17. The Big Sleep #3
Instead of arguing, I pull my knees up to my chest. And now I’m laughing because no part of my body touches the ground any longer.
“Move around a bit,” he suggests.
I straighten my legs. Bring them up again. Lie horizontally a metre from the floor. Barrel roll. Shit, this is a lot easier than I expected.
“With sitting, all you’re gonna do is make the shape of the chair or sofa or bed or whatever and just . . . float there.”
“Well, I never,” I say, moving over to the dusty, stained seat and attempting to slot my limbs into its curves.
It’s not as easy as floating in the air.
Either I’m hovering a few inches from the cushions or I’m sinking into it, but I don’t feel any muscular strain from the effort of keeping myself chair-bound, so I must be getting better at it.
“You’ll get there,” Trystan says. “You want to sleep there tonight?”
There’s definitely not enough room for the two of us on this sofa . . . unless . . . we cuddled . . . “Where will you sleep?”
“On the beach. It’s a clear night, the stars will look incredible. Can you see the stars in Swindon?”
I make a noncommittal sound. “Yeah, sometimes, though my apartment is—was—this dingy little basement flat really close to the city centre. Even if I had outdoor space, the light pollution from the nearby businesses made it difficult to see much.”
“Do you want to sleep outside with me?” he says.
An ungainly croak slips from my throat.
“To watch the skies,” he adds.
I can only muster a nod. I’m so fucking cringe. Luckily for me, Trystan’s already stepped through the wall, so he doesn’t see the way my face flames bright red.
He’s right about the stars. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many before, or maybe it’s because I never truly looked when I was alive. They blanket the darkness, carving undulating waves of gentle colour above us, like glitter floating on oil spills.
Trystan lies on his back, his hands behind his head, and I do the same beside him.
“Do you know a lot about space?” he asks me.
“When I was a kid, I did. I had a telescope and all these books on planets, but I’m not sure how much I remember these days,” I confess. “Do you?”
“Nah. I wish I did, though.” He doesn’t turn towards me, but I can sense a strain in his voice. A sadness. “I’ve spent a lot of time out here staring up at these dots. It would’ve been cool to know the names for some of them.”
I roll my head to look at him, and I honestly can’t decide which vision my eyes would rather rest upon. The endless celestial dreamscape, or Trystan’s half smile. His freckles. The line of his brow, his zygomatic bone, his Adam’s apple. Those lips.
Those fucking lips.
I turn back to the stars, but only because looking at him aches something deep within me.
And I thought ghosts couldn’t feel pain any more.
“I know that constellation right there is the plough, but other than that . . .” he says, trailing off.
“Okay, well, if you follow the line of the plough’s handle bit, that star at the end, the bright one, is called Arcturus.”
“Arcturus,” he repeats softly, as though committing it to memory.
“Mmhmm, and then if you keep going, close to the horizon, you’ll see another star named Spica. I think it’s in the Virgo constellation.”
“Is that your star sign?”
Somewhere further down the beach an orange flame flickers, and the scent of burning wood reaches my nostrils. There’s laughter too, but it’s so distant that it’s almost indistinguishable from the rhythmic crash of the waves.
“No, I’m Scorpio. My birthday’s on Halloween, actually. You’re Taurus, right?” I say.
I sense him shift his body to face me. “How did you know?”
“It says your birthdate on Helga’s list of deaths. Twenty-fifth of April.”
He shifts back to gaze up at the sky once again. “Ah.”
“The Taurus constellation should be visible later tonight, but . . . if I remember accurately, not until the very early hours of tomorrow. And then underneath that, we should be able to see Orion’s Belt. In theory.”
“Like from Men in Black?” he asks.
“Yes! You saw that movie?” I’m trying to work out when it was released.
“In the cinema, the year before I died. It was fun. It’d be cool if I could see it again, but . . .” He sighs. “Hey ho.”
“Maybe we can.” I sit up so I can think more clearly. And wahey, I’m sitting. “Now that I know my laptop connects to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, I don’t see what’s stopping us from arranging a movie night now and then.”
Trystan grabs my forearm. “Yeeeww, really?”
“We could even try casting from Josh’s phone to the telly in Jeanie’s room. If she’ll let us.”
“Mate,” he says, squeezing my flesh before lying back down.
I feel the press of his touch long after he’s removed his hand.
We stare upwards for hours. When I remember the names of stars or constellations, or when I spot a planet or satellite or the International Space Station zooming by, I point them out to him.
Otherwise, we’re quiet. Reflective. Peaceful.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Gary,” Trystan says, eyes still fixed on the sky. “But I’m kinda glad you died here.”