by Sant, Sharon
I lean forwards to look. I see a woman with a slender face, bright blue eyes wrinkled into a huge smile, a peppering of tiny freckles, blonde hair blowing about her face. ‘She looks a lot like you,’ I say glancing back up at Bethany.
‘I’m not as pretty,’ she says.
‘Your hair’s a bit darker,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’
She beams at me, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen from her. Then she pulls out another one and holds it up. ‘This is us at the Lake District. This was taken about two years ago.’
I look. Her dad and mum are holding hands. Bethany is standing in front of them. She’s a lot smaller, a bit chubbier, though she’s still pretty skinny. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail. They’re next to a jetty where there’s a sign announcing boat trips and a white cruiser waits. It looks windy and they’re all dressed in raincoats. Bethany looks really happy.
‘Who took that one?’ I ask.
‘Someone else waiting for the boat trip, I think.’
‘I don’t think your dad was having a very good time,’ I say.
She whips the photo around and stares at it. ‘I think maybe Dad was grumpy about how much the trip cost,’ she decides. ‘But mum and me wanted to go on it. He’s always had to be careful about money.’
The photo flirts from her hand. She reaches down over the edge of the bed to fetch it from the floor and her sleeve hitches up. There’s a black bruise over her wrist, though the swelling on her hand I saw that day Matt came to play the dog dirt trick has gone down. She glances at me and then pulls the fabric back over her arm again. I pretend not to notice.
‘So… your mum liked books?’ I say.
Bethany nods gratefully. ‘She loved to read. All the classics – never anything trashy.’
‘Are those all hers, then?’ I ask, tilting my head at the bookshelf.
‘Quite a lot of them.’
‘I think I would have liked her,’ I say.
‘I hope so,’ she replies. ‘So, now you can tell me about your dad.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘He was really into music. He played guitar and was always trying to persuade me to learn but I couldn’t be bothered. I wish I had now.’
‘He died at work, didn’t he? I remember hearing it at school.’
I nod. ‘He got stuck in some machinery that was on the fritz. He climbed in to fix it without getting someone to turn it off first. There was an investigation and stuff, but it was his fault.’
She gives me that look that she gave me once before, the one that says she wishes she could make it better for me. ‘It must have been horrible for you.’
‘Worse for Mum. She was pregnant, but she lost the baby too after he died. She says it was from the stress.’ Something comes back into my mind, something about Mum and the reason we had that massive argument on the night I died, and I realise that pretty soon, we’re going to have to talk about those important things again if I’m going to help her.
Bethany’s eyelids are drooping as she leans on her pillow, legs hanging over the edge of the bed. She’s wearing fluffy pyjamas and smells all clean and minty.
‘You’re tired.’
‘A bit,’ she says.
‘Do you want to go to bed?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘You want me to go?’
She gazes at me for a moment. ‘Do you want to go?’
‘I just thought…. it might be creepy, having a dead kid sit next to you while you sleep…’
‘You don’t seem like a dead kid to me,’ she says.
‘That might be even creepier then. That just makes me a crazy staring stalker watching you sleep.’
She laughs. ‘Does that mean you’ll sit staring at me all night?’
‘I might not mean to,’ I say. ‘But I might not be able to help it.’
‘Maybe I won’t mind so much,’ she says. Her smile is sleepy but it still lights up her face.
‘Maybe I’ll stay, then.’
‘Maybe that would be cool.’
‘Maybe it would.’
She pulls her legs up and swings them under the covers, snuggling down. ‘You want me to leave the lamp on?’
I look at her, cocooned in her warm bed. I wish I could feel that safe. ‘If it won’t get you in trouble,’ I say.
She reaches over for the lamp from the bedside table and puts it down on the floor, placing a book over the opening of the shade so it’s as dim as can be. ‘Dad won’t notice it now if he comes past my room,’ she says.
‘You’ve done that before,’ I smile.
‘Sometimes, I get scared of the dark,’ she says as she settles into the pillow again.
I move to the floor and sit where I can see her.
‘What will you do all night?’ she asks.
‘I’ll just sit here and think.’
‘Won’t that be boring?’
‘I’m getting pretty good at sitting and thinking, I get a lot of practise now. If I get bored I can always go out for a walk.’
‘Ok. But you’ll be here in the morning when I wake?’
‘Yeah, I’ll come back.’
‘Good.’
She closes her eyes. I gaze around the room. She doesn’t really have much stuff, now that I come to think about it. The jeans she wore today are hanging neatly over a chair and three pairs of shoes, including the boots she seems to wear for both school and home, and trainers for PE, are lined up beneath it. There’s a hairbrush, some deodorant and some ponytail bands on the old desk. My mum’s dressing table is crammed with face cream and hair products and the bathroom shelf has twice as much again. Ingrid is always pulling lip gloss from her bag or spraying herself with perfume, but I don’t see any of that in Bethany’s room.
‘You want to remember about sleeping?’ she whispers.
‘I thought you’d already gone to sleep.’
‘Not yet. You want to play the memory game first?’
‘I don’t need to sleep.’
‘I know that, but don’t you want to remember? Don’t you miss it?
‘Not sleeping. I miss dreaming, though,’
‘Close your eyes,’ she says.
I do.
‘Imagine you’re on a gentle sea in a little row boat. Let the waves tilt you this way and that and then let your thoughts go with it, rocking this way and that…’
I try to empty my mind and let myself sway with the blackness.
‘Are you all calm?’ she asks in a quiet voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Now, just let nice pictures come into your head, whatever gets there first, let it grow into a story...’
I see my mum. I’m on the swings and she’s laughing. I can tell I’m only small because my legs don’t reach the ground. The sun is high and warm and the park smells of newly cut grass. She pushes me, higher and higher and each time the earth tilts a little more until I feel like the blue sky is breaking over me in waves. My stomach is doing somersaults and I’m giggling… I feel myself drift onto the next image… I’m chasing a red balloon around our kitchen. I’m still small. I smell home baked cake and fruit juice and candle wax. Mum and Dad are singing happy birthday to me…
I open my eyes. ‘I was dreaming!’
But Bethany is asleep. I know I said I would try not to stare at her but I can’t help it. Her mouth is turned up a little at the corners. I figure she’s having a nice dream. Her chest rises and falls with slow breaths and her eyelids flicker. Now that her eyes are closed I see that her lashes are really long and much darker than her golden hair. She looks tiny, frail, like someone you want to scoop up in your arms and keep safe. I said that I would go out for a walk if I got bored in the night, but I don’t think I will get bored. I think I could watch Bethany sleep for a hundred years and not get bored.
And then the idea comes to me. Perhaps that’s why I’m still here. It’s not to find my dad or the person who killed me or even to make Ingrid fall in love w
ith me. I’m like a guardian angel or something. I can save Mum and I can keep Bethany safe too. I think about the bruises on Bethany’s arms. That’s definitely it.
The morning peeks in through a chink in Bethany’s curtains and she stirs. Her eyes half open and she sees me and smiles.
‘Did you have nice dreams?’ she says in a groggy voice.
‘Yes,’ I lie. I spent the night watching her and thinking about how I could keep her safe. If there are ghost skills or tricks, or whatever, things that will give me some control over the world around me, I need to learn them.
‘What did you dream about?’ she asks, closing her eyes again.
‘Mostly about stuff that happened when I was little… nice stuff.’
‘That’s good,’ she says, drifting into a doze.
The sound of a hacking cough from another room opens her eyes again.
‘Dad’s awake.’
‘Is it Sunday?’ I ask.
‘Yep. At least he won’t want to get up early today.’
‘Does he normally get up early? He doesn’t work.’
‘Still gets up, though. He likes to be around before I go to school.’
‘Is that because he won’t get any breakfast if he doesn’t?’
She frowns slightly and doesn’t reply.
‘Just saying...’
‘You don’t know about my life,’ she says. ‘You can’t judge if you don’t know.’
‘I know what I see here.’
‘It’s hard for him. Mum used to do everything.’
I bite back the words I want to say because I liked staying here last night and I don’t want to make her angry. ‘Do you have plans today?’
‘With Dad, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I doubt it. We could do something, if you like.’
‘Maybe I would like that.’
‘Maybe I would too,’ she whispers and snuggles under the covers to sleep again.
My grave finally has a marker. White stone with pale grey flecks, new and polished so that the edges gleam.
David Cottle
Much loved son
There are flowers arranged at the base and old toys still lie undisturbed on the freshly turned earth. To be honest, that last fact surprises me, knowing the kids in this village. I’m quite surprised too that there is a stone here so soon.
‘Bethany,’ I say quietly, ‘how long have I been dead? I can’t keep track any more.’
She shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. A couple of months, maybe.’
‘That long? You said to Raven that it’s nearly Christmas, how close is Christmas?’
‘It is in a couple of weeks.’
‘What will you do? For Christmas, I mean?’
‘I don’t know. Dad doesn’t talk about it.’
‘I suppose he wouldn’t. I suppose you’ll be pretty upset too on Christmas day.’
She nods.
‘My mum will be too,’ I say. ‘You know she had presents for me already? I found them under her bed, a few days before I died. There wasn’t anything there that I had asked for, but I knew they were mine. I suppose she was going to get the other things later.’
‘Was Christmas nice in your house?’
‘It was ok,’ I say. ‘Not too good since Dad died but Mum made an effort for Roger. I think she knew that I would never enjoy it again no matter what she did.’
‘Maybe you could come to my house for Christmas day?’ Bethany says. ‘It won’t be exciting but at least you won’t be alone… that is, if you want to, of course,’ she adds quickly.
‘Won’t you be doing stuff with your dad?’
‘We’ll have dinner, and then he’ll probably have some beers and fall asleep.’ She laughs. ‘He used to do that when Mum was with us, so I can’t imagine this year will be any different.’
‘If it’s ok then I’d like it,’ I say. ‘As long as it wouldn’t be too difficult for you.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘You can stay in my room if you like and I’ll come and talk to you when Dad nods off.’
We turn to the stone again.
‘It looks nice, doesn’t it?’ I ask Bethany as we stand and look at it together.
She doesn’t say anything.
‘It’s ok,’ I say as I turn to see that she’s biting her lip to hold back tears. ‘It’s not really me under there… at least, not anymore.’
‘It’s not that,’ she says, wiping a sleeve across her eyes. ‘It’s just so… so final. Seeing your stone there is like it’s really the end of you.’
I don’t like to see her cry; I like it when she’s happy. I try to smile to make her feel better but she doesn’t smile back. ‘But it’s not the end of me, is it?’ I say ‘We know that now. Think of it like the end of the end.’
‘The end of the end means beginning again.’ She looks at me and I see fear in her eyes. ‘But the beginning of what?’
I shudder. I don’t want to think about that. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go and sit somewhere else.’
The churchyard clock hits noon as we make our way to the cover of the trees that skirt the old stone walls. Bethany pulls her tattered blanket from her rucksack and spreads it on the ground near the trunk of a bare oak. She sits and wraps her arms around herself against the cold. The churchyard is white and crisp in the frost that still hasn’t melted from this morning. There’s nobody but us here – at least, if you don’t count the people beneath our feet. After we looked at my new stone, we went to see my dad’s grave and her mum’s. We stood next to each one, not speaking, because we didn’t need to. Bethany’s mum’s had actual plants around the stone, I’m guessing that Bethany put them there, but she didn’t say. They look nice. Bethany glances towards the sky where heavy white clouds are moving in.
‘It’s going to snow later,’ she says. ‘The sky is full of it.’
‘You said that yesterday.’
‘And it did,’ she says. ‘Just not very much. It’ll be loads tonight, you’ll see.’
I wonder how that will feel – cold, wet flakes falling right through me.
‘Can I stay at yours again tonight?’
‘You don’t need to worry about snow,’ she laughs.
‘I know. It’s not that. I just…’
‘I liked it, having you around last night,’ she says, stealing my words from me.
I feel something flutter inside me, something that has no right to be there. I’m dead now, how can that be? I try to focus on something else. ‘I think I know why I’m still here,’ I say.
She lies back and stares up at the sky beyond our canopy of branches. ‘Watch the clouds with me.’
I lie next to her and follow her gaze. ‘I think I’m here to watch over you.’
‘That one’s full of snow, you can see it.’ She points up.
‘I’m your guardian angel.’
‘I bet it’s miles thick. I wonder what it would be like to fly above it. I’ve never been in a plane, have you?’
‘Did you hear what I said? I’m here to protect you.’
She glances across at me. ‘Don’t,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘You’re making fun of me.’
‘I’m not,’ I say, ‘I think it’s the truth.’
‘I don’t need a guardian angel,’ she says.
‘Think about it,’ I say, ‘what about Gary James? I was there when he attacked you for a reason.’
She throws me a sideways glance. ‘I was there for a reason too.’
‘I know that,’ I say impatiently, ‘the point is that I could help. I can’t make things move or haunt people but I can tell you about stuff, I can make sure you’re always ready for what’s coming.’
‘You really want to spend eternity following me around so that you can shout up if you see a piano about to fall on my head?’
‘You’re making fun of me now.’
‘I’m not,’ she says, ‘I’m just being realistic. I really don’t need a guardian angel.’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘But you have one anyway.’
‘I don’t need one,’ she repeats.
‘Maybe you need a friend, though?’
She pauses before she replies. ‘Friend is good…’
‘Ok, so let’s just do that.’ I make a promise to myself to watch over her quietly and not tell her I’m doing it. ‘Does it get on your nerves, me being around all the time?’
‘No,’ she says, ‘I like it now that I’m used to you.’
‘I wish I’d known you like I do now when I was still alive,’ I say, glancing across at her.
‘You wouldn’t have got to know me if you’d had a choice.’
‘Probably.’ I think about whether to say the next thing, the thing that wants to come from my mouth as though it has a life of its own. Once it’s out there, it’s too late to take it back. What if she doesn’t like it? What if I lose her forever?
‘But at least I would have been able to kiss you,’ I finally say.
She doesn’t reply for what seems like a long time, she just stares up at the sky. Then she turns her face to me. She doesn’t look angry, she looks sad. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted to.’
‘I know that. But I do now.’
She turns her face back to the clouds. ‘Me too.’
We lie in silence for a moment. A chill blows across the churchyard. I can’t feel it but I see it shake the branches above us.
‘We could do the memory game,’ she says.
I hesitate.
‘Have you ever kissed anyone? she asks in a suddenly shy voice.
‘Of course I have, loads of times.’
‘I mean properly.’
‘Yeah. Haven’t you?’
‘I’ve never kissed anyone,’ she says. ‘Not ever.’
I think she expects me to laugh, but I don’t. ‘How were you going to make me remember then?’
‘I was hoping you could do the memory thing to me instead.’
‘Ok, I’ll try. I probably won’t be as good as you though.’ I screw my eyes up and think. ‘When you feel their lips on yours it’s really soft and warm,’ I begin. I look across and she’s still staring at the sky. ‘Hey,’ I laugh, ‘if we’re doing this then close your eyes and do it properly.’