I couldn’t help wondering how he’d coped with such a terrible disfigurement. Did that have anything to do with his death?

  With a jolt, I realised I was staring and a burning wave of embarrassment washed over me. Before I could apologise, the ghost spoke again. ‘Before I died, I got used to my scar being the first thing people noticed but lately I’ve forgotten what it’s like.’ His tone was light as he touched his cheek. ‘I suppose you want to know how it happened.’

  A woman with a dog was heading our way. At first, I thought the terrier would refuse to pass us. He growled at the boy and bared his teeth but the tail between his legs told me it was fear rather than aggression. I stayed silent as his owner tried a mixture of persuasion and irritation to drag him past my bench, distracted by the ghost’s words. I was curious about his scar but I wouldn’t have dreamed of mentioning it. Then again, he’d raised the subject, which could mean he wanted to talk. As soon as the woman had pulled the dog away and they were out of earshot, I fixed my gaze back on the ghost. ‘Not if you don’t want to tell me.’

  He spread his hands. ‘As long as you don’t mind talking here. For some reason I can’t leave the lake. It’s like there’s an invisible forcefield in the way.’

  ‘You’re tied to the place where you died,’ I explained. ‘Every ghost is. It’s called your haunting zone and the only way you can leave is if you take something from the zone with you.’

  The ghost shrugged and looked at his feet hovering millimetres above the surface of the water. ‘Then it looks like I’m stuck here, unless you’ve got a glass or some other container in your pocket?’

  My eyes followed the footpath around the water and came to rest on a small ornamental bridge at the end of the lake. ‘Why don’t I meet you there?’ I said, nodding towards it. ‘I’m sure we can work out a way to get you off the water.’

  He smiled unevenly. ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘No worries,’ I replied, ignoring the brief flutter in my stomach his gratitude caused. ‘It’s the least I can do after yesterday. I’m Skye, by the way.’

  ‘Owen Wicks,’ he said and then hesitated. ‘This is a bit weird, isn’t it?’

  Now it was my turn to offer a rueful grin. ‘Welcome to my world,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You get used to it after a while.’

  As Owen drifted over the water towards the bridge, I set off along the path. The walk gave me time to think. When I’d first noticed Owen, before the boat had tipped over, I’d wondered what his story was. In fact, I’d been trying to work out whether or not he needed my help. Most people passed straight across to the astral plane when they died, but if their death was tragic or brutal, they were tied to this world until they’d resolved whatever was holding them here. Now that I’d spoken to Owen, it was clear he had no idea what the rules of the afterlife were. I doubted he’d even realised that he wasn’t the only ghost around. He needed someone to show him the ropes, make him understand that in some ways death was only the beginning. And it would give me the perfect opportunity to find out what was holding him here, too, not to mention satisfy my curiosity. It was a win-win situation.

  Chapter 4

  By the time I got to Owen, my inquisitiveness had grown beyond his scar. Whatever the cause, he seemed pretty comfortable with the disfigurement and I wondered how long it had taken him to come to terms with it. Call me shallow, but I couldn’t imagine having to adjust to such a life-altering injury. And then there was the whole question of how he’d come to be a ghost on the lake; how could he have drowned with so many people around? But I knew better than to dive in with the heavy questions; the last thing I wanted was to scare him off.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked, leaning on the stone parapets and facing away from the rowing boats to block out the me
mories of the day before.

  Owen floated a metre or so above the water, his head level with mine; he’d clearly figured out that the normal rules of gravity didn’t apply to the dead. ‘A few months, I think. You kind of lose track of time after a while.’

  I could see why. Quite often, I woke up wondering what day it was but all I had to do was turn on the TV or radio. Stuck in the middle of the Serpentine, Owen had no access to any of the things the average teenager took for granted. He’d probably sell his soul for an Xbox right now. ‘Do you mind if I ask how old you are?’

  ‘Sixteen.’ He answered readily enough but I caught the briefest flicker of something behind his eyes, as though he wasn’t being completely honest. It was gone before I could work out what it meant and since I couldn’t think of a reason he’d lie, I let it go. Besides, there were other things I wanted to know more. The trouble was, I couldn’t figure out a way to get any answers without sounding nosy.

  Owen took pity on me. ‘Look, I know you must have a million questions so why don’t we get the basics out of the way? I died by accident, it was my own stupid fault and the scar is completely unrelated. It happened in another accident about six years ago, which was also my fault and, up until a few months ago, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,’ he said, in a matter of fact tone. Then his mouth twisted ruefully. ‘You might guess from this that I am a) accident prone and b) an idiot.’

  I couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Two accidents in sixteen years doesn’t sound so bad.’

  He shrugged, the smile fading. ‘It doesn’t really. But here I am. Dead.’

  There wasn’t much I could say to that. I was quite sure Owen had spent countless hours reviewing the chain of events which had led to his death and wishing he’d done things differently. But if I’d learned anything from hanging around the Dearly D, it was that there was no point in trying to re-roll the dice. Sometimes, the game was over before you were ready.