Susie was rather surprised when I called her earlier to say I was on my way. She wasn’t the only one: I was just as astonished as she was. Normally I’d have made an excuse about being busy with work, so that I could keep myself hidden away in the museum – miles away from fairy lights, crowds and Slade telling me Christmas is here.
But these are not normal times and the problem is that my office isn’t a peaceful haven anymore. Far from it. Since yesterday the delusions have only got worse. I could swear that there are people with me in my office all the time. I hear them and see them so vividly that I have to keep reminding myself that they aren’t real. The place has been so busy that it’s made Oxford Street look like a quieter option.
After Friday morning’s events I’d gone home via the GP, picked up a new prescription, taken a couple of tablets and headed straight to bed. Before I’d drifted off to sleep everything had seemed fairly ordinary. Alex had vanished, the only feline following me was Susie’s cat Freddie, and Aamon was nowhere to be seen. Simon was right: I was working too hard and the stresses of my job combined with my head injury were playing tricks on me. OK, so these weren’t textbook episodes I’d been experiencing – my trawls of Google had yet to produce anything as crazy as seeing phantoms and having conversations with them – but every head trauma was different and individuals were affected in their own strange and unique ways. Still, unless I got a grip soon I would be jeopardising my career. That was not going to happen.
Anyway, I’d woken up early this morning – long before Susie, who was still sleeping off a heavy night’s clubbing – and the world had still looked reassuringly normal. There were no signs of Alex, Egyptian cats or long-dead boy pharaohs, and in the bright winter sunshine I was able to laugh at myself. Of course there were no signs of these things, because they didn’t exist! There was bound to be some medical explanation, I’d decided firmly as I’d left the flat. I’d probably watched a movie years ago and been replaying scenes in my mind. The brain was more powerful than any computer and capable of pulling all sorts of stunts. By the time I’d picked up a coffee from the little shop opposite the museum, crossed the road and made my way though the first wave of keen Saturday visitors, I’d been feeling even more optimistic. A good night’s sleep had been all I’d needed.
I’d walked through the entrance hall, waving at a couple of the security guys and calling out a cheerful hello to the gift-shop crew before scooting through the Ancient World Gallery just to check on the new exhibits. Nobody else from the department was around, which was a relief; I wasn’t sure I was up to facing Simon yet. Not only was he knicker-meltingly gorgeous (God, I was starting to sound like Susie), but he now thought I was a complete nutcase. I was also trying very hard to forget that he’d seen my underwear. Twice.
In any case, when I’d let myself into my office I’d been thinking of Simon and quite how I was going to redeem myself. I’d booted up my computer, fetched my notes and been about to sit down at my desk and get stuck in, when seemingly out of nowhere a cat had jumped right in front of me, purring loudly and spilling my latte all over my folder. Moments later Aamon had whizzed past with Henry Wellby hard on his heels and the rubber-band ball ricocheting off the walls. I’d clutched the desk in disbelief, shaking my head as though trying to clear water from my ears. Then I’d pinched myself so hard I’d yelped. If pain was proof that I was awake, then the livid marks on my arm were all I needed to tell me that this was not a hallucination. It wouldn’t make any difference how many tablets I swallowed now: this was not going away. Alex’s parting words were suddenly terrifying. “If you can see me,” he’d said, “you’ll see all the others too – and they might not be quite as obliging as I am.”
Oh my God. What if it was only going to get worse? Apart from never being able to get any work done, I’d go mad. With a cry of despair I’d fled from the office and out of the museum. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be in the crowds of Oxford Street, listening to Susie natter on about her latest romantic adventure and with nothing more pressing to think about than what to eat for lunch. I’d fired off a frantic text to tell her I was on my way to Selfridges, and it was only when I’d found myself in the depths of Museum Tube station, crammed onto a platform with seemingly everybody else in London, that my heart had stopped racing.
Now, as I stand sweating in the fetid recycled Tube-train air and do that Londoner thing of avoiding eye contact with people only millimetres away from me, the panic starts to recede. I’m wondering again if I’ve been imagining everything. Is this some delayed nervous breakdown? Maybe Simon’s right and I’m not up to going for the promotion. The thought of not applying is enough to give me a breakdown, though. I’ve been working for this for just about as long as I can remember. There’s no way I can quit at the final hurdle. I have to find a way of dealing with this. There has to be an explanation.
“Busy, isn’t it?” says Alex cheerfully. He’s pressed up against the door and is grinning at me from beneath his floppy fringe.
What am I saying? Of course he isn’t really leaning against the Tube-train door: he doesn’t exist. Alex Thorne is no more present in this Underground train than the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. I ignore him. If I start talking to thin air that makes me the Tube nutter du jour and, as bad as things are, they’re not quite that bad. Yet.
“Still ignoring me?” Alex’s eyes are raised towards the curved ceiling of the train. “It’s getting a bit boring to be honest, Cleo. I thought you were an academic? How much more evidence do I have to give you? I know: look at this poor girl here.” He points at Emo-style student who’s shivering in spite of the heat of the carriage. “Watch what happens!”
Alex steps closer and the girl’s breath clouds as though, rather than being baked alive in an Underground train, she’s out walking on a frosty day. She frowns and plunges her hands into the pockets of her shapeless coat. The man crammed into the space next to her winds his scarf more tightly around his neck and looks puzzled.
“How’s that for physical evidence! Go me!” Alex crows. “Now, what shall I do next to convince you?”
I glare at him but he just grins. “Oh stop it, Cleo. If the wind changes you’ll get stuck. You wanted proof; I’ll give you proof.”
I try to ignore him but I can’t: he’s dancing through the commuters, waving his hands in front of their unsuspecting faces, tweaking scarves and making copies of the Metro flutter to the floor. If he wasn’t already dead I could throttle him.
“Tra-da! Only you can see me, Cleo! It’s time you started believing your own eyes.”
Now that he’s finished showing off, Alex saunters back and stands next to me. Instantly the temperature plummets and my skin crawls with goosebumps, just like it did in the flat.
“Feeling chilly?” he says.
“Go away,” I snarl. “I haven’t asked for all this! I don’t want it.”
Alex shrugs. “I don’t think you have any choice in the matter. Like it or not, you’ve got a gift. Look around, if you don’t believe me. All the others know you can see us.”
And just like one of those magic-eye paintings that you stare at for hours until another image takes shape, it becomes apparent to me now that the carriage contains the oddest mixture of people wearing outfits from times gone by. Thirties, forties, fifties, sixties and seventies fashions abound and, although I might be mistaken on this, there’s even an eighties punk; I really don’t think Mohicans are in anymore. All of a sudden the train is full of extra people, superimposed over the rest of the passengers like a bad Photoshop job or something from a Hollywood thriller. Bruce Willis will wander by in a moment with some weird kid who sees dead people.
“Why is an American GI winking at me from across the carriage?” I demand, giving the tall man with the roving eye my best killer glare.
“Oh that’s just Hank,” Alex says airily, following my gaze. “He was killed in a bombing raid in the forties. He could move on but he likes it here. He’s pretty harmless but you do need
to watch him. For all his sweet talk about stockings and cigarettes he loves to ride the Tube and perv at the girls. He reckons it’s easier to peer down their tops when they can’t see him.” He smirks. “He could be right!”
I’m outraged. “That’s disgusting! He’s dead!”
Alex winks. “I think one vital part of Hank believes it’s very much alive!”
“Well, he should know better,” I say primly. “Whether or not they can see him is irrelevant. That’s harassment!”
Alex’s green eyes glitter with mirth. “Cut the guy some slack, Cleo. He’s from the 1940s. Political correctness hadn’t been invented then. Besides, it gets a bit boring down here sometimes too. He needs to get his fun somehow!”
“Well, you should know better,” I huff, looking over at Hank, who’s admiring the ample chest of an oblivious commuter. “You’re from a post-feminist era and he isn’t. Women aren’t just objects, you know. We’re doctors and scientists and lawyers and…”
“Egyptologists?” Alex offers, looking amused. “Anyway, who says we’re all post-feminists? Tell that to the Thorne groupies when Rafe and I were fighting them off, or not! Oh come on, Cleo, lighten up. I’m kidding! Where’s your sense of humour?”
“It vanished about the same time you showed up,” I mutter.
We are not having this conversation for a second longer. I can’t believe I’m on a Tube train having a discussion about equal rights with a figment of my imagination. Aware that people near me are starting to look edgy, I make a big show of pretending to be talking into my mobile, the effect of which is marred slightly by the fact that I’m goodness knows how many feet under London, where there’s no signal. Marvellous. I probably look like even more of a lunatic now. Fortunately at this point the train starts to move; we all stagger forwards. Briefly, the lights flicker off – and when they come back up, Alex and all the others have vanished. If, of course, they were ever really there to start with.
By the time the train pulls in and everyone surges up the escalator I’m feeling utterly defeated. Emerging into the magic of the West End in the festive season doesn’t improve my state of mind, no matter how much the shop windows glitter and promise Christmas day cuddled up in tartan pyjamas or fun evenings partying in a new sparkly frock. I take extra care crossing the road this time, because God only knows what damage a second bump on the head will do; I’ll probably start seeing Godzilla or something. As I’m negotiating my way, I’m starting to think that meeting Susie for a coffee is a mistake. I could do with a real drink instead.
Great. Now Alex bloody Thorne is driving me to alcohol as well as round the twist.
Selfridges is brimming with shoppers. Tills ring, carols play and there’s a sense of excitement in the air. Feeling about as full of festive cheer as Scrooge would if he were asked to stuff a turkey and then charged for the privilege, I elbow my way through the crowds of women gawking at handbags, stomp past the Jo Malone collection of fragranced products and slalom through the cosmetics before riding the escalator to the top floor. The stairwells have been transformed into a winter wonderland and on the second level a group of musicians dressed in silver and white are playing that miserable Christmas song again. Honestly, I swear I’d never heard it before and now it’s everywhere I go, haunting me as much as Alex. If I weren’t in a bad mood already then I definitely would be by the time I arrived on the top floor.
“Hey! Cleo! Over here! I’ve got you a latte!” Susie, surrounded by a heap of yellow carrier bags, is waving at me from the far side of the coffee shop. I’m impressed. It’s only a quarter to eleven and already she’s made serious inroads into her new credit card. Not that I’m going to nag her about that.
Well, not just yet, anyway…
“Looks like you’ve had a busy morning,” I remark as I attempt to join her amidst her purchases. There are so many bags the army could pop up here and use them as an assault course.
Susie shoots me a warning look from beneath her matted fringe. “Don’t start, Cleo. I have to buy Christmas presents.”
I hold up my hands. “I haven’t said a word. So, who’s lucky enough to be receiving gifts from Selfridges then? And who did you raid the lingerie department for?”
She has the grace to look a bit abashed. “Bloody hell, Cleo. What are you, some sort of psychic?”
Unfortunately yes, that’s exactly what I’m starting to think I am.
“It’s only a few bits and pieces for the ward Christmas party,” she continues, rummaging in one of her bags and pulling out what looks like two glittery gold napkins tied together with dental floss. “I got this too, from a little shop I found. The new doctors have just started their rotation and I want to make a good impression.”
“You’ll certainly make some kind of impression in that, although I’m not sure that good is quite the word I’d use,” I say doubtfully. Even Katie Price would hesitate to wear such a revealing outfit.
“Any impression, babes, is what counts,” Susie says happily, shoving the dress back into the bag. “One of the Second Years, Dave, is lush. He looks a bit like Harry Styles – well, sort of. I’m going to be the present he unwraps this Christmas, just you wait. Cougar Town, one-way ticket!”
Brilliant. There goes my peaceful Yule. Susie’s bound to pull, she always does, and I’ll have to listen to them doing their impression of the Discovery Channel right the way through from the Queen’s Speech to the EastEnders special. Maybe I’ll visit Dad after all.
“Are you all right, Cleo? You look ever so pale. Is your head hurting?” Susie is in nurse mode now and scalpel sharp. She frowns. “I must admit I was a bit alarmed when you texted to say you were joining me.”
“So now my keeping to the promise of a girly shopping day is evidence of my brain injury?” I force a laugh, but it sounds a bit strange even to my own ears and Suse looks even more concerned. She knows me and I’ve never willingly joined her on a trawl around the West End.
“Honestly,” I say quickly before she can leap in, “I’m fine. But you’re right: I have been working too hard, so I’ve decided to take a day off.”
My best friend stares at me as though I’ve just sprouted another head. “If I wasn’t worried before, I’m really worried now. You’ve taken a whole day off work? To go shopping? What’s going on here?”
I’m not surprised Suse is worried. I know I’m acting oddly.
“Absolutely nothing,” I fib as I fix my attention on my coffee rather than on my best friend’s inquisitive face. “I just felt like a change of scene and spending some time with you. There’s nothing going on except me addressing my work–life balance.”
“Hmm,” says Susie, unconvinced.
We sip our lattes thoughtfully for a few moments. Once I’m sure she’s stopped looking at me as though she’s doing my obs and checking for signs of a brain injury (which, let’s face it, for me would include taking days off work and going girly shopping in the West End), I say idly, “Suse, have you ever heard of a group called Thorne?”
“Like, duh! Of course I have! Everyone’s heard of Thorne. They were supposed to be the next Coldplay but hotter, you know?”
No, I don’t know. Besides, I can’t say I find Alex Thorne hot anymore – not unless you count making my blood boil with annoyance.
“What’s the sudden interest in them?” Susie wants to know. “Is it because their Christmas number one’s being played everywhere?”
I wish. Wouldn’t that make life simple? Much simpler than, say, no, it’s because I’m being haunted by a dead band member.
“Yes, that’s it.” I nod like the insurance dog. Goodness, this head injury is certainly turning me into a dreadful liar. “I think I must have been on fieldwork in Egypt when they were on the scene. It was quite a few years ago, right?”
As if on cue, the music in the café changes from Bing Crosby dreaming about a white Christmas to the same miserable song that’s already been played by the musicians in the stairwell. It’s about as cheerful as a Got
h convention for the extra depressed.
“Wow, spooky! Talk about weird timing. This is their Christmas song!” Eyes like saucers, Susie dives for her iPhone and starts tapping away.
“This is Thorne?”
“Yep. It’s their Christmas number one. Honestly, Cleo, it’s like you actually live in ancient Egypt sometimes! Everyone knows ‘One Christmas Kiss’. It won gazillions of awards and it’s got this amazing story behind it. Come on, you must know it? It plays at all the Christmas parties.”
“Those will be the parties I don’t go to,” I point out, and Susie pulls a face.
“We are so changing that this Christmas! Hey! I know! Why don’t I help you choose an outfit for the museum Christmas do? You could have one like mine – they were on sale. Sexy Si won’t be able to resist.”
I can’t help laughing at this idea, even though Sexy Si will be giving me a very wide berth, if the look on his face when I last saw him is anything to go by. Besides, apart from the fact that the museum do is a fairly staid affair, I’d probably fit about half a boob into a tiny frock like that and end up getting arrested or giving Professor Hamilton a heart attack. All in all it would be about as good for my career as having delusional experiences on a daily basis.
Which leads me back to the subject in hand…
“So the song?” I prompt. Susie is a terror for getting distracted.
“It’s the second-bestselling Christmas single of all time – according to Wiki, anyway,” she reads. I can’t help remembering how Alex told me I ought to know better than to trust wiki entries. Why this makes me smile I have no idea, given that he’s the cause of all my problems.
Dead Romantic Page 9
