Chapter 3
FLORENCE
‘Florence, can you hear me?’
The voice began as a faint murmur. Before it spoke, there was only darkness and silence. It was nice to focus on something. Gradually, the voice grows louder. ‘Wake up.’
After many twitches, my eyelids finally unstick. The blurry shape hovering over me sharpens into Clark’s face.
I let out a shriek, and he puts up his hands defensively. ‘Calm down. I was just seeing if you were… alive?’
‘Well, I am alive,’ I snap. ‘So stop looming over me.’
He blinks. ‘I was not looming – I was concerned.’
‘You were looming, Clark, and it was unsettling.’
‘Fine.’ He moves away as I haul myself up. My head feels like someone has put it in a washing machine and set it to fast spin. There’s a whizzing sensation in my ears, and all my thoughts feel jumbled.
I look around me. ‘Where are we?’
As I survey our new surroundings, a shiver runs down my spine, and my stomach churns.
We’re in what looks like an old bedsit. The walls were evidently white a few decades ago, but they’re now a sickly yellow, and they’re adorned with brown patches that glisten faintly in the glare of the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.
In one corner, there’s a small open-plan kitchen area, complete with a dirty fridge, a rusty sink and a relic of a gas cooker.
In the opposite corner is a tatty old sofa pulled out into a bed, with an old sheet and a pillow.
Further along is an old toilet that looks pre-war, with a huge chain and a grey sink that clearly hasn’t seen any bathroom cleaner in over twenty years.
There’s a window, but it’s small, and because the glass hasn’t been cleaned in a long time, the outside looks covered in thick, dirty fog.
My nostrils catch the scent of damp and fried food.
There’s another aroma that is hard to describe, but it makes me uncomfortable.
I turn around and gasp. Behind us is an old metal lift.
Its dull, scratched doors are covered in grime and patches of rust. They also don’t quite line up in the middle, leaving a jagged black seam.
On one side is a wonky panel filled with yellowed buttons, some cracked and some missing.
Above the doors is a display that is covered in dust. I assume it once indicated when the lift was coming.
I hurry over and press all the buttons, but none of them light up.
Pressing my ear to the door, I listen for any reassuring mechanical sounds that might signal the lift is on its way.
Clark comes to stand by me. ‘I’ve tried that,’ he sighs. ‘It’s not working.’
I shake my head in despair. ‘What is this place, Clark?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How did we get here?’
Thinking makes my brain ache. Somehow, I force it to rewind the course of events.
There was the handbag thief. We both gave chase and ended up arguing in the middle of a pelican crossing when a silver car ploughed into us.
I recall watching the ground fall away as the car flipped us into the air.
I must have passed out on impact as everything went dark after that.
Blood drains from my face. ‘Oh, God – we’ve been kidnapped, Clark! The driver must have bundled us into their car and brought us here.’
He casts me an odd look. ‘You’ve been watching too many true crime documentaries.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I snap.
‘It was an elderly man who was driving. He lost control of his car after a tyre blowout. I doubt very much he kidnapped us.’
I scowl at him. ‘What else am I supposed to think? This feels weird. It all happened so fast.’
Clark nods. ‘One minute I was telling you how annoying you are, and the next we were airborne.’
I gasp as I remember watching the ground fall away.
Panic takes hold of me. If we were hit by a car, I must still be bleeding or have sustained a nasty injury.
The sight of blood always makes me feel faint.
If I look down at myself now and see a gaping wound or some awful injury, I will pass out.
I take a deep breath. Slowly, I tilt my head downwards and brace myself for something out of a horror movie.
This is strange. I can’t see any blood. My jeans aren’t sporting any dramatic rips, and my little yellow apron is still intact. I move all my limbs and don’t feel any pain.
A loud belching sound makes me scream. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘It’s the sink.’
I cast him a bewildered look. ‘The sink?’
He nods. ‘It burps.’
On jellified legs, I stagger over to the rusty sink. As I peer over, it makes that awful sound again. I yelp as icy cold water shoots out and splatters over my face.
I don’t think I’ve ever screamed so much in all my life. Clark rushes over to me with a grubby tea towel. He thrusts it into my face in a bid to clean me up. This turns into a bizarre struggle where I’m fighting him off, and he’s intent on wiping my cheeks.
‘Get off me,’ I yell.
‘The same happened to me, while you were still unconscious,’ he gasps, trying to get his breath. ‘Sorry, I was trying to help.’
After doing my best to tidy myself up, I chuck the tea towel at him. ‘Do that again, and I will punch you.’
He reaches out and touches one of the brown patches on the wall behind us. ‘Ugh, the wall is sticky.’
Knowing that the walls are sticky makes me feel dizzy. The room starts to tilt. I stagger towards the sofa bed and sit down. Which is a mistake, as it feels like every spring has poked through the thin mattress to greet me. I yelp and stand back up.
‘I’ll take the left side,’ he says, which makes me stare at him in horror.
‘You mean we have to share this contraption?’ I exclaim.
He shrugs. ‘I guess so. There’s nowhere else to sleep.’
‘I’m not sharing a bed with you, Clark Fielding.’
‘I’m not exactly thrilled about sharing a bed with you, Florence Hill.’
I walk over to the old toilet and consider lifting the lid, but without rubber gloves and bleach, I’m risking my life. ‘There’s no privacy. Where are the walls?’
Clark shrugs. Tears rush to my eyes. This is a nightmare. I blink them away and look over at Clark. I feel a prickle of irritation. This is his fault. ‘I told you to let me deal with the handbag thief.’
He shakes his head. ‘It was Pearl’s handbag. She is my friend.’
‘I didn’t need your help. If you had listened to me and gone back to the café, we would not have argued on that crossing, and we wouldn’t have been run over. Nor would we have been kidnapped and imprisoned in this… awful place that looks like a crime scene.’
With a sigh, he massages his temples. ‘We haven’t been kidnapped, and I knew this would be my fault.’
I scowl and look away.
We both go silent and listen to the fridge humming and the gurgling sink.
‘Hang on,’ says Clark, suddenly making me jolt. ‘We’re not injured.’
‘What?’
He walks over to me. ‘You and I were both run over – right?’
I glance at myself again, and then I survey him.
He doesn’t look as if he’s been in an accident.
His brown hair is in its usual artful mess, his jade-green eyes gleam like polished stones, and I can’t see any swelling or bruising on his face.
He’s still wearing his fitted black T-shirt, which seems to stretch effortlessly across his broad, muscular chest. It’s not ripped or marked.
My eyes linger a little too long on his chest. I pull them away.
‘Yes… but we don’t look like we’ve been in a road accident. ’
‘Exactly,’ he says, ‘I think we’re… dead.’
My heart grinds to a shuddering halt. ‘Dead?’
He nods. ‘I think we died on the crossing. We could not have walked away from that injury-free. Impossible. I remember watching the concrete rush to greet me and thinking, “I’m going to die.” Florence, we’re dead.’
‘So, this nightmare bedsit is, what – the afterlife?’
He surveys the bedsit. ‘It must be.’
I start to tremble. ‘But… where are the angels? The fluffy white clouds? The harps and the pearly gates?’
‘Maybe this is the afterlife? Forget everything we’ve been led to believe. Life after death is existing in a grotty flat with sticky brown walls, a burping sink, an old toilet with no privacy and one uncomfortable sofa bed to share with the person you’ve spent your life arguing with.’
This is all too much. I feel like I’ve been lied to.
All those people on social media who claim to have had a near-death experience always talk about a feeling of serenity, white light and beautiful surroundings.
Whereas I’m in a germ-infested rabbit hutch of a flat with Clark Fielding and a faulty lift.
There’s no café, no Wi-Fi, no books and no Chris on Instagram sending me flirty messages.
Today’s date flashes behind my eyes. Of all days to die, it had to be today.
The familiar ache sitting behind my ribs becomes more noticeable.
I recall what happened this morning before I opened the café.
Whilst cleaning, I found a small child’s teddy under one of the tables.
Why does life have to send us these cruel reminders?
It didn’t take long for my tears to arrive.
I didn’t want Laura or any of my customers to see my emotional state, so I went to stand in front of my whiteboard and thought of something that needed intensive planning – Molly’s fifteenth birthday in the autumn.
As I adorned the board with colours, arrows and stick people, I decided that later this evening I would light a small candle and read aloud the words I have taken a year to write.
I gulp.
I am dead.
What will happen to my café? My mother doesn’t know a thing about running a business. She left everything to Dad and me when we started The Last Chance Café.
She also doesn’t work any more. Dad’s life insurance paid off the mortgage and left her with some savings, so she doesn’t need to. What will she do with the café?
Panic takes hold of me.
I picture Mum. She needs someone to make sure she’s okay.
I’ve been struggling with her lately because she’s become friendly with a guy called Steve from the snooker hall.
This has become a sore point for us, as I think she’s rushing into this friendship.
It also upsets me that she can even think about moving on.
Dad was such a huge part of our lives. I think about him every day.
My two brothers both live abroad; one in New Zealand and one in Australia.
I can’t see them coming back to look after her.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave Mum.
Tears fill my eyes, and a loud sob escapes from my lips.