Authors: Sharon Sant
‘I bet you want dinner, don’t you?’
The purr is louder as it looks up at me.
‘I thought so… user.’ I smile and pull off my coat as I wander down the hall to the kitchen.
‘So…’ I say as I spoon my last tin of tuna into a dish. ‘I suppose we’d better find out where you came from.’ I eye the empty tin as I put the food down and the cat dives in. ‘And if you are staying then I suppose we’d better get something to feed you… and some flea powder,’ I add, swiping at an offending black speck hopping up my leg.
I watch thoughtfully as the cat wolfs down the tuna, like it’s afraid it will never get another meal again. But then I don’t know how long it’s been living rough – if it has at all, of course – so maybe that’s true. It has a sweet little face; if anyone has thrown it out I don’t know how they had the heart. I have a sneaky feeling it’s captured mine already.
As kitty is eating I hang my jacket up. That’s when I notice something weird. The pair of silver heels that Tish wore at her year eleven leaver’s prom lie discarded in the corner of the hallway, behind the front door so that I wouldn’t have seen them when I
came in. They’ve been stashed in her wardrobe since she died and I never go in there; I didn’t even go in there after the funerals to clear it out. I can’t help the shiver that runs down my spine as I stare at them. I hurry into the sitting room and run my gaze over the room. Everything seems to be just as I left it. I repeat the exercise for every other room – making my search in Tish’s and my parents’ more of a fleeting glance – but as far as I can tell nothing else has been moved. I check the locks on the doors but all seems normal.
As I go back into the kitchen the cat comes to greet me again, purring as it weaves around me. It would be ridiculous to think that the cat being in the house had something to do with the shoes being out, wouldn’t it? And yet the alternatives are even more weird or terrifying. Either some shoe moving fetishist has broken in and out again without touching anything else, or Tish’s ghost has been back to try them on one last time, or I’ve developed some kind of Norman Bates syndrome and gained a new personality who pretends to be my sister and walks around in her shoes without my being aware of it.
I shake myself as I go into the living room, sink into the sofa and switch the TV on. I need to move the shoes but I feel so weirded out at the moment that I can’t bring myself to do it. The cat follows me in and leaps onto my lap where it curls up.
The phone rings out in the hall. I’m kind of annoyed at it because I’m comfortable and warm with the cat on the sofa. I stretch and the cat jumps nimbly from my knees. For a moment I sit and listen to the phone’s shrill call, half in the mood not to bother answering it. I have a pretty good idea who it will be and I still haven’t made up my mind. But then I have this sudden nagging fear that it might be about Gran so I push myself from the sofa to go and get it. But as soon as I pick up I know it’s him from the background noise in his office.
‘Yes?’
‘Cassie, it’s Robert Johnson.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you thought any more about it?’
‘I haven’t had time.’
‘I can wait. How much time do you need to decide?’
‘It isn’t that…I’m not sure I’m ready to share it with the world. I don’t get why you’re so eager for me to do this interview anyway.’
‘Something like this might give people faith,’ he says, his voice silky and persuasive.
‘Faith in what? An entirely random selection of survival beyond death that is not seemingly based on any virtue or deserving factor, but only dumb luck?’
He’s quiet for a moment.
‘Don’t you dare write that down,’ I say.
‘I’d struggle to know where to start writing that down,’ he says in a jokey tone. When I’m silent, his voice becomes serious again. ‘People should know this story. It’s not about dumb luck, it’s about hope.’
I take a look around the cold, silent hallway. There’s no hope here, only ghosts. If others could have what I have, I’m not sure they’d want it.
‘Give me half an hour, Cassie, that’s all I’m asking. If you’re not happy afterwards, we won’t go to print, you have my word.’
I pull the phone from the table and sit on the floor with it on my lap. ‘I just don’t think I can go through with it. I can’t even talk to my counsellor properly about it.’
‘That’s because counsellors don’t chat like old friends,’ he says. ‘Counsellors have a job to do; it’s treatment.’
‘Don’t you have a job to do?’
‘Yes, but mine is creative, not done to prescription. I’m not expecting you to get better to a time-frame, I’m just listening as an interested party.’ He pauses before delivering the sucker punch. ‘You may find talking to me helps more than the counsellor ever could.’
‘But the counsellor won’t splash it across a newspaper.’
‘Cassie… people read the story and it’s forgotten a week later. I think you’re seeing an impact on your life that won’t materialise.’
‘If that’s true, why are you so keen for the story?’
‘Because I’m interested. That’s part of the joy of this job, why I do it. I find stories that interest me in the hope that others will enjoy reading them too.’
‘Sounds a bit morbid, the idea that people will enjoy reading about my death.’
‘It’s a morbid world,’ he replies, his tone frank. ‘People love to read about misery. But they also love to read about second chances and hope, and hearing of a survival like yours gives everyone that hope for miracles.’
‘It feels like I’m sullying my family’s memory, somehow…’
‘Then make it not so. Tell their story and tell the world how much you loved them, how incredible they were; how much they meant to you. Tell our readers how hard life is without them. You can make the story yours, Cassie, you can tell any tale you want. Make this your eulogy, a lasting testament to their memory that you declare to the world.’
‘So… it’s not just about me.’
‘Not if you don’t want it to be.’
‘You won’t change anything I say?’
‘Of course not,’ he replies, his tone somewhat offended.
‘It’s just that… well… you hear stuff about newspapers bending the truth.’
‘We’re not allowed to lie, if that’s what you mean. Besides, why would I need to lie or embellish your story? It’s gripping enough.’
I don’t like the way he makes it sound like some sordid thriller, but, weirdly, I can see what he means. I lean back on the wall and take a deep breath before I reply.
‘Ok, I’ll do it.’
After much discussion, we decide on a compromise, neutral ground. The coffee shop has that warm, earthy sweetness in the air that makes you feel welcome as soon as you step in. The interior is all dark wood and leather armchairs in intimate nooks. But my instinct is to bolt and I sit twitching, my coffee cooling rapidly in front of me, hardly touched. I have to keep reminding myself of the reasons I’m here but if he doesn’t get here soon I won’t be able to help running home and locking out the world.
I look across at the door and he’s just walking in. Shaking his umbrella out and making his way towards me.
‘I’m so sorry, Cassie. I got held up in traffic.’ He glances down at the table. ‘I see you have coffee. Can I get you anything else?’
I could mention that my coffee is almost cold but I don’t. ‘No, I’m fine.’ I just want to get it over with and get out.
‘Do you mind hanging on for a moment while I get one?’
I shake my head and watch as he heads back to the counter. He’s good looking, in an obvious sort of way – a head of thick, wavy hair, strong jawed, Roman nose, at a guess around thirty-five. Not my type but the girl behind the counter flicks her hair
back and giggles breathlessly as he shares some quip with her.
Get a room, why don’t you?
What the hell am I doing here? I think about what Robert said about closure, or sharing my burden, or that maybe other people are going through it too, thinking they are the only ones in the world, and how hearing my story might help them. There’s no one else going through this, though. I don’t know how I know but I do. But something else he said, about honouring my family, about making sure they’re not forgotten does ring true and I have to remind myself again that telling my story may do that.
He returns to the table with his coffee and a muffin.
‘Don’t mind if I eat, do you? It’s just that I had to skip lunch.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Great. Oh, and I need to arrange a photographer,’ he says, laying his tray on the table.
‘What – why?’
‘We need a photo. The guys were busy today but I can get someone to you in the week.’
‘No photos.’
‘Really? Well…’ he says, grimacing as he takes the hard-backed seat at our table, ‘maybe we can discuss that after the interview. You may feel differently then.’
I don’t reply. I’m pretty sure I won’t feel differently about it but there doesn’t seem any point in arguing as he clearly won’t take any notice.
He moves the stiff chair aside and pulls an armchair closer to the table, giving me one of his silky smiles before grabbing a small tape recorder from his coat pocket. He must see my look of shock as he produces it.
‘I can’t write quickly enough,’ he explains, ‘and I never did get very good at shorthand. This way is less intrusive too; it won’t take long for you to forget it’s even running and you won’t be distracted by me scribbling away. It’ll be just like friends having a chat. So,’ he continues, clicking it on and laying it on the table between us, ‘why don’t we start with some details about your life?’
‘Isn’t that kind of boring?’
‘Not really. Readers like background against which they can place your story. It’s Cassie Brown?’
‘Cassandra. But everyone calls me Cassie.’
‘And you’re eighteen?’
‘Nineteen.’.
‘Working? Student? Unemployed?’
The last word has particular emphasis and I think he’s hoping for it.
‘I suppose you could call me unemployed. I used to be a student… well, I think I still am but I haven’t been to any classes since the crash so maybe they kicked me off the course. I haven’t checked.’ He takes a bite of his muffin as he stares at me, his eyes hungry for my words. So I stop talking.
‘Tell me about your childhood,’ he prompts.
I shrug. ‘Not much to tell. It was normal, like everyone else’s. No spooky occult gatherings or witches’ covens, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
He stares for a moment and then relaxes into a smile. ‘I see. So your family were happy?’
‘Of course. As happy as any family is. We all have our off days, don’t we?’
‘Who do you have left now?’
‘My gran and some relatives I don’t know that well and don’t really care about. They came to see me after the funerals but I haven’t heard from them since. I think I worry them.’
‘Why?’
‘It must be like sitting with a zombie or something. I’m between, aren’t I? Between life and death.’
He takes a moment to answer. ‘You look very much alive to me,’ he says finally with a brief glance over me that makes me shiver inwardly. ‘What about friends?’
‘The same. I’m hard to be around right now.’
The muffin has gone already and he folds the paper over and over until it’s a tight square. ‘You want to tell me about the day it happened?’
Suddenly faced with it I feel my stomach drop out of me and the sweat begin to ooze from every pore. I have to clutch at the arms of the sofa and my nails burrow into the soft leather like knives into flesh.
‘Take your time,’ he says, carefully noting the change in my demeanour. ‘I’m in no rush. And if we have to meet up again, that’s fine too. As many times as you need.’
I shake my head. It has to be now or never. ‘I’m ok. Just give me a minute to get myself together.’ He reaches for his cup and sips, never taking his eyes off me. ‘We
were on our way back from Stratford. Daytrip – Shakespeare’s birthplace and all that. We’d had a good day. Tish and me were singing in the back, something to annoy Dad. He can’t stand it… I mean, he couldn’t…’ The words fade.
‘You’re ok?’
‘Yes,’ I suck in a steadying breath and run my hands through my hair. ‘I don’t really know what happened. We were on the motorway. Dad wasn’t speeding – he never did, it was sort of a family joke. Mr advanced driving instructor. But this car just came from nowhere, before I even had time to figure out what was happening, straight into us, head on. I only remember it was red.’
‘The other driver died too.’
I nod. ‘They told me that.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
I glance out of the window. The rain smacks against the glass leaving blurred trails. ‘Nothing. I don’t feel anything about him.’
‘He wasn’t a drunk driver or a boy racer. He was an old man who’d served his country. You must have some opinion.’
‘He killed us. I feel nothing for his death.’
He’s still watching me closely and I can almost see the gears grinding, sifting through the facts, moulding the story in his head. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve told this man more in ten minutes than I have told the counsellor at either visit.
His silent contemplation makes me feel as if I need to fill the gap and I speak again. ‘After the collision I remember nothing. Apparently, I have some kind of heart defect that nobody knew about and the shock of the crash meant I died pretty much instantly, but not from my injuries, which were actually quite minor. Which is kind of weird and ironic, because the others all died from their injuries and you’d have thought I would have done too.’ I pause and wait for his reaction. He carries on staring, measuring me, forming his story. ‘Still, as you see I came back. Nobody knows how. The doctors ran tests, sent me appointments for heart monitors and all sorts of other stuff that I never went to, but they never talked about that bit. Sent me home with a card to see a counsellor but never said a word about it. I can’t explain it.’
He nods. ‘Maybe next time.’
There won’t be a next time. But I say nothing.
‘How about when you first woke in the mortuary? What was that like?’
I consider for a moment, finding a way to express it so that he can understand. ‘You know when you get a sleep twitch?’