Dead Girl Walking

by Sant, Sharon

  As I go back into the kitchen the cat comes to greet me again, purring as it weaves around me. It would be ridiculous to think that the cat being in the house had something to do with the shoes being out, wouldn’t it? And yet the alternatives are even more weird or terrifying. Either some shoe moving fetishist has broken in and out again without touching anything else, or Tish’s ghost has been back to try them on one last time, or I’ve developed some kind of Norman Bates syndrome and gained a new personality who pretends to be my sister and walks around in her shoes without my being aware of it.

  I shake myself as I go into the living room, sink into the sofa and switch the TV on. I need to move the shoes but I feel so weirded out at the moment that I can’t bring myself to do it. The cat follows me in and leaps onto my lap where it curls up.

  The phone rings out in the hall. I’m kind of annoyed at it because I’m comfortable and warm with the cat on the sofa. I stretch and the cat jumps nimbly from my knees. For a moment I sit and listen to the phone’s shrill call, half in the mood not to bother answering it. I have a pretty good idea who it will be and I still haven’t made up my mind. But then I have this sudden nagging fear that it might be about Gran so I push myself from the sofa to go and get it. But as soon as I pick up I know it’s him from the background noise in his office.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cassie, it’s Robert Johnson.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you thought any more about it?’

  ‘I haven’t had time.’

  ‘I can wait. How much time do you need to decide?’

  ‘It isn’t that…I’m not sure I’m ready to share it with the world. I don’t get why you’re so eager for me to do this interview anyway.’

  ‘Something like this might give people faith,’ he says, his voice silky and persuasive.

  ‘Faith in what? An entirely random selection of survival beyond death that is not seemingly based on any virtue or deserving factor, but only dumb luck?’

  He’s quiet for a moment.

  ‘Don’t you dare write that down,’ I say.

  ‘I’d struggle to know where to start writing that down,’ he says in a jokey tone. When I’m silent, his voice becomes serious again. ‘People should know this story. It’s not about dumb luck, it’s about hope.’

  I take a look around the cold, silent hallway. There’s no hope here, only ghosts. If others could have what I have, I’m not sure they’d want it.

  ‘Give me half an hour, Cassie, that’s all I’m asking. If you’re not happy afterwards, we won’t go to print, you have my word.’

  I pull the phone from the table and sit on the floor with it on my lap. ‘I just don’t think I can go through with it. I can’t even talk to my counsellor properly about it.’

  ‘That’s because counsellors don’t chat like old friends,’ he says. ‘Counsellors have a job to do; it’s treatment.’

  ‘Don’t you have a job to do?’

  ‘Yes, but mine is creative, not done to prescription. I’m not expecting you to get better to a time-frame, I’m just listening as an interested party.’ He pauses before delivering the sucker punch. ‘You may find talking to me helps more than the counsellor ever could.’

  ‘But the counsellor won’t splash it across a newspaper.’

  ‘Cassie… people read the story and it’s forgotten a week later. I think you’re seeing an impact on your life that won’t materialise.’

  ‘If that’s true, why are you so keen for the story?’

  ‘Because I’m interested. That’s part of the joy of this job, why I do it. I find stories that interest me in the hope that others will enjoy reading them too.’

  ‘Sounds a bit morbid, the idea that people will enjoy reading about my death.’

  ‘It’s a morbid world,’ he replies, his tone frank. ‘People love to read about misery. But they also love to read about second chances and hope, and hearing of a survival like yours gives everyone that hope for miracles.’

  ‘It feels like I’m sullying my family’s memory, somehow…’

  ‘Then make it not so. Tell their story and tell the world how much you loved them, how incredible they were; how much they meant to you. Tell our readers how hard life is without them. You can make the story yours, Cassie, you can tell any tale you want. Make this your eulogy, a lasting testament to their memory that you declare to the world.’

  ‘So… it’s not just about me.’

  ‘Not if you don’t want it to be.’

  ‘You won’t change anything I say?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he replies, his tone somewhat offended.

  ‘It’s just that… well… you hear stuff about newspapers bending the truth.’

  ‘We’re not allowed to lie, if that’s what you mean. Besides, why would I need to lie or embellish your story? It’s gripping enough.’

  I don’t like the way he makes it sound like some sordid thriller, but, weirdly, I can see what he means. I lean back on the wall and take a deep breath before I reply.

  ‘Ok, I’ll do it.’

  After much discussion, we decide on a compromise, neutral ground. The coffee shop has that warm, earthy sweetness in the air that makes you feel welcome as soon as you step in. The interior is all dark wood and leather armchairs in intimate nooks. But my instinct is to bolt and I sit twitching, my coffee cooling rapidly in front of me, hardly touched. I have to keep reminding myself of the reasons I’m here but if he doesn’t get here soon I won’t be able to help running home and locking out the world.

  I look across at the door and he’s just walking in. Shaking his umbrella out and making his way towards me.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cassie. I got held up in traffic.’ He glances down at the table. ‘I see you have coffee. Can I get you anything else?’

  I could mention that my coffee is almost cold but I don’t. ‘No, I’m fine.’ I just want to get it over with and get out.

  ‘Do you mind hanging on for a moment while I get one?’

  I shake my head and watch as he heads back to the counter. He’s good looking, in an obvious sort of way – a head of thick, wavy hair, strong jawed, Roman nose, at a guess around thirty-five. Not my type but the girl behind the counter flicks her hair back and giggles breathlessly as he shares some quip with her. Get a room, why don’t you?

  What the hell am I doing here? I think about what Robert said about closure, or sharing my burden, or that maybe other people are going through it too, thinking they are the only ones in the world, and how hearing my story might help them. There’s no one else going through this, though. I don’t know how I know but I do. But something else he said, about honouring my family, about making sure they’re not forgotten does ring true and I have to remind myself again that telling my story may do that.

  He returns to the table with his coffee and a muffin.

  ‘Don’t mind if I eat, do you? It’s just that I had to skip lunch.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Great. Oh, and I need to arrange a photographer,’ he says, laying his tray on the table.

  ‘What – why?’

  ‘We need a photo. The guys were busy today but I can get someone to you in the week.’

  ‘No photos.’

  ‘Really? Well…’ he says, grimacing as he takes the hard-backed seat at our table, ‘maybe we can discuss that after the interview. You may feel differently then.’

  I don’t reply. I’m pretty sure I won’t feel differently about it but there doesn’t seem any point in arguing as he clearly won’t take any notice.

  He moves the stiff chair aside and pulls an armchair closer to the table, giving me one of his silky smiles before grabbing a small tape recorder from his coat pocket. He must see my look of shock as he produces it.

  ‘I can’t write quickly enough,’ he explains, ‘and I never did get very good at shorthand. This way is less intrusive too; it won’t take long for you to forget it’s even running and you won’t be distracted by me scribbling away
. It’ll be just like friends having a chat. So,’ he continues, clicking it on and laying it on the table between us, ‘why don’t we start with some details about your life?’

  ‘Isn’t that kind of boring?’

  ‘Not really. Readers like background against which they can place your story. It’s Cassie Brown?’

  ‘Cassandra. But everyone calls me Cassie.’

  ‘And you’re eighteen?’

  ‘Nineteen.’.

  ‘Working? Student? Unemployed?’

  The last word has particular emphasis and I think he’s hoping for it.

  ‘I suppose you could call me unemployed. I used to be a student… well, I think I still am but I haven’t been to any classes since the crash so maybe they kicked me off the course. I haven’t checked.’ He takes a bite of his muffin as he stares at me, his eyes hungry for my words. So I stop talking.

  ‘Tell me about your childhood,’ he prompts.

  I shrug. ‘Not much to tell. It was normal, like everyone else’s. No spooky occult gatherings or witches’ covens, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  He stares for a moment and then relaxes into a smile. ‘I see. So your family were happy?’

  ‘Of course. As happy as any family is. We all have our off days, don’t we?’

  ‘Who do you have left now?’

  ‘My gran and some relatives I don’t know that well and don’t really care about. They came to see me after the funerals but I haven’t heard from them since. I think I worry them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It must be like sitting with a zombie or something. I’m between, aren’t I? Between life and death.’

  He takes a moment to answer. ‘You look very much alive to me,’ he says finally with a brief glance over me that makes me shiver inwardly. ‘What about friends?’

  ‘The same. I’m hard to be around right now.’

  The muffin has gone already and he folds the paper over and over until it’s a tight square. ‘You want to tell me about the day it happened?’

  Suddenly faced with it I feel my stomach drop out of me and the sweat begin to ooze from every pore. I have to clutch at the arms of the sofa and my nails burrow into the soft leather like knives into flesh.

  ‘Take your time,’ he says, carefully noting the change in my demeanour. ‘I’m in no rush. And if we have to meet up again, that’s fine too. As many times as you need.’

  I shake my head. It has to be now or never. ‘I’m ok. Just give me a minute to get myself together.’ He reaches for his cup and sips, never taking his eyes off me. ‘We were on our way back from Stratford. Daytrip – Shakespeare’s birthplace and all that. We’d had a good day. Tish and me were singing in the back, something to annoy Dad. He can’t stand it… I mean, he couldn’t…’ The words fade.

  ‘You’re ok?’

  ‘Yes,’ I suck in a steadying breath and run my hands through my hair. ‘I don’t really know what happened. We were on the motorway. Dad wasn’t speeding – he never did, it was sort of a family joke. Mr advanced driving instructor. But this car just came from nowhere, before I even had time to figure out what was happening, straight into us, head on. I only remember it was red.’

  ‘The other driver died too.’

  I nod. ‘They told me that.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  I glance out of the window. The rain smacks against the glass leaving blurred trails. ‘Nothing. I don’t feel anything about him.’

  ‘He wasn’t a drunk driver or a boy racer. He was an old man who’d served his country. You must have some opinion.’

  ‘He killed us. I feel nothing for his death.’

  He’s still watching me closely and I can almost see the gears grinding, sifting through the facts, moulding the story in his head. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve told this man more in ten minutes than I have told the counsellor at either visit.

  His silent contemplation makes me feel as if I need to fill the gap and I speak again. ‘After the collision I remember nothing. Apparently, I have some kind of heart defect that nobody knew about and the shock of the crash meant I died pretty much instantly, but not from my injuries, which were actually quite minor. Which is kind of weird and ironic, because the others all died from their injuries and you’d have thought I would have done too.’ I pause and wait for his reaction. He carries on staring, measuring me, forming his story. ‘Still, as you see I came back. Nobody knows how. The doctors ran tests, sent me appointments for heart monitors and all sorts of other stuff that I never went to, but they never talked about that bit. Sent me home with a card to see a counsellor but never said a word about it. I can’t explain it.’

  He nods. ‘Maybe next time.’

  There won’t be a next time. But I say nothing.

  ‘How about when you first woke in the mortuary? What was that like?’

  I consider for a moment, finding a way to express it so that he can understand. ‘You know when you get a sleep twitch?’

  He frowns.

  ‘You’re falling, almost there and then – bam! Your whole body just spasms? Like that. Like I was suddenly jolted back to life from the biggest sleep ever. Does that make sense?’

  ‘It was that quick?’

  ‘Yep. One minute nothing, the next I’m sitting up stark naked surrounded by corpses and freaking out.’

  ‘What did you do when you realised where you were?’

  I close my eyes. ‘Jumped off the table. I didn’t have a clue where I was, but then I saw the stuff that was in the room and it all just hit me. I knew my family would be in there. I don’t know how, but I did. I couldn’t find them but I stumbled into an office and told the staff there everything. They just looked at me like I was a cancer, something so unnatural and repellent that they couldn’t bear to be anywhere near me. Sure, people were considerate, they looked after me, said nice things, but their eyes… their eyes said something else. Nobody wanted to touch me; nobody wanted to be left alone with me. I begged them to show me where my family were. Tish was the first. I didn’t cry, I just stared at her. I grabbed her hand and that was when it happened for the first time…’

  ‘This is the thing that happened when you touched her?’ He shifts in his chair. I have no idea what possessed me to tell doctors about the extra perception that came with me when I came back to life, and I have no idea how the information reached Robert, but I guess even people under a confidentiality oath must slip up when faced with something so weird and unlikely. However it happened, he already knew about it when he contacted me. ‘How do you know it wasn’t just a one-off event? Some sort of reaction to your shock and grief?’ he insists.

  ‘I asked them to show me mum and dad. They said they shouldn’t but eventually they gave in. And then it happened again. I lived the crash three times – once for each member of my family. Everyone’s was different. My own experience is the only one I can’t actually recall.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone what had happened? When you touched the bodies, I mean?’

  ‘I did, but not right away. At first I didn’t know how to explain it. I could barely process everything myself. They just took me into an office and made me a drink. It was such a weirdly normal thing to do but what else do you do for someone who has just come back to life?’

  ‘Were they shocked that you appeared alive and well? What did they say when they first saw you?’

  ‘Just that I was supposed to be dead, as if by not sticking to my previous state and following the rules for dead people I was somehow being terribly rude. I suppose I was.’

  Three: A house full of ghosts

  I follow the guy outside to the front of my house. He positions me with a light touch of the shoulder so that the front door is in shot, but not the number. It’s weird, but even though having photos done outside in full view of everyone is bound to attract unwanted attention, there’s something about him that makes the idea of him in my house distasteful. As soon as he stepped into the hall, I wanted him out ag
ain. Maybe it was the vague look of covetousness I thought I saw on his face. It’s completely irrational, of course, but then that’s a word I associate with a lot of what I do these days. It doesn’t alter the fact that I don’t seem to have any control over my reactions to situations like this. Perhaps I’m simply annoyed with myself that Robert persuaded me to let the damned photographer come, and the poor guy tasked with the assignment is getting the brunt of that today.

  ‘Relax… I’m not going to murder you or anything.’ He smiles. ‘You know in some parts of the world primitive peoples think that having your photo taken steals your soul?’ He leans in and whispers, ‘It’s not actually true.’

  I try to force a smile for him but my face won’t obey.

  ‘Of course,’ he continues, ‘we want photos that are suited to the story so I don’t expect you to be jolly and laughing. I just don’t want it to be a trauma for you.’

  ‘It’s not,’ I assure him. ‘I’ve never liked having my picture taken.’

  ‘I bet your sister did,’ he says casually as his face disappears behind a huge technical looking beast of a camera. All I can see now is his beanie hat, pulled low over his eyebrows, and gloves so thick it makes me wonder how he can operate any equipment while wearing them. His comment makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. ‘She was a pretty girl,’ he continues, ‘I bet she loved being photographed and admired. As the only survivor of the crash you must feel so alone now.’

  I can’t keep the scowl from my face. I don’t like him talking about Tish in that way.

  ‘You don’t have to look quite so aggressive,’ he says as he clicks away. ‘I’m looking more for melancholy than outright anger. Could you try to look at bit more wistful… you know, stare into the distance?’