The Trouble With Dying Read online

Nate’s finger stills. “Go on, then.”

  She rights herself. Her eyes sparkle with anticipation. “Mummy says twelve-across is a hard one but she’s worked it out. She says she’ll tell you the answer but only if you promise to listen properly when she talks to you.”

  He snorts, then disguises it with a cough. “And how is she going to talk to me while she’s in a coma?”

  “She’s not sure but she says she’s working on it.”

  “Right.”

  He looks skyward, dragging his hands through his hair. “Give me strength.” He draws out the word. “This is worse than my mother.”

  Then, remembering Tess is waiting for his answer, he looks at her.

  “Sure. I’ll talk to your mum,” he says, arms outspread. “Why not?”

  Tess dances on the spot. “The answer’s ‘scarlet’.”

  “Scarlet.” He looks back at the crossword. “'Healed wound will give permission for red.’ Healed wound . . . scar. Give permiss . . .”

  The pen clatters to the floor.

  “Je-sus.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A stunned expression on his face, Nate disappears into the bathroom.

  I turn to Tess with a letter-slot grin. “Great job, darling.”

  She grins back at me. “Does he believe me now?”

  “I think he’s beginning to, yes.”

  He’s fighting it every step of the way, though. I watch the closed bathroom door. What’s his issue? How much proof does a man need?

  “I’d better go check on him.” I move to the wall. “Oh, Tess, could you pick up Nate’s pen for him, please? Thanks, darling.”

  At the wall I hesitate. Will Tess freak out if she sees me merge through?

  “No.” Gran does her usual appearing-out-of-nowhere trick. “She’s seen it all before.”

  Gran blows a kiss to Tess. “Hello, darling.”

  “You’ve been gone a while,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Where’d you go?”

  “Oh—” she waves a vague hand “—here and there. Networking on your behalf, you might say.”

  What does she mean by that? Is she pleading my case to God? Reaching out to the cops in their dreams? I eyeball her, but whatever she’s been doing it’s clear she’s not about to tell me.

  Fine. I’ve got plenty to worry about without adding Gran’s secrecy to the list. I turn to Tess. “Can you stay here with Nan-Nan until Uncle Nate comes out? I want you to speak to him again for me.”

  She nods and starts chatting with Gran. I take a couple of bracing breaths then merge through to the bathroom, where Nate’s dousing his face with cold water. I can’t help wondering if he’s trying to cleanse himself of me.

  Well, I’m not going anywhere.

  “Turn off the tap,” I say. “Off, off, off.”

  Still bent over the basin, he pauses, breathing like an athlete after a hundred-metre sprint.

  “Go on, turn it off. Turn the tap off.” I move alongside him and speak into his ear. “Off, Nate, off.”

  He straightens. Stares at the mirror; at my reflection, if he could just see it.

  So close now I’m almost merging with him, I reach for his right hand with both of mine. And although I can’t physically hold his hand, I focus my energy and imagine. I imagine myself clasping it, lifting it, puppeteering it.

  “Turn. Off. The tap.”

  He whips his hand away and I jerk with fright. Then stare.

  Slowly, as if under a spell, his hand approaches the tap, clasps, turns. He’s doing what I asked.

  My pulse trips. This means . . .

  . . . But it might not. Let’s face it, he was probably about to do that anyway. No point in getting excited. Yet.

  “Now the hot one, Nate. Turn the hot tap on.”

  I sound demented. No wonder he looks haunted. Poor bastard.

  Desperation conquers mercy. I keep badgering him. “Hot, hot, hot.”

  More mirror-gazing.

  “Hothothothothot. Go on! Do it!” I stare at his reflection, willing him to hear me, see me . . . anything. “Hothothothothot.”

  His hand reaches out, slowly, as if under a spell, and closes around the hot tap.

  My breath hitches. Yes. Do it. I daren’t move, speak, breathe.

  He turns the hot tap on full and watches, mesmerised, as the water swirls down the plughole.

  Yes! I dance on the spot. He heard me. On some level, he heard me. I want to jump and shout and dance and sing.

  A quizzical expression crosses his face. He reaches for the tap once more.

  “No!” I yell.

  He mustn’t turn it off. If he turns off the hot water, my plan won’t work. And this has to work because without his help I’m as good as dead.

  He pauses.

  “Steam. Steam, Nate.” Urgency leaves me breathless. “Steam steam steam. Are you listening? Leave the tap on.”

  His arm drops back to his side and relief washes over me, so intense I feel faint.

  “Steam,” I repeat, heart pounding. “More steam. More, more, more.”

  The ensuite is fogging up nicely now, and the mirror with it. Perfect.

  I reach my forefinger towards the mirror and I imagine. I imagine the tip of my finger touching the mirror. I imagine the cold, hard surface against my fingertip. I imagine the slippery smoothness, the squeak of skin against glass. I focus every last scrap of energy into that one finger, trying to translate my imagination into reality. Touch the mirror. Cut through the steam. Write.

  Carefully, with great deliberation, I scribe two simple letters.

  HI. Hardly spectacular.

  Nate does a double-take. He frowns. Rubs out my word.

  At least he noticed it. That’s a start. I reward him with a smiley face.

  He stares at the face as if it’s a harbinger of evil, then in one swift movement turns the tap off.

  What the . . . ?

  ONONON.

  He frowns, hesitates. One beat, two, three. Then, suspicion in his eyes, turns the tap back on.

  Just in case he changes his mind again, I get straight to the point.

  NOT SUIC.

  His eyes widen. He scans the ensuite as if searching for the hidden camera. Jerks his gaze back to the mirror.

  My writing is beginning to fade.

  “This is . . .” He trails off as he sees my latest words appear.

  NOT ACC.

  His face pales. He stares at—into—the mirror.

  Does he see me, or is he searching? I can’t tell.

  “Faith?” he whispers.

  I give him a mirror-tick.

  “Jesus,” he mutters, wiping a hand down his face.

  Come on, Nate. Focus.

  He returns his attention to the mirror, and I repeat my message.

  NOT ACC.

  “Not an accident?”

  MURDER.

  “Murder? What the fuck?”

  SSH. TESS.

  He glances at the door then lowers his voice. “What? You’re saying someone . . . threw Faith—you—off the balcony?”

  GEOFF.

  “No way.”

  No way as in it couldn’t be Geoff? Or no way as in these mirror-letters aren’t real?

  He backs away from the mirror until he stops against the wall. Then, closing his eyes, he grabs a fistful of hair.

  He exhales deeply. “Fuck.”

  His hand drops to his side.

  “Fuck,” he repeats, looking at his reflection, and this time there’s wonder in his voice—or disbelief, maybe.

  He glances longingly at the door and my desperation peaks. No! He can’t leave. I need him. He’s my big hope.

  HELP. PLS. I write the last three letters large, for emphasis.

  He takes in the words and looks down at his feet.

  “This is nuts,” he mutters.

  Then, looking up again, he shakes his head at the messages on the mirror and spreads his arms wide. “Help. How the hell can I help someone who’s not even there?”<
br />
  GET PROOF.

  “No. I’ve waded in on this once already. The cops barely tolerate me as it is. Do it again and I’ll have to go into hiding.”

  PROOF.

  I scrawl it six times, like lines for the teacher. Look up, Nate. Come on.

  At last he glances up and sees them. He takes a deep breath. “Proof. Right. You want me to prove Geoff tried to kill you.”

  I give him a mirror-tick.

  “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is crazy. I’m talking to a freaking mirror.”

  He runs a hand over his eyes. “Whatever’s going on here I . . . No.” With a decisive movement he turns off the tap.

  “Don’t!” I shriek.

  He holds the basin in a straight-armed grip, knuckles white with strain as he watches the water swirl down the plughole.

  I plead with him in the steam.

  NATE. I ND U.

  Look up! I wait, chest tight, heart hammering.

  The steam begins to clear, taking my words with it. Look up, dammit!

  He looks up. Stares at the words. Stares until the letters fade to nothing. Stares at himself for longer.

  Eventually he sighs. “Now what, Sutherland?”

  I’ve done everything I can. I leave him with his question and merge back through to Tess.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the time Nate finally comes out of the ensuite Tess has gone down to the TV lounge, ‘bored bored bored’ according to the note she’s left for Nate. Gran has also disappeared, hopefully to keep an eye on Tess.

  Nate takes a deep breath and drops his jacket across the end of the bed. He glances around, spots Tess’s note, reads it, nods. His face looks haggard, like he’s run a marathon.

  He closes his eyes briefly. Rubs at his neck. Clears his throat.

  “Okay,” he says. “So.”

  He blows out his cheeks. “I’m not sure how this works. But let’s just say this is real, and I’m about to speak to a ghost, or spirit, or whatever you are. Do I just, you know, talk?”

  He pauses, as if waiting for an answer, so I give him one. “And listen.”

  Not that listening means he’ll hear me, of course. And that’s a bit of a problem because I have no idea how to make myself audible to him. It may be as simple as tuning him in to the right frequency, but first we have to find a tuning button.

  In the meantime we’re going to need Tess. Or another steamed-up mirror.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters.

  “Stay right there,” I say. “I’ll go get Tess.”

  I merge through to the corridor and hurry towards the TV lounge. My leash to Faith-in-the-bed kicks in a good ten metres from the entrance, and even though I’m expecting it the jerking halt still makes me gasp.

  I size up the remaining distance and yell across it. “Te-ess! Can you hear me? Tess!”

  A head peeks around the doorway of an adjacent room. It belongs to a young woman, and she’s clearly on the warpath.

  She glares at me. “Ssh! Think of the patients.”

  I pause, then frown as I take in the pert white cap on her head, the starched white uniform, and the white, polished, buckled shoes.

  A shiver ripples down my spine. “You’re a ghost.”

  “And you’re very rude.”

  Who knew there was etiquette around speaking to ghosts? “I’m sorry.”

  She acknowledges my apology with a slight inclination of her head. “I’ll thank you to keep your voice down out of respect for the patients. Who are you seeking?”

  “You probably wouldn’t know her.”

  Her eyebrow arches. She visibly bridles.

  Lips pursed, she marches into the corridor and stands before me, all five-foot-two of her.

  “I know everyone in this ward,” she says. “Everyone. Staff, patients, family; I know them all.”

  I swallow uncomfortably.

  “Oh.” The word escapes from my mouth as a squeak. I clear my throat. “Then you’ll know my daughter. Tess. She’s just turned seven. She should be in the TV . . .”

  Hang on, will she know what a TV is?

  “. . . I mean guest lounge, but I can’t go there myself. I’m—”

  “Yes, yes, you’re a bridger. Very well. I will inform Tess of your presence.”

  A bridger? I’m dying to ask questions, but they’ll have to wait. I don’t want to miss this opportunity with Nate.

  “Thank you,” I say, repressing the urge to curtsy.

  She turns her back on me and walks briskly to the TV lounge. “Tess, your mother needs you. Run along, now. She is waiting in the corridor.”

  I hear Tess’s ‘Thanks, Sister’ and seconds later she joins me. Alone.

  “Where’s Gran?” I ask. “I assumed she was with you.”

  Tess skips along beside me. “Oh, she had to meet someone.” She pauses. “Mummy, what’s a wing clipper?”

  I shoot her a sharp glance. “Did Gran say that?”

  “Yes. She’s off to see a wing clipper. Is that someone who cuts angels’ wings when the feathers get too long? The same way you cut my fingernails?”

  She looks up at me, all childlike innocence.

  My mind races. I’m remembering back to my childhood. Gran’s look of affection, frequently coupled with the comment that I’d get my wings clipped one of these days.

  As a child I hadn’t understood, but she’d always said it with such love in her eyes I wasn’t bothered.

  I’m bothered now.

  But there’s no point reading anything into Gran’s wing-clipper reference until she’s there to explain precisely what she means.

  Instead I focus on the task at hand. “Tess, will you help me speak to Nate again?”

  “Sure. Uncle Nate’s fun.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” We share a mother-daughter smile.

  I aim for a light tone and gently quiz her about the ghost nurse. “That was the first time I’ve met the Sister who came and got you. Do you know her well?”

  “Not really.” Tess shrugs. “She died a long time ago, but she’s still here because she’s waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “She doesn’t know yet, but she’s really sad.” For a moment Tess looks sad, too. Then she brightens. “I’m going to make her happy.”

  I gaze at her with wonder. My girl. My spooky, ghost-whispering, darling little girl. Where will her talents take her?

  “That’s a lovely idea,” I say. “How do you think you’ll make her happy?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “But that’s okay. A dream will tell me.”

  A dream? How fascinating. I’d love to know more. More about her dreams, but more about her. Things every mother naturally knows—things I don’t. Like what makes her smile, what doesn’t, whether she suffers from nightmares . . .

  Damn my pathetic memory.

  We reach my room and thankfully Nate’s still there.

  “Just the person I need,” he says as Tess bounces in. “I’ve got a question for you, Squirt.”

  He flicks one of her dark locks. “Is Mummy here? Not Mummy in the bed,” he clarifies. “I mean invisible Mummy. The one you’ve been talking to.”

  “Yes.” Tess grins at me. “She is now. She came to get me.”

  “Ah. That explains it. I couldn’t feel her anymore.”

  He pauses, cocks his head to one side. Then gives a slow nod. “Yep, you’re right. She’s back.”

  He feels my presence that keenly? Excitement surges through me. This could work. Especially if his ability to sense me increases with time. The big question, of course—the excitement-killing one—is whether we’ll be able to fast-track that process enough to save my life.

  Nate’s gaze roams the room.

  Come on, I silently plead, see me. It would make everything so much easier.

  But his eyes pass over me without so much as a flicker, dammit.

  “Okay. Um . . . Faith. Wherever you are.” He speaks to the room rather than Tess
. “I’m not into any of that spiritual B.S., you know that. I don’t believe in God, or ghosts, and I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell or anything in between. But—” he shakes his head “—I can’t explain what’s going on. So . . . I’m listening. If this really is you, Pix, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Tears of relief take me by surprise. “Tess, tell him a huge thank you from me.”

  She does, and he ruffles her hair. “Anything to bring your mum back, eh?”

  “Why do you call Mummy ‘Pix’?” asks Tess.

  Nate chuckles. “When I first met your mum we were kids. She was tiny, with straight black hair, a cheeky grin, and sparkly blue eyes just like yours. She looked just like a pixie so that’s what I called her.”

  Tess looks at me, head to one side, as if searching for my inner pixie.

  “So, Pix.” Nate looks this way and that, clearly searching for me. “You want me to do some detective work for you.”

  He pauses. “Why not go straight to the cops?”

  Tess answers this one herself. “They don’t believe us, Uncle Nate. They think I’m playing make-believe.”

  He grimaces. “Guess I’ve been guilty of that, too.”

  He lifts Tess into his arms so they’re face-to-face. “I’m not very good at this, Tessabelle, but I promise I’ll listen properly next time you say anything to do with your mum. Deal?”

  She flings her arms around his neck and hugs tight. He hugs her back.

  “Deal,” I murmur.

  I glide over and wrap my arms around both of them, imagining my hug. Tess turns her head to smile at me and I know she’s felt it.

  Nate gently sets Tess back on her feet. Then he closes his eyes, lifting his face, and I see the steady throb of his pulse in his neck. He grows still.

  “I feel you, Pix. I know you’re close. Especially when I close my eyes.”

  He’s not saying anything he hasn’t already said, but this time there’s something about his voice, and that tone, that deep rich baritone, that has me smouldering with heat. Raw, sensual heat. Forbidden heat.

  Forbidden.

  As in, not allowed. Don’t go there.

  But you know what? I’m sick of that rule. I could be dead tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, murdered by my own husband. This may be the last time I ever feel aroused.