18. Charlie #6
“That’s a, um… lovely name.”
Bat remained fixated on his supergluing mission, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
His fingers phased through the glasses frame once, twice.
He swore under his breath. “This is harder than I remember.” He steadied his hand, focusing until his fingers solidified enough to grip the tiny superglue tube. “Okay. Got it.”
The tube slipped through his grasp and clattered onto the dresser. He hissed.
“You know, I was just thinking,” he said, trying again, “when you were talking to your sister, that if I hadn’t been an only child, everything would have been different. I always wanted a brother or sister. But my parents had me super late in life, then couldn’t conceive again.”
I did the maths. If Bat had been twenty-three when he died in 1999, and his parents had him late… they very well might be dead by now. Not that I was planning on finding them or anything.
“Anyway,” Bat continued, carefully applying tiny drops of glue—his hand flickered transparent for a second and he had to pause, refocus.
“From my stupid name, you might have worked out they were stupidly posh. I didn’t realise we were wealthy until my friends started coming over and gawping at my house, at our three cars.
My parents had aspirations of me going to Oxford or Cambridge.
I was the biggest disappointment to them ever. ”
“Well, if it helps, I’ve always felt like a disappointment even though my parents were never like that,” I said.
“Dad desperately wanted me to follow my musical dreams. Though Mum, when it became clear I was nothing like Emily, was more keen on me learning a trade, like roofing or becoming an electrician.”
Bat made a sound that might have been a laugh. The glasses frame slipped in his grip and he caught it with a frustrated grunt. “You could have become just like poor Dave from earlier. Visiting houses and getting traumatised by ghosts.”
“That would be good,” I said. “I’d actually have a career and money.”
“But what about music?” Bat’s voice grew serious.
I sighed. “Haven’t played much in the last few years.”
“You have to go back to it. You gave me goosebumps in the attic that day. It was beautiful. Really.”
“Thanks.” I scratched the back of my head. It had been so long since someone had complimented my music, I’d forgotten the warm and fuzzy feeling it brought me. “That was just me messing around.”
“There.” Bat lifted the glasses into the air triumphantly. “Check it out! They’re dry already.” Grinning, he placed the glasses on my face himself—his fingers solid enough to settle them gently on my nose.
One lens was still partly obscured with spiderweb cracks, but the frame somehow sat perfectly. I sighed in relief. “Well done. This is actually great work.”
“Just don’t look at the part where I glued it, that bit’s a mess.” He flexed his fingers, frowning at them. “Ghost hands aren’t exactly built for delicate work.”
“Luckily, I don’t have anywhere fancy to go.”
Bat’s grin widened into something approaching mischievous. “Okay, I fixed your glasses for you like a guardian angel, so now you owe me.”
“What did you have in mind?” I said, my eyes trailing down his black tee to his jeans. To the bulge in them. I was still sore, but at this point, I’d recovered just enough to happily be more sore.
“I want you to eat those crisps.” Bat pointed to the salt and vinegar chip sticks poking out of one of my bags. The cheap brand, most often found in corner stores.
“What?!”
“They happen to have been my favourite crisps.”
“Seriously? You don’t remember how you died, but you remember those were your favourite crisps?”
“Damn straight. And now I want to watch you enjoy them.”
I grabbed the bag, opened it. The smell alone was enough to make my tongue tingle. I popped one in my mouth, crunched, swallowed. “Happy?”
“No. I need sound effects. Show me how much you’re enjoying them.”
“Look, they’re alright, but they’re not my favourite crisp.”
Bat looked horrified. He picked one up and placed it on his tongue.
“Can you taste that?”
“Not at all,” he said mournfully.
“Go on, then,” I said, resigning myself to my fate.
“What?”
“Possess me. Taste your bloody favourite crisps again.”
Bat blinked. “I’m not doing that. You were just thrown across the garden, blah blah, as you keep reminding me.”
I shrugged. “Brad seemed fine after you possessed him for ages, and you’ll just possess me for a few crisps.”
Bat’s teeth worried at his lip. “You know, this morning when you were talking about me possessing you to wank, it gave me an idea.”
“What?”
“I want to try partial possession. Where the victim maintains some consciousness.”
“Bat, your use of the word ‘victim’ isn’t particularly reassuring.”
“Me possessing you was your idea!”
“Do you really think you can do that? Make it so I’m not completely gone?”
“I have no idea. But I want to try.”
I looked at him for a long moment. Questioned my life choices for the hundredth time since I met him. “Go on, then. Possess me. I dare you.”