“I’m not proposing,” I insist.
“I heard nothing.” She smiles like the Cheshire Cat and turns away, leaving me no choice but to follow her.
As we enter Martin’s room, we find him pacing agitatedly, but as soon as he sees me, he rushes forward and grabs hold of me, burying his face in my chest.
“Hey,” I say softly as I wrap my arms around him, sharing a concerned look with Lois. He’s never done this before. “It’s okay, Martin, it’s just a storm.” He lifts his head slowly and peeks around me. “Tris isn’t here. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me today.”
He grips onto me for dear life as I manoeuvre him to the small secondhand two-seater sofa we found and crammed into his room so he and Tristan have somewhere to snuggle up when Tris reads to him.
I gently pull him down to the worn plush cushions and wrap my arm around him as he snuggles into my body like a child afraid of monsters under the bed.
“I know Tris likes to read you the Narnia books, but how about something different?” I ask Martin even though I don’t expect an answer. I look up to find Lois already browsing the bookcase Tristan has filled with children’s books.
“How about something a bit more modern? Harry Potter?” She slides a colourful book from the shelf. It’s a special illustrated version Tris and I bought Martin for his birthday because, although he can’t really follow the story, he likes to focus on the pictures as he listens to our voices.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Lois hands me the book. “Cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.” I smile up at her tiredly. “Just the thing for a rainy day, eh, Martin?”
“I’ll be right back.” She smiles and disappears from the room.
There’s another sudden loud boom from outside the window behind us and the rain pelts harder against the glass. I stare down at Martin. He didn’t so much as flinch from the thunder nor the crack of lightning that follows. In fact, his gaze is fixed on the corner of the room by the open door that leads out into the empty hallway.
He’s shaking like a leaf as he reaches for my hand and grips on for dear life. I watch him as his gaze tracks slowly across the room as if it’s following something. I look again, but there’s nothing there.
“Martin,” I say softly, rubbing his back gently with my other hand, feeling the soft wool of his cardigan beneath my palm. “It’s okay, nothing will hurt you. I'm here.”
He turns his head and looks directly at me, and I could swear for a second there is something in his eyes, something awake, before he turns back to stare at the corner of the room and the moment is lost.
Opening the book and laying it in my lap, I tap the page to draw Martin’s attention to the pictures, but as I begin to read, and he slowly relaxes against me, I can’t help but glance up at the empty corner shrouded in shadows from the storm lashed window, and a shiver trickles down my spine.
9
It’s late into the afternoon by the time I finish work and find myself wandering down the rabbit warren of back alleys in Whitechapel toward the little hidden Victorian-era building that houses The Whitechapel Occult Books & Curiosities, founded by a descendant of none other than Cornelius Crawshanks, the absolute headcase who wrote the actual book on spirits.
Of course, these days it’s run by Madame Vivienne, or just plain Viv, according to Dusty, who seems to spend an inordinate amount of her afterlife there. I’m pretty sure that has more to do with the hot former-rugby-playing ghost of Bruce Reyes, with whom Dusty happens to be very intimately acquainted, than any interest in the merchandise. Still, I guess it’s nice to know there’s sex after death.
I sigh and shake my head at that thought. My life is so… I hesitate to use the word weird… unexpected, maybe? Six months ago, if anyone had told me I’d have a full-time boyfriend I’m madly in love with and I’d be best friends with a ghost who helps me help other ghosts find their happily ever after, I’d have flat out laughed in their face. Guess you really can’t see what’s around the corner.
I walk around the corner and collide with a slim body about my height. I stumble back and begin to lose my balance, only to have a pair of hands shoot out and grab my upper arms to steady me. I find myself staring into the face of a man about my age, maybe slightly older. He has the fiery red hair of a Celt, parted sharply at the side and combed into ruthlessly neat waves, along with cornflower blue eyes and pale skin.
A quick scan reveals an outfit of slim-fitting trousers and tightly laced brogues, a pale blue checked shirt and burgundy bow tie, all completed by a smart blazer. The whole look just screams hot, twinky professor.
I open my mouth to apologise, and those summery blue eyes narrow before flashing in irritation. Seeing that I have my balance, he releases his firm grip and steps back.
“Be more careful where you’re going next time,” he says sharply, his cut-glass accent surprising me. With his colouring, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him sound Irish… or possibly Scottish.
“Sorry,” I mutter as he huffs and brushes abruptly past me, leaving a vague hint of sage dancing on the air. Trying not to bristle at his rudeness, I notice something fall from his pocket and flutter to the ground.
I reach down to pick it up and turn it over in my hand. At first glance, it looks like a business card, but a strange shimmer ripples across its surface when the sunlight hits it just so, and I realise it’s blank.
“Hey! You dropped your… weird… shimmery… ” my voice trails off as I look up and the stranger is nowhere in sight. “Okay then,” I murmur, tucking the card into my pocket. I hate littering, so there’s no way I’m just going to chuck it back on the ground. I’ll just hang onto it until I get to the book shop and can dispose of it.
“Tristan, come on!” Dusty calls from up ahead, holding onto Delores’ hand as she taps her foot. She’s abandoned her trench coat, fedora, and dark glasses, and is now dressed like one of Charlie's Angels in a skintight zip-up bodysuit and go-go boots, and with her wig styled into Farrah Fawcett flicks. I shake my head with a small laugh escaping my lips; never knowing what she’s going to be wearing next is one of my favourite things about her.
I jog along the rest of the alley to join them under the old wooden sign which reads, ‘Whitechapel Occult Books & Curiosities.’ It creaks alarmingly on hinges that look like they’re held together by rust and hopeful intentions.
“I really hope no one throws anything at me this time, it’s really getting old.” I reach for the handle and reluctantly open the door to step through onto the battered old floor, then close the door firmly behind me.
