Between (7 page)

He frowns. "Clarissa’s different."

My stomach sinks. "So, she’s your girlfriend?"

Alek’s
laugh has a harshness that reminds me of his reaction to Finn. "No."

I rub my
forehead; I’m too tired for this. Leaning over my cup, I inhale the fragrance of the chamomile, hoping it will soothe me. I look over my mug at Alek.

"Tell me what’s happening."

"Happening?" He swigs his beer, feigning nonchalance.

Fine
.
"I’m thinking about leaving."

For the second time, I manage to arrest him mid-drink. "Leaving?"

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say?"

He
smirks. "When are you going?"

This isn’t the reaction I expected. The conversation I heard didn’t suggest I could leave without a struggle. "Don’t know."

"More importantly, where are you going?"

Good question. "I’ll find somewhere." I have a thousand and one questions I want to ask this guy
. With his strange mix of arrogance and caring, I’m still not sure if he is an ally or an enemy. Instead, I sip my tea and fix my look on a spot behind him.

"When you’re not so tired, we should talk
," he offers.

"Talk? To me? Why
, thank you!" I turn on the saccharin sarcasm.

Alek
slumps back in his chair. "Or not. Your choice."

"I’m tired,
Alek. I’m not in the mood for games." I stand and edge toward the door. In response, he sits forward again.

"
There are things I need to talk to you about," he says. "Important things."

I pause in the doorway. "You barely say anything to me, annoy me with stupid nicknames
, and then say you have important things to tell me. And I should believe you, why?"

“I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, I just haven’t figured out how.”

“Yes, I noticed your conversational skills are lacking.”

Alek
grins and shakes his head a little. "You’re amusing. Aren’t you curious about what I have to say?"

"Didn’t you hear me say I’m leaving?
I’m leaving because of how this place makes me feel. ‘Curious’ is not the word I’d use."

"You can’t leave," he says softly.

An image of myself locked in my room springs to mind, the stupid Bo Peeps and fairies from my wallpaper closing in on me. I’m close to running upstairs, packing, and leaving tonight. "Are you threatening me?"

Alek
tips his head,. "No, but I’m trying not to touch you."

I lick my dry lips as he stands and I back
toward the doorway.
Why does a huge part of me want to touch him?
Alek doesn’t get close enough for me to feel threatened, but I can’t move. "What’s going on?"

"So much. Too much. It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow."

"What did Lizzie mean about you protecting me?"

Alek’s
eyes widen. "What?" Now he can’t pretend their conversation didn’t happen.

"Right before the bit
where she suggested you seduce me?"

Stepping backward,
Alek returns to his chair. He sits and resumes nursing his beer, switching off.

"Sweet dreams, Casper."

His sudden shift in mood is too much to comprehend or challenge. The more interaction I have with
Alek, the more I worry his edginess points to deeper issues. Quietly, I leave the kitchen and hope the effect he just had on me doesn’t stop me sleeping.

CHAPTER 7

I wake up to an
unpleaseantly cold house, as usual and getting out of bed isn’t appealing because of the temperature outside of the bedclothes. My shift isn’t until later today, so I snuggle back under my blankets to lie in for a while. Hunger has other ideas.

As I sit and eat cereal, I notice
Alek’s empty beer bottle and consider our last non-conversation. The discomfort I feel around this house grows every day, so I decide today’s job will be searching for somewhere else to live. Finding this place took a long time, so I know finding somewhere new won’t be an easy task; however, my unease is growing into fear for my safety.

Wrapped up in a thick coat and scarf around my face, I step outside into the bright autumn day. Walking out of the house lifts
my spirits; a sense of relief when leaving the place you live isn’t good and this reinforces my decision to leave.

As
I head to the bus stop, I fish around in my pocket for loose change and pull out a card. The printed lettering reminds me about the doctor’s appointment I made the day I fainted. I agreed to go back--should I go or not? Since the accident, I’ve had enough of the medical profession to last a lifetime, but they could have answers to help stop the dizziness and fog.

****

The doctor’s room is brightly lit with the usual set of medical books and weird plastic models, which can be pulled apart to show the inner workings of the ear or where babies come from. This doctor has the modern mix of the friendly and concerned demeanour medical professionals have these days. She taps a button on her keyboard and spends a couple of minutes reading over my notes.

"So, you’ve had some dizzy spells again
."

"A couple. I fainted once."

"Any headaches?"

"No."

"How are you coping with the job?"

"Nothing’s bothering me if that’s what you mean."
Apart from where I live
.

She turns back to her screen, brown eyes moving rapidly to take in everything in my notes. "How long have you been out of hospital now?"

"About three months."

"And the dizziness just started again?"

"Yeah, apparently, I shouldn’t have stopped the meds so quickly. But I’m taking them now and it’s still happening."

The doctor
nods, comes over, and takes my pulse and blood pressure. Her perfume reminds me of a friend from school, which in turn makes Jamie appear in my mind. She steps back and winds her stethoscope around her neck.

"Everything is normal there."

"Good."

The doctor resumes her seat. "You had a pretty bad accident. Things will take a while to get back to normal."

I chew inside my cheek, in case I say something wrong. Talk about stating the bloody obvious. "I know. But do you think the dizziness will go soon? It’s annoying."

"Probably. Did you have a head injury?"

This surprises me. She has the notes in front of her. I hope she doesn’t want me to recount my recent medical history all over again; I’m moving on. Or I was until I started fainting again.

"Minor. Blood loss was the problem." Sweat prickles the back of my neck and the cold feeling enters my veins.

"And you were in a coma for a few weeks?"

"Yes." The smell comes in, burning
tyres and asphalt. "I don’t want to talk about this. I’ve had scans, everything. My head is fine."

"Have you ever spoken to anyone about the accident?"
she asks gently.

"Like a counsellor? No. I just want to move on
, and this is why the dizziness is annoying me. I can’t keep fainting. I need my life back."

The doctor pulls out
a pad and scrawls. "Maybe some blood tests then. Just to get an idea; you look very pale."

That’s
it; I’m buying make-up this afternoon. "I’ve always been pale."

"Ashen?"

"You’re talking about the accident and it’s making me feel ill." The room constricts around me; I have to get out.

"Sorry." She rips the paper from the pad, and holds it out to me between fingers with manicured pink nails. "Have the
blood-work done then come back next week; we'll see how you’re going then."

I stare at the door and focus on my breathing. Jamie’s face falls into my mind. "Thanks."

I stumble out of the room and suck in lungsful of air.
What a mistake
. I should’ve gone straight to town instead of visiting a doctor I knew couldn’t help. The cool autumn air knocks some of the dizziness from me and I sit on the low wall outside, swallowing down my nausea. I fight the gripping fog and succeed. With relief, I head to work.

CHAPTER 8

I spend the next three days house
-hunting, but my search for new accommodation isn’t fruitful. I thought my current house was far from work; however, the nearest alternative I can find is in a dodgy area another fifteen minutes away. Life continues in the same monotonous fashion: shifts at work, house-hunting, home to the weird house, avoid the occupants, bed. Rinse and repeat. Nothing else strange has happened which is a good thing since I can’t find anywhere new to live yet. My life isn’t moving on anymore than when I was stuck in a hospital bed. I have no social life and no energy to look for one.

My night-time meetings with
Alek continue, but he hasn’t mentioned our last conversation. I refuse to bring up the subject because I don’t believe he has anything useful to say to me. The following mornings, I can never remember what we do talk about or if we talk at all.

Now b
ack at work, I have one more job before lunch. The elevator lurches to a halt as I leave with my trolley full of files for the morgue staff. Some parts of the hospital I hate going to. Really hate. Not because being near the morgue brings on memories of bad horror movies, but because it reminds me of where I nearly ended up. Luckily, the staff office is far enough from the morgue itself to stop the memories sneaking back in. The hospital I work in is old; the basement’s a maze of rooms, mostly used for file storage so I’m often down here. I guess I should be getting used to it by now, but I picture Jamie every time I walk past the double doors toward the room where the bodies are.

There’s a new staff member behind the desk today
--a guy about my age, brown hair with a reddish tinge, who’s munching on a chocolate bar he puts to one side as I approach. He eyes my name badge.

"Rose Walker."

I don’t like the way he says it, as if he’s connecting me to something in his memory. His accent is Welsh. "Tom Jones," I say, looking at his name badge as I snigger to myself.

His thick eyebrows pull together. "Yeah, forget the jokes
; I've heard them a thousand times."

"Where do you want these?" I point to the
trolley; I can’t be bothered with niceties.

"Leave them there." He regards me with forest
-green eyes. "Don’t you find it weird coming down here?"

"No. Why?"

"You almost ended up here, didn’t you?"

My mouth falls open at his upfront question.
How does he know who I am?
"I work here. I come here all the time."

"Have you been in there?" he asked, tipping his head
toward the doors at the end of the corridor.

"No. Why would I? I’m not permitted
, even if for some unexplained reason I wanted to."

He shrugs and picks his chocolate bar back up. "Some people would never do my job, alone down here with the dead people."

"You’re not alone."

"Sometimes I am
and that’s when I see them." He chews thoughtfully on his bar. "I’m a bit psychic, see."

"Really?" He just proved you have to be a lunatic to work in his job.

"Yeah, some people never leave. They don’t like dying in hospital."

"I really don’t want to have this conversation with you."

He leans toward me. "Their spirits don't want to leave. Ghosts."

I step back from him. "Yeah, I’m sure most hospitals are haunted."
By lunatics, like him.

"And
there are people who work here." He glances around and leans forward conspiratorially. "People who take them."

"Take them. Right." I consider whether he needed to pass some kind of mental competency test to be able to work here because if he did, he should have failed it.

The elevator doors open behind me and Tom sits back, eyes widening. "There’s one now."

I turn expecting to see a ghost
, but instead, spot a guy heading toward us. He looks like a doctor; his neatly cut brown hair matches his smart shirt and tie and he has a lanyard around his neck. The man approaches Tom with a curt nod to me. I seize my chance and leave.

****

Another lunch break, another search. I brought sandwiches to eat today, telling myself I’m taking advantage of the early spring sunshine and fresh air and not avoiding social contact. Or contact with Finn. I shiver at the memory of his touch on my arm and the icy pain in my chest. I must’ve imagined it, a side effect of the fog and dizziness. I read through the flat-share section of the newspaper, as if the perfect one will magically pop up the more times I read the column. The newspaper flaps in the breeze; I fold it over and lean my elbows on the paper. Nothing new listed. I sigh, sit back and finish my sandwich.