Heaven Can Wait Page 8

  Anna propped her chin on her hands and stared at the wall above my head. Talk about me, I silently urged her. Talk about what happened when you found me. I know it sounds morbid to obsess about what had happened after I’d died, but I had so many unanswered questions. Who had found me on the hallway floor? Did many people go to my funeral? Was I buried next to my mum and dad?

  ‘So,’ Jess said finally. ‘How’s the sperm donor hunt going? Still looking?’

  Anna raised her eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Kind of, half-heartedly. Part of me thinks I’d better get it sorted quickly, just in case I die first—’

  I laughed, I couldn’t help it. It didn’t come out as a proper laugh of course, more of a wheezing snort. Anna glanced at me, frowned, and looked at Jess.

  ‘What?’ Jess asked.

  Anna looked at me again. ‘Nothing. What was I saying?’

  ‘Part of you thinks you should get it sorted in case you die …’

  ‘Oh yeah, and the other part thinks, I just can’t be arsed. Knowing my luck, I’d give birth to a boy and he’d grow up to be a complete bastard.’

  Jess laughed and clinked her glass against Anna’s. ‘I’ve missed you, Anna. We should do this every week.’

  Anna smiled. ‘I’d love to, Jess. By the way, I love your pinafore. Where did you get it?’

  They continued to talk about clothes, shoes and shopping for the next hour and I zoned out. When you’re dead, no one really cares what you’re wearing (apart from Claire, obviously). I bought myself several more glasses of wine and dipped in and out of the girls’ conversation, waiting for them to change the subject back to me or Dan. At one point they both started reminiscing about one particularly disastrous camping trip we’d all gone on where I’d headed to the toilets in the middle of the night without a torch, tripped over the guy rope of another tent, and landed on a couple who were having sex. It took all my self-restraint not to try and join in.

  By ten o’clock I was very, very drunk and laid my head down on the table. I just wanted to close my eyes for a couple of …

  The barman shook me awake. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s eleven-thirty. Time to go home, Bad Day Girl.’

  I stared up at him through bleary eyes. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Forgotten your bad day already, have you? That’s good.’

  It was true, I had. I’d totally forgotten about slapping Graham Washington and totally screwing up my chance to meet Archie.

  I glanced at Anna and Jess’s table. They’d gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday 30th April

  Day Four

  ‘Lucy,’ Brian bellowed from the door. ‘Lucy, phone!’

  ‘What day is it?’ I mumbled, peering at him through bleary eyes.

  ‘Tuesday,’ he said. ‘And there’s someone on the phone for you.’

  I slumped back onto the sheet and closed my eyes. ‘Tell them I’m dead.’

  Brian snorted. ‘It sounds important.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Some guy called Graham something. Wellington, I think he said.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said, sitting bolt upright.

  What did Wellington want? Could a dead girl go to prison for attempted assault? Oh God. How would I complete my task if that happened?

  I slid off the bed and stumbled out of the room and down the stairs. The door to the cupboard was open and the phone was off the hook. I grabbed at it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Lucy Brown?’ said a familiar voice.

  I swallowed hard. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Lucy Brown, this is Graham Wellington.’

  ‘Oh my God, Graham, Mr Wellington, about what happened, I—’

  ‘Lucy,’ he said sternly, then, ‘is it OK if I call you Lucy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lucy, it has been brought to my attention that my conversation with you yesterday was a little unprofessional.’

  ‘Well, yes. It was, but—’

  ‘And I have been advised that certain employment tribunals do not take kindly to a few old-fashioned compliments.’

  What? Since when was ‘you’ve got a nice pair’ an old-fashioned compliment?

  ‘And, in the light of that,’ he continued, ‘and obviously as a result of your very fine web design skills, I’d like to …’

  He paused.

  ‘You’d what?’ I said, my heart jumping around in my chest like a toddler on a trampoline.

  ‘Offer you the job. When can you start?’

  I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. It was utterly ridiculous. I’d lied about my qualifications, the man had insulted me and I’d slapped him. And I’d got the job!

  ‘Is that a “no”?’ There was fear in Graham Wellington’s voice.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘that’s a “yes”. I can start tomorrow.’

  ‘You can?’ he squeaked. ‘That’s fantastic. You are obviously a very nice girl indeed, Lucy Brown. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘OK. Bye then.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  I was still sniggering to myself as I wandered into the kitchen and poured water into the kettle. Brian appeared at the doorway and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Everything OK, Lucy?’

  ‘Yes, Brian,’ I said, swirling water and washing-up liquid into a dirty mug. ‘It’s brilliant. I’ve got a job.’

  ‘You have? Well done.’ He frowned. ‘Why is that good?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘tomorrow I get to meet Archibald Humphreys-Smythe. I’m one step closer to completing my task.’

  ‘Oh, good for you,’ he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. ‘Good for you.’

  The rest of the day dragged by. There was no TV in the house and the small, cranky radio in the kitchen buzzed intermittently which made it impossible to listen to anything for more than a few minutes without screaming. Claire was out (where, I had no idea) and Brian only popped out of his room every couple of hours to make a cup of tea or use the bathroom.

  I was officially bored.

  At six o’clock, unable to bear my own company for one second more, I tapped on Brian’s door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  He was lying on his bed in his underpants, holding a book called The Encyclopaedia of Electric Trains 1879 – Present Day .

  ‘Hello, Lucy,’ he said, looking up. ‘Take a seat.’

  I walked towards the chair, pausing as I passed the wardrobe. It was the one I’d stumbled out of when I’d arrived from limbo.

  ‘Brian,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I have a look in the wardrobe?’

  He nodded. ‘Mmm hmm. Go ahead.’

  I pulled open the door and peered inside. The cords and pastel jumpers were still there, so were the neat rows of sandals and socks. What about the escalator? Was that still there?

  I parted the hangers and reached for the door handle at the back of the wardrobe.

  ‘Don’t!’ shouted Brian. ‘You’ll die!’

  I jumped back as though I’d been electrocuted. ‘What!’ I said, staring at my hand.

  ‘Just my little joke,’ he grinned.

  ‘Very amusing.’ I looked back at the handle. ‘What happens if I turn this?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Seriously, nothing. You can only open it if there’s someone on the other side.’

  I wiggled the handle and pushed. Nothing happened.

  ‘But what if I want to go back?’ I asked, shoving the door.

  ‘Then you use the other door,’ Brian said, flicking over a page of his book.

  ‘What door?’

  ‘The one in your wardrobe.’

  Hmmm. Interesting, and also horribly tempting. If I ever felt like giving up my task I could just jump into my wardrobe and scramble my way back up to limbo. Not that I’d ever do that, of course.

  ‘Sit down and relax,’ Brian said as I banged the wardrobe door shut. ‘You’re making me feel stressed.’

  I plonked myself into the wicker chair by
the window, pulled my knees to my chest and stared round Brian’s room, desperate for something to entertain me. Could his posters be any more dull? How could anyone feel moved by the sight of a train?

  ‘Brian,’ I said. ‘Have you come back to haunt a train?’

  He peered at me over the top of his book. ‘No, Paddington Station.’

  ‘A station?’

  ‘Yes, you have a better vantage point for train-watching from Paddington.’

  Was he winding me up? I raised my eyebrows at him but he didn’t smirk or giggle. He seriously wanted to haunt a train station.

  ‘Um, right,’ I said. ‘So you’ve been here for what … nine days now?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And how’s the task going?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about my task, Lucy,’ Brian mumbled, raising his book so it covered his face.

  ‘Why not? Maybe I could hel—’

  The bedroom door slammed open and I jumped. Oh. Great. Claire was back. And she didn’t look happy.

  ‘Could you go?’ she said, leaning against the doorframe. ‘I need to have a word with Brian. Alone.’

  I looked at my flatmate but he was still hiding behind his book. Coward.

  ‘Ask me nicely,’ I said, grinning at Claire.

  She feigned a smile. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘See,’ I said, as I squeezed past her. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be nice, does it?’

  ‘Bye, Bride,’ she said, and slammed the door shut after me.

  I hung around on the landing for a couple of seconds and then pressed my ear against Brian’s door. What was so private Claire couldn’t say it in front of me? Hmmnnnggg, came Brian’s low voice. Hmmnnnggg. Hmmnnnggg. Hmmnnnggg. I couldn’t make out a single word he or Claire were saying. Now what was I supposed to do to entertain myself ?

  I wandered into my bedroom, opened my wardrobe door and peered inside. Brian was right. Behind my hangers and clothes was another white door, identical to the one in his room. I stroked the handle.

  Open it? Don’t open it? What’s the worst that could happen?

  I could be whisked off to limbo, never see Dan again and he’d spend the rest of his life wondering if I’d died thinking he was a waste of space.

  Oh. OK. That was pretty bad.

  I threw myself onto my bed and grabbed the photo from my bedside table. It was of me and Dan on our first holiday together in Menorca. Dan was grinning like a loon and I was laughing my head off. It was a perfect holiday. The sand was white, the sea was cold and clear, and the sun was glorious. One afternoon, when Dan was feeling unusually energetic, he challenged me to a swim-off.

  ‘See that buoy over there?’ he’d asked, pointing into the distance.

  ‘Yeah,’ I’d nodded.

  ‘I’ll race you to it.’

  I squinted at the buoy. It was a long way away and I wasn’t a particularly fast swimmer.

  ‘Only if we both swim breaststroke,’ I bartered.

  ‘OK,’ Dan had said, holding out his hand. ‘You’re on.’

  We pelted down the beach, threw ourselves into the cool water and started to swim. We were pretty well matched at first, but then Dan put his head down and started to pull away from me. Before I knew it, he was about ten metres ahead. There was no way I was going to win.

  I stopped swimming, flipped onto my back and sculled with my hands. It was so quiet I could almost hear myself breathing. On the beach, ant-sized people scuttled around, shook their towels free of sand and settled themselves on sun-loungers. I’d felt like some kind of mermaid or oceanic god, surveying my world. It was bliss.

  ‘Hey,’ said a disgruntled voice beside me. It was Dan, red-faced and puffing. ‘You gave up.’

  ‘I didn’t give up,’ I said, covering my eyes as he splashed me. ‘I just stopped to admire the view.’

  ‘Wow,’ he said, staring back at the beach. ‘That’s pretty bloody fantastic.’

  ‘I know.’

  Overhead, a seagull squawked as it surfed in the wind.

  ‘How do you imagine heaven?’ Dan asked, sculling beside me, his hairy toes peeping above the water.

  ‘I dunno. Fields of poppies, sunshine, fluffy clouds, relatives running to meet me?’

  ‘I think it looks like this,’ he said.

  I smiled. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So what happens when we both die?’ I asked. ‘Do I live in poppy-field heaven and you live in sea heaven?’

  Dan reached for me then and pulled me towards him. I wrapped my legs around his hips and we bobbed up and down in the water, the waves lapping around us.

  ‘I hope heaven is a bit of both,’ he’d said. ‘Then we’ll be together.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ I said, kissing him full on the lips.

  *

  The sound of raised voices and a door slamming snapped me out of my daydream.

  ‘Brian!’ Claire was screaming. ‘Brian, come back.’

  I jumped off my bed and sprinted across the room. My gothic flatmate was standing at the top of the stairs, bellowing after Brian, who was speeding towards the front door shouting, ‘Leave me alone!’ at the top of his voice.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘What the hell’s going on, Claire? What did you do to him?’

  She glared at me. ‘I didn’t do anything to him. I just asked if he’d help me with my task and he went off on one and stormed out.’

  I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  ‘I’m going after him,’ I said. ‘You stay here.’

  ‘Do what you want,’ she snarled. ‘I don’t give a shit.’

  By the time I’d pulled on my coat and escaped out of the front door, Brian was already halfway down the street.

  ‘Brian!’ I shouted after him. ‘Brian, wait.’

  Instead of replying or slowing down, he speeded up, striding down the street like a man on a mission.

  Dammit. What the hell was wrong with him?

  I followed him for a good ten minutes, ducking into people’s gardens and behind bushes whenever he crossed the road and looked both ways. When we reached the tube station a light bulb went on in my head. Brian was heading for Paddington Station. I’d put money on it.

  I waited until he boarded the train and then darted out from the stairs and jumped into the adjacent carriage. And trapped the hem of my coat in the door as it closed.

  Shit.

  The rest of the carriage grinned at me as the train chugged forward and I yanked at my coat.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘come on, you bugger’.

  I put my heel on the door for leverage and pulled. Come on! Come on! My coat slipped free and I stumbled backwards, tripped over someone’s suitcase, and landed in the lap of a sleeping businessman.

  ‘Sorry,’ I gasped as he woke with a snort. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  I struggled up and grabbed hold of the overhead rail. Anna Friel, in an advert for a West End play, grinned down at me.

  ‘Sod off, you smug cow,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘you had it easy in Pushing Daisies .’

  ‘This is Paddington,’ the guard announced as the train slowed to a halt. ‘All change for Paddington train station, the District and Circle lines and the Hammersmith and City line.’

  The doors opened and I peered through them. Brian was striding towards the exit. Quick, after him. I jumped off the tube and hurried down the platform.

  The up escalator popped me out in the middle of Paddington Station and I stared around wildly. Now where had Brian gone? I panicked silently and scanned the concourse. He’d said something in his bedroom about Paddington having the best vantage point. I stared up at the roof. But where? I’d have to ask one of the guards.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, approaching the first one I spotted. ‘Could you please tell me the best vantage point for watching the trains?’

  He looked me up and down and grinned. ‘You forgot your anorak.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, the blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘I’m not a trains
potter. I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said, pointing into the distance, not sounding entirely convinced. ‘Most of them hang out over there.’

  ‘Right, thanks,’ I said and set off towards the back of the station. Ah, there he was. Brian’s fuzzy, dark hair was bobbing around in the middle of the crowd crossing the bridge.

  I climbed the stairs and sidled up to him. He was leaning on a low metal wall, staring at the trains chugging slowly into and out of the station. He looked like he’d been crying.

  ‘Brian,’ I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s Lucy. Are you OK?’

  He jumped and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was worried about you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t bother,’ he said, turning back to the trains. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.’

  ‘But I do worry,’ I said, moved by the sight of his sad, blotchy face. ‘The only people I’ve got in this strange living dead world are you and Claire. We need to look out for each other.’

  Brian snorted. ‘You think Claire’s going to look out for us?’

  ‘OK, well not Claire, but I still worry about her. She’s like the bitchy little sister I never had.’

  It was true. I had started to think of Brian and Claire as my pseudo-family. Claire was my annoying little sister and Brian was my strange, smelly uncle. There might have been other living dead people on earth, but we didn’t know who they were or where they lived. The only people we could talk to about what we were going through were each other.

  ‘What’s up, Brian?’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s go somewhere and have a chat.’

  For a second I thought he was going to tell me to sod off and leave him alone. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘The café on platform one does a nice cup of tea.’

  We sat at a table in the window, Brian with his pot of tea and me with a cup of coffee and a flapjack (I’m great in a crisis, I just need something sweet to get me through it).

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘What’s the problem? Is it your task?’ Brian nodded miserably and stared out of the window. ‘I’m never going to complete it.’