The Trouble With Dying Page 18

  “Clear.”

  I’m filled with shame. It’s my fault Nate’s angry and bitter and resentful. It’s my fault he’s not happy. And it’s a measure of the man that, after all the suffering I’ve obviously caused him, he’s still there for me. I hope I had a good reason for screwing up both our lives.

  Why would I just blow him off like that? What came between us? What possessed me to choose Geoff over Nate? None of it makes sense. I feel short-changed. I’ve wasted my life with the wrong man, and now it’s too late.

  Nate’s crying now, and I hate that I can’t comfort him. I hate that I’ve made him so unhappy. I hate being dead.

  A searing pain arrows through my chest, front to back, dragging a gasping cry out of me. Echoes of the pain, still fiery, lick along my nerve-endings. Shite. What was that? I wait for more, but the pain is gone and as the echoes fade I can breathe again.

  Then it hits me: that jolt of pain felt electric. That’s exactly what it was. Back in my hospital room they’re trying to jump-start my heart.

  But I’m still here, able to move freely, so I guess it must’ve failed.

  Hurry up.

  The words float through my mind and I remember Gran’s warning. There’s not much time.

  I look at Nate, then back at the hospital. What am I supposed to do now?

  Frustration rips through me. I don’t want to be indecisive. I want to be action girl. I want to race out and save my life. But how? I could do with an instruction manual round about now.

  If only Gran had snuck in a hint—any hint would do—of what I should do with my time.

  I wait, hoping she’ll flick some suggestions into my head. But she doesn’t.

  My frustration dissolves into sheer loneliness.

  Only to rise up again as I realise what I’m doing. Stop it! I don’t have time to wallow in self-pity. I’m an Osbourne, remember? Start behaving like one.

  “Nothing. Let’s try again . . .”

  Deep in the background they’re still trying to revive me. If they succeed my free time will be over. But if they fail my life will be over. Either way, I don’t have long. I take a deep breath. What do I want to achieve?

  For starters, I want that bastard husband of mine brought to justice. I want to make sure Tess is well looked after, and while I’m at it let’s give Mum a massive Lottery win so she can do whatever she fancies with the rest of her life. As for Nate . . . Poor man. If I could take away his grief and replace it with happiness, I would. But how? Finally—and even as I think it I’m relegating it to the bottom of my list—I want my memories back. I want to find me.

  I attack my list from the top.

  Number One. Geoff. Murdering bastard. If I’ve got to be dead I’ll make certain he’s put away for it first.

  The proof is out there somewhere. I intend to find it.

  And once I do, God help him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Home. I have to go home.

  And—kerpow! I’m there.

  I look up at my home. Third floor, apartment on the left. Those curtains! I smile. They’re my favourites. Geoff hates them, of course. Says they’re too dark. They’re in that deep shade of blue that looks purple in some lights and makes you feel like you’re in a Seventies time-warp.

  Behind those curtains lie the answers to so many questions—about myself, my daughter, my husband. Especially my husband. I need to find out what makes Geoff tick, what would drive him to share my bed then try to kill me.

  A car turns into our street and accelerates my way. Crap. I barely have time to brace before it’s hurtled right through me. I exhale unsteadily and look down at myself. I’ve had a good shaking, but I’m unharmed. One benefit of being dead, I guess.

  In the distance I hear a female voice. “On my count of three.”

  It would be faster to just think myself up to the third floor, but I take the main entrance and turn into the stairwell. The memories are coming at me thick and fast, now, and I greedily gulp them in. My daily workout on the stairs, three circuits up and down, no cheating. Tess running ahead so she can leap out at me from her usual hiding spots. The fifth-floor woman with her cluster of illegal cats. The second-floor guy and his multiple personalities. The strengthening odour of curry as we approach the third floor. Wishing our closest neighbours could be Italian.

  At our third-floor landing the curry smell’s so overpowering I want to gag. Or maybe I’m just scared to be home.

  Tess’s latest mother-daughter portrait hangs on the front door, its big WELCOME taunting me.

  Do I really want to do this? Can I cope with whatever I’m about to find?

  Now that I’m here it’s not the bad stuff that worries me—I’m ready for that; I know my husband wants me dead. No, it’s the good stuff that might be my undoing; the happy-family stuff, evidence of all the things I’m not going to be able to enjoy now I’m dead. That stuff.

  Hurry. Gran interrupts my thoughts. I can only give you three minutes . . .

  I thrust my fear to the back of my mind and merge through the front door.

  More memories.

  Welcome home, Mrs Carson. Excitement. Anticipation. The start of our new life.

  Sorry I’m late. Busy day. Disappointment. Anger.

  Mummy, Mummy! A cat’s stuck up the tree. Oh, that cursed cat!

  In the back of my mind I hear the count-down start again. “Three . . .”

  I approach the living room.

  You’ll love the view. And I do, but I’m a new mum with a new baby and I feel like Rapunzel, stuck in my tower with only a view for company.

  I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up. Loneliness.

  Yum-my! Gookie! Wub you, Nan! Thank heaven for Mum. I’d go mad without her frequent visits.

  A job? Why? Don’t you think I earn enough? Guilt. He thinks I’m ungrateful.

  Loneliness. Despair. Doesn’t he see? Doesn’t anyone see? I’m losing myself.

  Cleaning, cleaning. This, at least, I can do well. A clean home is a happy home. Or so I thought.

  At the bedroom door I stop, expecting to feel a rush of emotion. But—nothing. There’s the bed. The linen’s tasteful, in creamy tones with feminine swirls and a bold red stripe down one side.

  “Two . . .”

  I head for my tallboy in the corner. There’s my favourite necklace. My gift to me. Bold and beautiful, the way I wanted to be. The way I already was, if only I could’ve seen it. But my over-critical eye always saw blemishes before beauty. Why was I so hard on myself?

  I turn towards the full-length mirror and see—nothing. No blemishes, no beauty. I’m looking at myself, and I’m not there. My mouth dries. I should be filling the mirror, but all I see is the bed, with the window beyond.

  My heart hammers in my chest—a chest that’s not even there. This is so weird. I look over my shoulder and, yep, there’s the bed and window, just as the mirror says. I swing back to the mirror. Still no me. Because I’m dead, of course.

  And just like that, my throat constricts, my heart races, and I’m drowning in panic.

  I lurch out to the living room. Thoughts and memories assault me. After so many days of absolutely nothing, the onslaught is like walking into an overcrowded, boozy party. A small sob escapes. I can’t do this.

  Stop. Listen. Be.

  The thought is so clear it’s as if Gran is right here beside me. And maybe she is but I just can’t see her.

  Either way, those three little words and her calm, calm voice have helped. I listen to my own breathing, force it to slow, and it takes the edge off my panic. I can do this. I will do this. Gran’s doing who knows what back there to give me these few short minutes, and I owe it to her not to squander it on grief. I’ve got all of eternity for grieving.

  With a muzzle on my fear I look around my living room. A huge family portrait has pride of place above the living room mantel. It’s the first evidence I’ve had that Geoff even exists. Look at us all, so happy, so close; a unit.

  Gr
an wants me to be strong, determined, Osbourne-ish, but . . . A tear escapes. I don’t feel strong. What happened? How could my life have collapsed so spectacularly?

  I reach for the picture, as if one touch will bring it all back, give me a second chance. But touch is a privilege reserved for the living, and even a whispery brush of finger on canvas will deplete my energy reserves—reserves I need if I’m to gather evidence against my murderous husband.

  I pull my hand back, square my shoulders and face the room. Come on, what would Gran do?

  Evidence, evidence . . .

  My eyes are drawn to the bi-fold doors leading out to the balcony.

  “One . . .”

  The balcony.

  And suddenly I’m back in the moment, falling through the air, speechless with panic and horror and fear and regret and an overarching sense of inevitability.

  Sweet Jesus. I yank myself back to the present before the moment of impact. I take a shaky breath, and another.

  Maybe I should walk out there, force myself to remember the whole thing. Then I’d know everything and I could take that to the cops.

  I look at the bi-fold doors and take a deep breath. Yes. I need to do this.

  No—wait. Do I really need to? Isn’t there another way?

  Fear flutters in my belly, moves up to my throat. What if the shock of reliving it kills me? Even the snippet I’ve just remembered was horrific.

  Logic takes over. I’m already dead. I can’t be any deader than dead, so is there actually a risk here?

  Crap. My hands feel clammy. I need to pee. I really don’t want to do this.

  Do it, barks my brain.

  I close my eyes, suck in my breath.

  Do it.

  I exhale, open my eyes, reach out an arm, and before I can change my mind I merge through the door and out onto the balcony.

  Here we go again. I’m back in the moment, falling through the air, speechless with panic and horror and fear and regret and an overarching sense of inevitability.

  No! I can’t stop this. I’m falling. Fast. How did this happen? Help! A scream explodes out of my throat. No. Please. My head reels, my stomach lurches, then everything slows and, frame by frame, I’m taking in details.

  An oak.

  A car horn.

  Breeze in my hair.

  A lone sparrow’s flight.

  Giggles. Happy kids.

  Tess. My body tenses. Oh God, Tess. She needs me. I can’t die. I can’t stop. I can’t—

  Momentary agony, then soft, silent blackness.

  . . .

  . . .

  A muffled voice. Shadow. Gentle hands.

  “Faith.” Clearer, now. A woman’s voice. “Can you hear me?”

  I open my eyes. Her face hovers above mine, too blurry to make out.

  “Merda!” she murmurs. “Now what?”

  It hurts. Everything hurts. I try to keep my eyes open but they flutter closed.

  “Someone call an ambulance,” she shouts. There must be other people close by.

  Her voice reverberates in my head, accentuating the pain. Every nerve ending is shrieking with agony. I groan, try to speak, can’t.

  “Oh, Faith,” she says. “If only you’d done what I asked.”

  Her voice is kind but her words . . . what do they mean? Fresh fear laces through me.

  She kisses my forehead. Her lips are cold. Feathers tickle my cheek.

  Feathers? What feathers? I need more. I force myself back down into the pain of the memory.

  Feathers tickle my cheek. I start to shiver.

  “Everything’s going to be fine, Faith. I’m here. I’ll come with you in the ambulance.”

  She clasps my hand in hers and I’m grateful for the contact.

  “Yes,” she murmurs to herself. “I’ll come with you. That’s how we’ll do it.”

  Do what? Confusion blends into fear and pain. It’s all too much. I can’t cope, can’t do this. A tear escapes. It trails slowly towards my hairline. She gently wipes it away.

  “Faith, I need you to know something. Are you listening?”

  I don’t have the energy to nod. I do manage a faint hand-squeeze, though, in response to hers.

  “Good. Can you open your eyes? That’s it. Stay awake, now, and listen carefully.”

  In the distance I hear a siren. My eyes want to close but I fight it. Who is she? I need to see her face, but it hurts. Can’t focus.

  Coward. Ignore the pain. Focus.

  I do, and see three feathers hanging from the woman’s ear. Brown striped, jet-black, white.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Heart pounding, I pull myself out of the memory. I knew I recognised that earring. Those three feathers are so distinctive. Nate’s mother was there. She saw me fall. She helped me.

  Excitement trills through me. I need to talk to her.

  What did she need me to know? Maybe I should go back and finish the memory.

  “Clear.”

  Crap. Time, Faith. Time.

  I turn away from the balcony—whatever Sylvia needed me to know will have to wait—and head across the living room to the office.

  It’s clean. Too clean.

  A pig sty? Hey, it’s my pig sty and I like it. I couldn’t bear it. Messy office, messy mind. Then he moved out, taking his mess with him, and I was horrified to discover I actually missed it.

  He moved out. Where did he go?

  That’s right: that one-bedroom apartment over in Mission Bay. Floor to ceiling windows, sea views, cafés a stone’s throw away.

  This time I’m ready for the instant teleportation so I don’t waste precious time on oohing and aahing when, a micro-second later, I’m hovering outside his apartment.

  Without further ado I merge straight through the wall into his living room and then his office.

  I stand in the doorway and take in the papers, strewn haphazardly as if they’ve been tossed in the air and left where they fell, the books stacked on the floor, the light film of dust covering computer, filing cabinet, desk and shelves. He’s such a pig. How I could ever have missed this I really don’t know. But that’s not why I’m here, so I ignore the disorder and go straight to his desk.

  His diary is sitting open at March the nineteenth.

  9.00am Tess to Kathy, 9.30am Marxton Life, 11am car for service, 12pm Chris Upham re deal . . . My eyes flick back to his nine-thirty appointment. Marxton Life? Our life insurance brokers? I feel sick. He’s been checking out his options. I doubt he’ll be covered for killing his wife, though.

  I home in on the computer and position my hand over the mouse. Focus, focus. I imagine my energy channelling down through my fingers and moving the mouse. I focus so hard even breathing is secondary.

  Please, I pray. If ever there’s been a time I needed something to happen through sheer force of will, this is it.

  And maybe the God of Technology has heard, because the mouse moves. Only a fraction, but a fraction’s all it takes. The computer whirs to life, and Geoff’s email inbox stares out at me, complete with opening paragraphs of his latest email. Some wine sale or other. Hardly life-changing stuff, but that doesn’t stop me casting a guilty glance over my shoulder.

  Which is silly, of course. Because I’m dead, which makes me invisible.

  That searing pain hits me again, rendering me an incapable blob of invisibility. I can’t move, think, breathe.

  Long seconds pass. As the pain begins to ease I take a careful breath. My nerves jangle and protest, but not for long. I breathe my way back to normal, then focus once more on Geoff’s computer.

  Ignore the wine sale. There’s bound to be incriminating evidence in his emails. I scan the rest of the inbox, looking for something murder-ish. A weapon order, say, or a one-way ticket to the Bahamas.

  I don’t find either, but there is an email from C. J. Barton-Wilde. I focus my energy, move the mouse and click on her email.

  . . . home 9-ish. Key under mat if you’re there earlier. Make yourself at home.
Bubbles in fridge. Tess welcome but better if Kathy has her. I’ve got plans! You won’t want interruptions, I promise! C xx

  My jaw locks. Now I’m dead my memory’s just fine, and I remember how often Geoff said he had to ‘work late’. Is this what he was really doing? I guess I’ll never know, but one thing’s certain—my so-called best friend is sleeping with my husband.

  I check the date on the email. March the eighteenth. No wonder I’ve been feeling the vibes between them.

  I stare at the email, thinking fast. This isn’t enough. It’s too vague. I need solid evidence if I want the police to listen: DNA, love letters, let’s-kill-her plans, that kind of thing. If I just knew where Cynthia lived . . .

  Instantly the image is in my head: her house, the street, the number, even the cute little love-seat in her front porch.

  I grin. Of course. I’ve visited her house dozens of times. Best friends do that.

  I’ll pay one last visit—only this time it won’t be quite as social.

  I’m instantly there. At the threshold I hesitate, but only for a second. Whatever I’m about to find, it can’t be worse than anything else I’ve discovered these past five days.

  A distant voice comes through to me. “One more attempt, and that’s it. Agreed?”

  I love Cynthia’s home. It’s exactly what I’d expect from a single woman without kids. Immaculate furniture, uncluttered order, every accessory placed just aesthetically so, right down to the cushions. The far wall is dominated by a fabulous oil painting, textured and loaded with Mediterranean vitality. I recognise the scene instantly. It’s Venice. I’ve stood looking out at that very view with Cynthia.

  The thought takes me by surprise. Head to one side, I study the painting. And as I concentrate, the sounds and smells of that very day, in that blistering heat, come back to me. We shared this view. We literally stood side by side and admired the view together. But when? It’s half a world away. Did we holiday there together? Yes. I remember now. Did we know each other that well? Yes.

  The floodgates open and memory after memory flings back to me. Coffee outings, ‘Here’s Auntie Cynth’, Fun Day Sundays, wine nights, kiddie outings, shopping missions, girls-only holidays . . .