Chapter Eleven
The bowl slipped from Augustine’s hand and hit the floor with an echoing clang. “You were murdered?”
“Yes.”
There was no sadness in his face when he spoke, and no regret either.
Just a strange, quiet acceptance that made something in Augustine’s chest ache.
She could tell Theo hadn’t been old. He could only be, what?
Thirty? Maybe Thirty-five at the most? He hadn’t been ill either, or unlucky.
He’d been a man in the prime of his life, simply struck down.
Unfair didn’t seem like a big enough word to cover it.
“Who, um, you know . . . ?” She waved her hand, unwilling to say the word again. “Did this to you?”
“I don’t know,” Theo said, and for the first time, a small dart of anger entered his eyes. “I was leaving my flat, and I was in a hurry. Something hit me in the head.”
Augustine frowned. “Do you mean like a bullet?”
“I think so.” Theo nodded slowly. “I mean, what else could it have been? It hurt, and I was knocked to the ground, so yes, probably a bullet. I was on the ground for just a moment, and then . . .”
“And then?”
He sighed. “And then I was here. Like this.”
“So, you were shot then,” she mused. “But you said you don’t know who did it?”
“I don’t.”
She made a frustrated noise. “But you must know. People in London don’t just get shot for no reason. I mean, having a gun alone is a big deal. It’s rare for people to be killed that way.”
“You’re right,” Theo said. “Statistically, the chance of being murdered in London is about one in one hundred thousand. And of that already very low murder rate, only twelve per cent involves firearms—” He stopped suddenly, and a faint blush crept across his cheeks.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I told you I was a statistician. I worked for the BBC. It’s hard to turn it off. ”
Augustine stared at him.
The blush spread further across his face, colouring the tips of his ears.
“I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It’s incredibly geeky. But I’ve always liked facts.
It started with Titanic when I was a kid.
Dates, passenger lists, tonnage. I can still tell you the maximum speed of the Olympic-class ocean liners. ”
Despite herself, Augustine felt a smile tug at her mouth.
“No, no, I’m not judging you,” she said quickly, before she realized she was still staring at him.
Up close, his eyes seemed even more unusual.
Something about him tugged at her memory, faint but persistent, like a song she almost recognized, or the snippet of a film she couldn’t quite remember ever seeing.
She chewed on her lip. “Are you sure we’ve never met?
” she asked suddenly. “Because something about this feels . . . familiar. Like I’ve been here before.
Like we’ve had this conversation before. ”
Theo held her gaze. “No,” he said. “I told you: I’d remember someone like you.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Augustine realized she was still staring at him. Like, it had been minutes. An embarrassing and obvious amount of time. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly averted her eyes.
“Okay, um, so you need my help?”
“Well.” Theo cleared his throat. “Given that I’m apparently an earth-bound spirit, and you’re the only person who can both see and speak to me . . . yes. That would be nice.”
Nice.
Augustine hoped that if she ever died, she’d handle it half as politely. She bent to pick up the bowl she’d dropped earlier and placed it back on the shelf.
“And what exactly do you need my help with?” she asked. “Passing to the other side?”
He looked at her curiously, one eyebrow lifting. “Passing to the other side?”
She blushed. “Hey. I’ve seen, you know, Ghost and, um . . .” Desperately, Augustine tried to think of another paranormal film that didn’t involve a pottery wheel and an amazingly sensual Demi Moore.
“And?” Theo prompted, and from the look in his eyes she knew his mind had gone exactly where hers had, too.
“And, um . . . Poltergeist,” she finished weakly.
Theo hid a smile.
“I don’t need your help passing to the other side,” he said gently. “Whatever that even means. And just to reassure you, I have no intention of vomiting green ectoplasm, possessing your furniture, or dragging you dramatically towards the afterlife either.”
“That’s good,” Augustine replied. “Because I’m pretty sure my shop’s insurance doesn’t cover hauntings.”
He laughed, and Augustine blinked in surprise at the sound.
“Are you definitely sure you’re dead?” she asked, bewildered.
“Because you don’t, you know, seem like a dead man.
You’re laughing. Breathing. Standing up.
Holding my business card. I just . . . I don’t get it.
I mean, you carried a pumpkin for me. How are you able to hold things, when people walk right through you? ”
“I wish I could explain it,” Theo said quietly. “I really do. I wish I had statistics to help me now. But I don’t, so I did some . . .” he paused, “. . . investigating of my own. Turns out I can touch things, just not living things.”
“Living things? You mean, like animals as well as people?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you figure that out?” she asked curiously.
Theo gave a sheepish shrug. “I practiced on a pigeon.” He paused. “In the park.”
“Did it work?”
“Eventually.”
Well. That was one way to spend your afterlife, Augustine supposed.
“When I was alive, I never imagined what death would be like,” Theo went on. “I suppose I always assumed it would be . . . an end.”
“But it’s not?” Augustine asked.
“No.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s worse than that, because it isn’t an ending at all.
” He frowned, evidently searching for the right words.
“Food still looks good to me, and I can remember exactly how it tastes. Bread, coffee, oranges. Even lemons, and I hated lemons. I remember the feeling of being hungry too. But I’m not hungry. Not even a little.”
Augustine listened quietly.
“And water,” he went on. “I can watch someone drink a glass of water and remember how good it feels when you’re thirsty. But I’m not thirsty. Not ever.” He hesitated then, colour rising faintly in his cheeks. “And I see you, and I—”
He stopped abruptly.
Augustine tilted her head. “You see me and what?”
Theo took a breath. “I see you,” he said carefully, “a beautiful woman, and I remember what it’s like to . . . touch someone. To kiss them. To—” he reddened further — “you know. Do other things.”
Augustine reddened but nodded. “Other things,” she repeated helpfully.
Theo nodded miserably. “Yes.”
“But you can’t.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I can’t touch anyone.
I can’t feel anything. All those things exist only in my memory now.
” He let out a silent breath. “And the worst part is that none of my precious statistics can help me. Because I’m nothing more than one of them now.
Just a percentage point in Scotland Yard’s crime statistics. Filed, counted, and then forgotten.”
Augustine blinked, before something occurred to her.
“Wait. Just wait a minute.” She moved quickly towards the till, flipping open her laptop. “You’re right. You are just a statistic now.”
“Ouch,” he muttered.
“No, it’s a good thing,” Augustine clarified, fingers already moving across the keyboard. “Because you’ll be a news story. Your death must have been reported somewhere.”
Theo’s eyes lit slightly. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “The BBC would’ve covered it. I worked there.” He paused. “Actually, they probably would’ve come to me for the statistics,” he added dryly. “If, you know, I hadn’t been the one who died. Ironic, right?”
Augustine nodded, opening Google. “Full name?”
“Manford. Theodore Manford.”
She paused. Manford. Why did she know that name? Shaking her head, she started to type. Theodore Manford. BBC. Death.
She pressed enter and watched as results flooded the screen while behind her, Theo leaned closer, peering over her shoulder.
Again, that strange sensation washed over her, because he felt so real. She could sense him there. Could hear him breathing, smell the warm scent of his skin.
How can he be dead? How? The only dead people who smell of spices are ones who were mummified in Ancient Egypt.
Then the first headline appeared, and Augustine’s breath caught in her throat.
“That can’t be,” she murmured, clicking on a link, typing again into the search bar. “Something’s wrong here.”
“What is it?” Theo asked. “What?”
She sat back, perplexed. “Umm, look, here’s the thing . . .”
“What? What’s the thing? What have you found?”
“That’s just it.” Augustine turned to face him. “Nothing. I’ve found nothing. So far as the internet is concerned, it’s like you don’t even exist. Like you never existed at all.”