Dead Romantic Page 7

  I’m only here because I need help. After the events of last night, it’s becoming clearer and clearer to me that either the doctors have missed something pretty major on my brain scan or I’m going crazy. There’s no other logical explanation. I’m seeing visions of a dead rock star with whom I’m having imaginary arguments in my own sitting room. I mean, does that sound normal? If it hadn’t been for the huge pinch marks on my arm I would have assumed I’d just fallen asleep and dreamed the whole episode.

  My hallucinations of Alex Thorne had freaked me out so much that I’d been incapable of making further progress with my notes for the job application; nor had I felt able to re-examine my emailed scans of Aamon to see whether there was any truth in Alex’s revelation. Or was it my own revelation, conveyed in a dream? My thoughts had been like tangled fishing twine, and no matter how hard I’d tried I just couldn’t unravel them to make any sense of it all. Just as I’d followed one lead it had snagged and knotted itself up into another. Alex was merely a figment of my mind, I’d lectured myself sternly as I’d brewed some tea to warm myself up; the details I’d thought he’d told me I must have heard somewhere previously, that was all. The accident had just caused the part of my mind that processed memory and time to act a little differently. I’d cheered up significantly at this thought – until a small voice that I couldn’t quite ignore pointed out that I’d been given the all-clear by my consultant. Besides, I knew that I’d never heard of Thorne before.

  Still icy cold, I’d paced around the flat trying desperately to find an explanation. At one point I’d even raided Susie’s pile of Fate and Destiny magazines just in case the articles on angels and guides and psychics could shed any light on the problem. Luckily I came to my senses halfway through an interview with the infamous Lilac Delaney, who was discussing how she’d first discovered her psychic gifts. No bumps on the head or dead rock stars for her; apparently she had always been able to see dead people, in true Sixth Sense style.

  “It’s my calling to help loved ones on the other side come through to share their messages of hope,” she’d gushed. “Even pets that have passed over have something to say.”

  As Lilac had continued to communicate the innermost thoughts of a dear departed moggy, I’d put the magazine down in disgust, convinced that even reading it was sufficient evidence that I was losing my mind. Frustrated, I’d taken myself off to bed. I must admit I undressed as fast as I could, unable to shake the thought that Alex was lurking in the shadows hoping to catch a glimpse of my bra and pants. Honestly, the whole thing was ludicrous; there was no way I could carry on like this. If I was cracking up then I’d better find out why, and fast, before I started chatting to Elvis or something. It was always better to know the facts. If Mum had shown a doctor her lump sooner rather than spending weeks in denial, things might have been very different...

  So, bearing all these factors in mind, when I woke up this morning the first thing I did was make an appointment to see my GP.

  “There has to be a logical reason,” I whisper to myself. “There has to be.”

  “Keep telling yourself that if you want,” says an amused voice that’s starting to become annoyingly familiar. “I’ve already told you the truth. You really can see me. No pills will make me go away”

  Glancing to my left I groan out loud, causing several patients to look over in alarm. Alex Thorne is lolling in the chair next to me. His dark hair flops over his eyes but I can tell he’s grinning at me.

  “Go away,” I hiss – or rather, I try to, but I don’t want to look like a total lunatic addressing thin air. Quite a few other people are looking at me in a rather worried fashion now. I can’t say I blame them. I’m looking at me in a rather worried fashion too.

  “How can I if I don’t exist?” says Alex reasonably.

  It’s a good point – not that I’m going to give him the satisfaction of conceding it. Instead I pointedly turn my back on him and pretend to be fascinated by a dog-earned copy of Heat magazine. Oh look! Katie Price has got married again. And who on earth are the Kardashians?

  “Don’t be like that,” says Alex. “You’re stuck with me so we might as well be friends.”

  “I am not stuck with you,” I mutter out of the side of my mouth. “You’re just a chemical imbalance in my brain.”

  The man on my right shifts down a seat. Thank God I don’t know anybody here. Imagine if I started hallucinating at work? Walking down the staircase in my pants would look dignified by comparison. I really hope the doctor can give me something to sort this out – and soon, too, before I lose all credibility.

  I focus my full attention on the magazine.

  “I used to be in Heat loads,” says Alex conversationally.

  I try to ignore him, but he’s very persistent, chatting away nineteen to the dozen and insisting on reading out all the posters describing infectious diseases. When the receptionist calls my name I leap to my feet in relief. Escape here I come! Very soon I’ll have an explanation and some lovely pills, and life will go back to normal.

  “Thank God!” cries Alex, jumping up and following me. “I couldn’t take much more of that. I’ve already diagnosed myself with scabies, rubella and IBS.”

  “Whoa! Hold it right there!” I stop in my tracks and Alex cannons into me, or rather there’s a whoosh of cold air just like you get when you leave the freezer door open. “Figment of my imagination or not, there’s no way you’re coming into the doctor’s with me.”

  “Even if you’re talking about me?” Alex looks put out, but I’m not falling for those sad puppy-dog eyes.

  “Especially if I’m talking about you,” I tell him, and then I’m inside the consulting room, shutting the door firmly behind me. Alex, hallucination or whatever strange chemical imbalance he represents, doesn’t follow me.

  “Cleopatra Carpenter? Please, take a seat.” The GP, who must be about twelve, smiles at me from across the desk. Seriously? That’s my doctor? I really must be getting old.

  He’s looking at me in a confused way. “Sorry, I thought you had somebody with you? I could hear you talking in the corridor?”

  “Oh that? I was on my mobile,” I improvise wildly. I know I’m here to talk about my hallucinations but I’m not intending to tell him quite the extent of them. I want to be cured, not committed. “It’s switched off now.”

  While I take a seat, the doctor pulls up my records on the computer and regards them thoughtfully. When I explain that since my head injury I haven’t felt quite myself and that I keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye, he nods sympathetically.

  “That’s perfectly normal and to be expected, after a head trauma. It’s very common for patients to experience blurred or distorted vision.”

  I swallow. Blurred vision I could cope with, but being stalked by a dead rock star? I’m not so sure. For a second I’m tempted to tell him everything, but I stop myself just in time; the thought of what might be written on my medical records prevents me.

  “All your test results seem fine,” the doctor reassures me once he’s shone a light in my eyes and checked my reflexes. “The CT scans are clear too. I think all you need is some rest. I’m more than happy to sign you off for a fortnight.”

  “Rest?” I almost laugh at the idea. “I haven’t got time to rest. I’m flat out at work and so behind after being off. The last thing I can do is rest.”

  “So work is stressful?”

  I want to bash my head on his desk in frustration. Work isn’t stressing me out but seeing Alex Thorne everywhere I go will. But, of course, the moment I opened my mouth and mentioned work I sealed the deal. The doctor is now convinced that I’m suffering from a severe case of work-related anxiety, and I leave the surgery with a handful of prescriptions. Once outside I tear these up and stuff them in the nearest bin. Something tells me that medication isn’t going to help one bit – and besides, there’s no way I can risk dulling my mental faculties while I’m completing my research and preparing for the interviews. I�
��ll just have to hope that the bit of my brain that’s misbehaving sorts itself out soon.

  But in the meantime I have the feeling that Alex Thorne won’t be far away...

  Chapter 9

  OK, so my visit to the doctor wasn’t quite the success I’d been hoping for; instead, it looks like I’m on my own with all this. According to the experts I’m fighting fit, my brain is looking fine and all I need is a rest. As if more than two weeks stuck in a hospital bed wasn’t enough of a rest! It was having a rest that got me into this mess, if you ask me.

  So what now? I stand outside the surgery and watch the early-morning world go by. It’s a beautiful winter’s day: the air feels like an ice blade across my cheeks and a round lemon-sherbet sun hovers in a bright cloudless sky. Overnight there was a sharp hoar frost and this morning London sparkles as though a child has tipped glitter all over the city. As I pause on the pavement my breath curls into smoke plumes and I feel my nose begin to tingle with the cold. All around life is teeming: couriers on bikes hiss by, buses rumble and confused tourists dither dangerously on the kerbside, only a heartbeat away from heavy wheels, while they attempt to interpret their maps.

  They’re off to explore the museum, of course. At just the thought of the Ancient World Gallery and the pools of silence in my office, my pulse starts to slow. Maybe, just maybe, if I can get back into my work and my routine, everything else will fall back into place too. I have my satchel with me, I’m officially cleared for action and there’s a huge backlog to tackle – not to mention a very pressing job application to complete.

  And, whispers a sneaky little voice, you might just bump into Simon as well...

  I wind my scarf around my neck and shove my fingers deep into my gloves. This crush on Simon has got to stop. And soon. Along with the Alex Thorne hallucinations, it’s taking up way too much headspace. Take getting dressed this morning, for instance. In the good old pre-Simon days, I would have put on some black trousers, a sweater and my trusty pumps without giving my outfit much thought. Today I devoted at least ten minutes to choosing a matching lingerie set; I don’t intend to flash my knickers at all and sundry again, but from now on I’m making sure I’m prepared for any disaster. Then I spent another good quarter of an hour torn between a wrap dress in smoky teal and a cashmere jersey dress. Eventually, the teal dress won, and when I’d teamed it with a pair of boots and my black duffle coat I was just about ready. The whole exercise had only taken over an hour.

  Over an hour to choose my clothes? Seriously? Maybe I’m more affected by this head injury than I’d realised.

  As I turn left and walk back towards the museum, I reflect on the irony that I’m so devastated to have been given a clean bill of health. When I was stuck in my hospital bed I’d have given anything to be told I was absolutely fine. Today, though, this news fills me with despair, because if there isn’t anything physically wrong with me then there’s only one explanation: I really must be losing the plot. Either that, or I’m actually seeing ghosts – and that’s not a notion I want to dwell on.

  I pop into the museum café and order myself a latte. While I wait by the counter I text Susie and then check my emails. As I scan through them I suddenly become aware of the music that’s playing on the radio, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

  Never thought love could feel like this

  I held her close

  One Christmas kiss...

  I can’t believe it – it’s that depressing Christmas song again. I swear that until the other day I’d never heard it; now it seems to be playing everywhere I go. It’s like being stalked. I heard it on the radio in the cab that took me to the surgery, I heard it in the background on Daybreak while I was getting dressed and now it’s even followed me into the museum coffee shop. I feel like covering my ears and singing “la la la”.

  Latte held in a shaking hand, I make my way up the main staircase. Several colleagues stop me to welcome me back, but I’m too wired to chat for long. Instead I mutter my excuses and even forgo a look at the latest additions to the gallery and a possible glimpse of Simon. I’m wishing I hadn’t shredded that prescription. All I want to do is reach the sanctuary of my office, shut the door and slump at my desk. Then all I’ll hear is the pulse of the museum around me: the soft footfalls, a slammed door maybe, distant voices. And no pop music.

  My office is just as I left it. Everything is neatly stored in its place and all the papers are stacked in their files. My computer gathers dust on the desk and, as usual, the phone is off the hook. Comforted by this, I replace the receiver in the cradle, pick up the rubber-band ball that’s mysteriously found its way to the far side of the room, and boot up my PC. The stillness of the place soothes me and little by little I feel the tension slide away. Coming to work was definitely the right thing to do.

  I spend the next couple of hours catching up on paperwork and making phone calls. Once the contents of my in tray look a little less like Mount Sinai I take a breather, stretching out my cramped limbs by wandering around the office for a couple of minutes. Finally I pause by the replica sarcophagus cases and think about the mysteries that lie within the real ones, protected in the laboratory next door. One small boy and one cat. A pet or a deity? If Alex is right then this was a pet. It wasn’t unusual for cats to be mummified too – our exhibitions are full of examples – but they were more often bred especially for pious burials than kept as pets.

  Hold on. If Alex is right? What am I saying? He doesn’t exist: this was just my mind using theories I already had and creating a narrative. Alex Thorne – who is a figment of my imagination – has not been helping me with my research. If I start thinking like that I may as well give up.

  I force myself to focus on the facts and what I do know. Tests have revealed exactly the same materials, down to flakes of skin and strands of hair, which appear in Aamon’s own cartonnage. That suggests the two were done at the same time. There could be a scientific link to the supposition.

  Suddenly struck by this thought, I hurry back to my desk and pull open my files. I love it when ideas strike me like lightning. For a while there I’d been worried that because my brain was starting to play tricks on me it wouldn’t be able to handle my work anymore, but I was wrong. I’ve got that wonderful fizzing feeling that tells me I’m onto something. Go, little grey cells, go!

  I’m still thinking hard when there’s a thud on the desk, followed by a loud yowl. Papers avalanche to the floor and I leap out of my seat with my heart hammering against my ribs. For a moment I can hardly breathe. In fact, I can hardly move. I’m rooted to the carpet with disbelief.

  How on earth can there be a cat sitting on my desk?

  While I stand staring, the cat purrs loudly and starts to make a big show of washing itself. This sounds crazy, but with its long legs, tabby coat, slanty green eyes and sharply pointed ears, it looks like some sort of Egyptian wildcat, even though it seems to be domesticated. Sleek and alert, this creature is certainly different from Susie’s fat Birman.

  I stare at it. This cat is no ordinary moggy. Far from it. In fact, in terms of its build, this feline bears some striking similarities to the mummified cat that I’ve been analysing.

  Surely not...

  It’s a weird coincidence, that’s all. Somehow a cat has found its way into the museum and wandered into my office. It’s a bit out of the ordinary, of course, but that’s what’s happened. What other explanation could there possibly be?

  “Here, puss.” I reach forward to ruffle its fur, but the cat leaps down onto the floor with a loud meow and scampers across the office and out of the door. Without a second thought for my scattered papers and disrupted work, I follow it out into the corridor. Yet no matter how fast I run, I can’t catch up with it: the cat remains several feet ahead of me as it bounds along. I’m not giving up, though. Apart from the fact that animals aren’t allowed in the museum, catching it is the only way I can prove to myself that I’m not going crazy.

  The cat turns a corner
and I increase my pace, flying around the corner after it and running wallop into somebody coming in the opposite direction.

  And wouldn’t you just know it? That somebody only happens to be Dr Simon Welsh.

  “Steady, Cleo!” His arms tighten around me and for a blissful second I sway against his firm chest like something from one of Susie’s Mills and Boons. I can’t help myself; I stay there just a little longer than I really need to.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry? The staircase again?” he asks, those blue eyes twinkling down at me.

  I feel my face flame. Is it my imagination, or are his arms holding me just a little tighter than is strictly necessary? Unable to cope with the way my knees are starting to turn into soggy wool, I break the contact and step away.

  “Welcome back, by the way,” says Simon. “We’ve missed you.”

  I stare at him. “Really?”

  “Really. Now, why are you in such a hurry? I don’t suppose you were on your way to my office?”

  I’m still so spun out by the cat appearing out of thin air that Simon’s words don’t even register. Later on I’ll torture myself with the cringeworthy memory that I don’t make a witty retort but just come out with a garbled explanation about looking for a cat.