Beyond Dead

by Jordaina Sydney Robinson

  “And just ignore your guardian’s curfew?” drawled someone in a lazy Australian accent. “Oh, you ladies are baaaaad.”

  I twisted around so fast I just knew I could add grass stains to the list of white suit woes. A guy with short, unruly dark blond hair, wearing battered camo shorts and a white t-shirt with a faded logo crouched behind us, elbows resting on his thighs and hands clasped together. He had a broad shouldered athletic build with a strong jaw covered in stubble, dimples when he smiled and ocean coloured eyes that twinkled playfully, promising things I wasn’t sure ghosts could do. That was topped off with an air of someone who was a little rough around the edges and an Australian accent, which always made me think of sunshine. If someone had written “trouble” in a black marker on his forehead it wouldn’t have been more obvious.

  “I’m Oz.” He extended his hand to me.

  I hesitated. He’d mentioned curfew so he was a ghost, right?

  “Hi.” I reached cautiously for his hand and was relieved when his warm, solid fingers closed around mine. But then again, I’d been able to touch the chairs. This ghost lark was confusing.

  He offered his hand to Sabrina. She eyed him for longer than was polite but finally shook it. He took this as a signal of his acceptance and settled down behind us.

  “What’s so important we’re breaking curfew?”

  Sabrina gestured between us. “We’re not breaking curfew. I don’t know what you’re doing.”

  He mimed as if we’d stabbed him through the heart. “Cold. So, what are you doing? Getting drunk? Haunting ex-boyfriends?” He rubbed his hands together with an enthusiastic gleam in his eye. “You guys are newly-deads, right? How’re you going to get out of your GA meetings? C’mon, what’s the plan?”

  Sabrina and I exchanged a glance and she voiced what we were both thinking.

  “You’re police, aren’t you?” There was resignation in her tone that said it wasn’t really a question and she’d been caught out like that before.

  “You’re just full of compliments today.” Oz’s smile widened, deepening his dimples, but he was still not offended and still not leaving. He fixed me with his ocean coloured stare and nudged my arm. “C’mon, you can tell me. I might be able to help.”

  “Look, Oz, was it?” I stared straight into his beautiful eyes. “Despite so obviously being police, you seem like a nice guy. But we’re in the middle of a private conversation. So while I can appreciate you would like to arrest us for crimes we might commit, can you wait until we’ve actually done something wrong?”

  “A nice guy?” He winced and shook his head, covering his heart with his hand again. “You ladies are killing me.”

  I enunciated clearly. “Go. Away.”

  “Y’know, I’m getting the impression you ladies don’t really want me around.”

  Sabrina frowned at me. “Ghost-against-ghost violence definitely wasn’t on the list of no-nos, was it?”

  “Now, now, don’t get yourself in trouble.” I patted her knee then interlaced my fingers, flipped them palms outwards and stretched them in front of me. “I’ll throttle him. They’ve already got me for one murder; two won’t make a difference. I mean, what are they going to do? Deport me twice?”

  “You?” Oz’s low laugh rumbled out across the hilltop and, oh my, if it wasn’t the sexiest laugh I’d heard in a long time. He’d have to die for that alone. I didn’t need that sort of complication. “You’re tiny. How could you murder anyone?”

  I looked at Sabrina. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.” True, I was only five foot five and slim, but I worked out. I stood as good a chance of being able to bash someone’s head in as the next gal. And pulling a trigger didn’t exactly take a bodybuilder. That’s if guns killed ghosts. I’d have to ask Eleanor at the next meeting. Or maybe someone else, since I doubted that would endear me to her.

  Sabrina gestured to Oz in vindication. “See. That detective is an idiot. That’s exactly why we need to …” Sabrina trailed off as she glanced at Oz.

  “Need to what?” he asked.

  “Why we need to discuss it responsibly with Bridget’s parole officer,”

  Oz looked directly at me, all trace of playfulness gone. “Then let’s discuss it.”

  I stared at Oz, a sinking feeling washing over me. “Mr Salier?”

  Oz inclined his head. “Nice to meet you, Bridget. Now, who did you murder?”

  ∞

  “So you just found him there?” Oz asked after I’d finished reciting the whole story, including how many times the detective had asked me that same question. He’d sat and listened in silence, his frown growing more etched by the sentence.

  “You’re not funny.” I sighed and rubbed my temples. It had been such a very, very, very long day. All I wanted was an extra bubbly bubble bath, a couple of candles and a large glass of red wine.

  We were slouched in deck chairs in the large rear garden of a whitewashed town house a road back from the seafront. My new home. The garden was much bigger than I’d expected since, from the front, the houses looked tightly packed. Tall shrubbery lined the lush grass and a giant, gnarled weeping willow stood proudly at the bottom of the garden, swaying gently in the breeze. I could think of worse places to spend the next decade of my afterlife. But then I hadn’t met my housemates yet.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m a little funny,” Oz said as he stared out over the garden.

  There wasn’t much I could say to that which would have been considered a polite response, so I didn’t say anything.

  In the dim light I watched the mosquitos hunting, flying towards me, circling but never landing. One up side to being dead, I guess. The air had cooled and the breeze carried sounds of teenagers’ laughter and the constant hum of the sea. I could still smell the salt on the air, but I knew in a few days that would mingle with the other scents and become lost in the normality of the place. I breathed deeply, holding the air in my lungs and enjoying the fragrance while I could.

  “What’s the matter with you?” He nudged my arm. “Did that bus run over your sense of humour as well as your rib cage?”

  “Oh, wow. That’s a really sensitive thing to say.”

  “At least now I understand why your fiancé was cheating on you. Average looking and no sense of humour. I’d say you must have been dynamite in the sack to get him to propose, but if he’s going elsewhere for it then that can’t be true either.” Oz looked me over from his seated position. “Unless you have money. Do you have money? There was no mention of that in the file but sometimes they get things wrong.”

  “I’m sorry. What file? How do you know all that?” I stared at him, not really all that sure what to do. It was as if he’d just flipped a switch and turned from adequately nice to total arsehole. “And how is this an acceptable way to speak to people?”

  “I’m your parole officer.” He settled back in the deckchair, eyes closed and head resting back on the canvas. “I can pretty much do what I like to you.”

  “You can pretty much do what you like to me?” My jaw hung open. What. The. Hell. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “It means, as of tomorrow, in addition to your day job, you’ll be my personal assistant. Make my meals, do my washing, that kind of thing.”

  “You mean be your slave.”

  He shrugged without opening his eyes. “If that’s how you choose to view it.”

  If that’s how I chose to view it? What? What? No. Uh-uh. This was simply unacceptable. There had to be rules against this. Surely. Eleanor had not mentioned this at all. It had to be wrong. I was not staying here and becoming this handsome idiot’s Cinderella. I looked around the garden for a gate. I would just walk away. I could live on my own. I’d be fine.

  There was only a small section of the fence, hidden by the weeping willow, that I couldn’t see from my seat. I got up and walked to the end of the garden, wobbling a little in my heels. The fence continued behind the tree unbroken. Okay. That made things trickie
r but not impossible. Six feet wasn’t that high. I turned back to face the house. There was only one neighbour to the left but four to the right. Left it was. I walked back to the patio, picked up the deckchair and set it on its side against the fence so I could use the wooden frame as a boost.

  Placing my hands on the fence for support I carefully stepped on the frame. It wobbled and my high heels didn’t afford me the most stable of footing but it held me. I hoisted myself up enough that I could secure the top of the fence under my armpits and wiggled and inched myself up. I’d just managed to hook my left foot over the top so I could shimmy over horizontally when someone grabbed the back of my suit jacket and yanked me down. Oz caught me by the waist as I fell but I still landed on my bottom harder than I’d have liked. Oz stood over me in the flowerbed, arms folded and frowning.

  “Yes, thank you. That was really helpful,” I said. I climbed to my feet and was about to brush the soil from my suit when I realised my hands were filthy and my suit long past saving.

  I picked up the deckchair he’d kicked to the side and placed it back against the fence. Before I could step on it again, Oz picked it up and tossed it across the garden. And didn’t I hate myself a little for noticing how that made his t-shirt strain against his chest and arms? He was solid muscle. And not the gym type of sculpted muscle; he was actively fit.

  I pointed to the deckchair lying in the centre of the garden. “I was using that.”

  Oz leaned in a little, still frowning, but his expression wasn’t angry, more confused. “You’re fat.”

  “That’s untrue. And, frankly, just plain rude.” I wasn’t fat. I knew that I wasn’t, but on top of the other insults he’d already tossed my way that sort of attitude was simply unacceptable. My hand jerked out and slapped him across the face. The smack echoed through the stillness of the night.

  He rubbed his jaw with one hand, still frowning at me. Small specks of soil from my hand stuck in his stubble. He took a step back and looked me over for a long moment. I could practically see the cogs turning behind his swoony ocean green eyes.

  He pointed to my once beautiful and white Jimmy Choos. “Take those off. I’m confiscating them as weapons. And you won’t need them in either of your jobs.”

  “And I’m supposed to what? Walk around bare foot?” I folded my arms and shook my head. Admittedly they did have a five inch spike heel but that was simply not happening. “I’m not giving you my shoes.” That was just too much.

  “Give me your shoes.” Oz stepped closer and reached a hand out towards me.

  I lifted a warning finger to halt him. “If you lay a hand on me without my permission, please trust that you will not live to regret it.”

  Oz stepped closer again and towered over me. I’d thought he was broad before but close up he practically blocked out the world. And he was easily over six feet. He hadn’t looked that tall relaxing in a deckchair.

  His voice dropped to a threatening whisper. “You’ll do exactly as I say or you will not live to regret it.”

  Why did this always happen to me? Why did I always have to argue? Why couldn’t I just nod politely, tell them what they wanted to hear and then go about my day doing what I wanted anyway? Why did I see it as a challenge? Maybe I should’ve slapped myself instead of him.

  I wasn’t sure what was going on but I felt fairly certain he wasn't really going to harm me, he was my guardian after all. I stepped closer to Oz so the lapel of my suit brushed his t-shirt and tilted my head back to stare straight into his eyes. “Try me.”

  “Hmm.” Oz scowled, his voice back to a conversational tone. He stepped away from me and went to retrieve the deckchair. He set it down next to the other and flopped gracefully back into his. “At least that explains a little about why I didn’t feel your fear earlier. You’re clearly an idiot.”

  “I’m sorry. What just happened?” I glanced around the garden as if it held the answer.

  He waved me back into the deckchair as though the last couple of minutes hadn’t happened. “I was testing our bond. I was concerned I didn’t feel your fear when you found the body earlier, because I should have. Or your frustration at the police station. Or you anger at being falsely accused. That’s how it’s supposed to work so I know if you’re in trouble and can come and rescue you. Are you sitting down?”

  “What? Just what?” I covered my eyes with my dirty hands, struggling to put my words in order. This afterlife should’ve come with a handbook. “What bond?”

  “I can sense when you have a strong emotional reaction. It’s part of my role as your guardian. Usually the guardian who looks after you in life assumes responsibility for you here but you’ve been reassigned to me. That’s why it was important to ensure the bond was working effectively. I suppose I could’ve asked you to think of something that made you sad or angry, but in my experience it’s best to have an idea of what that might be first hand.” He motioned me back to the deckchair again.

  “You can sense my emotions? Are you kidding me?” I stared at him in disbelief. This simply could not be happening.

  He frowned at me as though he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t just accepting his explanation. “Is this because I said you were fat? You’re not. You know that, right? I was trying to find your triggers.”

  I walked over, picked up the deckchair and held it between us as though I were a circus lion tamer. “Look, I don’t care if you’re schizophrenic or bipolar or just plain, straight-up crazy. I’m happy for you. Really. I wish you and the many voices in your head the best of luck. But this?” I moved back to the fence, placed the deckchair against it and gestured to the garden, the house and him. “This just isn’t for me, so I’m going to file a motion or paper or request or whatever and become an emancipated dead person.”

  Since I’d already had a trial run I was nearly over the fence much quicker this time. I heard the rattle of Oz tossing the deckchair again. I gripped onto the fence ready for the fist in the back of my jacket.

  “Come on down before you hurt yourself.” Two hands rested firmly on my hips and urged me back to the ground. My arms were doing no work at all so he was supporting all my weight without even sounding exerted. And he’d called me fat.

  I clung onto the fence. He wrapped one arm around my waist and tried to pry my fingers loose. “Will you just let go? I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “You might not but that other you could be back at any time, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t just capitulate to your psychotic whims.”

  “Capitulate to my psychotic whims?” Oz laughed and his warm breath tickled the side of my neck. That combined with his arm around my waist pressing me in to his firm chest made for a very confusing few seconds. He stilled. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Stabbing you in the face with my shoe while you sleep.”

  “Will you please just let go of the fence?”

  “No.” At this point, me holding on to the fence was pretty moot. I couldn’t hoist myself back up without a boost, and Oz had made it quite clear he could simply yank me down before I got over. Still, I had my pride.

  “Okay.” His breath tickled my neck again. “Where do you suggest we go from here?”

  “I suggest you let me go.” I focused on the solid wood beneath my fingers. The ridges from the weather. Not the attractive man with his arm around my waist, whispering into my neck and pressing me against him. Probably best not have him sense how that all made me feel.

  “Once you let go of the fence.” When I made no move to do that, he sighed. “Look. I can easily pry your hands off but I don’t want to hurt you, so please let go.”

  “I guess you should’ve thought of that before you called me fat.”

  “That didn’t hurt you. If it had I’d have felt it, which was actually the point of it. And unless you’ve got an issue with your short term memory, it was you who slapped me.”

  “That fat comment cut me deeply. This bond is obviously broken. I demand a replacement.” I felt the vibrat
ion in Oz’s chest and realised it was laughter. Good to see someone was amused.

  “This is your last chance to voluntarily remove your hands.” The smile in his voice made it all that much more alluring. If I’d been standing, my traitorous knees would have gone all weak and girlish. No, no, this would not do. This would not do at all.

  “Or what?” There was no way he could keep his hold on my waist and still take both my hands off the fence.

  Oz pulled me away from the fence a little by my waist and ducked under one arm so he was facing me. He let go of my waist so my feet dropped to the ground, sandwiching him between the fence and me. The full length of my body pressed against his. Before Oz could try to remove my hands, I let go of the fence and stepped back, focusing on dusting myself down. I did not need this complication. I knew that some people liked those types of emotional relationships, even sought them out, but I didn’t. I liked relationships where I could always get my own way, and it was resoundingly clear that this would not be one of those.

  “Were you just …?” Oz stayed where he was and frowned in confusion. He tilted his head, as though listening for a frequency I couldn’t hear. “Scared?”

  “Of course not.” I wasn’t scared. I was terrified. It had been a long time since anyone had made me weak at the knees. Michael had never made my knees tremble. He had, however, made me happy, after a fashion at least, since I’d always gotten my own way with him.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding and still dusting my trousers so I didn’t have to look at him. “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Will you sit and talk with me like a rational adult now or will I need to tie you to the chair?”

  I straightened up without looking at him, walked across the garden and eased myself in his deckchair, making him pick up the other and set it next to me. Small victories and all.

  “I apologise for earlier but as I said, I was concerned about the bond.” He flopped down in the righted deckchair, sure the canvas would hold him.