The Last Act

by Laura Ellen Kennedy

  Jack? She said Jack? I tried to shout – to push through Olivia’s weakening hold – and it worked too – it came out as a whisper, but I had control again, I had a hold on my voice.

  ‘The technician? You mean Christopher, don’t you? Christopher John Bloom. That’s what they called him in the newspaper.’

  ‘No. Well, yes, I think his first name was Christopher, but everyone called him Jack, remember? Short for John? They said he fell over, but it was Richard that pushed him . . . I’m so sorry I didn’t tell anyone when I found out but I was so ashamed . . .’

  I swayed. I was spinning and dizzy. This couldn’t be. Since when was Jack short for John? It didn’t make any sense. She couldn’t mean my Jack?

  But then he was there, right in front of me, standing with his hand on his heart, his wonderful eyes full of sadness.

  I reached out to him. It took all my effort moving that arm. Olivia was still clinging on, but she was getting weaker every second. Both our hearts were breaking.

  Jack reached out too, but as our fingers met, they just went through each other. All I felt was the slightest chill. Tears ran down my face.

  He was disappearing. He was actually fading right in front of me like a shadow when the sun goes in. Then he was gone. Pain and confusion tore through me. I barely heard what Marion was saying.

  ‘Olivia, I’m so sorry, all those years,’ she cried. I don’t know if it was me or Olivia that turned my head to look at her. ‘I wondered about the afterlife, you know, and if you were still out there, or up there somewhere, but whenever I pictured you, I always imagined you knew how much Tom loved you. You mustn’t ever doubt that. I’ll go to the police about Richard, I promise. I still have all the letters . . .’

  Then I passed out.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Can you stand, sweetpea?’ Dad whispered. He was on the floor with me, holding me in his arms. I opened my eyes and he helped me sit up. I could see Marion standing over me too, looking as shaky as I felt.

  I wasn’t sure about the answer to the question, but I gave it a try while Dad stopped me from falling.

  ‘I think I’d better take my daughter home,’ Dad said to Marion. ‘Can I offer you a lift? Perhaps you’d like to come home with us? I’ll make some tea?’

  ‘Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you.’

  Marion helped Dad hold me up and we walked across the foyer to the doors. I was aware enough of what was happening to know everyone was watching, some of them were really staring, unashamedly open-mouthed. As we got close enough to the doors for me to feel the night air, people’s whispers and exclamations were only just beginning to pierce the silence. I didn’t care. I was filled with the image of Jack, fading away right in front of me. I couldn’t believe it was true. Someone had to explain this to me. Until I could understand, I was in a numb limbo, like I was anaesthetised. I think our car ride home was silent. But I wonder if I would have heard it if either of them had said anything.

  While Dad made tea and talked with Marion in the kitchen, I changed into my pyjamas and clawed my way back to consciousness. The more I allowed my senses to come back, the more I felt the creeping pain that came with beginning to understand what had happened that evening. I was glad Marion had come back with us. I needed her. There was no way I could explain to Dad without her.

  We all sat together in the living room, hugging our cups with our hands as if it weren’t a perfectly warm August evening. It was shock in our fingers, not cold. Gradually, together, Marion and I told Dad Olivia’s story. And then I told my story – everything I could think of that had happened since that first possession at the theatre. By the time I’d finished, Marion was sitting next to me with an arm around me. I’d said sorry for the note I’d put through her door and she’d told me not to give it another thought. She’d just moved over beside me and held on to me.

  Dad was holding his head in his hands, tufts of his fluffy hair sticking up between his fingers. When he looked up there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You didn’t have to go through it all alone.’

  ‘How could I tell you, Dad? You wouldn’t have believed it. I hardly believed it and it was happening to me.’

  He shook his head like he just didn’t have any words to say. We both knew I was right. Even with the whole story spilled out in front of him I knew a part of him thought it was all madness.

  ‘Zoë?’ Marion sat up as if she’d just thought of something and asked a question she seemed a little afraid to ask: ‘Is Olivia still here? Can I speak to her again?’

  For a few seconds I wondered if I knew the answer to that question. I felt my fingers, still clutching my cup, and my feet, curled up on the sofa, and they felt like mine again. Just mine. I hadn’t felt like that since it all started. I shook my head.

  ‘No,’ I said to Marion. ‘She’s gone now.’ And the second I said it I knew it was true, but as much as relief flooded through me, I knew what it meant. Jack was gone too. I started to cry. I can’t describe the feeling of emptiness, except to say it felt like my soul had been torn out from inside me. ‘I’m sorry.’ I tried not to choke on the words.

  ‘Not at all, dear. I think perhaps it’s time for me to head home. Thank you so much for the tea, Mr Nelson.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ Dad said, as they both stood up and started fussing and organising the way older people do to try and avoid emotional scenes. ‘I’d offer to drive you home, but I think perhaps I should stay here – I could call you a cab?’ I knew Dad wanted to stay for my sake so I interrupted as quickly as I could, concentrating hard on forming the words.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Dad; drive Marion home. A few minutes alone would be good actually.I’ll be fine.’

  ‘OK, sweetpea, if you’re sure?’

  I nodded and waved Marion goodbye.

  The door slammed and I sat alone, staring into the tepid dregs of my tea, thinking of Jack. I closed my eyes and pieced together all my memories of him bit by bit, right from the beginning. I realised I hadn’t seen him until that first day on stage when Olivia first took hold of me. It was like the part of her in me was what had allowed me to see him. For all the horror and the hurt she’d caused me – she’d given me Jack too.

  I thought about all the times we’d talked and how amazing it had felt – until I’d see him, and then he didn’t seem to want to be seen with me. I’d taken it as a snub – but it was because he knew I’d look crazy, talking to someone no one else could see!

  It made me shiver to think of it, but it wasn’t from fear – it was like I wasn’t just losing Jack but I was losing my memories of him too, because it hadn’t been real, he hadn’t really been there. But it had been real. Maybe not to anyone else, but to me it was.

  It was all too much to try and take in. All the times I’d felt his rejection like a knife slicing through me – because he’d backed away from me when I tried to get close. I’d been sure it was a sign he didn’t like me. But maybe it was because we couldn’t touch, and if we’d tried I would have known. And I realised that every time I was hurting because of it, he’d been hurting too. Why couldn’t he have told me? Had he worried about my reaction? Would I have stopped being able to see him if I’d known? Is that why he disappeared when I knew he was . . . dead?

  I ached inside thinking of it. I ached for what I hadn’t known, for what he hadn’t been able to tell me. And still, I ached to touch him, even now, knowing it was impossible.

  I don’t remember going to sleep, but I woke up suddenly, confused, a shrill ringing in my ear. It took me a second or two to work out what was going on. Then I knew. I don’t remember consciously moving, I just remember the phone was in my hand in an instant.

  ‘Jack?’ I whispered, barely able to summon the breath to speak.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered back. I sobbed silently with relief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I couldn’t tell you. I never meant to hurt you. But you’ll be OK now. I
love you, Zoë. Goodbye.’

  ‘No! Please don’t . . .’ I gasped. I couldn’t breathe, the pain in my chest . . .

  Then the line was dead.

  Chapter 20

  ‘Wake up, Zoë.’ Dad woke me gently the morning. ‘I’ve made you a nine-twenty appointment with the doctor so I need you to get up, OK? I’m going to sit here till you’re up,’ he warned, knowing the old me would have gone back to sleep as soon as he left the room. But that was in another lifetime. ‘I brought you some tea.’

  It took me a few minutes to come round. My ribs hurt from sobbing myself to sleep. The more awake I got, the more I wished I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be awake and I definitely didn’t want to go to the doctor.

  Dad stuck to his word. We sat in silence as I sipped my tea.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Pretty bad. But it’s not anything the doctor can fix.’ I looked at him pointedly.

  ‘You’re going to the doctor, young lady,’ he said, more than matching my stubbornness.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ I whined. ‘After all that last night, you think I’m making it up – or I’m mad. That’s why you want me to go to the doctor.’

  ‘Oh, Zo,’ Dad sighed a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s so hard. I never believed in all that stuff. I’m having to change the whole way I think about a lot of things all at once. But look, you’re right, I saw the evidence right in front of me and, of course, I don’t think you’d make something like this up. Please just give me a bit of time, OK? In the meantime, though, regardless of what the reason is that this has all been happening to you, your body’s been through an awful lot. Look.’

  He picked up my hands and stroked them better, like I was a little girl again.

  ‘You’re covered in grazes and scratches, you’ve been fainting and your sleep’s been disturbed . . .’ Oh, he’d noticed that . . . I guess the walls in our house are pretty thin. ‘I just want her to check you over and tell me you’re OK. OK?’

  I tried to shower as quickly as I could so it didn’t wake me up too much. I was happy to have that protective, numbing blanket of sleepiness to stop me feeling too much.

  I hate the doctors’ surgery. The waiting room is full of ill, infected people and you think with every breath you’re going to catch some horrible lurgy. Everything’s dank like a rainy day, even in summer. All grey lino and brown plastic. I sent Dad for coffee and sat alone, waiting to be called, trying my hardest not to think of Jack, feeling like I could easily burst into tears at any minute if I didn’t concentrate hard.

  Of course I thought of him. I had so many questions and I knew that, as time went on, I’d just have more. How did he phone me? How did he turn the spotlight on that day? That night we’d both dreamed of each other, when he said we could pretend we’d had the same one, was there any chance . . . that it had been more than a dream?

  There was one question I knew the answer to, though. I knew he loved me. He couldn’t save Olivia but he’d saved me. He’d said I’d be all right now. He’d said he loved me.

  The little intercom speaker crackled and the doctor called my name from her office. I hate going into that little interview room. I feel like I’m on trial – and it reminds me of French oral exams. Only with poking and prodding and cold metal instruments.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I told the doctor before I told her what Dad wanted me to tell her. I didn’t tell her the whole truth, but I did tell her I’d passed out. I also told her a couple more times that I was nevertheless fine.

  ‘Passing out isn’t normal if you’re fine,’ she said firmly to me. She asked me lots of questions and finally, after she’d weighed me, squidged my eyelids about, used some instruments on me and shone various lights into various places, she sighed. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing you haven’t told me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then I won’t send you straight to hospital. The weather’s been hot and it sounds like you’ve been busy with things and haven’t been concentrating on looking after yourself. But I want you to go for some tests over the next couple of weeks – the hospital will call you when they can fit you in – and I want you to take it a bit easier for a while. And – I want you to come back straight away if you faint again, OK?’

  I nodded again and scuttled out of there as soon as I could get away.

  I found Dad outside just finishing a phone call and balancing two lattes in one hand. I told him I was fine. He squinted suspiciously at me.

  ‘Honestly,’ I said. ‘Stop worrying.’

  He said he’d just finished speaking to Steve. ‘I told him you might not be up to the performance tonight. He’s looking into taking the play off the programme, just for tonight, and he doesn’t think it’ll be a problem. So you don’t have to go if you don’t want to – OK? He said take a few hours, see how you feel, and let him know by four.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said.

  I didn’t know what to do. I felt relieved knowing I could back out if I wanted. But a big part of me really wanted to go on with the play – I wanted to do it properly, doing all my acting myself. But I did feel odd about going back there so soon, with the memories of everything all stuck to the building like splatters of debris after an explosion. And I was tired – absolutely worn out. And I couldn’t imagine what people would be thinking about me after that spectacle of insanity I’d put on. The thing is, weird as it seemed to me through the grief I was feeling, despite feeling more alone than ever, I felt calmer and more like myself than I had for a really long time, too.

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I told him finally. ‘I’ll have a shower and chill out for a bit and see how I feel.’

  We walked home without needing to speak, sipping our coffees.

  I didn’t hear the knock at the door, what with the hairdryer blasting, but when I’d finished I could hear voices in the hall. I opened my bedroom door and crept to the top of the stairs where I could peek down. It was David.

  When Dad turned to call me I was already halfway down the stairs.

  ‘Hey, how you doing?’ David gave me a smile. I couldn’t believe he’d actually come to my house to check I was OK.

  ‘I’m OK, thanks. I think.’

  ‘You up to going for a walk?’

  I was slightly stunned. ‘Sure, give me a sec, I’ll grab my bag.’ I raised my eyebrows briefly at Dad and he gave me a little nod. I felt a bit nervous about what David might say on our little stroll, but awful as the possibilities might be, there was no way I was going to miss the chance to be friends again, if that’s what he was offering.

  ‘So . . . There was all sorts of buzz and gossip after you left last night.’ David got straight to the point the second the front door clicked shut behind us.

  ‘Oh God . . .’ was all I could say, although he smiled at me and I felt hopeful that this conversation might be OK.

  ‘Some people actually thought it was part of the play.’ He grinned, shaking his head. ‘You know, one of those fancy “post-modern statements where the action spills off the stage”.’ David’s impression of posh, hobnobbing theatre-goers made me laugh.

  ‘Other people thought I was crazy, though, right? Or having some sort of breakdown?’ I looked at David and he was honest enough to nod. He put a comforting arm round me and I thought of Jack. I was overwhelmed for a second and had to hold my breath to try to fight the tears. It was such a simple thing, putting your arm round someone. You did it without thinking. But Jack and I never had the chance. We never would.

  ‘Oh man, don’t cry. Damn, sorry. I said the wrong thing. I’m so bad at this.’

  ‘No, no.’ I touched his hand, which was still resting on my shoulder. ‘You’re not. Not at all. It’s not you.’ He smiled and put his hands back in his pockets as we kept walking.

  ‘Steve says you’re not sure you’ll make it for the performance tonight . . . Obviously we get it, totally, if you can’t but we’d love it if you would.’

  ‘We?’ I asked,
my heart beating a bit faster.

  ‘Yeah, Gemma and Anton and I all talked about it. I dunno, mate, this whole thing is properly insane-weird, you know. It messes with your head to even try to think of the explanation for it. But we all agreed we can at least try to forget it all, you know, get past it. They’re waiting for us at the diner, if you feel like going – it’d be just like old times.’

  Then I properly cried. I couldn’t hold in my tears – they still cared enough to give me another chance.

  ‘Not again! What are you like? Come here.’ David gave me a proper hug then and it felt sort of like coming home. I let myself cry for a few seconds and then took a breath in and tried to pull myself together. I let go of David and wiped my face with my hands.

  ‘You’re sure? You’re sure they mean it, after everything I did?’

  ‘Well, you know, the whole violence thing left them a bit sore, but when you started beating up old ladies as well, they at least figured it wasn’t anything personal.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Come on then, let’s go say hi,’ David said as he took my hand.