The Trouble With Dying Page 21

He runs his fingers through sleep-rumpled hair, and I swallow. Sheesh. I’m in big trouble if even his wake-up routine has me hot.

  For a couple of beats he looks down on Faith-in-the-bed, then he leans close and kisses her, a mere whisper on her cheek.

  The sensation shouts through to me. I crave more.

  “Coffee,” he mutters and, rubbing a hand over his two-day growth, heads out into the corridor.

  When he returns, the delicious aroma sets my nostrils twitching. Not him; the coffee beans. He’s treated himself to the real thing this morning.

  I’m sure I love coffee. I can’t remember, but my taste-buds have zinged to attention. It’s torture watching him drink; I can’t drink or eat up here so I’m having to imagine it. And I bet that’s not half as good as the real thing.

  I hope I get to enjoy the real thing again.

  Nate heads through to the bathroom and I hear the shower start. I quickly merge through, just in case he wants another mirror-talking session, then just as quickly merge back, heart pounding, girlie bits pulsing. He really is taking a shower, and I can’t stay in there because . . . well. It was bad enough seeing his abs.

  He hums something or other. I stare balefully at the door. This is worse than tantric sex. At least if it was tantric sex I could break the rules and jump his bones.

  The shower stops and I remain exactly where I am, but my imagination fills in all the gaps. Naked . . . wet . . . Why does he get to me like this?

  “Faith?”

  My head jerks up.

  “Pix, are you there?”

  My heart expands like a fresh spring flower. Finally, the affirmation I’ve been seeking. He’s trying to communicate with me.

  I merge through to the bathroom and groan. He’s got his jeans on, but that’s all. A sparkler fizzes in my belly. I drag my eyes away from his chest and write HI on the steamed-up mirror. Heroically, I manage it with only a mild hand tremor.

  “Hi. Great. You’re here. I’m glad. You gave me such a scare yesterday. Seeing you so . . . I thought you were . . . I wanted to . . . God.”

  He looks down at the basin, as if the right words might swirl up out of the plug and into his mouth. For a moment he simply breathes. In, out, in.

  He looks back at the mirror. “Are you okay?”

  I give him a mirror-tick.

  He blows his cheeks out. “Good.”

  A pause. “You’re sure?”

  Another tick.

  He nods. “Thank God. Okay. I just wanted to . . . talk, really. And tell you how I got on at your apartment.”

  He walks back and forth in front of the mirror. “So, yeah. I went back to your apartment with binoculars, and—” He stops and faces his steamed-up reflection “—nada. Not a thing. I’m sorry, Faith. I narrowed down the neighbours then went door-knocking. I really thought I would’ve found us a witness, or at least something to work with.”

  His mouth sets in a tight line.

  THNX ANYWAY.

  “For what?” He stands over the basin, staring at the mirror. “I didn’t find a witness. Not a single god-damn one.”

  Nate grabs the basin in a straight-armed grip, looks into it. Exhales. Then mutters, more to himself than me, “There has to be a witness. There always is. I’ve just got to find him.”

  My heart skips a beat. There is a witness. His mother: she was there straight after I fell. She’s bound to have seen something.

  Or—my heart lurches up to my throat—was she somehow involved?

  Horror swirls in my gut. She was there. Did she push me off the balcony?

  I frown, trying to make sense of it all. That could only have happened if I passed out when I landed, then came to once she’d made it downstairs again.

  It’s possible. I dredge back through the memory. The things she said sounded innocent enough . . . If only you’d done what I asked . . . I’ll come with you. That’s how we’ll do it . . .

  But—and I’m reliving it as I remember—I was scared. Something was wrong with her presence and I knew it.

  Did Geoff put her up to this? Are two people trying to kill me?

  Dread, an icy chill at my neck, stills me.

  Surely not. I’m just a housewife. I clean and bake and look after Tess and clean some more and wait at home while my husband pretends to work late.

  I understand why Geoff wants me out of the way, but why Nate’s mother? Do they even know each other?

  My mouth dries. She tried to visit me in hospital. Was she back to finish the job?

  Nate looks up at his reflection. “I’ve just rung John, my pal at Central. He’s waiting on an update from forensics. Don’t worry, Pix, John’s all over this and I am too.”

  Sylvia seems so nice, but maybe Nate’s flippant comment wasn’t so flippant. Maybe she really is crazy.

  And what about her phone calls to the police? She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. Pretending she has information for them. Sheesh. To think I hoped she might help me communicate with everyone; convince them it was murder, for crying out loud.

  My gut feels hollow, like someone’s raked it out and sprayed it with acid that’s eating my flesh from the inside out. How do I tell Nate?

  Do I tell him?

  But if I don’t tell him I’m signing my own death warrant. Nate is the one person who can protect me.

  My palms grow clammy. I’m not sure I can tell Nate his mum might be my murderer.

  He slowly straightens. “Pix? Are you still here?”

  I swallow, hesitate, then answer with a tick.

  As quickly as the tick fades, my doubt strengthens. Maybe she’s not my murderer at all.

  “Hang on.” Nate turns on the hot tap. “We need more steam.”

  Maybe it’s all coincidence and she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  My mind races. Thoughts come at me, faster and faster. Nothing makes sense. One thing I do know, though: I don’t believe in coincidences. I doubt Nate does, either.

  What a fucked-up, god-awful mess.

  “Pix,” he says, “I wish I could see you. I know you’re upset. But don’t give up, babe. I’m watching Geoff. He can’t even breathe without me knowing. Trust me, if he did this we’ll find proof.”

  That jolts me out of my stupor.

  I HAV PROOF.

  “Yeah? What sort of proof?”

  PROOF G KILLER.

  For now I omit the bit about his mum being involved.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

  G+C. I scribe a heart around them, the way kids do. Then: EMAIL ON G’s PC.

  “You went to his home? How?”

  DIED. LEFT BODY.

  His chin lifts. He purses his lips, thinks about it. “O-kaay. So you died, went walkabout, visited Geoff’s apartment, and found an incriminating email on his computer. Yes?”

  + PICS ON C’s PC.

  “You went to Cynthia’s place as well?”

  Tick.

  He nods. His mouth turns down at the corners. “I don’t think the pictures will give us proof so much as motive.”

  He’s right, of course. Darn.

  Nate looks off to one side, discomfited. “Pix, I already knew he had motive.”

  He says it so gently I feel suddenly tearful. And embarrassed. Oh hell, did everyone know about Geoff and Cynthia except me?

  “Listen, Pix, I know we’ve had our ups and downs . . . more downs than ups, I guess. But I want you to know that when this is over . . .” He trails off, exhales, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Just hurry up and come back, will you?”

  If only it were that easy. But I’m trying. And I think, in a roundabout way, he’s telling me . . . Well. I hope he’s trying to tell me what I’m dying to hear, but I’m so superstitious I can’t bring myself to even think it.

  W8 4 ME?

  He thrusts his hands in his back pockets, and that simple movement is enough to steal my breath.

  “You bet,” he says, and smiles. It’s a smile that lights me to my
core.

  # # #

  The ward has woken. Nurses chat in the corridor, a breakfast trolley clatters past, and doctors do their rounds.

  My dayshift nurse comes in and Nate, after swapping a few pleasantries with her, discreetly leaves the room.

  She watches him leave then turns to Faith-in-the-bed with a sigh.

  “What a guy. You’re very lucky, you know. Not everyone gets eye candy like that to brighten up their day. And he’s so nice with it.”

  She hums as she checks the various drips and wires keeping me alive. She pauses, grins at Faith-in-the-bed. “That smile of his is trouble, isn’t it? And those eyes. Mmm. Like I say, you’re a lucky girl.”

  She continues chatting as she sponges down Faith-in-the-bed and I silently thank her for being so gentle, for talking to me as if I’m really there. Because, of course, I am.

  When—if—I wake up I’m going to tell her just how much of a difference it makes.

  I’m jerked from my thoughts by a scream. Every muscle in my body tenses. It’s the sort of scream that would drag people staggering from their graves, and it’s in this ward.

  I quickly merge through to the corridor. Who? What? Why? I look left and right but there’s no crowd gathering, no racing nurses; nobody seems to have even noticed.

  I frown. That’s strange.

  I look for Nate. If something’s happened you can bet he’ll be on to it.

  But no. He’s strolling up past the TV lounge, seemingly oblivious.

  Another scream rips out, sending tingles rippling through my body. That’s a woman.

  My gaze ricochets between the screams at one end of the ward and Nate at the other. Come on, Nate. Turn. We need you. Get back here.

  But he doesn’t. And nobody else is paying attention, either. Which means . . .

  Nothing, probably. I had a three-storey fall. I’m probably making it up, hearing voices, going nuts.

  A long, keening wail assaults my ears. My stomach tightens. No, I’m not making up that sound. That’s real.

  Dread, a sickening, slithery beast, creeps from gut to throat.

  I force my brain to face the truth: that poor woman is either a ‘bridger’, like me, or dead. But either way, she’s real and she needs help now.

  I’m not sure I have the mettle for this. I’m terrified of what I might see when I find her. But I’m more terrified of what might happen if I don’t. Before I can unmake my decision I fly to her aid.

  I’ve never moved so fast through the ward. I zigzag down the corridor, ducking in and out of rooms, eyes quickly scanning, not even sure what I’m scanning for but hoping I’ll know it when I see it.

  I begin to fret. Soon I’ll reach maximum distance from my body. If she’s beyond that I can’t help her.

  Just ahead I see Sister, the dead nurse Tess has befriended, standing in a doorway. Although she’s side-on to me, her peaked cap—crisp and starched and very yesteryear—makes her impossible to miss.

  Certainty slows my pace. This is the room. This is where I’ll find the screaming woman.

  Sister turns as I approach. Her expression is a mix of sorrow, resignation, and trepidation. My heart lurches. Screaming woman, scared nurse . . . What am I about to see?

  With a regal inclination of her head, Sister acknowledges my presence. She steps to one side, allowing me to stand beside her in the doorway.

  I look into the room and my heart falters.

  Dear God. Fear thrums in my belly. I want to run but I’m rooted to the spot.

  Two men hover above the patient in the bed. A young woman, barely adult, kneels on the floor sobbing and pleading by turns. And standing impassively by, with a rolled-up scroll in hand, is Creepy Guy; the same Death Council observer who took Gran away.

  I size up the other two. Who—what—are they? In their white suits with fancy black trim they look more suited to a cabaret than a hospital ward. But they don’t look scary, so why is that girl in such a state?

  I take a step forward and one of them turns. He stares at me with a dark, penetrating gaze, and suddenly I understand. My breath jams in my throat. I break out in a cold sweat. His eyes are weird. Scary-weird, not funny-weird. At first glance they’re just eyes, but that’s an illusion. They glow with a light that’s almost magnetic, and the longer I stare into them the more I see. Darkness, despair, lives gone awry. I have the eerie feeling my own eyes might fry under his gaze, but I can’t look away.

  A giggle bubbles into my mouth; one of those I’m-so-scared-I-don’t-know-what-to-do giggles. I force it back down and meet his stare head-on. Whatever they did to that poor woman, whatever they’re about to do, they need to know there are witnesses.

  I just hope someone’s looking out for me in all this. I don’t fancy being next on their list.

  For long seconds his gaze holds mine. I swallow nervously. Who are these guys?

  At last he blinks, releasing me from his unnerving hold, and I sag with relief.

  He turns back to the bed, leaving me with a view of their white-jacketed backs. I can’t see the bed. What are they doing? They’d better not torture her or . . .

  Or what, Faith?

  The young woman pleads with them, but they ignore her, talking to each other in casual tones. It seems to be some kind of list they’re running through.

  Creepy Guy watches on, unblinking, unmoving.

  “The paperwork?” asks one.

  Creepy Guy steps forward and hands him the scroll.

  I turn to the Sister. “What’s the pa—”

  The white-suited men round on me, and now I’ve got two pairs of scary eyes pinning me to the spot.

  The hairs at the back of my neck lift. Fear chokes me. I raise a protective hand to my throat, question unfinished.

  Eventually, as one, they turn away from me and focus once more on the scroll.

  Heart pounding, I allow my breath to escape in a slow, silent sigh.

  Both men inspect the document. They nod. One re-rolls the scroll and stashes it in his pocket. The other says, “It is done.”

  They move slightly and now I can see past them to the woman. Her eyes dart frantically between the men.

  Creepy Guy nods and takes a step back.

  “Please,” pleads the woman. “Give me another chance. I won’t waste it, I promise.”

  Her tear-streaked face is enough to melt the coldest heart. Not theirs, though.

  Creepy Guy regards her impassively. “Second chances are only granted to those who prove themselves worthy. You have provided no proof. It is done.”

  “No!” she sobs.

  “The Death Council has spoken.”

  His eyes soften, then, in an unexpected display of compassion. “You did not want to live, child. Perhaps death will be a fresh start.”

  I feel an insane urge to laugh. How can death be a start? It’s an emphatic end. A big, fat, dirt-on-the-coffin full freaking stop. Eternal invisibility.

  “I see your soul is not dark,” he continues, “but you have chosen to forsake this life. Reincarnation is therefore no longer automatic. You are required to appear before the Reincarnation Board. Your minders—” he nods at his colleagues “—are charged with delivering you to your hearing forthwith.”

  The woman blinks, frowns. “You mean . . . they’re not going to torture me? Or take me to Hell?”

  “No,” he says with a glimmer of a smile. “Not unless you request it.”

  Her shoulders sag, as do my own. Thank goodness. I thought she was in for one hell of a bad time.

  She pulls herself together and stands. The minders flank her, one on each side, and as Sister and I watch they all rise above our heads. The woman pauses to take one last look at her body, her face tinged with regret. Then she nods to the minders and in a blur of kinetic energy they’re gone.

  I take a deep, back-to-reality breath.

  Nothing changes, of course. This is reality: if I don’t prove I deserve a second chance at life, I’ll die.

  As if to pre
ss the point home, an alarm sounds and a nurse rushes in, straight through me, calling out, “She’s coding.”

  My insides wobble, and not just from the body invasion.

  The nurse works fast, but speed isn’t going to do it. Not this time. Her patient has an appointment to keep, and it’s not in this world.

  Reincarnation Board . . . Death Council . . . Who knows what other disciplinary actions await me, if I unwittingly screw things up? Suddenly I understand Gran’s warning about needing to prove my worthiness.

  Am I worthy? I have no idea. But I bet the Death Council does; I can feel Creepy Guy’s eyes on me even now. Assessing.

  I turn his way and can’t stop the shiver that escapes. Yep, he’s staring at me as if he can see through to my soul.

  I hope he likes what he sees.

  And before I can think myself into a major beep-orrific panic, I hightail it back to my room.

  Chapter Thirty

  It feels like I’ve been away from my room for hours but, actually, it’s only been minutes. Nate’s still ambling through the ward, completely oblivious of the fact that a patient has just died. Sorrow wells in me, taking me by surprise. I didn’t know her at all; why do I feel so sad?

  I try to distract myself by gazing out the window, but it doesn’t work. She was too young to give up on life like that. Too young to die. Her death is my wake-up call. I don’t want to face hearings with the Death Council or Reincarnation Board.

  I glance at Creepy Guy.

  “I’m not done with this life. Just so you know,” I say. “Please don’t make me die.”

  He doesn’t answer. He simply watches me with those reptilian, unblinking eyes of his.

  I turn my back on him—jerk—and focus on the view. But this time I don’t just look; I really drink it in. I need to remember every last detail, because this is Day Six and there’s every chance Mr Glum in the corner has already signed off my death.

  The undulating hills, the greenery of the cityscape, the ever-changing sky, the bustle and verve of the streets . . . This city—Auckland—is beautiful. I love its depth and vitality. I want to be in it, part of it, again. I want to remember my favourite shops, my Tess-and-me places, my solitary sanctuaries. I want to feel that sense of belonging.