I looked away then and my attention was caught by a cluster of dried-out bouquets tied to the metal railings beside the bridge. I realised they were there for Owen and my sadness grew. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
His gaze rested bleakly on me. ‘Like what?’
Hugging my arms, I thought back to what my aunt had done for other ghosts. ‘I don’t know. Bring books, maybe, or a laptop?’
He began to look interested. ‘I wouldn’t mind catching up with the Grand Prix results. It must be a few races in by now.’
‘I could pick up some car magazines for you,’ I said, picturing the contents of our coffee table at home and drawing a blank. There was no point in asking Jeremy about fast cars; the closest he’d ever got to speeding was when he’d skidded in the snow in his ancient Nissan Micra.
Owen smiled. ‘That would be great. Thanks.’
Returning his smile, I was struck once again by how attractive he was, even with the scar. I’d been focusing on it so hard that I’d forgotten what the rest of his features were like. Now that I was closer to him, I could see that his eyes were grey, the colour of storm clouds in a summer downpour. His eyebrows were thick and brown, like his hair, and he wore a diamond stud in his left ear. I wouldn’t mind betting he’d been beating the girls off with a stick before he’d died. ‘So I’ll come back tomorrow, then? We could go for a walk or something.’
It was quite possibly the lamest suggestion I’d ever made. Owen studied me gravely. ‘OK. I’ll do you a deal. You bring me up to date with what’s happening in Formula One and I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me.’
I folded my arms and sniffed. ‘I should think so. You did promise to tell me how you got your scar.’
‘No, I said it was OK for you to ask about it,’ he replied. ‘But if you really want to know, I should warn you that it’s embarrassing on an epic scale. I might have to kill you if you laugh.’
I bit my lip to smother a smile. ‘I’ll be the soul of all seriousness.’
‘Good,’ he said and sounded like he meant it. His gaze was level but once again I caught a flash of something in his eyes and it dawned on me how lonely he must be. ‘Same time, same place?’
I nodded, thankful all over again for the freedom the Easter holidays gave me. ‘Deal.’ I glanced at the lengthening shadows around us. ‘It’s getting dark. I’d better get going now.’
‘Sure,’ Owen said. Then he smiled. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way but I’m really glad you tipped your boat over on the lake yesterday.’
‘Me too. Apart from the almost drowning bit, obviously.’
He grinned. ‘Obviously. See you tomorrow, then?’
‘Yeah. Bye, Owen.’
I was halfway back to Marble Arch when I realised my lips were curving upwards. I was glad I’d met Owen, although the circumstances could have been a little less soggy. As I went down the steps to the Underground, there was one more thing I realised; life had just got a whole lot more interesting.
Something was different in the park the next day. The lake was busy for an overcast Monday afternoon but it wasn’t until I reached the bridge that I understood why; propped up against the stone columns and metal railings were bouquets, cards and even a Liverpool FC scarf. Clustered on and around the bridge were small groups of teenagers and adults talking in low voices; occasionally someone kneeled to read a card or adjust the flowers. I hovered on the path, trying to pick out Owen’s distinctive glow but I couldn’t see him. The visitors couldn’t be marking the anniversary of his death; he’d told me yesterday that he’d only been there a few months. So what was with the flowers and sombre expressions?
Biting my lip, I edged closer. On the one hand, I didn’t want to intrude but, on the other, here was an opportunity to get the low-down on Owen. Without meeting anyone’s eyes, I approached the mass of flowers and cards and gazed at them in silence.
The bouquets were gorgeous and bright; sunflowers and roses and carnations spilled out of their cellophane wrappings without a lily in sight. There was no sign of the dead flowers I’d noticed the day before. In the centre was a giant seventeen made out of tightly woven red and white carnations and the penny dropped; today would have been Owen’s birthday. My gaze slid to the cards. The largest had the words To a Super Son picked out in gold letters. Next to it was one which read Grandson and there were others to Friend, Cousin and Brother. My eyes grew hot and I felt an abrupt prickling of tears behind them. Suddenly, I didn’t want to learn any more about Owen from the tributes lying on the bridge. It felt like I was spying on the misery of the people who had loved him.
I pushed myself upwards and stepped back, ignoring the wave of dizziness caused by standing too quickly. Stumbling away, I bumped into a girl I hadn’t noticed standing behind me. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, shaking away the black dots clouding my vision.
‘It’s OK,’ she replied. Her gaze flickered over me before returning to the flowers and cards. ‘Did you know Owen?’
Studying her, I considered my answer. She was taller than me but, since I wasn’t what you’d call towering, that didn’t mean much. In spite of her height, she looked young and I put her age at around thirteen. Her light-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her eyes were slate grey. There was more than a hint of Owen about her, I noticed; she had to be a relative. ‘Not very well,’ I admitted, taking care over my words. ‘We saw each other around, you know . . .’
She looked at me more closely. ‘I don’t recognise you from school.’
My stomach tensed. I’d rather not tell an outright lie but, equally, I didn’t want to come across as having a ghoulish fascination with the death of someone I didn’t know. ‘I go to Heath Park C of E, in Highgate,’ I said, sticking to the facts and hoping she didn’t ask where I’d met Owen. My gaze strayed around the edge of the lake. Where was he, anyway?
Nodding, she said, ‘He knew a lot of people. We only found out how many when they couldn’t all fit into the church for his funeral.’ A sad smile flitted across her face. ‘He’d have liked that. Always fancied himself as Mr Popular.’
I thought back to Owen’s teasing the day before and his easy charm; I could believe he’d had a lot of friends and I’d bet a lot of them were girls. For a fleeting second, I wondered if he’d left behind a heartbroken girlfriend but it wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to ask.
‘His friends said that’s the reason he was on the ice in the first place,’ the girl went on, glancing out at the lake. ‘Showing off to some boys he’d only just met. Maybe if they’d been proper mates they might have stopped him from drinking or stuck around to help him when he fell through, instead of leaving him to drown.’
Her voice was laced with bitterness and tears brimmed on her eyelashes. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was shocked; some of the kids at school were into drinking, stealing from their parents’ supplies or fooling shopkeepers into selling them cheap vodka, but I wasn’t one of them. My life was complicated enough without throwing in drunken choices. And although Owen had told me he’d drowned in the lake, I hadn’t realised it had been frozen at the time. The winter had been mild, until a really cold snap at New Year had ground London to a halt under a flurry of snow and ice. Scotland had been worst hit and I remembered feeling relieved I was no longer facing the ski-slope cobbles and ice-rink steps that Edinburgh’s streets became in winter. All of which tied in with Owen’s comment that he’d been dead a few months. I couldn’t imagine what had possessed him to take such a risk; even if he had been drinking, everyone knew frozen lakes were death traps. Didn’t they?
I opened my mouth to mumble something about tragedy when a voice in my left ear made me jump about three centimetres in the air. ‘It wasn’t their fault. The booze might have kicked in but they did call an ambulance while Max tried to pull me out. It came too late.’
I twisted my head to see Owen behind me, staring at the girl I’d been talking to. He glanced at me and tipped his head in greeting. ‘All
right? I see you’ve met my sister.’
So that explained the resemblance. Now that I could compare the two of them, there were other similarities; they both had the same elegantly shaped noses and fine bone structure. I wouldn’t mind betting that their mother was stunning and their dad was probably a looker as well.
Aware that the girl was still staring broodingly out at the water, I said, ‘I’m sure his friends did their best.’
For a moment, I thought she’d turn all the rage I saw in her eyes on me but then she sighed. ‘They said at the inquest that they begged him not to go onto the ice but he wouldn’t listen. Typical Owen, he always did like playing Superman. He used to say no one could tell him what to do.’
I glanced at him, to see how he took the comment. He scowled. ‘It was X-Men, actually, and at least I didn’t grow up thinking I was a Teletubby.’
A snort of laughter escaped me and I hurriedly turned it into a cough. The girl threw me an odd look. ‘I should probably go. We’re supposed to be having a family party this evening.’ Her voice cracked a little. ‘Only it won’t be much of a celebration without him.’
My heart lurched in sympathy and I wished I could tell her Owen was OK, that he was standing right next to me. It was impossible, though. ‘It was nice talking to you,’ I said, wondering if I’d see her again. On impulse, I added, ‘My name’s Skye, by the way.’
The girl eyed me before she answered. ‘I’m Cerys. Owen was my older brother.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I said, with a wry smile. ‘He mentioned you.’
‘Really?’ Her face brightened. ‘What did he say?’
Somehow, I didn’t think she’d appreciate Owen’s comment about the games she’d played as a kid, but before I could think of a suitable fib, Owen spoke. ‘Tell her I said she wasn’t a bad kid.’
‘He told me you were a great little sister,’ I translated, ignoring Owen’s loud tut.
Cerys swallowed hard. ‘Thanks,’ she said after a minute. ‘He used to call me a drama queen. I always thought he hated me for stealing Mum and Dad’s attention. Maybe I was wrong.’
She flashed me a final brittle smile and hurried towards a group of adults clustered at the end of the bridge. Owen watched her go.
‘I did hate her,’ he said. ‘When I was six, I wanted a puppy and my dad said I couldn’t have one because Cerys was too young. And she wet the bed when we went on holiday and blamed it on me.’
Eek. If brotherly love meant having someone to reveal embarrassing facts about you then I was glad to be an only child. ‘I bet she worshipped you, though.’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Shame I let her down. All of them, really.’
I bit my lip, wanting to reassure him but aware I didn’t know him well enough. ‘It must be hard, seeing everyone here like this.’
His eyes were bleak as he watched a tall woman with long brown hair reach down to give Cerys a hug. ‘It was at first. Straight after I died was the hardest. Mum and Dad were devastated, blamed themselves for not having kept a closer eye on me. I think they found it hard to come here, but Cerys seemed to find some kind of comfort from hanging around. She didn’t cry, just talked and watched the water and looked right through me.’
Sometimes I thought the living had it easier than the dead when it came to bereavement. The living lost a loved one but, as painful as that was, at least they had friends and family around to comfort them. The person who’d died was on their own; they’d lost their life, family and friends all at once. The misery in Owen’s voice reminded me of how painful and lonely it must have been, watching his family mourn around him. A lump grew in my throat. I swallowed to dislodge it. ‘Maybe she could sense your presence.’
Owen shook his head. ‘I think she liked watching the birds. Dunno how she didn’t get frostbite, actually. My parents couldn’t stop her from coming so they used to wait in the café and bring her hot chocolate every now and then.’
I imagined Cerys standing a lonely vigil over the lake and Owen powerless to comfort her. For the second time that day, my heart ached for them. ‘There’s a place the living and the dead go to talk to each other, through the psychics who work there,’ I said slowly, unsure whether I was rushing things. ‘It’s called the Church of the Dearly Departed. I could tell your sister about it someday, if you wanted? Then you could meet her there.’
Emotion flickered across his face. ‘A church full of ghosts?’
‘And psychics. As you can imagine, it gets pretty busy.’ I watched him absorb the information. ‘You did realise there were other ghosts, didn’t you?’
He was silent for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yeah, of course I did.’ His expression changed to one of intense interest. ‘So does this mean you’ve worked out a way to get me off this lake?’
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a smooth round stone I’d plucked from the edge of the lake on my way to the bridge half an hour earlier. ‘Happy birthday. Put this in your pocket and you’ll be able to go wherever you want. For a while, anyway.’
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘It takes time to build up your ability to stay away,’ I explained. ‘We’ll need to make sure you come back here to recharge after about an hour at first. When you’re used to it, you can stay away from your haunting zone for up to twenty-four hours but any longer than that and you get dragged back.’ I pulled a face. ‘I’ve heard it’s not pretty.’
Owen gazed dubiously at the pebble resting in my palm. ‘Right. So how am I supposed to pick it up?’
I wasn’t exactly certain of that myself; Mary hadn’t been great on the finer details when I’d quizzed her on the suspiciously sharp old letter opener she carried around with her. She’d reassured me that a ghost wouldn’t have any problems taking the stone, though.
‘It will be one with him and none of the living shall spy it,’ she’d intoned in her usual cross-century gibberish. ‘But ensure he loseth it not or the lake shall consume him once more.’
I didn’t dare ask more in case she realised I wasn’t asking about a hypothetical friend at all and mentioned my interest to Celestine. I hadn’t said anything about Owen yet; the plan was to introduce him later, once my close encounter with the lake had faded a bit in Celestine’s memory.
‘I think you just take it,’ I told Owen, hoping I didn’t sound as uncertain as I felt.
We both stared at my hand for a minute, then Owen squared his shoulders. ‘OK. Here goes.’
He reached towards my hand. His fingers slid through mine and wrapped around the stone. When he pulled away, I let out a groan of disappointment. The pebble was still on my palm.
‘We must have done something wrong,’ I said.
Owen didn’t reply. Instead, he turned over his hand and unfurled his fingers. Nestled beside his thumb was an exact clone of the pebble I held. I blinked in confusion. ‘How?’
He looked up at me, grinning. ‘Don’t ask me, you’re supposed to be the expert around here.’
My mind whirred as I stared first at my stone, then at Owen’s. It made a weird sort of sense, I realised; the stone must exist in both the physical world and in the afterlife at the same time.
‘Put it in your pocket and, whatever you do, don’t lose it. Believe me, you don’t want to be without it when you’re not here. You’ll get hauled back to where you died before you can blink.’
He tucked it deep into his jeans. ‘Safe.’ Rubbing his hands together, he smiled at me. ‘So, where shall we go?’
I flicked my head towards his family. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wait until they’ve gone?’
‘No,’ he said, after only the slightest of hesitations. ‘It’s not as though they know I’m here. Let’s go and raise some hell.’
I raised my eyebrows and started to walk towards the path. ‘It’s your birthday. What did you have in mind?’
Taking a final glance around, Owen followed me. ‘I don’t mind what we do, as long as it’s on dry land. I’ve had enough water to last me an etern
ity.’
I thought about that as we left the lake behind us. If I hadn’t been sure before that I’d done the right thing in coming back to find Owen, I was now. Without my help to move on, the Serpentine would be his eternity. His future was in my hands.
Chapter 5
‘When did you first realise you could see ghosts?’
We were ambling across the grass and Owen was twisting his head this way and that as he drank in the sights everyone else was taking for granted. Top of that list seemed to be me and he wasn’t messing about with polite chit-chat.
‘I don’t actually know,’ I admitted, after thinking for a minute. ‘They’ve always been there, for as long as I can remember.’
‘Weren’t you scared?’ he asked, casting an envious glance at a cyclist speeding past. ‘I mean, obviously I’m about as terrifying as a kitten on a Christmas card but I’m guessing they’re not all like me?’
They weren’t and it was probably a very good thing. I was on his right-hand side and kept stealing glances at his profile, finding new things to like about it. In fact, I had to keep reminding myself he was a ghost and not someone I should be feeling in any way attracted to. Developing a crush on Owen would be even more disastrous than my last attempt at a love life, which had begun not long after I’d moved to London and had ended abruptly in a broken heart a few weeks later. I hadn’t been able to believe my luck when Nico had asked me out one day at school. Dark-haired and mysterious, he was drop-dead gorgeous and I was – well – different. It had been a fairy tale romance, right up to the moment he’d confessed to being a member of the Solomonarii, an ancient cult from his native Romania, and tried to use me and my gift to contact the dead. His personality had switched from witty and affectionate to sinister and threatening in a heartbeat. I still got the shivers when I thought about the night Nico had chased me through Highgate Cemetery, hammering hailstones and freezing winds down on me as I scrambled to escape him. He hadn’t bothered me at school since, and for the past few months, I’d spent each day avoiding him, nursing my broken heart and trying to forget how much I’d cared about him. I wasn’t as successful as I’d have liked.
My So-Called Phantom Love Life Page 3