Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  Wrapping myself in a snug bathrobe I make a detour into the kitchen, where I pour a large glass of white wine and tip Susie’s flask of tea down the sink. Back in the sitting room I light a scented candle before curling up on the sofa with the cat and my duvet, and scrolling through the Sky menu. The room is warm and cosy, the wine is slipping down a treat and for the first time since I hurt myself I start to relax.

  With one eye on the telly and the other on my computer I spend a happy half an hour deleting all the spam from my email folder, catching up with Facebook and browsing eBay. Then I open up my folder on Aamon and study the CT scans and notes until my eyes grow heavy in the warm vanilla-scented room and I end up typing nonsense. Yawning widely I click out of the folder and back to my home page, where I Google “head trauma” and terrify myself by reading about the horrendous side effects that I may soon be suffering from. Personality change, loss of sex drive, trouble with memory, delusions… The list is endless and very, very depressing.

  Note to self: stay away from Wikipedia. My next search will involve some serious research papers on the subject.

  I wander to the kitchen and slosh more wine into my glass. Is alcoholism another side effect? I don’t seem to remember reading that as I worked my way down the list of doom. Then again, neither do I recall seeing that hallucinating about men called Alex Thorne is common either – and that certainly happened.

  Settling down again on the sofa I balance the laptop on my knees and idly type Alex Thorne into the search engine. Without thinking twice I click on the first link and gasp when the screen fills with that achingly familiar face. Green eyes hold mine, dark floppy hair falling over them, and his head is thrown back as he laughs.

  My hallucination is pictured large as life on the screen of my Mac. He exists. He really exists.

  I lean away from the laptop. My heart’s racing and for a moment I think I’m going to pass out. This isn’t possible. There’s no logical explanation; I’ve never heard of Alex Thorne before.

  Reaching for my drink I lean forwards again and read the entire wiki page almost without breathing, not stopping until I’ve absorbed every detail about Alex Thorne. Apparently he was in a band called Thorne and died a tragic death in a hit-and-run accident just outside Museum Tube station.

  Hang on, that rings a bell. Museum Tube is where I was nearly attacked and where my would-be assailant claimed to see me with a young man. I laugh aloud at the absurdity of all this. It’s clearly some head trauma I have, to be getting this confused. I must be mixing up all sorts of details and making myself believe them: that’s it. The human brain is an incredibly sophisticated organ, after all. It contains tens of billions of neurons, so who knows what it can do when pushed or jolted?

  OK, so I may think I haven’t heard of Alex Thorne before but that could well be my brain playing tricks. Perhaps subconsciously I’ve caught sight of a headline or maybe heard a song. Maybe I even read about his death somewhere. That’s plausible, given that he died only minutes away from where I work. Is that why I imagined seeing him in the hospital?

  My head is really hurting now. I take my glasses off and rub my eyes. None of this makes any sense. I’d never even heard of Thorne before. I was in Egypt when they were taking Britpop by storm, and now that I have heard of them Alex is dead and the band is finished. Maybe I do need to see a head-trauma specialist.

  My hands, resting on the computer keys, are chilly and stiff. The tip of my nose feels cold too and my breath is making clouds. The heating must have gone off or something. Maybe the electric’s up the creek again? The TV seems to be on the blink too: ITV2 has vanished in a snowstorm of static. I burrow deeper under the duvet and stare at the computer screen, where a guy stands on stage, arms raised in salute as he grins at the camera. That’s him. No doubt about it. Alex Thorne. The guy who saved my life.

  Or rather, the guy I imagined saved my life, since Alex Thorne is nothing more than a figment of an imagination I never even knew I had.

  Oh God. I am going mad; that’s the only explanation. How can I conjure up someone I’ve never even heard of unless… unless…

  “No way,” I whisper. “It’s impossible.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s perfectly possible.”

  Alex Thorne, dead rock star and invention of my troubled mind, is sitting in the armchair by the window, grinning at me. One leather-trousered leg is crossed over his knee, and hair as dark as molasses falls across his pale face. The cat leaps up from my lap, hissing and spitting at Alex before tearing from the room.

  “I never really was a cat person,” says Alex.

  “You’re just a figment of my imagination.” I say slowly. “I bumped my head and this is a side effect. It says so on Wikipedia.”

  “Total bollocks,” he says airily. “Besides, everyone knows wikis are a crap source of information. Someone as brainy as you really ought to know better.”

  I search frantically for a logical explanation. “This is my memory playing tricks on me because of the injury. There’s no way I can see you because… because…”

  I trail off miserably. There is no logical answer. For the first time in my life I’m well and truly at a loss. Thank goodness Susie isn’t here.

  “Go on, you can say it. You can’t see me because I’m dead? It’s OK. I’m over being upset about that now. I won’t say it isn’t annoying because it bloody well is, but I’m kind of used to being a ghost.” Alex’s eyes crinkle and a dimple dances in his cheek. “We have all kinds of fun.”

  “But ghosts don’t exist!”

  “Obviously they do, Cleo, otherwise you and I wouldn’t be chatting now,” says Alex reasonably. “Pinch yourself if you think you’re dreaming.”

  Obediently I pinch myself very hard on the arm. “Ouch!”

  “I’m still here,” says Alex while I rub my arm. “Please don’t self-harm any more on my account. Can’t you just accept it?”

  “No, I can’t!” I snap. “It’s impossible. When you’re dead, you’re dead. Life’s just a chemical reaction.”

  He looks amazed. “Surely you don’t really believe that? Life’s far more than chemical reactions.” He leans forward and fixes me with a bright emerald stare. “Why couldn’t I have attached myself to some nice dippy hippy like your flatmate?”

  “Yes, why me?” I ask, pulling my duvet up to my chin because the room’s icy cold now. “Hypothetically speaking, of course, since I know this is just a hallucination.”

  Alex rubs his forehead with the heels of his hands and sighs. “If I told you, you’d never believe me.”

  “Try me,” I say.

  “Maybe you’re a psychic? That’d explain it.”

  I laugh so hard at this that my head hurts even more. “Hardly. I don’t believe in ghosts, remember?”

  Alex shrugs. “And? That wouldn’t matter if you were naturally psychic. Even if you didn’t believe in us, you’d still have the ability to see ghosts.”

  I think about Mrs Collins in the hospital and that poor pacing doctor. How had I seen them? Me, a psychic like that lunatic Lilac Delaney? Surely not?

  Alex’s jade eyes narrow and he leans forward. “You have seen other ghosts, haven’t you? I knew it! That bump on the head has woken you up to your psychic skills.”

  “Oh please,” I say. “You sound like Susie. And anyway, you found me, remember?”

  “I was drawn to you,” Alex agrees. “And there’s a reason for that. A really good reason.” He stops, looks for a moment as though he wants to say more, and then just pulls a face. “Enough of that. Were you a Thorne fan?”

  I take a sip of my wine. It’s chilled now, a bit like the rest of me. “I hate to break it to you but I’d never heard of Thorne until this evening.”

  Alex places his hand over his heart. “Well, that puts my ego neatly in its place. Five Brit Awards and two Grammys, Cleo. We were a little bit famous?”

  “Good for you,” I say.

  “Oh well, you don’t look like the kind of girl who
listens to pop music so I shouldn’t really be surprised. Anyway, music isn’t what links us. It goes back further than that. Cleo, I’ve been searching for you. How do you think I recognised you at Museum Tube station?”

  “For me?” My head is a carousel of confusion. I wait for him to elaborate but Alex is suddenly quiet, as though he’s already said enough.

  “Go on,” I say encouragingly, and he sighs.

  “It’s kind of complicated, so if it’s all right with you I’ll start with a Saturday night several weeks ago. Do you remember that evening when you were alone on the platform at Museum Tube and a strange man with a scar made his way towards you? He looked like he was going to sit down, didn’t he? But then he started talking to thin air and moved on?”

  “And later on he attacked a girl outside the station,” I nod. “He claimed he left me alone because I had a man with me.”

  “You did,” says Alex simply. “Me. I sat there and put my arm around you and I prayed with every fibre of my being that he’d see me. It must have worked.”

  “I smelt a citrusy scent,” I recall. “And I can smell it now.”

  “CK One,” says Alex proudly, with a wink. “Drives girls wild.”

  I’m intrigued. “How come a ghost can smell of aftershave?”

  He grins. “What am I supposed to smell of, rotting flesh? It’s eau de toilette, to be precise. And anyway, why does it matter to you? You don’t believe in me, remember?”

  I’d almost forgotten that minor detail. In fact I’m starting to forget a lot of things since Alex reminded me about the strange incident at Museum Tube station.

  “This isn’t possible,” I protest.

  “So you say, but here I am. I think you have a gift. That whack on the head has unlocked it.”

  “Oh please! You’re not serious?”

  “Think about it, Cleo. You can see me. I can manifest to you. Jesus, you have no idea how hard I’ve tried to reach my brother. It’s impossible. There are some people who genuinely have the gift and you, Dr Carpenter, are one of them. You can really see me! Besides, ghosts love you. Your office is full of them. Can you find Aamon a proper football, by the way? That rubber-band one is crap. And get that bloody cat a basket.”

  I goggle at him. “You think you’ve seen Aamon?”

  “I don’t think, I know! We played a bit of footy together. He’s a pretty cool kid and he wishes you’d talk to him rather than just thinking about his remains. He says you’re right about his evil stepmother too.”

  “What?” There’s a sensation like somebody’s dropped a scoop of ice cream down my neck. I haven’t shared this finding with anyone; it’s far too early days and I was waiting for another CT scan to come back before I could verify my worst suspicions. “How on earth do you know that?”

  “Because Aamon told me,” says Alex patiently. “She sounds like a right bitch. Aamon says she wanted him out of the way so that her son, snotty Setau, could rule in his place. She stabbed him in cold blood, right between the neck and the top vertebra. The cat tried to claw her, so she killed that too. They were mummified very fast and the priests weren’t happy at all. Not that his stepmother cared. She just wanted him written out of history.”

  I’m staring at Alex. He has just, in thirty seconds, confirmed several of my hypotheses.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he says. “That museum of yours is teeming with ghosts and we do talk. I don’t know how you haven’t noticed us.”

  My chin is practically in the basement flat. “You can find me at work? As well as here?”

  “Pretty much anywhere. How do you think I managed to stop you from getting flattened on a busy road?”

  “So you could appear at any time? Like when I’m in the bath or getting dressed?”

  Alex raises an eyebrow. “I hadn’t thought of that!”

  A blush creeps over my face and my heartbeat increases. Obvious side effects of my injury, I suppose.

  “Only kidding,” he grins. “Not that I don’t think you’d look lovely in the bath, of course. Not that I’m thinking about you in the bath! Oh shit.” He buries his face in his hands. “Now I won’t be able to think of much else!”

  “If I believed in you I’d hit you.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. You’d only go straight through me and it really tickles.”

  We grin at each other. Then Alex melts from the armchair and is next to me on the sofa.

  “Cleo,” he says, his breath like the north wind against my cheek. “I really need your help. I’ve tried and tried to reach Rafe on my own but I can’t do it. You’re the only one who can see me. I need you to talk to my brother for me. He’s alone and he’s in a really bad way. If he carries on the way he is then I don’t think it’ll be long before he joins me. I have to save Rafe from himself. That’s the reason I’m still here.”

  Now my headache is really pounding. The wine sloshes in my stomach. “You actually think you had a choice?”

  He nods. “Before I died Rafe and I said some terrible things to one another. Really awful, Cleo. I didn’t mean any of it and I would have put things right, I really would, but I never got the chance. One moment I was jumping out of his car, the next there was nothing but noise and heat and metal crushing me. Then everything was over.”

  “And that was it? You were dead?”

  “Yeah. I was dead and had no chance of making things up with Rafe. How can I find any peace knowing he’s so grief-stricken? He’s in a terrible way. You have no idea what happens to some people when they grieve.”

  I do actually. After Mum died we all crumbled in our individual ways.

  But I don’t ever think about that.

  “Rafe and I are tight. When our parents died we would have gone into care if Nan hadn’t taken us in. After she died we only had each other,” Alex continues. “He’s all the family I have, and I have to make sure he’s OK. He’s my brother. Cleo, I promised Nan we’d always look out for each other and look how it ended.” He dashes his hands across his eyes, which are shimmering with tears. “Christ. Sorry.”

  Without thinking twice I move to put my arms around him, or rather I try to but my arms slip straight through his leather jacket. Goosebumps shimmy across my flesh.

  “No way!” I gasp.

  Alex gives me a watery smile. “Still think I’m a dream?”

  I stare at him in shock. Did I really just put my arms through a ghost? The chill clings to my limbs and my breath clouds the air.

  “This can’t be happening,” I murmur.

  He pins me with big sad eyes. “It is. I promise you, it really is. Cleo, please help me make things right with Rafe. He’s in such a bad way and I’m scared that unless I help him something terrible’s going to happen. You can tell him how sorry I am and that I don’t blame him.”

  “No way! Your brother will think I’m nuts! Or some kind of deranged stalker fan. Look, no matter what you may think, I’m really not the person for this job. Can’t you find a medium?” I wrack my brains. “I know! What about that woman from Totally Spooked?”

  He screws up his nose. “Lilac Delaney? You have to be kidding. She’s a total phony.”

  “And I’m a total sceptic!”

  “Who’s talking to a ghost! Come on, Cleo! It’ll be worth it just to get rid of me – and, believe me, I’m going nowhere until I’ve managed to make things right with Rafe.”

  We eyeball one another, both equally determined.

  “I’m going see my consultant again,” I decide. “I’ll tell him all about these weird episodes and he’ll give me some medication to make all this go away.”

  Alex smiles. “Go ahead; be my guest. Crank up the drugs. This isn’t a dream. You really can see me and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But I don’t want to see you!” I cry, jumping to my feet and sending my wine and laptop flying. “Just go away! Go and annoy somebody else and leave me alone! Go on! Push off. I don’t want you.”

  “Fine,” says Alex coldly. “Be like th
at. But sending me away isn’t going to help. Face it, if you can see me you’ll see all the others too – and they might not be quite as obliging as I am. You know where to come when you need some help.”

  “Not to you!” I shriek. “You’re nothing but a chemical reaction in my brain!”

  A crazy chemical reaction in my brain, it seems, because I’m suddenly talking to thin air: the sofa’s empty. A wine stain spreads across the duvet and my laptop lies upside down on the carpet. The television chatters to itself in the corner of the room, the fairy lights twinkle and the cat reappears to wind itself round my ankles. Even the warmth is back, although the sweat that trickles down my back is icicle cold.

  I collapse onto the sofa. What’s happening to me? Am I really going mad? Suffering from paranoid episodes? Having delusions?

  But if Alex is just a delusion why do I now have two huge pinch marks on my arm?

  Chapter 8

  Five to nine the next morning finds me in the GP’s surgery, playing dodge-the-virus with every snotty toddler and coughing pensioner in the vicinity. Normally I avoid such places, which is probably an overreaction to all the horror stories Susie tells me about MRSA and other killer superbugs. Seriously, if I listened to my best friend I’d never go near a hospital again and I’d only venture into the doctor’s wearing a full nuclear decontamination suit. Already I’ve coated my hands with about eight squirts of hand gel and snorted half a vat of Vicks First Defence up my nose. I probably smell revolting but to be honest I don’t care – I’m far too busy trying to avoid breathing too deeply. The man sitting opposite me is sneezing and spluttering everywhere and I can almost see the germs parachuting in my direction.

  Great. I’m coming in with head trauma and probably leaving with pneumonia. Just what I need. Who exactly did I upset in my last life again?

  Although it’s only early, the waiting room is crammed to bursting point with patients balancing precariously on narrow plastic seats or being swallowed whole by enormous high-backed armchairs of the variety normally found in an old people’s home. I’ve somehow managed to end up on one of these and I’m burrowing into it, my hands avoiding the worryingly tacky armrests, while I read all the posters and information leaflets on the walls in an attempt to distract myself from the germ warfare all around me. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes now and already I’m an expert in hand-washing techniques, understand the need to vaccinate my baby and have been well and truly warned that this practice will not tolerate violence and aggression towards its staff. I could also learn all about the importance of using condoms if I really felt like it – but on top of all my other problems right now, contemplating my lack of a sex life and how I made a complete fool of myself in front of Simon would probably push me over the edge.