Tamsyn Murray-Afterlife 01 My So-Called Afterlife Read online

  Minutes later he was back, free newspaper in hand.

  An ungrateful pout snuck over my face. ‘It’s hardly Glamour.’

  ‘It’s all I could get. Here you go.’ He thrust the paper towards me. It fell to the floor with a pathetic splat.

  I glared at him. ‘Ha ha. I’m a ghost. We’re not great at holding material things.’

  ‘Oh.’ Deflated, he gazed at the fallen paper. ‘I could open it for you? Turn the pages?’

  It was the first useful suggestion he’d made. ‘OK, spread it out on the floor and I’ll sit down to read it.’

  We both looked at the grubby tiles. Even in my formless state, I didn’t fancy sitting in a puddle of wee, and hovering above it was too much like hard work.

  ‘How about if I lay it across one of the sinks?’

  And that was how it began. As unlikely as it seemed, Jeremy and I hit it off and he agreed to come back. More importantly, he swore he’d bring better news and – fan-flippingtastic – a TV magazine so I could catch up on the soaps. I discovered Jeremy was twenty-seven, lived in Notting Hill and wasn’t a geography teacher. He worked as a lighting engineer in one of the West End theatres, which I had to admit sounded like a pretty cool job. I had mixed feelings about him, though. His presence made my existence almost bearable and at least I had someone to talk to, but I couldn’t help wishing he was ten years younger. Still, he made things a thousand times better than they had been. OK, I was still dead and stuck in a place which smelled like a sewer, but not being acquainted with a body snatcher and a mad scientist, there wasn’t a lot I could do to change that.

  That’s pretty much where you came in. Once or twice a week, Jeremy stopped by for an hour or so after his evening shift finished, and I found myself sleeping off the boredom less now that I had something to stay up for. I didn’t need the rest, but unconsciousness beat counting tiles hands down. To stop me complaining about the mind-numbing dullness when he wasn’t around, we tried an experiment where he taped the magazine pages to one of the walls so I could read them after he’d gone, but one of the cleaners took them down, muttering darkly about weirdo vandals and stake-outs. Not wanting to be arrested, Jeremy refused to do it again.

  On his next visit, I couldn’t help noticing he looked pretty pleased with himself.

  ‘OK. Out with it,’ I gave in finally. ‘What’s with the smugness?’

  ‘I have news.’

  ‘I know, I’m reading it. Turn the page, please.’

  He leaned against the wall. ‘I’ve made a friend.’

  I clasped my hands together. ‘Lucky you. How many does that make? Two?’

  Ignoring my sarcasm, he went on. ‘I got talking to her at the theatre. She’s a researcher for some supernatural TV programme that wants to shoot there, but more importantly, she claims she’s psychic.’

  He had my attention. ‘In what way? Is she properly psychic, or does she just think she is?’

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue. Some of the stuff she came out with was a bit peculiar. It was only when she mentioned a spiritualist church they’d filmed at that I paid attention.’

  I knew next to nothing about spiritualism, but anyone who told someone they’d just met that they spoke to the dead was plain weird in my opinion.

  ‘You didn’t tell her about me, did you?’

  ‘Of course. I came right out with it – “There’s this girl I see who no one else does, and I turn the pages for her because she can’t hold a newspaper”.’ He fixed me with a level stare. ‘Believe it or not, I’m not totally comfortable with this myself yet.’

  I bit back a smile. At least we agreed on one thing.

  ‘What happens at these churches, then?’

  ‘People go along to speak to their dead family and friends. Apparently, it’s teeming with the souls of the departed all looking for ways to “pass across”.’ He did that rubbishy thing adults do with their fingers to indicate speech marks. ‘I wondered if you wanted me to go along and see what I can find out.’

  ‘You’d do that for me?’ I was genuinely taken aback. There were people I’d known my whole life who wouldn’t put themselves out as much. ‘Why?’

  Jeremy looked pointedly into cubicle one, where the friendly neighbourhood vandals had stuffed so much toilet roll into the bowl that it was overflowing. ‘Since I seem to be the only one who can see you, I feel responsible for you, and much as I enjoy spending my evenings in a public toilet, I think it might be a good idea to find a way to get you out of here.’

  He wouldn’t get any complaints from me. Even so, it meant a lot that he’d go to such an effort when he could easily walk away and never see me again.

  ‘Well, thanks.’ In case he thought I was getting all mushy on him, I added, ‘Don’t go thinking that means we’re proper mates or anything.’

  Satisfied we understood each other, I turned my attention to the gossip columns. Surely that Hollywood couple weren’t adopting another baby?

  ‘Do you know why I really came back?’ Jeremy’s voice was soft.

  Sensing he was about to reveal something, I glanced up. ‘My charming personality?’

  A brief smile flickered over his face. ‘When you were watching me in the mirror, your expression reminded me of someone else. A few years ago, I was at Camden tube station one night when the woman next to me threw herself in front of the train. In the split second before she jumped her eyes met mine.’ Swallowing hard, he shook his head. ‘You looked like her, pleading for someone to understand how you felt. No one deserves to be so alone.’

  Tears swam into my eyes. I blinked them away. ‘It’s all right once you get used to it. Sitting through double science was worse.’

  The spell broke. ‘I almost believe you. Why don’t I fill you in on last night’s EastEnders?’

  Grateful for the change of subject, I listened and didn’t correct him when he got the characters mixed up. He was an adult and deeply uncool, but somehow it didn’t matter. He cared enough to keep coming back to me. Right at that moment, it was all I had.

  Chapter 3

  ‘They said what?’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. If this was Jeremy’s idea of a joke, he was an even worse comedian than my dad.

  One eyebrow raised, he spread the paper he’d brought across the sink. I approached without much enthusiasm. The Times wasn’t on my list of acceptable reading matter.

  ‘I’m only telling you what the woman at the Church of the Dearly Departed told me. Spirits can escape their earthly prison – that’s here for you – as long as they have something from that place with them when they go. Anything will do.’

  I glanced around. ‘What did you have in mind? Reckon you could wrench a loo-roll holder off the wall for me to carry around?’

  Jeremy frowned. ‘Of course not. Something a bit more portable would be better. A toilet brush, maybe?’ His gaze came to rest on the door of cubicle one. ‘Didn’t you say vandals had knocked the toilet seat off in there?’

  They had, late one night as I’d been snoozing in my cupboard. The racket had scared the bejaysus out of me, but they’d been oblivious to my terrified scream and had only run off after the plumbing had started making ominous creaking noises. I eyed the door doubtfully. As much as I longed to get back out into the real world, was Jeremy seriously suggesting that I take a loo seat out with me?

  ‘I don’t care if no one else can see it. If you think for one minute I’m going out in public wearing that you’ve got another thing coming. I do have some pride.’ Another thought occurred to me. ‘Anyway, Brainiac, how am I supposed to hold on to it?’

  To prove my point, I waved my arm through the wall.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She was a bit hazy on the details.’

  Probably because she was making them up as she went along. ‘What else did she say?’

  Jeremy unfolded the lightweight chair he’d brought with him and sat down.

  ‘That ghosts are the souls of people with unfinished bus
iness on earth, seeking a way to get to the next plane of existence.’

  I opened my mouth to make a smart remark about airports and closed it again. It was good of Jeremy to find this stuff out. If I ever wanted to see the shops again, I needed to keep him sweet.

  ‘And did she give you any hints about how I’m supposed to do that?’ I said.

  He threw me an uneasy look. ‘You resolve whatever is keeping you here. In your case, that means finding the person who killed you, I expect.’

  My stomach tightened with sudden anxiety. That was Rule Number Two: Never Think About What Happened Last New Year’s Eve. It was cowardly, but I preferred not to dwell on the manner of my death.

  Seeing my reluctance, Jeremy changed tack. ‘We could always try getting you exorcised.’

  I rolled my eyes and hid behind sarcasm. ‘Look at me, Jeremy. Weight gain is not currently an issue.’

  He smirked. ‘Not exercised. Exorcised. As in a priest comes and banishes you.’

  I’d seen a horror movie once. GCSE Occultism it wasn’t. How was I supposed to know all these bizarre terms? Whatever it was, it sounded charming. ‘Why didn’t you mention it earlier? Do I get a choice where I’m banished to, or is it generally to the pits of hell?’

  Jeremy got to his feet. ‘You’re in a bad mood. Why don’t we concentrate on finding you something to wear? It’s about time you had a change of scene.’

  I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to accessorise with only the contents of a public lavatory to choose from, but let me tell you, it’s not blimmin’ easy. We are not talking Claire’s Accessories here. Call me picky, but I’m not convinced lavvy-chic is ever going to catch on.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ I cast a dubious glance around the cleaner’s cupboard. The gigantic spider in the corner fixed me with an evil stare from his industrial-strength lair. Sadly, death hadn’t cured me of my knee-wobbling terror of the eight-legged monsters, and he kept me awake on numerous occasions by creeping around the shelves. I think he enjoyed it. Whoever said spiders were more scared of us than we were of them couldn’t have met the Beast of the Bog.

  ‘There must be something in there you can use. Isn’t there an overall or something?’

  I stuck my head out and adopted a petulant expression. ‘It’s no good. I haven’t a thing to wear.’

  Jeremy raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘What, nothing at all?’

  ‘Nada.’ I studied the cupboard interior again. ‘Except for the most tragic pair of lime-green jogging bottoms I’ve ever seen, and there’s more chance of my mum’s hairdresser declaring he’s straight than there is of me being seen dead in those babies.’

  He tapped on the door, making me jump. I hadn’t heard him approach.

  ‘No one can see you except me, and I promise not to laugh. Close your eyes and pretend they’re Prada.’

  I heaved an unhappy sigh and scowled down at the jogging bottoms. Someone, somewhere, was going to pay for this.

  ‘All right, Mr Style Guru. How, exactly, do you suggest I get them on?’

  Unfortunately for me, it was easier than I thought. My fingers floated through the material just as I’d expected, but when I pulled, the trousers came with them. I grimaced at them for a moment, unsure whether to be pleased or disgusted, before poking an experimental foot through one leg hole. The other followed. Disgust won. By some extraordinary design fault, the trousers were too tight around the knee and ballooned to mammoth proportions around the waist.

  I had to hand it to Jeremy. Not a peep escaped him when I finally edged out of the cupboard. The horrified silence said it all.

  ‘I’m stuck here for eternity.’ I waved a miserable hand at my frog legs. ‘I cannot go out in these. My bum looks the size of a small planet.’

  ‘They’re not that bad.’ Jeremy sounded as convincing as a lap-dancer auditioning for the part of the Virgin Mary. ‘And it’s not as though anyone but me can see them.’

  My nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘They stink of bleach.’

  Jeremy tilted his head sideways. ‘Look on the bright side. They might just be your ticket out of here.’ He extended an arm to me, like I was a Victorian lady. ‘Shall we?’

  I swallowed. Now that it came down to it, I was nervous. The toilets might not be the Ritz, but they were relatively quiet and hardly anyone walked through me. Forgetting for a moment the fact that I resembled an upside-down pear, how was I going to cope with the crowds of gormless tourists who hung around Carnaby Street at all hours of the day and night?

  ‘Come on, Kermit.’ Jeremy jerked his head towards the stairs. ‘How bad can it be?’

  Think of the worst, most unpleasant cross-country run you’ve ever done. Your lungs are burning, you’re certain you’re going to throw up and there’s no end in sight. Imagine you’re doing this in a gale force wind and your ears are about to pop horribly. Hold on to that thought and you might have some idea of how it feels when someone walks through you. Multiply it by around ten and you’ll know how I felt on my way through Leicester Square.

  ‘I hate you.’ I backed away from the kerb and shot Jeremy a weakly venomous glare. ‘I’m going to follow you home and haunt you.’

  Not wanting to come across as a raving lunatic by apparently talking to himself in front of several hundred people, Jeremy responded with a pointed glance at my hated leg-wear.

  ‘You don’t think I can be scary dressed like this? How about if I sang to you? Twenty-four seven.’ I pitched my voice as high as it would go. ‘Oooohhhh baaaby, you’re the besssst . . .’

  Jeremy’s eyes took on a pinched look and he hastily interrupted my tuneless wailing. ‘I think that’s enough exercise for one evening.’

  The red-faced man on his left turned mournfully towards him. ‘Speak for yourself, mate. The doctor says I need to shift another ten pounds.’

  ‘Ten?’ I scoffed as we dodged down the less crowded side streets back to Carnaby Street. ‘Twenty, more like it.’

  Jeremy didn’t speak again until we reached the entrance to my toilet.

  ‘Are you really going to torture me with non-stop boy band lyrics?’

  I shuffled my feet. The journey back hadn’t been so bad, once I’d worked out a shuffle-hop system to dodge people. Maybe I was getting used to being invisible.

  ‘It depends on whether you keep on with the muppet jokes.’

  ‘If I could find out more about the Church of the Dearly Departed, would you like to go along one evening? I could organise a night off work.’

  My eyes narrowed in thought. If tonight was anything to go by, getting around would become easier with time, and I had to admit I was curious. What did spiritualists get up to, anyway? A year ago, I’d have laughed at the idea of people talking to ghosts. I wasn’t laughing at all now.

  ‘Yeah, all right. I’m up for it if you are.’

  He nodded, looking pleased. ‘Well done tonight. I know it wasn’t easy.’

  I stood at the top of the stairs after he’d gone, watching the living go about the business of enjoying themselves in the cool night air. Six months ago I was one of them, laughing and joking with my mates, unaware that I’d soon be nothing more than a spectator. Part of me wanted to try and warn them to seize the moment, tell their friends and family they loved them before it was too late. Instead, I swallowed my sudden wave of misery and trudged down the stairs to my cupboard. It wasn’t much consolation, but at least I could part company with the puke-coloured pants.

  Chapter 4

  The Church of the Dearly Departed was in Kensal Green, which meant a trip on the dreaded Underground. Although the prospect made me feel sick, the reality wasn’t so bad. I even got a seat, which had almost never happened when I was alive, and no one sat on me. Thanks to Jeremy’s brainwave of threading my neck chain through an old rubber plug from a stock I found in the cupboard, at least I no longer looked like a bag lady’s less fashionable sister. I’d considered hiding it in my pocket but the nasty bulge it made in my super skinny jeans cured me o
f that idea. Besides, it felt more secure around my neck and became part of me, like a sort of cheapo necklace. It made going out in public a lot more bearable, for me at any rate. Jeremy, on the other hand, had to put up with my stream of comments about our fellow passengers, none of which he was able to answer in the busy carriage. He seemed to be bearing up well.

  ‘I mean, seriously, no one wears Converse with shorts. They make your feet look massive and those black socks are a definite fashion no-no —’

  ‘For the love of God, will you shut up!’ Reaching the end of his patience, Jeremy bellowed at me across the carriage. Meekly, I did as I was told and watched as, red-faced and fuming, he subsided into his seat. A lot of passengers changed carriage at the next station.

  ‘What time does it start?’ I asked, once we were free of the crowds and making our way along the street.

  ‘Sen-hurty.’ Ever conscious of drawing attention to himself, Jeremy hissed the words from the corner of his mouth. I totally understood his concern. It wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood you wanted to get noticed in.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet? I’m not used to all this walking.’

  His response was a single grunt.

  ‘Do you think we should have got a taxi or something? I’m really not up for – whoa!’

  Rounding the corner, we came to an abrupt halt. Directly across the road stood a modern red-brick building, with an enormous sign reading Church of the Dearly Departed. Queuing patiently outside was the biggest congregation I’d ever seen.

  ‘It must be some service,’ I breathed. ‘Last time I saw a crowd like this the Ra Ra Ras were rocking Islington Academy.’

  I caught Jeremy giving me a strange sideways glance, but I was already moving forward, intrigued about the big attraction. ‘Come on, let’s join the line.’

  ‘Or we could go straight in?’

  I tutted. ‘How rude would that be? Didn’t your mum teach you any manners?’

  Frowning, Jeremy said, ‘Rude to who? We’ll miss the start if we don’t get in there now.’

  My gaze strayed to the mass of people in front of me. ‘They won’t start with half their congregation on the pavement.’