Dead Girl Walking (13 page)

He looks down at where his hand lies under mine. ‘That’s good,’ he says. Our hands stay together and he looks up at me. ‘I’d like to kiss you.’

I don’t move. He takes my silence as permission and leans towards me. Life, death and everything in between fades as his lips find mine. There is only a ferocity of need that shocks me and I feel more alive than ever before. I reach for him, fingers in his hair, drawing him in. I hear his chair hit the floor as he pulls me up and into his arms. My head is full of the scent of him, erasing all resolve or logic until all I can think of is the taste of him and the heat of his body against mine.

Just as I think I can’t fall, I know I’m already lost.

‘How’s it going Gran?’ I take a seat by the bed. She hasn’t moved, of course, since I saw her last. She looks even hollower today, like she’s desiccating by degrees until she becomes a dry husk. ‘So… you know how you’re always telling me I should get a nice boyfriend?’

Nothing.

‘I sort of have. He’s nice, anyway. I’m not sure if he’s my boyfriend. Although we did sort of
cement
our relationship. But we never actually said we were an item. And he might be a bit mentally disturbed. But then, I suppose you could say that about me… being half-dead and all…’

I turn my face to the window where a rolling expanse of cloud scuds across the sky. ‘I washed my hair today, though,’ I say, my attention back on her prone form. ‘That’s good, right?’

The sound of the machinery keeping her breathing is my only reply.

‘I think I might be falling for him, though, Gran. And I don’t think it’s a good idea. In fact, I know it isn’t. I mean, look at his writing…’ I wriggle to one side, pull the scrap of paper from my jeans pocket and hold it up for her. ‘Just look at that. That’s bad, isn’t it?’

I turn the paper back to look at it myself. Now that I really come to inspect it, I can see that it wobbles in places. But maybe that was just him writing in a rush on a rickety table.

My gaze travels to the window again. My lips are raw and I can still smell him on my skin. The thrill of these sensations brings guilt.

‘There’s something else, too. I stopped seeing the counsellor.’

I try to imagine what she would say to this. She might click her tongue on the roof of her mouth like she always does. Then she’d weigh her words carefully before delivering a succinct nugget of barbed wisdom. Something about being my own counsellor. But then I think back to the last time I visited her when she was conscious, in this very hospital, how anxious she seemed for me to get some good out of my visits to Helen.

‘She wasn’t doing me any good. In fact, all she did was complain how I wasn’t trying hard enough, how nobody can help me until I help myself…’ I look at Gran, her face wrung out like an old dishcloth. ‘And her voice was really annoying. Sort of
smug all the time, like she wanted to pull out her degree certificate and wave it in my face, so I’d know how clever she is.’

I’m not sure who this conversation is trying to convince. Even if Gran was awake, I’d still think it was more for me than her. I know in my heart that my decision has nothing to do with Helen’s inefficacy and everything to do with my skewed vision of the world. And I know that I need help. I just need to hear it from someone who counts to know it’s true. If Gran was here, she’d be that someone.

‘Do you think I should go back, Gran?’ I ask. Stupid, I know, but I need to say it out loud.

I listen to the steady bleep of the machinery keeping her alive.

‘There’s something else,’ I say. ‘I’ve been dragged into this murder thing. I’m helping the police, at least, one policeman in particular. He asked me to see if I could identify a serial killer. And I keep getting this horrible feeling that things are going to get messy. I don’t know what to do, Gran. I couldn’t see clearly at first, it’s always like that when I get the visions, but you know how it is, stuff comes back to me later. And that’s what’s happening now – stuff is coming back to me, creeping into my brain all the time. Should I tell the detective everything I see? I mean, I want to help prevent another murder, of course I do, but I feel like… like the murderer will find out. Then he’ll come after me.’ I grab her hand. ‘Gran, tell me what to do.’

I’m suddenly aware that we’re not alone any more. I spin around to find Gran’s nurse, the one I had an argument with on my first visit, in the doorway.

‘Can I disturb you?’ she asks with the faintest trace of amusement on her face. ‘I need to clean her.’

I get up, catching my ankle on the edge of the bed in my haste, trying not to let her see me wince. My face is starting to burn.

‘’Course.’

Grabbing my bag and coat from the spare chair, I shuffle to the door. She barely moves aside so that I have to squeeze past her, all the while eyeing me with this sardonic half-smile.

Out in the corridor, I tussle with my belongings, trying to organise myself without having to stop. Of all the people who could have overheard that conversation, the only worse possibility would be the serial killer himself. But maybe I’m being paranoid,
maybe she didn’t hear anything. She’s such a smug cow that she probably looks like that all the time. And part of me vaguely wonders which bit of the conversation I’d be most embarrassed about – the bit about the murders or the bit about Dante. Thinking of him brings his smell back to me and suddenly it’s not humiliation or the overheated corridors making me colour. I shouldn’t have slept with him; he’ll probably never call me again. I shrug my coat on and search for the now-familiar slip of paper. It doesn’t look like the writing of someone who doesn’t call. I find myself hoping, against my conscious will, that I’m right. I shove the scrap back into my jeans and just catch the lift as the doors are closing, forcing a click of the tongue from a middle aged woman as I squeeze my way in. Then I realise that I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts of Dante that I forgot I don’t like full lifts. I don’t like people at this proximity at all. The doors close and it’s too late so I pull myself in, as tight as can be until my arms ache, anything not to have to touch any of them. I’m afraid of what else I might be able to see if I do.

‘I’m sorry we had a misunderstanding last time you were here, but I’m glad you decided to come back. Helen smiles.

‘I hadn’t got much else on,’ I shrug.

‘It’s good news, whatever your reasons. Especially in light of what you’ve told me about your grandmother.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Because, whether you like it or not, you need to face up to the fact that you don’t have that support any more. You said you have no other family?’

‘None worth mentioning.’

‘There you go again. I wish you’d contact them, or at least let someone do it on your behalf. But as you won’t, it’s more important than ever that you become self-sufficient, not only domestically but emotionally too.’ She folds her hands in her lap. ‘So, let’s talk about what you’ve been doing since I last saw you.’

I run over recent events in my mind. How can I tell her any of this? I’m not sure I can talk about Dante and I’m certainly not allowed to tell her the police stuff. ‘I’ve been trying to make myself more useful,’ I say carefully, deciding on a fairly neutral statement.

‘In what way?’

‘Being a bit more public spirited, helping others where I can, keeping an eye out for crime, that sort of thing.’

She looks as though she’s fighting the impulse to raise an incredulous eyebrow. ‘You want to elaborate on that?’

‘I have a boyfriend,’ I say, changing the subject to what I realise, too late, is an even worse one.

‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘How’s that going?’

‘Ok.’

I haven’t seen Dante since he came to my house a week ago. I haven’t called him either. I don’t know whether he’s staying away because he thinks I want him to, and I don’t phone him because I don’t know whether he wants me to. Are guys like him disgusted by girls like me once they’ve had them?

‘
Ok
? You don’t sound very certain about that.’

I pause. ‘It’s early days, I suppose. And I’ve had a lot on my mind, with my gran being ill.’

She picks up a file and makes some notes. I try to snatch a look but her writing is scribbly and I can’t make any sense out of it.

‘You’d have made a good doctor,’ I comment as she snaps the lid back on her pen. She looks up at me with a questioning frown. ‘The handwriting, I mean.’

‘Oh yes,’ she smiles. ‘Like two ink-soaked spiders having a fight.’ She seems to appraise me for a moment before she speaks again. ‘How are you coping domestically?’

‘My hair is clean,’ I run a hand through it, just to clarify how squeaky it is. ‘I’m washing clothes now and I have food in. I can’t promise that you’d be able to run a finger along the surfaces at home and not catch some form of plague, though…’ I pause for a moment. What else? ‘Oh, I’ve still got the cat. She’s a she… I think. I don’t have a name for her yet but I’m working on it.’

‘Are you sleeping?’

There’s no point in lying because it’s obvious to anyone that I’m not. ‘I’m still getting the flashbacks and the dreams. I’m getting even more now,’ I say, instantly realising I shouldn’t have opened that conversation.

‘More?’ she asks. ‘Why do you think that is? Has something happened recently?’

‘I don’t know why it’s happening,’ I say quickly.

She gazes at me before taking a sip of her tea. ‘You’re sure nothing has happened to set you back?’

I shake my head. My gaze travels to the window behind her.

‘What about the journal?’ she asks. ‘Do you feel like it’s helping?’

‘I haven’t written for a while. Been too busy with Gran and everything.’

‘Was it helping when you did?’

I shrug. ‘It gave me something to do.’

‘That’s better than nothing,’ she smiles. ‘What about university? Have you thought about that? A support network of friends might be just what you need. And the university has its own counselling service; I could put you in touch with them and they’d help to support you.’

‘That’s where I’d have to sit with normal people all day, talking about normal things and doing normal things as if nothing abnormal has ever happened to me, right?’

‘No,’ she replies slowly, ‘it’s where you might just get your life back. It would give you something to focus on, some direction for the future, help you to look far enough to see that there will be an end to how you’re feeling right now.’

Something to focus on
… I tear at the skin around my nail until it starts to bleed, thinking about what she’s said. Maybe that’s what helping Karl is. It gives me some sort of purpose at least. I’ve gone around and around in my head, trying to figure out why I survived that crash, but perhaps it’s nothing more than simply having a job to do. I’ve been brought back with a gift that can save lives, or at least give closure to the ones left behind for the lives I was too late to save. It’s a comforting thought.

‘Do you believe that we have predetermined destinies, or that we have free will?’ I ask.

She sighs and puts down her cup. ‘You’re doing it again, Cassie.’

I raise my eyebrows in a questioning response.

‘Putting barriers in the way of your recovery,’ she explains. ‘Asking me questions that you know won’t really lead our discussion anywhere.’

‘How do you know my question won’t?’

‘Because you’re trying to answer something that can’t be answered and so ultimately it won’t help.’

‘Or maybe it will. How do you know? You can’t have come across this before because I’m a unique case.’

I sit back and wait for her response. Part of me thinks that last statement was the most arrogant thing anyone has ever said, like I think the sun revolves around my Earth. But it’s true.

‘You are a unique case,’ she says, ‘but you don’t have unique emotional responses. You have classic survivor’s guilt. You are the same as every other person who ever survived a disaster or a war. And the coping mechanisms will be the same.’

Just the phrase
coping mechanisms
makes me want to throw something at her. It’s just so fucking textbook. I sit on my hands and wait for the rage to subside as she bends her head back to her notes. She thinks I’m just a silly girl feeling sorry for myself and I can’t make her see that I could be more, so much more, if only I could figure out how.

‘We need to start examining why
you
think you survived while your family did not.’ She says. ‘It’s a question you’ve been avoiding for a long time now. Once you can face that, honestly, I think you may start to see that it was random chance, and could not have been caused by anything you’ve done.’

‘How should I know that?’

‘You must have some thoughts about why you’re here now. Tell me the first response to the question that pops into your head.’

‘I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve obsessed over it,’ I say. ‘I don’t have the answer. There is no reason for the choice. That’s why I want to know about destiny and free will.’

‘Do you believe in God?’ she asks.

I laugh. She raises her eyebrows in surprise as I lean closer and drop my voice. ‘Do you?’ I ask. ‘Because if you do, then you’re in for a big shock. When you die there’s nothing, Helen, there’s just darkness and cold and nothing else.’

I turn the corner to my house and Dante is waiting by the door. He looks up as I approach and smiles awkwardly.

‘So, they don’t have phones in your universe?’ I say as I pull my keys out.

He shrugs. I open the door and turn back to him.

‘I suppose you think I’m going to ask you in for more sex on my kitchen floor?’

‘Cup of tea first, maybe?’ he asks.

Despite myself, I smile. ‘Is that what they do for foreplay in Belfast?’

It’s his turn to give a reluctant smile. ‘It’s all part of the Irish charm.’

I pause and then beckon him in. ‘Come on then.’

He follows me down the hall. ‘You went back to Helen,’ he says.

‘How did you know?’

‘I saw you go in,’ he says.

I gesture for him to take a seat at the table and shrug off my coat. The kitchen is cold but it feels weird leaving it on. ‘If you saw me, why didn’t you say anything?’