Beth scrambled backwards, reaching for anything solid. The world spun sideways.
Her hand skidded across the floor: her head cracked against a crate.
Stars burst. Then everything went black.
When she came round, the basement was filled with silence. No lights. No music. No Gigi. Just dust motes drifting through weak light and the relentless ticking of an ancient clock.
Beth groaned, rubbing the back of her skull. ‘Brilliant. Knocked myself out. Seeing things now, am I?’
Her laugh was half-tremble, half-hysteria.
The pinball machine stood inert. Dead. Nothing more than wood, glass, and peeling paint. A relic from a bygone era.
‘All in my imagination,’ she muttered, forcing her voice steady.
She rose slowly, dizzy but determined, and walked towards the stairs. Because whatever had happened here…
Beth wasn’t ready to let anyone know she’d seen an apparition in harem trousers who'd called himself Gigi.
Not yet.
Probably never.
Chapter Twelve
Kieran eyed the peeling wallpaper in his living room with the same despair he reserved for broken bits of code. The estate agent had optimistically described it as ‘charming, with potential.’ At present, it was damp, draughty and as appealing as a 1990s office cubicle.
Armed with a stepladder, a bucket of soapy water and an enthusiasm fuelled by three mugs of coffee, he set about stripping the paper. Ten minutes later, he was standing in the middle of a sodden mess, with half a wall bare, and a chunk of plaster at his feet which had come away like an uncooperative scab.
‘Looks like yer murdering the place,’ came a voice from the open window.
Kieran turned to see Janette leaning on the garden gate. Behind her stood a cute spaniel, tail wagging enthusiastically.
‘I’m … renovating,’ Kieran said, hoping the word lent him some credibility.
‘Renovatin’, eh? Last fella I knew who tried that ended up wi’ a hole in his roof and pneumonia by Christmas.’ Janette gave a sage nod. ‘Best leave it to the professionals. Or at least to mycousin Rab. He’s cheap, if ye don’t mind him turnin’ up three weeks late.’
Before Kieran could reply, Beth strolled past carrying two shopping bags. She slowed, took in the sight of him clutching a scraper like a weapon, and raised an eyebrow.
‘DIY disaster?’ she asked.
‘DIY character-building exercise,’ he countered.
‘Mm. Character. Right. Let me guess … you’ve managed to glue yourself to the wall?’
‘Not yet,’ Kieran muttered.
Beth set her bags down and peered through the window. ‘You know, a rug and a couple of lamps would do wonders. You don’t have to strip the whole place like you’re auditioning forHomes Under the Hammer.’
Janette let out a bark of laughter. Her canine companion followed suit. ‘Aye, lass, but then he wouldnae have given us such a fine show. You should’ve seen the plaster flyin’ earlier. Thought he was wrestlin’ wi’ the hoose.’
‘Thanks for the support,’ Kieran said drily.
Beth picked up her bags and continued on her way. Kieran watched her retreating figure longer than he should, noting belatedly that she looked paler than usual. Which probably meant nothing. Janette gave him a knowing look.
‘Och, aye,’ she said. ‘The chef woman. A bit sharp around the edges, but folk like her. Well, as much as you can like someone you’ve known for five minutes. Careful, though. She strikes me as a no-nonsense sort.’
‘I wasn’t—’ Kieran began, but Janette had already ambled off, leaving Kieran alone with his wrecked wall and a sense that his private thoughts were less private than he’d hoped.
