DEAD GOOD

by Cooper, D A

  I tiptoe quietly back out, my mouth not as dry as before and my heart just about starting to calm down a bit. For some strange reason, I realise I don’t feel threatened or anything by the things I’ve heard or even seen tonight. In fact I feel slightly calmer than I did before – now that Mum and Dad have seen some strange things happening too, I mean. Now I know it’s not just me. I’m not going mad. And Davey doesn’t have an invisible friend either, because now I’ve seen her as well.

  Back downstairs, the smell seems to be less overpowering than before. The screaming has stopped and the living room door is now open. Dad is inside and holding the phone off the receiver. His face is ashen. Not surprising.

  ‘Davey?’ mum says worriedly.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s still asleep,’ I try to smile.

  ‘Oh God. Thank God,’ she says and slumps into the armchair by the door.

  ‘So. Wha…what the…’ Dad starts, still holding the receiver. Then he turns to look over at me. ’Excuse the French, Madeline, but for one night only your father feels it’s entirely necessary to use the Eff word in front of you. What the fu…fu-flip -’ he emphasises his non-swearage by lifting his free arm up at the shoulder, palm ceiling-wards, looking at us both in total disbelief ‘- am I supposed to say when they ask Fire, Police or Ambulance?’

  five

  Sleeping wasn’t the best I have to admit. But today is another day. It’s Saturday – the start of the weekend. And yesterday was full of unusual things. I’m not alone in being a little weirded-out by strange stuff; there’s nothing to get spooked about.

  I stare about and wonder if I shut my eyes again and open them r-e-a-l-l-y slowly then this might all still be just a bad dream. Yesterday didn’t happen. In fact the last few months didn’t happen. That’d be nice. Unless this is one of those ‘lucid’ dreams I’ve read about. In which case, doesn’t that make me more in control or something? I open my eyes very slowly.

  Nope. Still here. And I seriously cannot believe that this is my bedroom. That this is our house. I can’t even say the word ‘new’ because this is so nothing like any idea of ‘new’ that I’ve ever seen before in my entire life. This is old. It is beyond old. It is ancient; it is crappy, shitty and should very probably be put on some kind of danger list and demolished – immediately. Or sooner - after I’ve grabbed my iPod and GHD’s of course. I sigh. I’m sighing. I’m sighing the minute I wake up !

  The only other time I sigh the minute I wake up is… wait a minute…I stretch over to my bedside table and pull out my diary. I find the calendar section and then notice the little red dot that indicates ‘maybe today?’ which is marked at yesterday. Which I should have known. Typical. Maybe that’s what I had last night then, hallucinations – just another symptom of PMS. Sore boobs, belly ache, and seeing things that aren’t there. Okay. Noted.

  ‘Maddie?!’ I hear mum shout from across the landing. I bet she wants to talk about last night. It’ll make a change, I’m not saying a nice change – because usually it’s something Davey-related.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Could you get Davey ready for me this morning, lovey? Dad and me are off to Tesco’s. Won’t be long.’

  And before I’ve even had a chance to say “Er hello – surely you want to discuss what happened last night AND actually, yes, I do mind, I do have a life too, you know”, I hear footsteps rush down the stairs and the front door slam and they’ve gone. Brilliant. I might just sigh again. In fact I think I’ll add “sighing” to my list of PMS symptoms. it’s pretty much all I’ve done recently. I take out my pen and scribble it down at the front before I forget and notice that I’ve already scribbled “forgetfulness” in the list which makes me almost want to smile. I said almost.

  I hear the front door re-open and my dad’s voice booms from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Maddie?’ He must want to reassure me everything’s going to be okay.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t forget you can turn your mobile back on today. Thanks for keeping it switched off yesterday -’

  Oh. Okay. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about the madness then. And… oh I can, can’t I? I’d almost forgotten that I’d had my phone switched off all yesterday afternoon during the great move from normality to hideousy. I yell back a cursory ‘Okay - thanks!’ and then shut the diary back in the drawer with a slam and drag my bag out from under the bed. They probably want to wait until we’re all together before dissecting the events from last night.

  ‘- and don’t forget Davey!’ Dad yells up at me before I hear the door bang shut again.

  Yeah. Alright. What does he think I am?

  My eyes light up at the sight of my inbox. Two missed calls and six messages. Six! Okay, so I can already guess that most of them are going to be from Amber. I suppose she forgot I told her my phone would be turned off. Ah well, she’s just bound to have missed me – in Graphics and double History - and she’s just texting to tell me exactly how much I was missed. I open the first one.

  ed loake jst lookd at yr desk. think is luv!

  My heart does a massive somersault at the sight of his name and I can already picture him turning round, craning his neck to get a better look at the desk where I sit and wondering where I am. No, not just wondering but worrying where I am. He’d be concerned, wouldn’t he? Well why shouldn’t he be? I mean, he’s going to be feeling pretty lonely in class without me there, that’s for sure – I’m always at least only ten metres away from him – even less if you count wet breaks. Then we have to be in the same room for forty-five glorious minutes, give or take ten minutes if one of us needs to pee. Of course it does also mean that he had to look in the general direction of Helena Foster – she’s stunning. But she knows it. It’s too obvious. Guys don’t like obvious do they? At least that’s what Amber’s always saying. But then Helena is very good to look at. Even I look at her from time to time – you can’t help it – she is gorgeous. She’s like a kind of advert for how every girl wants to look. A bit chavvy in places but overall the image is pretty much spot-on. She’s crap at English though. Couldn’t spell her way out of the make-up counter at Boots – not that she’d want to. I do not want to be Helena Foster. Not in the slightest. I enjoy being able to spell. It puts me in set 2 English and that’s where Ed Loake is. Helena is still way back in set 4. I think that says something on a higher level. Probably.

  I open up the next one.

  omg! justin b has roots!

  My heart does nothing at this piece of information. I scan the time of this newsflash. It is exactly two minutes after the first one. I do a quick calculation and realise that these texts must have been sent during Graphics. That means that they were sitting about in the IT suite planning the next step in this project on CD covers we’re doing. So that means Amber had her phone on her lap just where Mr Trefoil couldn’t see it. She hates Graphics. I don’t know why she chose it as one of her GCSE subjects. Oh, apart from Mr Trefoil of course. He’s kinda cute in an old fashioned way. But I just think it’s way too gross to fancy a teacher. He’s probably old enough to be her grandfather or something. Anyway, I turn back to the text. So bloody what if Justin Blathe has roots. I already knew he coloured his hair. What is wrong with Amber? I open the third:

  justin b askd were you were!

  Right. Apart from the fact she’s spelt “where” wrong – which irritates me until I remember that “irritability” is on my PMS symptoms list, this text also annoys me. It’s a waste of text. A total misuse of space. If she’d had to cancel her contract with 02 and been forced by her parents to switch to Pay As You Go (how much lower could I sink?) and given only ten pounds a month in credit then she’d be more careful about how many words and characters she was using per text. My heart sinks. At least it does something. I am almost tempted not to open the remaining texts if this is the kind of torture I’m going to be put through.

  gross!

  That’s it? I’m even starting to sweat with the sheer annoyance and irritation of this stupid, dense,
stupid-stupid-stupid one word text! I am seriously going to have to have words with her about the economics of texting. She is so going to have to do a whole heap better than this if she wants to stay my best friend in future. She knows I’ve been downgraded in the worst possible way – what’s she trying to do? Freak me out with her wastefulness. Okay, calm down. Next.

  r u meetin in town 2m? x

  My heart sinks. Again. God, I wish. I’m sure I told her I couldn’t today. Didn’t I? Didn’t I tell her that mum had already planned for me to help unpack and sort stuff out at this crap-hole? I’m sure I must have mentioned it to her? I immediately start remembering what we did last weekend in town and wish I was back there again. We were even almost… kind of… fifty percent anyway at least… possibly… certain that Ed Loake turned and looked in my direction when he heard me and Amber laughing about something we’d seen in our magazine as we sat on the wall outside Top Shop. He smiled too. I’m sure he did. And I’m equally (un)certain that Justin Blathe kinda winked at one of us. Oh, please don’t let it have been at me. It kept us giggling for the rest of the day. We were late back home and even missed some of X-factor because we were analysing the moment so much. I’m sure she’s secretly in love with root-boy and I wish she’d just tell me. She knows exactly how I feel about Ed. Why can’t she come clean with me?

  I open the last one.

  wy not anserin?

  I check the time this was sent and read 22:58. That was probably right after all the madness. It’s half nine right now. She might be up. I text her:

  Sorry. Up now. Phone off all day yest. Place crap. V.shitty. Have 2 c 2 believe. cant go town. C u l8r. Miss u. Luv u x

  I make sure that I’ve used all the available characters for one whole page of text without going over into page 2. Now that would really annoy me. I press send and then wonder how many texts Gordon Brown can send in a day and then if it’s at all possible, I hate him even more than I did yesterday. In fact I add him to my list of PMS symptoms.

  ‘Ma-ddie?’ I hear Davey padding slowly across the landing and arrive in the doorway, his PJ’s sagging around his little body, one hand holding his milk beaker and the other pointing right at me. Annoyingly he starts to smile and sway so I force myself to smile back even though I don’t want to. I’ve seen mum and dad do it. Humouring him. They can’t do it with me but Davey doesn’t know any better yet. If they can get away with it then so can I. It seems to be working. He grins even wider but his eyes aren’t really focussed on my face.

  ‘Ma-ddie?’ he repeats, swaying a little more.

  ‘What?’

  ‘S’that?’ he points beyond me. Over my shoulder.

  ‘Hmm?’ I turn a little.

  ‘S’ that?’ he repeats, then pads a little closer, still pointing.

  ‘What’s what?’ I frown at his annoying questions.

  ‘S’at?’ he repeats, ‘s’at there?’

  I turn farther round to where he’s pointing, right above my head and, almost unconsciously, begin to edge back on my bed, as far away from where Davey is pointing as possible. My heart leaps so far into my mouth I’m surprised it hasn’t gagged me as I watch the pale outline of the back of a figure melt away behind me – as if the wall’s just made of mist and not bricks. My eyes hurt from being opened so wide but I can’t stop staring.

  ‘S’gone now,’ Davey says simply, ‘can I have more milkshake?’

  six

  Okay, I’m calm. I’m more than calm, I’m dressed. I’m up. Alright then I got up and then dressed if you really want the proper order of events. I’m in the kitchen – if you can call it a kitchen. I mean, last night it was the ‘living’ kitchen from hell. And Davey is also dressed, happy and munching away on his choco-pops.

  And so what if I got dressed in the bathroom? It’s not the most ridiculous thing in the world to do, is it? I remember mum getting dressed in the bathroom once when she saw a spider in her bedroom and didn’t want to undress in front of it. This is much the same, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?

  The only reason she didn’t want to get dressed in her room was because…. well because she didn’t want the hairy great thing running up her legs, did she? And she knew that when dad came home, he’d put a pint glass over it, slide some paper under it and put it in the garden, back with its friends. So that the spider population could have a laugh about the great big pale lady who screamed with fear at the tiny little insect that scared her. Then the spider could once again plot how to get back inside and find the fastest route up her legs.

  ‘Cos that’s what they do, spiders. Unless you take off every one of their legs or kill them - maybe killing would be kinder than full-amputation - then they just come back in. It’s a fact. Even if you hoover them up they can still find their way back in – it’s their instincts. The only reason they’re in the house to begin with is because their family already live there. We just don’t see them until they’re all fully grown and … well, scary. To some, that is. Not to me. I’m not scared by spiders; well, only the big ones.

  Ghosts – now that’s an entirely different thing. And the Capricorn in me is already reluctant to even think the stupid word. Who believes in ghosts these days anyway? Who’s ever seen a ghost that I know? Davey giggles just then and I spin to face him. He seems to be doing a pretty bloody good job at seeing things lately. He’s like a ‘weird-stuff’ radar. I reckon if I keep my eyes on him I could quite easily catch these hallucinations out and work out what they are exactly. Because I know they’re not ghosts. Ghosts are made-up things that sell films and newspapers and the only people who say they’ve seen a ghost only say it because they know they’ll be able to make some money out of it.

  Hang on a minute.

  Can you see that lightbulb above my head?

  ‘Da-vey?’ I crouch down at his level animatedly. He turns to face me like the obedient little puppy that he is. Actually he probably thinks I’m going to let him have some more choco pops. ‘Can you see anything… any-one - now?’ I widen my eyes expectantly.

  Davey stares back down at his milky bowl of cereal and spoons some more slush into his mouth. He doesn’t even answer me. Little bugger.

  ‘Davey!’ I hiss loudly to make sure I get his attention properly this time. ‘Is there anybody here?’ I almost laugh at the stupid way that question sounded. Like I’m at a séance or something. ‘In here,’ I repeat. ‘In the kitchen with us – now.’

  I wave my arms about to make sure he knows what I’m talking about. Bloody hell, even I’m not sure what I’m talking about. How can I expect a three year old to know?!

  ‘Kitchen…’ he says calmly, through a mouthful of choco pops and he raises his shoulder slightly in a half shrug. He’s not helping. He doesn’t even seem to be that interested.

  In a bid to get him to pay more attention to me, I hold up the box of cereal and shake it. His eyes fix on it. I move it to the left and his beady eyes follow. I move it to the right and his stare remains on the box. I shake it a little and his head bobs up and down comically. I walk to his left and he turns his whole body – then I go back to the right and he does the same. If nothing else comes out of this I could always enter him in Kiddy Crufts. He’s very obedient.

  I start to laugh at him and he laughs back, his little tinkling giggle is infectious and as I walk around the kitchen holding the box of choco pops, I start to do a silly little dance to see exactly how far he’ll go with the fixation on his favourite box of cereal. Just as I’ve finished a slow spin and then a couple of kicks, I raise the box above my head and twirl balletically then I’m aware that the box is getting lighter and lighter in my hand. I turn my head slowly up towards the box which I’m holding high in the air, and my mouth totally drops open at the sight which meets me.

  The box is actually no longer in my hand and is instead floating about two feet above my head and nearly touching the ceiling. I cannot stop staring at it. I hear Davey giggling and then he starts to clap with enjoyment of this act. I am simply gobsmack
ed; almost rigid with disbelief.

  Then, very slowly I walk in a circle beneath the levitating box of choco pops - I pass my hands underneath it to see if there’re any strings or wire coming from anywhere. Who am I kidding? Of course there aren’t. Who’d have had the time to rig something like that? Not Davey that’s for sure. He’s thoroughly enjoying this circus performance, though. And right now I’m just beginning to get my breath back. So I try to be logical about what’s happening.

  Okay, so nobody’s died and nobody seems to be getting hurt. This is not a nasty ghost, whoever it is. In fact it seems to like a bit of laugh and I’ve almost returned to a state of normality when all of a sudden the back door flings open and mum and dad come in and the box empties itself all over my head before falling to the floor with a crash.