Tamsyn Murray-Afterlife 01 My So-Called Afterlife (4 page)

Her eyes glittered with interest. She pulled a thick coil of rope from under the neck of her jumper and waved it at me. ‘Suicide.’

Once again, I didn’t know what to say. The Emos I’d known at school were notoriously unstable, but no one I knew had tried to kill themselves. I wondered whether she’d actually meant to die or intended it to be a cry for attention. Did I dare ask?

In the end, I bottled it and changed the subject. ‘What gives with the live ones? Do they come here to find out stuff from their dead loved ones?’

Hep snapped her bubble gum, looking bored. ‘Yeah. The mediums here are really good. Dead people come from miles around but hardly any of them get a word in. The psychics get tired out really fast when everyone shouts at once.’

Her relentless chewing fascinated me. ‘Did you have that gum when you died?’

She blew another bubble, nodding. ‘Cola-flavoured Hubba Bubba. Not that it’s got much flavour left after a year.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you find Droopy? He
looks like he doesn’t get out much.’

Something about the way she said it made me think she wasn’t as dismissive as she was trying to make out. ‘Jeremy? He’s all right, for an old bloke. He’s the reason I’m here.’

She kicked at a stone with a heavy Doc Marten boot. It bounced away into the road. ‘Can he see anyone else?’

‘Not so far. He thinks the church is half empty.’ I watched as she took aim at a discarded Coke can. Realisation dawned. ‘You just kicked that stone!’

Hep scowled. ‘Yeah? There’s no law against it.’

Excitement fizzed inside me. ‘You can touch things. How do you do that?’

‘Blimey, you really are a newbie, aren’t you?’ A grin split her pale face. She was much less scary when she smiled. ‘It’s easy. Pull up a chair and I’ll show you how it’s done.’

If you’ve ever watched a supposed ghost documentary, you’ll know there’s more than one flavour of ghost. Some are the standard
Scooby Doo
spooks, who wave their arms around and moan all the time. Then there are those who choose to spend eternity nicking anything that isn’t nailed down and hiding it so they can watch the living tear their hair out looking for their stuff. I once blamed my missing RE homework on ghostly goings-on. It earned me a detention and an appointment with the Deputy Head.

Hep wasn’t either of those. She was a poltergeist, the kind who loved to throw things. I suppose as an Emo she must have been pretty close to the emotional edge when she was alive, so it made perfect sense that her feelings still ran high after death. Whatever the reason, Hep was one
angry spectre, and she’d learned how to channel that fury to move things around, often violently.

‘The secret is to focus completely on what you want to move,’ she advised as I prodded without success at a fast food carton on the ground. ‘If you really want it, you can make bits of yourself solid long enough to manipulate things. It’s easier if you draw on a strong emotion.’

I imagined a disembodied finger floating in front of me. ‘Doesn’t that freak out the living?’

She threw me a level look. ‘Obviously we can’t be seen or the entire world would believe in ghosts. Now, imagine your finger is a flick-knife and the stone is your worst enemy.’

‘Are you always this bloodthirsty?’ Lying flat out on the pavement with my tongue sticking out with concentration, I could just imagine what my old school bully would say if she could see me now. Something devastatingly witty, no doubt.

A sneering giggle floated through the air. ‘Down in the gutter with the other crap, Hep? Or should I call you Rosemary?’

I frowned and pushed myself up. Who the flip was Rosemary?

‘My name is Hepzibah,’ Hep spat, her tone reaching new depths of surliness. ‘Anyway, I’m surprised you can see who you’re talking to with your head stuck so far up your arse.’

I turned round. In front of me was the most gorgeous pair of turquoise sandals. My gaze travelled upwards to a sickeningly pretty blonde straight out of an American teen comedy. She was flanked on either side by a wannabe. I’d
met her type before and shook my head incredulously. It seemed even the afterlife had a queen bee.

Deciding to give her a chance to prove me wrong, I smiled. ‘Hi. I’m Lucy.’

The girl gazed down at me, her perfect rosebud lips twisting in disdain. ‘And what have we here? Don’t tell me the freak’s got herself a girlfriend.’

Steeling myself, I got to my feet and prepared to bite back.

‘Why didn’t anyone tell me Barbie had died?’ I shook my head sorrowfully. ‘Poor Ken. How will he cope?’

OK, it was hardly comedy genius, but at least I’d stood my ground.

Looking my black skinny jeans and grey denim waistcoat up and down, it was a moment before the girl spoke. ‘If you’re smart, you’ll learn that anyone who hangs around with losers like Ginger here is the lowest of the low.’ She tossed her hair and turned to her attendants. ‘Come on, let’s see if Ryan’s around.’

Scornfully, I watched them leave. ‘Nice shoes, shame about the wearer.’

Hep’s forehead creased into a murderous glower. ‘Kimberly Jones. She likes to think she’s special, but she’s stuck here the same as the rest of us.’

‘I’ve seen her type before. Don’t let her get you down.’ I waved a dismissive hand. ‘She didn’t even make sense. You’re not ginger.’

Scowl deepening further, Hep said, ‘I was before I dyed
my hair. Pity I didn’t think about touching up my roots before I killed myself. See?’ Her head dipped to display her parting. Above the black there were two centimetres of unmistakeable ginger. ‘How was I supposed to know I’d be stuck with them forever?’

It was a fair question. I’d been on my way home from a party when I’d died and looked pretty damn hot, if I said so myself. Sadly, the dice hadn’t rolled so generously for Hep. I decided to change the subject. ‘Who’s Ryan?’

Her face softened. ‘Ryan’s all right. He’s about our age, died in a car crash, but you’d never know it to look at him.’ She grimaced. ‘Kimberly would love to call herself his girlfriend, but she’s not his type.’

The words made me think. I hadn’t considered that as a ghost I still had a chance at a love life. Now that I knew ghosts could touch each other, questions were queuing up for answers. Was it easy to hold their hand? Come to think of it, did it feel the same when you snogged them? It was becoming apparent there was a lot I didn’t know.

‘Right,’ I said, nodding. ‘Who’s Rosemary?’

She was silent for so long I thought she wasn’t going to reply at all. When she finally did speak, it was through gritted teeth. ‘My stupid parents thought I looked like my great aunt and named me after her.’ She shook her head in fury. ‘And people wonder why I committed suicide. At least now I can be called whatever I want.’

It didn’t seem to me that being called Rosemary was reason enough to take your own life, but who was I to
argue? I’d always liked my name. Even so, I imagined there was a lot more to it than Hep was letting on, but it wasn’t the kind of conversation you have with someone you’ve only just met. Once again, I took the easy escape. ‘Tell me again how to move this carton?’

After twenty minutes of sweat-breaking concentration, I still couldn’t shift it and my frustration was starting to show.

‘It takes time,’ Hep commented as I collapsed into a groaning heap. ‘Nobody gets it on their first try.’

I heaved a melodramatic sigh. ‘But I’ve got my heart set on a job at the celestial drive-thru.’

She smiled. ‘I didn’t realise you were the ambitious type. Give it a rest now and try again tomorrow. You’ll get there in the end.’

Knowing she was right didn’t make me feel any better. If I had one fault, it was not knowing when to give up. Like when I’d demanded ballet lessons at the age of four and persevered until the age of seven, even after it became painfully clear I had three left feet. My mother, bless her, had never once suggested I give up. She’d been great like that. I missed her.

Reluctantly, I climbed to my feet. Seconds later I wished I hadn’t as Hep and the church swam before my eyes. I swayed, blinking furiously until my vision cleared.

Hep reached out to steady me. Her hands settled on my arms. ‘Are you OK?’

I didn’t know. For a moment, I’d thought I was going to faint, the way I had last year when I’d tried to survive on a diet of sunflower seeds and grapefruit. That had come to an abrupt end after I collapsed in assembly. I couldn’t blame my diet this time, though. Ghosts don’t eat. ‘I think so. Everything went a bit weird then.’

Hep let go and moved her pallid face closer to mine. ‘How long have you been away from home?’

Who’d have thought I’d ever consider a public toilet home? ‘Dunno. A few hours, I suppose?’

She pulled out her mobile and checked the time. ‘You’d better head home, unless you want your return trip to be a whole lot less pleasant than the one here.’

Puzzled, I frowned at her. ‘Why?’

‘God save me from newbs.’ Her eyes shot skywards. ‘You’re tied to the place where you died. Taking something from that place will allow you to leave for a while, but since you’re new to the experience, it won’t be very long before you need to recharge. If you don’t, eventually you’ll be dragged back, and believe me, you don’t want to go through that.’

Judging from the way she shuddered, she’d been there, and I was more than happy to accept her word that it was no picnic. ‘I’d better find Jeremy.’

‘Yeah, you do that.’ Hep tapped her phone thoughtfully. ‘Even if he’s only a little bit psychic, he might turn out to be useful. You should give me your mobile number so we can hook up here next week.’

* * *

I wondered what she meant the entire journey home. Not about the phone number: once I’d left the toilet I noticed I got a signal and Hep explained about the weird ghostly network the dead used. Obviously we couldn’t contact the living, else people wouldn’t be able to move for messages from the dead, but inter-spirit texting and calls were apparently OK. Once I’d got over my surprise that there was a Network Spooky, I liked what I heard. Unlimited talk-time and all the texts you could send? If I ever made any more ghostly mates, we could have a text-fest.

What I didn’t get was her comment about Jeremy. He wasn’t bad company, and he was very handy in the magazine department, but he couldn’t see Hep, or any other ghosts for that matter. She didn’t strike me as the needy type. How she expected him to be of any practical use was anyone’s guess.

‘Fancy a tour of the theatre?’ Jeremy asked casually a few days after our trip to the church. ‘I’ve got to check all the lighting rigs before the show starts so I’m going in early. You can come along if you like.’

I didn’t have a better offer. Thanks to Jeremy’s halfbrained insistence that I go out regularly ‘for a breath of fresh air’, I was now an old hand at avoiding gormless tourists and could stay away from home for at least four hours at a stretch without feeling faint. Hep boasted she managed six times as long. Since our trip to the Dearly D, a whole new world had opened up to me, and Hep was the best part of it. I’d met other teen ghosts, but Hep and I had clicked, in spite of our radical differences. She was proving surprisingly patient at answering my gazillion questions
about being dead. On the whole, things were looking up. I even ventured out without Jeremy from time to time. I didn’t tell him about that. He liked to feel needed.

The theatre was one of those fantastic old buildings that you somehow become blind to when you live in London. The reddish-brown sandstone was dirty from the daily pollution but I thought it just added to the air of faded glory. Inside, it was all deep red carpets and gilt mirrors. The current production was an Abba tribute show.

‘Is it any good?’

Jeremy pulled a face. ‘It was OK the first few times. I’ve seen about seven hundred performances now so it’s not exactly fresh. I could sing it in my sleep.’

The image of Jeremy flat on his back crooning
Gimme, Gimme, Gimme
made me smile. ‘Bet that makes you an exciting bed-mate, then.’

He shook his head firmly. ‘That’s not a conversation I’m having with you.’

I thought about that as we dodged along the packed streets. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t asked you about your love life. I just imagined you were single. Maybe it’s your dress sense.’

Lips quirking into a wry smile, he didn’t answer.

Something else occurred to me. ‘Do you still live with your parents? Not that there’s anything wrong with it if you do.’

This earned me a level stare and I decided to shut up.
Once we were safely tucked away in the lighting box, Jeremy wasted no time setting me straight. ‘No, I don’t live with my parents. They live in Norwich. And I am single, which is lucky for you because she’d have to be a very understanding woman to accept that I spend most of my spare time hanging around the toilets in Carnaby Street.’

Urgh. I hadn’t given much thought to how that sounded. He was lucky he hadn’t been arrested. ‘OK, sorry I asked.’

‘So you should be. Come on. If you’re really lucky you’ll meet the psychotic theatre cat.’

I half expected the theatre to be already haunted, but if it was, the resident ghost kept well out of my way as Jeremy scaled a towering portable ladder to check the conditions of the lights above the auditorium and stage. By the time he’d finished, other employees were starting to arrive, forcing us back to the lighting box where at least Jeremy could answer my questions.

I was thrilled when he agreed that I could stay for the show.

‘Thanks! I promise I’ll be quiet.’

His expression suggested he found that hard to believe. I was on my best behaviour, though, and only distracted him once in the show. He made a big deal out of it. Personally, I don’t think anyone in the audience would have noticed the late spotlight during the leading lady’s solo. It dawned on me, as he flipped levers and pushed buttons on the complicated lighting desk, that he was quite good at his job. By the
end of the show, I was almost eyeing him with respect. I didn’t mention it, naturally. He might start thinking I liked him or something.

‘If you give me a minute to finish up, I’ll walk you home.’