“London’s oldest fruit and veg market,” I read aloud. “Huh, cool. He’s into everything, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he loves his history. I think his father used to work here when he was a kid.”
“Father, very formal,” I laugh and it’s finally Tommy’s turn to flush red.
“Dad, then.” He tugs on my hand as I laugh and draws me closer to him, burying his face in my hair. “Are you making fun of me, Miss Hughes?”
“Maybe.” I close my eyes as his warm breath tickles my ear, my body relaxing as his free arm wraps around my waist.
He plants a chaste kiss on my forehead, his lips soft, gentle on my skin. “I wanted to show you something.”
“OK.” I float behind him, trying to pay attention to the historical facts he shares. We pass a million food stalls that I desperately ignore, dinner only over the horizon. I listen to Tommy instead – he joked that Geoffrey was into his history, but he’s not too shabby himself.
“So this place is a thousand years old? Jeez.”
“Kind of.” He pushes sandy hair back from his forehead, craning his neck to look at the green steel beams that arch over our heads. “Some of it. The original site was on the other side of the river. This one has been here since the sixteen hundreds. The building is all Victorian, though.”
“It’s pretty.” It is, too. Ornate columns stretch up to a flourish beneath the glass sky above us. There isn’t a cloud, just clear blue as far as the eye can see.
“Here.” A floral scent alerts me to where we are before I look back to Tommy. Sure enough, we’re somehow standing in a little oasis. All around him, flowers spill from silver buckets and hanging baskets and greenery bursts from pots of all shapes and sizes, each one perched on a series of apple crates, set on their sides to form shelves.
“What do you think?”
“Oh.” His hand slides from my own as I wander further into the thicket of flowers. “It’s beautiful.”
Tommy beams at me.
“I thought you’d like it.”
I walk further into the stall, ducking through the curtain of foliage and into another little world. My fingers reach out to dance along petals of their own accord and a soft, velvet scent tickles my nose. Brief chatter invades the little haven as Tommy follows me through the fronds, dropping them back and blocking out the world once more.
“China Roses.” He eases a flower from the tall steel pot and tucks it behind my ear. Oh. My. God. Wait until Meghan hears about this.
I point to a lily. “These are pretty, too.”
I try to keep my voice light but it comes out husky and I clear my throat, embarrassed that he has such an effect on me. Embarrassed, but delighted, too. The lilies remind me of my granny’s house – well, how it used to be, before she got ill. The petals are splayed out proudly, white edges bleeding into dark pink centres.
Tommy shakes his head, frowning. “Not lilies. They’re death flowers.”
“Are they?” I ask. “I didn’t know that.”
Tommy smiles faintly. “My moth – mum – taught me about flowers. You know flowers used to have their own kind of secret language? Floriography, it was called.” He traces an idle finger along a rope of ivy. “People would send tussie-mussies to one another, in the Victorian times.”
“Tussie-mussies?” I laugh – it sounds even more ridiculous when I say it.
“Yeah, it means talking bouquets. The flowers in the bouquet would each have a special meaning for the recipient. Like a secret language.”
“That’s kind of cool.” I try to sound casual, sensing my chance to learn a little bit more about him. “Do you live with her? Your mum, I mean.”
“No.” His voice is low and a current of sadness runs below it. “She died when I was younger.”
“Oh, God, Tommy. I’m so sorry. . .”
“It’s fine.” He waves the apology off and takes hold of my fingers again, loosely. “It was years ago.”
“That must have been so hard for you.”
“Yeah.” His eyes glaze over, as he’s lost to a memory. “I miss her.”
“I’ll bet.”
Silence lingers between us, but it’s not awkward. It’s comforting, like sharing a secret with an old friend. For a second, I could swear I’d known him forever.
“Come on then,” I say. “I want to hear more about this secret language of flowers. What about this?”
I pick up a bundle of small purple flowers, tied with brown string, and revel in the calming smell. Lavender.
“No, not good either.” He laughs, back to his old self. “Lavender means caution, mistrust. You’re really bad at this, you know.”
“You’d better teach me, then.” I begin to drag him around the little stall, pointing out flowers for him to decode. He stops in his tracks and pulls me back towards him.
“There’s a reason I chose the China Rose for you.” He reaches up and lightly brushes the petals in my hair. I hold my breath, to stop it coming out in little gasps, my stomach tensing. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“Why?” I manage.
“It means you’re beautiful,” he whispers, sending ripples across my skin, “just the way you are. Your eyes, these freckles. . .” Light fingers cup either side of my face and he strokes gentle thumbs from my nose across my cheeks to my hair, which he wraps around his fingers and tugs gently. “Your beautiful hair.” He fixes his gaze on my mouth and I swear I’m going to lose it as he leans towards me, his face almost touching mine. “Your lips,” he whispers.
I’m pretty sure there are fireworks going off somewhere when he touches his lips to mine. My body responds immediately, hungrily leaning into every part of him I possibly can. Little stars dance behind my eyes and I feel dizzy, lightheaded, I. . .
“Can I help you?”
I crash back to Earth as the voice breaks us apart. A small woman in a starched apron is eyeing us with amusement and I try to look everywhere apart from her face.
“Yes, please,” Tommy says smoothly. “I’d like to buy this beautiful girl some flowers.”
I don’t know if I want the ground to swallow me whole or if I should tap dance on it. The woman smiles indulgently.
“I’ve got just the thing.” She eyes the flower in my hair. “You’ll be taking that one, too, I assume?”
“Of course.” Tommy winks at me and I giggle. Seriously, who am I?
“I think this would be perfect.” She holds out a tiny bunch of pink flowers that are attached to a pure, white ribbon. “It’s a corsage. They’re normally worn to dances and wedding and such, but this seems like a special occasion.”
“It is.” Tommy smiles at me and I almost split my lip grinning back. “What are they?”
“Rhododendrons.” The florist gestures for me to hold out my wrist and wraps the ribbon around it, once, twice, three times, finishing it off with a bow. They’re beautiful, like a perfect little hybrid of a lily and the China Rose in my hair.
“Thank you.” I glance at Tommy, surprised to see his face is set, serious. “What do these mean, then? Something good, I hope.”
“Oh, Niamh, you have no idea.” He smiles as he pulls out his wallet and pays with cash. I hold my hand out to admire the corsage while he waits for his change. We thank the florist and, feeling bold, I take Tommy’s hand and stand on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you. That was perfect.”
He wraps both arms around my waist and drops a light kiss on to my lips. “No, Niamh. You’re perfect.”
*
As reluctant as I am to leave Tommy, it’s nearly eight. I’m desperate to tell Jess everything, so I fire off a text, letting her know I’ll be there soon. I chatter away about Meghan and my family back home, until I realize we’ve left the bright lights of the Southbank behind. We’re walking along a much quieter back street, now.
“Where are we?”
“I wanted to show you one more thing.” We carry on walking and a tickle of unease crawls d
own my back. It’s creepy here, an unfamiliar area, and suddenly Tommy looks just like what he actually is – a guy I barely know. I drop his hand casually and reach for my phone. Still no response from Jess.
“I don’t think I have time, sorry, I don’t want to be late. Another time?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He smiles, but I feel as though something has changed. We walk on for a while in silence, passing a large, rambling graveyard as I spy the lights of Tower Bridge in the distance. Gradually the streets become busier and the knot of tension in my chest dissolves.
I take Tommy’s hand again, and feel his fingers squeeze mine.
“So, will I see you at the museum next week?” Tommy asks.
“No, you will tomorrow, though. It’s my last shift.”
“I didn’t know.” His face softens and looks disappointed. “But you might be staying, right? If you get this scholarship money?”
“Yeah, but it’s a pretty slim chance. The last day to hand it in is Monday and I’ve barely started and—”
He raises an eyebrow. “It sounds to me like you’re looking for excuses.”
I start to argue but my mouth stays hanging open like a shocked goldfish. He’s right. Everything that has happened – with Will, with Sara and Tasha, with Granny – has left me unsure. “I guess I am.”
“So go for it. Send it in. What’s meant to be will be and all that.”
“OK.” I smile. He wants me to stay! My hormones are doing a little jig at the thought.
“Fingers crossed, then.” He gently tugs me closer to him, and he lowers his head to mine, brushing a kiss on my cheek. “I really don’t want to lose you. Not again.”
“There you are!” A familiar voice interrupts and Jess appears like an over-excited Jack-in-the-Box. “I was waiting for you – Mum and Dad have already gone in. But I see you’re busy. . .”
Tommy and I break apart, flustered. “Oh,” she draws the word out, looking at him way more intensely than seems appropriate. “Hi.”
“Jess?” I mutter through gritted teeth. She blinks, as though pulled from a daze, and looks back at me. “Jess,” I repeat, “this is Tommy. From the museum.”
“Hi,” she replies smoothly, though she’s clearly giving him the once over. “Tommy. I’ve heard so much,” I clear my throat, “I mean, almost nothing, about you.”
Smooth, Jess.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Tommy says politely. “Um, I’ll see you tomorrow then, Niamh.”
“Yeah, tomorrow.” It’s almost painful to watch him disappear back into the lucky crowds of tourists who get to swallow him up and carry him away. I wait until he’s out of sight and then turn to Jess, who’s still staring after him.
“Earth to Jess!” I tease. “What the hell was that back there? You stared at him like he was an alien or something.”
“Sorry.” She is frowning. “I just. . . I dunno. I feel like I recognize him from somewhere.”
I feel like she’s not telling me the full story, but with perfect timing my stomach audibly growls.
“Hungry?”
“Always. Come on, you weirdo.” I link an arm through hers and we walk towards the restaurant. “Let’s go and celebrate this horrible few weeks finally being over – and the fact I’m about to pull an all-nighter to win this flaming scholarship.”
I’m back in the streets behind Southbank again, the graveyard looming out of the low fog in front of me. Weird, I’ve only ever seen fog like this on the fields at home, never here in the city. I try to walk away but something irresistible pulls me forwards, a tug that my feet can’t deny.
Huge, wrought-iron gates rise up out of the ground in front of me. They’re open, parted just enough for me to slip through, so I do, walking a path I didn’t realize I knew. Crooked headstones erupt out of the impenetrable, cotton fog and a stone angel, its carved eyes hollow and blank, peers at me through the gloom. I’m strangely calm as I walk deeper into the cemetery, until I pause in front of a small building, my feet now soldered to the ground.
It’s a mausoleum.
I can’t remember ever seeing one of these before, but I know instantly what it is. I seem to float around to the front, where an arched stone entryway is blocked by a heavy, studded door. I watch, detached, as my own hand reaches towards the handle, feeling no connection to it whatsoever. My gaze follows it up and I see a mirror has appeared on the door, reflecting my own face back at me.
No. It’s not a mirror.
It’s a window.
Beyond the glass, my mirror image begins to shrink and fade, skin pulling back from bones and teeth, eyes hollowing in front of my own. The skeletal mouth wraps itself around a series of words, a rasp that fogs the glass, forming letters that I’m too scared to read. There are so many, all bleeding together, I can’t tell what they say. Some of them are still there, seared into my eyelids when I wake up screaming, a horrible echo of what was spelled out on the Ouija board last week.
“N-I-A-M-H, R-U-N.”
I wake to pale sunshine and my alarm going off, my head fuzzy from more bad dreams. What did I eat last night? Was it all that baked feta?
It takes a second to realize that the noise isn’t my alarm; it’s my phone ringing. I roll over, bleary eyed, to see Jess’s tongue poking out at me from the screen.
Then I see the time.
Oh, nonono. I was meant to meet her fifteen minutes ago. I scrabble to pick it up.
“Hey, I’m just on my way,” I lie, grabbing a pair of jeans off the floor, inching them up with one hand. “Sorry, alarm didn’t go off—”
“Niamh?
“Ruth?” I sink back down to the bed, one leg still bare. “Is everything OK?”
“It’s Jess.” Her voice is thick and my stomach tightens. I grip the phone so hard it hurts.
“What about her?” My voice is hoarse. “Has something happened?”
“She’s in the hospital. She’s been attacked.”
I land at the doors of St. Mary’s less than an hour later. I don’t have to ask where I’m going this time, though; I’ve been to the ICU before.
I sprint to the bank of lifts and press the button impatiently. The wait feels like eternity. The doors eventually ping open.
“Sorry, lovie.” A hunched old man in a hospital uniform is standing behind the bed of an even smaller, more hunched over man. “Not much room in here. Might be best waiting for the next one.”
I don’t have time for this but I remember my manners and try my best to smile.
The doors slide shut and rather than press the button again I glance around. There is a small blue sign down the corridor, showing a stepped line and a little person. A stairwell. I don’t hesitate; it’s got to be faster than waiting.
My flip flops slap and echo on the concrete steps. Despite my panic, I feel the loneliness of this place. I turn the corner that marks the halfway point of the first floor and see the door at the top of the next flight of steps slowly creaking closed, a dark-haired figure and familiar swish of fabric disappearing behind it.
Like the one I thought I saw at the museum, the day Tommy kissed me.
“Ignore it, ignore it,” I mutter, hiding my face in my hair. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me, that horrible nightmare making me see things that aren’t really there. Unfortunately, my feet seem to have a mind of their own, and before I know it I’m pushing through the same doors, finding myself in a horribly familiar, green tiled corridor.
I’m back in the old wing.
I proceed down the corridor in a dreamlike state. It’s not as quiet as it was last time and a couple brush past me, their hushed whispers following them like a trail of smoke.
There’s no dark-haired figure in sight. I knew I’d imagined it.
My feet slow down in the same place as last time, at the entrance to the wing named after Jane. I study the heavy wooden doors. They’re propped open today, beckoning me in. I hesitate, before taking a step into the small atrium beyond. My footsteps s
ound oddly hushed.
There’s another set of doors, leading into a dilapidated waiting room. The walls are covered in wooden panels that hint at a past grandeur, like the box at the theatre, but they’re let down by shoddy PVC chairs screwed into the floor. A scattering of patients wait, quiet but for the odd sigh and shuffle of crossing and uncrossing legs.
I shake my head. What am I doing here? I need to go and see Jess. I turn to leave, annoyed at myself and my misfiring brain for being so weird.
That’s when I see him.
I hold my hands out to the glass, as though I’m going to take hold of the frame, but I walk forward and squint at it instead. It’s an old, faded black and white print, workmen in flat caps and waistcoats, rather than helmets and hi-vis jackets, standing in proud, neat lines in front of the old hospital wing. I glance at the tarnished plaque on the frame.
1845.
So how is he in it?
I quickly snap a photo on my phone. The resemblance really is uncanny, even though the photo is grainy. I zoom in to take another. Maybe it’s just the outfit he’s wearing, it’s so similar to his costume. . .
Oh, god. The museum. It’s my final shift today. I check the time on my phone and realize I’m meant to be there in an hour. I snap one final picture before spinning on my heel and leaving to go and see my friend.
“Hello, Niamh. Thank you for coming.” Ruth sounds oddly formal. She has exhausted bags that stretch from under her eyes to halfway down her cheeks. She looks like she’s aged ten years overnight.
“Of course.” I slide in through the curtain and perch awkwardly on an empty chair. I haven’t taken my backpack off, so my body is pitched forwards and I put all my effort into balancing on the chair lip without falling off. I look at the figure in the bed.
Jess. She’s unconscious, hooked up to a drip and some monitors that are beeping and whirring quietly in the corner. Her normally golden-brown skin is ashy, making her look both strangely old and young at the same time. Even the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks seems faded.
“What happened?”
Last One To Die Page 15
