‘You have a task to perform. I should let you get on with it.’
‘At least give me some information before you go. What is this task? What must I do? Should I go back to St Mary’s? How did I die? I can’t just come back to life, surely?’
She stood. ‘Events will play out. You will do whatever is required. Try not to fret too much about the future.’
‘Well, I don’t have to, do I? I’m dead.’
The familiar expression of exasperation crossed her face. ‘I keep telling you, Dr Maxwell, you are not dead. Why you have this persistent obsession with your own death is a mystery to me.’
‘But what do you want me to do?’
‘Your best.’
And she was gone, because God forbid she should ever make things easy for me.
I stood alone, in a strange room in a strange world, wondering what on earth to do next.
The sensible answer would be to change out of my bloodstained garments, have a shower, and tidy myself up a little.
I went out into the kitchen instead and stared at a tiny kitchen table laid for two, found the back door, and let myself out.
I knew where this was. I was in Rushford and this was one of those units down by the river. The derelict ones that the council had reclaimed. Living space over a downstairs workshop. Very popular with artists and such. A small courtyard held parking for two cars. To my right, a tiny garden. In the back left-hand corner stood a familiar, small, stone shack. He’d tied a clothesline to one corner and the clothes prop leaned against it. I swallowed a huge lump.
I made my way carefully down some stone steps into the courtyard. The workshop doors were open to let in the summer sunshine. From inside I could hear a radio playing quietly, some chinky tool noises, and someone talking.
I oozed quietly through the doors and stood on the threshold, looking around.
He stood with his back to me, moving around a work area he’d created by pushing three tables together in a U shape. The surfaces were littered with items that meant nothing to me.
The far end of the workshop had two big windows and between these, he’d made a corner with two tables and set up my easel. My paints were laid out neatly, my brushes in a jar and canvases stacked against the wall.
Mrs Partridge had been right. He’d made a shrine. I would not have thought my heart could break any more.
He was speaking. To himself.
‘So, one of us is going to have to speak to Mrs Foreman about the precise relationship between electricity and water. When the instructions say to clean with warm, soapy water, they really don’t mean her to shove the entire grill into the dishwasher. And since you yourself are even hazier about the precise relationship between electricity and water than she is, it’s going to have to be me again, isn’t it?’
He groped along the bench for some implement or other.
I stood perfectly still, while the blood thumped in my head. He was here. Not five paces away. It was Leon. Leon was here. Not dead. I could walk towards him. I could touch him. Feel his arms around me. Look into his amazing eyes. Feel his hands on me again. Hear his voice. Smell his smell. I tried to remember to breathe. I swear I never made a sound, but some instinct must have warned him.
He turned slowly.
I stood in the entrance, dark against the bright sunshine.
He put down whatever it was he was working on and took two steps forward.
I drew a deep breath.
He stopped.
He peered uncertainly.
His face cleared.
He smiled, stretched out a welcoming hand, and said, ‘Isabella?’
And everything inside me screamed.
Chapter Twenty-two
They say that should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet yourself, you won’t like what you see. That you won’t like yourself at all.
I’d never met myself – in my job that would be a bit of a catastrophe. The closest I’d ever come was meeting Isabella Barclay. Who looked very much like me. Bitchface Barclay. Former head of IT at St Mary’s. And I hadn’t liked her. Not one little bit. In fact, I’d hated her so much I’d killed her. Everyone needs to be clear about this – I deliberately killed Isabella Barclay.
And now, now I’d waded through blood and death – mine – to be here. I’d abandoned my old life and my best friend to be here. To be here with him. And for him. And what did he say?
Isabella?
Isabella fucking Barclay?
My recently damaged heart nearly erupted through my recently punctured chest as a massive wave of searing, red-hot, uncontrollable rage …
I’d died in this world. Mrs Partridge said I’d died in this world and here he was … Isabella? … Fucking Isabella Barclay?
My hand closed on something. I had no idea what it was, but at that moment I was so head-burstingly furious that I could have fashioned something lethal from a ball of wet cotton wool. He was dead in my world. Well, now he was about to bloody die in this one as well.
The radio played “Staying Alive”.