Secret Worlds (391 page)

“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.

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 back 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.

Lunch finished, I walk toward the quieter area of the hospital grounds. Finn sits on the wooden bench next to the memorial plaque; the one I wanted to sit on because it’s the most peaceful part of the hospital grounds. His long legs are outstretched as he scrolls through his mobile phone. He doesn’t notice me at first, and I take the time to study him. The sun picks out the gold in his blonde hair. I picture the man from the fog and half-close my eyes to see if Finn looks like him, as I imagined the time I fainted outside the hospital.

He looks over as if he senses my scrutiny. “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?”

My face heats. “Nothing. Sun was in my eyes.”

Finn opens his mouth to speak as I walk over to him, but I talk first. “Sorry about getting in the way the other day. With the patient, I mean. It was wrong of me; I should’ve left the ward as soon as I realised what was happening.”

He shrugs then tips his head to look at me. “Okay. It doesn’t matter, no harm done.”

The unspoken about what happened when he touched me hovers. Subconsciously, I rub my arm and he watches, chewing on his lip.

“Was the patient okay?” I ask.

Finn puts his phone in his pocket, focusing very hard on the action, and then deflects the question. “How are you?”

The woman died
. I saw Finn in the room with the patient shortly before this happened and a doubt flickers. I chastise myself; what possible reason do I have to think Finn is harming people? The weirdness of the house is rubbing off on me. “I’m okay.”

He misreads my stiff reply. “Did I upset you? Sorry, I just had to get you to leave…”

“No, I’m just not feeling sociable.”

“That’s a shame; I was going to ask you out.”

“Oh.” I attempt to hide my shock. “Why?”

“Because I’m sick of being bored in the evenings. It doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want us to be that.”

“Okay…”

Finn turns on a dazzling smile. “Cool. I don’t have your number yet, though.”

Stupefied, I hand my phone to him. He gingerly takes it from me as if I’m handing him something icky, then punches in his number. He drops it back into my palm and it’s obvious we both avoided physical contact.

“I guess picking you up at your house won’t be a good idea if Crazy Boy is around?”

“Probably.”

“Meet in town then? We can decide what to do once we get there?”

“Right.”

Finn stands, but doesn’t approach me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”
No, I wish I’d stop speaking in monosyllables.

Grabbing his bag, he turns his dimpled smile to me. “Meet me by the bus stop on High Street? Seven pm.”

I stare at his retreating figure. How did a trip to the morgue and a failed attempt at house-hunting end with arranging a date with a guy I’m not sure I like? Especially when I have a crazy notion he might have killed someone.

Finn rests against the wall near the bus stop, hands buried into the pockets of his grey hoodie. My stomach flips as the bus approaches the stop, and I remember his words about this not being a date. Even though I don’t want this to be a date, I can still be attracted to him, right?
Am
I attracted to him? Nowhere near as much as Alek, whose weird and unwanted effect on me continues to summon inappropriate thoughts about me and him doing inappropriate things. These thoughts are now finding their way into my dreams. No, I want Finn as a friend and I don’t want Alek as a friend
or
a lover. Or so I keep telling myself.

Finn appraises me a little too closely as I step off the bus, and I fight off the discomfort. My lack of confidence since the accident has evidently morphed into feeble behaviour around guys, and this pisses me off.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“I’m hungry.”

“Okay, there’s a pub that does have good food. I need a beer.”

At least, we’re not doing the ‘who’s going to make the decision?’ dance. Still, he could have asked for my suggestions. “Pub is fine.”

Finn walks alongside me, not too close, as we head across the precinct and toward the part of town frequented by students. I look down at my jeans and hope he is talking about a student place, not somewhere filled with after-work city drinkers.

Round tables with stools are crammed together in the middle of the pub, with wooden booth seats in the corners. The place has a stale beer smell. The current occupants are middle-aged men propped against the bar and a slot machine in the corner. I slide onto the hard wooden seat and push the dirty beermats to one side. I’m definitely okay wearing jeans in this establishment. Finn disappears to order food.

“Healthy diet today,” I comment ten minutes later as a huge plate of chips and burger appear in front of me

“You look like you need to eat more.”

I pick up a chip and bite savagely, hoping he notices my displeasure. Pale, skinny girl in need of protection? I don’t think so. Finn pulls off his hoodie, and I’m fixated by the tattoo circling his forearms and bicep.

“Does your tattoo mean anything?” I ask him.

“Only to me.” He rubs his arm, and I picture myself doing the same. Then I remember the spreading cold from the last time we touched. “Do you have any tattoos?”

“Do I look like I would?” I say.

“I don’t know. They’re popular; you might have a fairy or unicorn somewhere.”

I snigger at him. “I’m not a fairy or unicorn girl.”

“Not a believer in myths and legends?”

“Nope.” I don’t mention the near-death experience; that doesn’t count. Right?

Finn tucks into his identical plate of chips and burger and we lapse into silence again. I don’t have the impression he’s nervous around me; he spends his time watching those going into and out of the quiet pub. Surreptitiously, I watch to see if he’s checking out any of the girls who walk in. Or guys; I can’t be too presumptuous.

We turn to small talk about the hospital but apart from that, things get progressively quieter between us as the place fills and gets louder. Finn disappears to the bar for more drinks and I stack our plates, wondering why he asked me to come out with him because he’s barely speaking to me. The extra bodies heat up the room and I’m warm. I decide it’s dim enough to take off my jumper, which I fold across my lap.

When Finn slides back into the seat opposite, his look is instantly drawn to my arm before he shifts his gaze away again.

“I had an accident. I didn’t do it to myself.” Pink scars crisscross the inside of my lower arms from elbow to wrist, the deep pink standing out against my pale skin.

Finn’s concerned eyes meet mine. “But you’re okay now?”

“Mostly.”

“When was the accident?”

I inhale and run my finger down the condensation on the edge of my glass of orange juice. “About five months ago.”

“I thought the scars looked fresh.”

“Broken glass. From the window. Car accident.”

Finn tips his head as if he wants to ask me questions and can’t. I don’t want him to. He finally settles on, “Pretty bad accident, then?”

“Yeah. I don’t feel like talking about it, though, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. You mentioned it.” His attention is now wholly on me; he no longer gazes around the bar.

“I didn’t want you to think I’d tried to kill myself.”

His head jerks back at the words. “I didn’t think that.”

I chew on a nail; it’s too late. Jamie is back in my head again, my best friend, who I should be with instead of Finn. And when memories of my last minutes with Jamie come in, so does the fog.

“Rose?”

I blink through the grey and suck in a breath, touching the scar with my fingers as the pathetic tears well up. Finn lightly touches my arm to get my attention.

The same intense chill catches my skin and spreads along the scars, as if Finn were tracing them with an ice-cold finger. The sharp pain intensifies as it spreads toward my chest, the bitter cold shooting into my brain. The fog blows out of my mind, replaced by a dizzying ache.