Laura

by Amy Cross

  I turn to him. “Huh? He wasn't drinking alone, for once?”

  “Apparently the footage shows him chattering merrily to some girl in a black wig. That's why the barman remembered him so well. He said Nick spent several hours at a table in the corner, talking to this girl and...” He hesitates for a moment. “Well, eventually they left together.”

  “Nick? Chatting to a girl? Pull the other one.”

  “That's what they're saying.”

  “So have they found her? Have they asked her what happened after they left?”

  “They're looking, but it seems she was wearing a lot of make-up. She paid for her drinks in cash, and the glass she used had been washed by the time the police showed up, so they can't try to get any fingerprints. I think they've found some other CCTV footage of the pair of them drunkenly stumbling through town, but they've checked the poor bastard's apartment and there's nothing to suggest that she was still with him when he got home.”

  “I think I'm going to head off now,” Sophie says suddenly, coming over to join us. “I don't want to be here anymore.”

  “I'll drive you,” Jonathan replies, taking his black gloves from his pocket.

  “I can walk.”

  “Of course you can't,” he tells her. “You're staying at our place anyway, so we might as well go back together.” He glances at the grave. “There's nothing left to do here, anyway.”

  “Are you coming?” Sophie asks me, as her bottom lip continues to tremble.

  “I'll catch up,” I tell her. “I just want to... be here for a while longer.”

  I wait until they've begun to walk away, and then I head over toward Elliot. He's staring at the grave, and he doesn't seem to even notice my approach until I'm almost at his side. Finally he glances at me, and I can see a hint of fear in his eyes.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to smile.

  “Hey.”

  “So who thought Nick'd be the first of the gang to die, huh?” I continue, turning to look at the grave. “I mean, it was supposed to be me, right? After all, I'm the one who's dying of cancer.”

  “You're not dying,” he replies. “Are you?”

  “It's not looking good,” I mutter, before realizing that I really don't want to start making this all about me. “So what happened between you and Sophie? You two are always in one another's pockets.”

  “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “But -”

  “I don't want to talk about it!”

  I can't help sighing. “Fine.”

  “Somebody's out to get us,” he continues, his voice filled with tension. “I don't care if that sounds paranoid, but it's true. First Victoria started getting harassed, then someone started going after Sophie, and now Nick...”

  His voice trails off.

  “Nick could have been an accident,” I point out.

  “You don't believe that for one second.”

  “So why would someone go to all this trouble?” I ask. “Nick never hurt anyone in his life. Besides, there are easier ways to kill a guy than filling him with seawater in his apartment and forcing his lungs to burst.” Another shudder passes through my chest. “God, that must have been a painful way to die. At least with cancer, I should have a morphine pump when the end comes.”

  “Nick was one of us,” Elliot replies. “Maybe whoever this is, they see us all as one.”

  “How does that work?”

  He turns to me. “Maybe this is revenge for something we all did. Something we did as a group.”

  I open my mouth to ask what he means, but I guess deep down I already know.

  “Do you really think this is about Laura?” I ask.

  “Of course it's about Laura!” he hisses, lowering his voice as the last of the other mourners walk past us. “What the hell else could it be about?”

  “But Victoria -”

  “Victoria was there for the phone call,” he adds, taking his phone from his pocket and tapping at the screen. “Remember? That was one of the first times she hung out with us. She and Jonathan had just started dating, and she slipped into our group pretty damn fast, right around the time that Laura left. We were still six after Laura was gone, because Victoria took her place. Victoria was basically her replacement!”

  Before I can reply, he starts playing a recording from his phone.

  “Go to hell!” I hear Sophie yelling drunkenly.

  “Wait!” Laura gasps.

  “Oh my God,” Victoria says, “we have to check out that new bar tonight. I think they're doing student discounts. Two cocktails for a fiver!”

  “We could head down there now!” Sophie continues. “Hey, does everyone wanna go to that new bar? I don't remember what it's called, but it's on Tannery Road.”

  “Help,” Laura groans. “Please...”

  “Grab your coats!” Elliot shouts.

  “Already wearing mine!” Nick says. Poor Nick.

  “After the week I've had,” Jonathan adds, “I could use a drink or two.”

  Elliot stops the recording.

  “You still listen to that?” I ask.

  “If someone was out for revenge because of what happened to Laura,” he continues, “and if it was based on that phone call, then Victoria would be included.”

  “Sure, but -”

  “It just doesn't make sense,” he adds. “I mean, who would know about all of this? Who'd know enough to come after us like this? It'd have to be...”

  His voice trails off for a moment.

  “So what does make sense?” I ask, feeling just a little frustrated by his crazy theories. “What are you actually suggesting here?”

  I wait for him to reply, but he seems uncertain, as if he's worried about saying what he really thinks.

  “It'd have to be one of us,” he adds.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “One of us would have to be behind all of this. We're the only ones who know what really happened to Laura.”

  Shaking my head, I realize that he seems to have gone completely off the deep end.

  “Maybe it's her ghost,” I suggest, hoping to make him see how ridiculous this whole thing sounds. “Did you think about that? Maybe Laura's ghost has come back from the dead, and she's after revenge, blah blah blah, and she's hunting us down one by one.”

  “That's not what I'm saying!”

  “It's not like there are any other possibilities,” I continue, “not if you're sticking to this stupid idea that someone's after us. Or do you think it's Jonathan? Or Victoria? Or Sophie or me? Do you think one of us finally cracked and decided that the truth must come out?”

  I wait for a reply, but I can see from the look in his eyes that he's frantically trying to come up with some kind of explanation.

  “You need a drink,” I mutter finally, putting an arm around his shoulder and steering him away from the grave, leading him toward the gate and eventually – I hope – to the nearest pub. “I'll admit that this whole situation is pretty crazy, but there's one important fact you've got to keep in your head. Laura hasn't come back from the dead. If there's one thing I've come to understand over the past few months, while I've been grappling with my own mortality, it's that ghosts are just a way for people to make themselves feel better about death. They're not real. There's not such thing as ghosts. And therefore, we can be pretty damn certain that Laura's gone forever.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Today

  “Damn it!” I hiss, stumbling and just about managing to steady myself against the wall. “What the -”

  I let out a gasp of pain. A moment later, I feel hands on my arm, and I turn to see that one of the nurses has come over to help me.

  Again.

  Damn it, this happens every time I try to leave the chair.

  “It's okay,” she says with a smile. “Why don't you take a seat? You shouldn't be rushing about, not after a chemo session.”

  “I'm not an invalid,” I splutter.

  “No, but you need to take it easy. Come o
n, Lynn, don't be too hard on yourself.”

  I open my mouth to tell her to leave me alone, but suddenly I realize I can taste blood. My red-raw gums are probably bleeding again, and for a moment I feel as if I might be about to throw up. Finally, realizing that there's no point arguing anymore, I let the nurse lead me toward the door that leads into the break room.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “How do you think I'm feeling?” I spit back.

  “Do you want -”

  “No, I don't want any painkillers!” I hiss. “I just want to be left alone! Is that too much to ask?”

  “Of course not.” She helps me to the chair, and then she waits while I ease myself down. “If you need -”

  “I'm not a cripple!” I hiss. “I'm barely in my thirties, for God's sake! Leave me alone and let me get on with it!”

  She smiles politely before turning and heading out of the room. I want to call after her, to apologize for being such an asshole, but I know I'd only end up getting angry again. Leaning back in the chair, I wince as I feel a burning pain in my chest, and I tell myself to just simmer down. I guess I had to work so hard at Nick's funeral last week, forcing myself to seem cheery and happy, that all the fake optimism has finally come back around to bite me on my painful, pile-ridden butt.

  “Just make the pain stop,” I whisper, closing my eyes as I feel a throbbing sensation at the side of my head. “I don't care how, just make it go away.”

  “There's only one way to do that,” an old, croaking voice says suddenly.

  Opening my eyes, I look to my right and see that there's an elderly man in one of the other chairs, over by the window. I swear he wasn't there when I came into the room just a moment ago, but then again I guess I wasn't really paying attention. I don't really want any company, and I sure as hell don't want a conversation, so I simply smile before turning away and closing my eyes again.

  He must be a patient here, like me. He'll understand.

  A moment later, I hear him getting to his feet, and then he shuffles toward me. I hope he's heading to the door. After a few seconds, however, I hear the chair next to me creaking as he takes a seat.

  I wait, counting to three in my head, before opening my eyes and turning to him again.

  “It's okay, you know,” he says with a gap-toothed smile. God, he must be ninety if he's a day. “There's no need to be afraid, not really. It's natural but it's completely unnecessary.”

  “Is that right?” I ask, trying but not quite managing to smile. Truth be told, I feel a little breathless.

  “Pain is just your body's way of warning you that something's wrong,” he continues. “But if you know that already, and if you know you're dying, then what power does pain really have over you, anyway?” He chuckles to himself. “That's what I used to tell myself, anyway. I thought I might somehow be able to ignore the pain. Never quite worked out like that, I've got to admit. Every chemotherapy session left me feeling like every patch of skin on my body was burning. But maybe... I don't know, maybe I was able to at least dull the pain.”

  “Sure,” I whisper. “Thanks for that.”

  “Fear's worse than pain, anyway,” he adds, clearly not understanding that I just want to be left alone. “Fear of the void. Fear of nothingness.”

  “I'm more afraid of not getting out of here tonight,” I tell him. “I've got a nice bottle of gin waiting at home for me.”

  He grins. “You won't be needing that.”

  “I'd rather have fear than pain right now,” I mutter. “In the old days, I was always -”

  Catching myself just in time, I suddenly realize that I was about to tell this old chap everything. I was on the verge of opening up with my whole life story, and telling him all about my crazy life. I was even going to mention all the drugs I took when I was younger, all the coke and weed and worse, and about the time I overdosed and the time I accidentally got some poisoned coke and about the time I fell into the harbor down in Cornwall because I was off my tits. Why the hell would I tell this old guy about all of that? And why would he give a damn?

  So instead, I simply smile. Right now, smiling feels like just about all the reaction I can muster, so after a moment I sink back into the chair and wait for the old man to leave me alone. For a few seconds, I feel as if threads are reaching up into my body and hooking themselves to the inside of my head and limbs, and now they're starting to pull me down into a deep, enticing sleep. I don't want to sleep, though. Not now. So I resist, struggling to stay awake and forcing my mind to keep focused on everything I still have to do tonight once I get home.

  Suddenly the old man puts a hand on my arm.

  Startled, I turn to him.

  “It's alright,” he continues with a big, broad grin. “You can let go!”

  “What?” I stammer.

  “It's so easy. You know how to do it, you just have to stop fighting.”

  “I think I just want to rest,” I tell him, trying to pull my arm away, only for him to lean closer and tighten his grip. “Please -”

  “Just let go!” he says firmly. “It's the only way! If you don't do it now, you'll do it soon enough! Sooner or later, everyone has to stop fighting! The pain and the fear will all stop just as soon as you let go!”

  “Thanks for that!” I hiss, as I start hauling myself to my feet. “If I want any more advice, I'll know where to come!”

  Once I'm free from the old codger's grasp, I limp toward the door. All I wanted was a little peace and quiet, but I should have known I wouldn't be so lucky. Just as I get to the door, the nurse from earlier happens to walk past, although she stops as soon as she sees me.

  “Doctor Panis is going to come and see you in about five minutes,” she says with her usual cheery grin. “He's just going over your chart right now.”

  “I'll be in one of the other rooms,” I mutter. “This guy's driving me round the bend.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Him!” I hiss, turning back to look at the old man, only to find that there's no sign of him. I look around the room, feeling absolutely certain that he can't have slipped out already. There's only one way in and out of this rest room, however, and it's almost as if the old guy simply disappeared into thin air. I look around, convinced that there has to be some kind of obvious explanation. I'm not the kind of person who imagines stuff.

  “It's okay,” the nurse says, placing a hand on my arm, “sometimes the drugs can make you feel a little confused. If you'd prefer, you can -”

  “I know what the drugs do to me!” I snap, pulling away from her. “Stop being so bloody patronizing!”

  “I'm sorry, I just -”

  “This place is driving me crazy,” I continue, taking one final look around the room before turning and shuffling out into the corridor. “It's so stuffy! Did you never hear about the concept of opening a window? I can barely even breathe!”

  Once I'm in the main rest room, I slouch down in a chair and try to get comfortable again. There are several other people in here, which is far from ideal, but at least they all seem to be keeping themselves to themselves. I guess that like me, they just want to be left alone while they recover from their latest round of chemo treatment. Closing my eyes, I feel those same threads pulling at my insides, trying to drag me down into the darkness, but I refuse to go. I've got so much more left to do, even in the little time I've got left. And tonight, once I get home, I have to get started.

  I know exactly what I have to do.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Today

  I'm going to die here. In my apartment. Not in the hospital, not in one of those bed with the railing on either side. No, I'm going to die right here, at home.

  Alone.

  Standing in the hallway, I listen to the silence all around. I never married, I never had kids, I never even got much of a career up and running. My time at uni was a complete waste, leaving me with nothing but debt and several bad substance abuse problems, and then I bounced from one bad job to
another until finally the cancer struck. I kept telling myself that things would get better, that I'd beat the cancer and turn a corner, but that boat sailed a long time ago. I've got some good friends, that's for sure, but otherwise my life has essentially been meaningless.

  And it's all my fault.

  Setting my bag down, I limp over to the hallway table. Just as I'm taking my gloves off, I spot a framed photo from my uni days, showing us all smiling. There's Sophie and Elliot and Jonathan and Victoria and me, and of course Nick with a fag in his mouth. I can't believe that bastard managed to beat me to the grave. Damn it, if I get to the pearly gates and find him waiting for me, I'm going to be so pissed off. Especially if a trap door opens beneath my feet and I fall down into a pit of flames.

  Have I been a good person?

  No.

  Definitely not.

  In fact, I'd say I've been pretty lousy. I had enough advantages, I should have made something of my life. I should have done at least one thing that might survive after I'm gone.

  Damn it, who am I trying to fool? I know what's wrong. I know what's causing the faint, gnawing sensation in the pit of my belly.

  I wish I'd had kids. Even without a man in my life, I wish I'd somehow had kids. Wiping tears from my eyes, I can't help imagining what it would be like with a couple of little monsters running around. I might not have won any Mother of the Year awards, but I would have tried my best, and I'm sure they'd have been okay. I never admitted it until this moment, but I wish with all my heart that I'd had children.

  Suddenly I hear a brief bumping sound, coming from the living room. I turn, assuming that it must be the cat, before remembering that the cat died a few months ago. Limping over to the door, I peer through and look at the sofa, but of course there's no sign of anyone. I know what I heard, and I know I haven't quite managed to lose my mind just yet, even if I did somehow hallucinate some old duffer at the hospital. So I wait a moment longer, convinced that the cause of the bump is about to make itself apparent.

  Maybe it was the dude who lives in the apartment directly above mine. Maybe the sound just traveled in some weird way.