The Wanderer E-Book

Josie Williams

• Herausgeber: Firefly Press Ltd
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 370

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Nothing can stand in the way of love, not even death. Fifteen-year-old Maggie is in foster care following the death of her mother and her grandmother's slip into dementia. When Ryder saves her life, she can't help but fall in love with him. The only problem is that he has been dead for five years... Unsentimental, passionate and immensely moving, The Wanderer takes a fresh look at first love and growing up.

Leseprobe

Contents

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue ~ Ryder ~

Chapter One ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Two ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Three ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Four ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Five ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Six ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Seven ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Eight ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Nine ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Ten ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Eleven ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Twelve ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Thirteen ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Fourteen ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Fifteen ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Sixteen ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Seventeen ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Eighteen ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Nineteen ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Twenty ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Twenty-One ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Twenty-Two ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Twenty-Three ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Twenty-Four ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Twenty-Five ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Twenty-Six ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Twenty-Seven ~ Maggie ~

Chapter Twenty-Eight ~ Ryder ~

Chapter Twenty-Nine ~ Ryder ~

Epilogue ~ Jade ~

Acknowledgements

Environment Statement

Copyright

‘A poignant story about two teens dealing with loneliness and looking for a sense of connection. Moving and intense.’ Kat Ellis, author ofHarrow Lake

‘The Wanderer is a gut-wrenching, epic love story that I could not put down. I was addicted and rooting for Ryder and Maggie from the start.’ #1New York Times bestselling author Natasha Preston

‘A beautiful book about loss, longing, and love. Josie Williams paints a touching picture of two teens, separated by life and death, battling loneliness to find love for the first time. An original and beautiful story – thoroughly enjoyable!’ N.J. Simmonds

‘A heartbreaking love story with a ghostly twist; I fell in love with Ryder and Maggie and felt every longing glance and stolen touch. Just gorgeous.’ Cynthia Murphy, author ofLast One To Die

Josie Williams

For Braxton

Prologue

~ Ryder ~

The human mind is most open in those few precious seconds when the body is on the cusp of death. I’ve always found it ironic that the time when you’re most awake is just as you’re about to fall into everlasting sleep. Someone like me, a wanderer, lives for those fleeting moments of a person’s passing, because it’s only then that we exist to anyone other than ourselves or the other trapped souls that roam the Earth.

Of course, it gets depressing watching people die, seeking out their last breath, willing their demise, just so I can feel something, but after five long years of wandering alone, unacknowledged and unnoticed, Ineed that connection. That split-second rise of the eyebrows, the narrowing of the eyes, or – my personal favourite – the ‘who are you?’ is enough to make me feel alive again and remember that, although I don’t exist anymore, Idid once.

Maybe I should start off by introducing myself. My name is, or used to be, Ryder Edmonds. Technically, I’m seventeen years old, but I’m not though, because, well, I’m dead. A moment of lost concentration on my behalf while white-water rafting with my family was all it took. The result wasn’t pretty. From what I remember of it, my end was quick and painless.

What wasn’t quick and painless, though, was my transition.

You see, I hadn’t done what I was supposed to. I didn’t move on and step into the unknown to begin my next journey – whatever that may have been. It all happened so fast, I was too distressed to think through the consequences of my actions – or, more accurately, my inaction.

One second I was falling from the boat and feeling the punch of cold water swallow me whole and fill my lungs, and the next I was stood stock still at my mother’s side, looking down at my lifeless body, noticing how my once-tanned skin now looked grey, and how my lips had a blueish tinge to them. My mother began to shake as my two older brothers, my dad and the instructor all tried desperately to revive me on the muddy banks of the River Tryweryn in north Wales.

Deep down I knew I was already dead. How could I not know? My own body was at my feet. I watched as they pushed on my chest and forced air into my lungs – it wasn’t exactly something one could misconstrue. A ball of horror settled into my stomach, weighing me down. I’d never felt terror like it; it hit me like a freight train, smashing into me and turning my world upside down.

That was when the brilliant shock of light appeared behind me, so bright it almost burned my eyes as I turned to look. It was dazzling, blinding – but somehow it was majestically beautiful. The warmth of it coated my skin, wrapping me up in a feeling of safety and protectiveness, washing away the abject terror I’d felt building inside me moments before. The glow was full of love, radiating a sense of home, peace and serenity – just like one of my mum’s hugs.

I could only guess at what this meant – some sort of afterlife. I could feel it, feel the pull of it, the irresistible call of the light and what lay beyond. I knew I was supposed to go … but when I glanced back to look at my wailing mother, I knew I couldn’t leave her. So instead, I turned my back to the light, hoping that if I pretended everything was fine I could somehow will it out of existence. The pull from the glow had been immense, ignoring it had been almost impossible. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. At one point I almost lost the battle, but I kept my eyes on my mother and fought it with all of my strength.

It was a decision I’ve regretted every single moment of every single day since.

You see, the light didn’t wait around for me to get over my shock and think it through properly; it lingered for merely a minute or two, and then it was gone, and I was left standing there on that bank, watching as my family gave up and cried over my body.

No sooner than the light disappeared, than so did the warmth; in fact, so did every physical feeling that I had ever known. I no longer felt the cool breeze that moved my mother’s hair, or the sun that shone down overhead, I couldn’t even feel the slick mud or sharp rocks beneath my plimsoll-covered feet.

That was the first indication that I’d messed up. The second indication was when my eldest brother, in his rage and sorrow, picked up his oar and threw it directly at my chest. I’d flinched, like any normal person would do, but I needn’t have bothered because the oar sailed straight through my now non-existent body without so much as a rush of wind, and clattered loudly to the floor behind me. That was when I knew I was totally, utterly and royally screwed.

Chapter One

~ Ryder ~

Around two thousand people die every day in the United Kingdom alone; that amounts to a staggering six hundred thousand lost souls per year. I’d never really thought about mortality much before. You don’t question your existence – when you have one. It’s when you cease to exist that you begin to question everything.

Most souls, the lucky ones in my opinion, move on to their next journey. Some, like me, don’t do what they’re supposed to; they fight the light and then get stuck here, alone and unnoticed amongst the living. I’m not sure if there’s a technical term for what I am – I refer to myself as a ‘wanderer’ because that’s pretty much all I do all day – wander aimlessly. Wanderers are the souls of the dead that, for whatever reason, don’t go into the afterlife. They reject the light, like I did. Some people would call us ghosts, lingering spirits, spectres, spooks or phantoms. We’ve had many names over the years, but wanderer is my personal favourite. It’s less … scary.

There are many of us trapped here. I see them occasionally, walking amongst the living, or sitting watching life pass them by. You can tell they’re dead by the soft, shimmery edge to their bodies, kind of like an ill-formed dream or memory that you’re trying to recall. We look just …offsomehow. Also, let’s not forget our funky clothes. Doomed to forever wear what we died in, people meander about in pyjamas, hospital gowns, sports gear, you name it. There’s even this one guy who hangs around in the city centre by the theatre wearing some sort of Elizabethan get-up, throwing Shakespearian quotes and insults at the oblivious passers-by. I’ve always wondered when exactly he died, I’d ask him, but he’s stark raving mad, and last time I tried to spark up a conversation with him he chased me off, trying to wallop me with his cane. The other wanderers tend to keep themselves to themselves, too angry at the world and their predicament to socialise. Most of them stay close to their old homes, or follow their families around, or just stare off into space as they try to go about their old routines.

Not all wanderers feel the need to do what I do. I only know of one other: my best friend, Jade. She’s a little younger than me; she died a week before her fifteenth birthday, but she’s been dead a lot longer than I have. Jade is the only wanderer I’ve met who shares my pain and regret for not passing over to the other side. She’s also the only one who feels the need to be validated like I do. It was her that got me into it, actually.

That’s what I am doing right now – trying to gain that sense of self for the first time in almost six days. A morbid sense of worthlessness that can only be banished by the dying is what brings me here, day after day.

I look up at the large brick building, the local hospital, and take a deep breath, wishing I could feel the chilly October air fill my lungs. Shoving my hands into the pockets of the thick, waterproof jacket that I’m perpetually stuck wearing because it was my garment of choice when I died, I step into the building and immediately turn left. I know where I’m heading for today. The oncology department. Rupert Brown is on palliative care and has been clinging to life for the last few days. His time will be up soon, everybody knows it; it’s just a matter of when.

The door to the ward is closed as I approach, so I hold my breath and walk directly through it, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of passing through an inanimate object. It doesn’t exactly hurt, it feels more like a squeezing, pinching pressure that starts deep inside and works its way outward.

Once inside the ward, I stop and take a look around. The place is the same as normal; the beds are still full of faces I recognise; the nurses and doctors make their rounds. Morning visits have not long started, so people are saying their greetings to loved ones or talking to nurses about how their relatives were overnight.

Rupert’s private room is five doors up to my right. I make my way there, casually looking into the other rooms as I walk past. Sylvia, an elderly lady with stage-four lung cancer, is sitting up in her bed, watching TV and raggedly sucking air through her oxygen mask. I know from listening to doctors that she’s been given less than a week to live. She’ll probably be my next visitation after Rupert.

As I step into Rupert’s room, I see his condition has worsened since my visit yesterday. He looks paler and has a sort of sickly-grey tinge to his skin; his lips are dry and cracked; his cheeks hollowed where the skin clings to his bones. His body is frail and fragile, his muscles long since wasted away now he barely eats or moves. Today, his eyes are closed and he clutches an old photograph to his chest with long bony fingers. As I take a seat at his side, I study the photograph. It shows a younger, healthy version of him and a pretty, brunette lady with a boy of about six or seven attached to her hip. I know this is his family; he spoke about them last week to a nurse while I was here. Rupert is immensely proud of his son, a soldier in the British Army, currently posted overseas. He’d boasted about his boy and how he serves his country, just like Rupert had when he was young and able.

My gaze flicks to his chest, watching the slow, lazy rise and fall of it, and suddenly I find myself talking to him. I talk random nonsense really, about the Formula One race and football matches coming up this weekend, I tell him about the weather outside and how I have a feeling it might rain later, I tell him the joke that Jade told me early this morning before we parted ways and she went to her favourite hangout, the Garden House Hospice. I tell him anything I can think of just because, if I were sitting in the room alone with only a photograph for company, I’d want someone to do the same for me. It’s ludicrous really because I know he can’t hear me, but I can’t stop the useless drivel tumbling from my mouth.

I sit there all morning, talking to a man who can neither see nor hear me. I watch as nurses come and check on him, turning up his oxygen, fiddling with his morphine drip, fussing with the bedcovers as they smile down at him sadly. He wakes for a little while; the nurses sit him up so he can look around, but he’s barely able to move anything more than his eyes.

Just before lunchtime, his breathing becomes extremely laboured, and even the oxygen mask isn’t helping. His fingers tighten around the edge of the frame, clutching it closer as his eyes squeeze closed. His forehead crinkles as he lets out a little groan of pain. Clearly the morphine isn’t enough anymore.

My stomach sinks as I realise that he’s at his end. Although I’ve been waiting for this moment for the last six days, I still hate that he’s having to go through this. No man should die alone with only a photograph for company. But because he’s not attached to a heart monitor and hasn’t pressed the ‘call’ button, no one is aware that Rupert Brown is about to slip over to the other side at seventy-four years of age.

Involuntarily, my hand reaches out, closing over his, trying to support him even though I know that he’ll not feel it. His body spasms a couple of times and his eyes pop open as he desperately gasps for breath.

His eyes widen as he looks at me for the first time, this stranger, standing by his bed, clutching his hand as if we are old friends. The sense of recognition washes over me as his gaze latches on to mine and I see the silent question there – ‘who are you?’

I smile kindly, deep-down hating that I’m taking some small measure of satisfaction from this man’s death, but I just can’t help it. This is what I come here for, day after day.

‘Relax. Breathe. Soon it won’t hurt anymore,’ I promise. ‘Everything’s OK now, Rupert.’ Somehow, despite the pain that he must be in, calm seems to descend over him, and his eyes stay locked to mine until he wheezes in his last breath.

‘What happened? Am I … am I dead?’

I turn my head. Rupert is standing at my side in his maroon pyjamas. He looks healthier now as he stares at his body that lies on the bed, unmoving. I nod. ‘Yeah, you’re dead,’ I confirm, finally releasing my grip on his now lifeless fingers.

He gulps and turns his attention to me. ‘I don’t understand. Who are you? Are you an angel?’

An involuntary chuckle slips out of my lips as I shake my head. I’ve been asked that a lot. ‘No, just someone who’s lost.’

Rupert blinks a couple of times, and then squints, turning to look behind him, shielding his eyes as if he’s looking at the sun. I take a deep breath, knowing his light has come to collect him. I can’t see it, but judging by the wondrous, awed look on his face, I’m sure he can.

‘You should go.’ I nod in the direction that he’s looking in. ‘Go, Rupert, trust me, don’t stay here.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispers. ‘What’s beyond there?’ He reaches out as if trying to touch the light only he can see and stares, transfixed.

I sigh and drop my head. ‘I have no idea, but I know you need to go there.’

He shuffles forward, moving slowly, looking around to his left and right, his lips parted, his hands outstretched. I sigh, looking away and scowling towards the window, knowing that Rupert is the lucky one here because he gets an end, he gets to know what peace feels like, instead of being stuck in purgatory, forever alone, forever wanting.

Moments later, when I turn, I’m alone in the room with Rupert’s cadaver, all peaceful-looking in death, photograph still cradled against his chest.

When the nurse comes into the room to do her rounds, I slip out of the door unnoticed.

I need air; I feel a little suffocated and my stomach is twisted in knots. Usually a death doesn’t affect me as much as this. I normally enjoy the recognition a lot more, but today all I feel is grief, guilt and jealousy. Grief because that little old man had to die alone. Guilt because I’d hung out in his room for the last six days waiting for it to happen. And jealousy because he got his peaceful ending, yet I was still here. It was the look on his face, that awed look that did it.

Slumping down in the rain onto the blue-painted metal bench outside the busy hospital, I put my head in my hands and try to breathe through my stress, attempting to focus on the feeling of validation that his acknowledgment had given me. But that fulfilled feeling is today overshadowed by anger and frustration.

I don’t know how long I sit there in the rain, scowling at the floor, pondering the meaning of my ‘life’. After several buses have pulled up and sped away again, I finally drag my eyes to the ornate clock mounted on the front of the hospital. It’s almost four.

Knowing there’s nothing here that can drag me out of this depressive, dark state I’m slipping into, I force myself to stand and go to the one place that’s bound to lift my mood. Ashleigh Care Home. It isn’t the care home per se that I long to see, but someone that frequently visits there.

When another bus pulls up, I hop on, propping myself up on the luggage rack, and look out of the window, ignoring everyone around me and not even bothering to nose about to catch any gossip. Usually on bus rides, I’d read over someone’s shoulder, or eavesdrop on their conversations. Today, I have no desire to do either.

Ashleigh Care Home isn’t too far away, so I jump off when we approach and make my way up to the grand, old building with my hands firmly stuffed in my pockets. Today is Thursday, so it is one of her days and I know, within an hour, I’ll be feeling a lot better.

Making my way in, I look around, examining the familiar elderly people milling around in their house slippers and thick warm cardigans. The lounge of the care home is only half full, but I smile when I spot who I’m looking for.

Doreen Nichols is sitting in the corner, knitting away, with a bright red ball of wool on her lap. Her petite frame is accentuated by the large, old-fashioned armchair she sits in. Her short, curly hair shines silver in the daylight. A smile sits on her face despite her being alone. Even though she’s lost in her own little world most of the time, reliving her past while sitting in her present, Doreen is one of the happiest, most lovely people I know. Almost as lovely as the one I’ve come here to see.

I make my way over to her and take the empty seat at her side. ‘Hi, Doreen. How are you today? Hope you’ve not been giving the nurses a hard time again,’ I say, even though she can’t hear me. Doreen is a full-time resident at the care home and has vascular dementia caused by a bleed on the brain – a result of the severe stroke she suffered three months ago. ‘Today’s Thursday, you know what that means.’ I sink back into the chair and look her over, taking her in, making sure she’s well, as her knitting needles click relentlessly. On the outside, you wouldn’t think there was a single thing wrong with this tiny lady. Trouble is, when she has anepisode, she can become a little violent – hence her being placed in a home where they know how to care for her properly.

As she shifts her leg, the ball of wool drops to the floor and rolls away. One of the male attendants picks it up and walks over. ‘You dropped something, Doreen,’ he says, setting it carefully onto her lap.

Her smile widens as she touches the wool. ‘Oh, thank you, dear! Wouldn’t want to lose that,’ she smiles, tucking the wool down the side of her leg and continuing her hypnotic knitting movements with her arthritic hands.

‘Your granddaughter is due here any minute. It’s after four,’ the guy informs her.

My back straightens and some of the tension starts to leave my body at the mere thought of her.

Doreen sighs happily and nods. ‘I was hoping to get this row finished before she comes. It’s a Christmas present for her; I’m making her a scarf. Do you think you can put this away for me, so she doesn’t see it?’ She carefully holds up the knitting and needles to the attendant.

‘Sure thing, I’ll put it in your bottom drawer in your room, how ’bout that?’ he offers, wrapping it up more securely.

‘You’re a good boy. If I were twenty years younger…’

I watch as he laughs and walks off towards the back hallway where the residents’ rooms are located. Moments later, as if on cue, the front door opens and closes. Although I can’t see her yet because she’s around the corner in the reception area, I can hear her talking to one of the nurses and signing in as a visitor. I hold my breath, waiting.

Chapter Two

~ Ryder ~

Maggie Nichols is the very definition of awkward. The dictionary people should probably consider adding her name under the description of shy, demure, clumsy and withdrawn. But, the thing is, that all just adds to her charm and adorability.

Finally, she steps around the corner, shouldering her schoolbag. I smile and watch as she stops, glancing around the room, searching out her grandmother. When she spots her, her lips pull into the most beautiful warm smile that dimples her cheeks. Maggie steps forward and, because she’s not paying full attention, or because she’s simply the clumsiest person in the world, her foot catches on the leg of an armchair and she stumbles, barely managing to catch herself.

The attendants in the room rush forward to help her, but she rights herself quickly, waving off offers of help as her cheeks turn a cute shade of pink. I grin and sit forward in my seat as she drops her eyes to the floor and lets her hair fall in front of her face as a little embarrassed giggle escapes her lips.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

There’s just something about this girl. I have no idea what it is, but she captures my full attention as soon as she steps into the room. It’s not that she’s overly beautiful in the conventional way, it wasn’t her looks that first attracted me to her at all, it was her fierce ability to love. She’s ridiculously shy, but when it comes to her grandmother, she’s like a lioness protecting her cub: tenacious, ferocious, and with a quiet strength. That was what attracted me to her at first, but after that, getting to know her quirky, book-loving self, it was like I was sliding down a cliff, unable to grasp anything, unable to stop the momentum. I was a goner within a couple of weeks, head over heels in love with her. She’s beautiful inside and that radiates from every single pore of her retro-shirt-wearing, Freddie Mercury-loving body.

She takes off the bulky, soaking-wet coat that dwarfs her. It’s one of those old-fashioned ones with shoulder pads and looks like it came straight from the 1980s. It’s obviously a hand-me-down, and I would give anything to be able to ask her why she wears it all the time when it so clearly doesn’t fit her.

Everything about Maggie Nichols screams ‘frightened and shy’ apart from her hair. Rain soaked, untamed curls the colour of burning embers bounce as she walks, with bits falling over her face so she has to do that thing, blowing them away using the corner of her mouth that I find the most adorable trait ever.

‘Hi, Nan. How are you today?’ She bends and engulfs Doreen’s small frame in an affectionate hug. Doreen’s eyes flutter closed, and a fond smile tugs at the corners of her pink lips.

‘I’m well, sweetheart. It’s lovely to see you.’ Doreen pats Maggie’s back softly, but then pulls away and frowns. ‘You’re soaking wet.’

Maggie laughs softly and looks down at herself. ‘Yeah, it’s chucking it down out there and I forgot an umbrella.’ She drops her schoolbag at her feet and sets her coat over the back of the chair so it can air as she sits down.

Doreen clicks her tongue. ‘You shouldn’t have come in such bad weather. I wouldn’t have minded.’

Maggie waves her hand dismissively, pushing her damp curls behind her ears as her pale-green eyes lock on her grandmother. ‘Iwould have minded.’ She leans down and reaches into her coat pocket, pulling out a Pez dispenser. I smile. It’s Sylvester the Cat today, he’s old and the red paint has worn off his nose from overuse. Maggie lifts the head and grins as she takes a sweet and pops it on her tongue, before offering the next one to her grandmother. ‘Cherry today.’

A smile twitches at the corner of Doreen’s lips as she takes one, popping it into her mouth and then turns her face towards the window. ‘This rain is just terrible, isn’t it? Some angel up there must be crying up a storm over something.’

Maggie leans and takes Doreen’s age-spotted hand. ‘So, how have you been? Your cough any better?’

I watch Maggie, letting my eyes sweep over every inch of her face, her flushed cheeks and the little droplet of rain that’s itching to fall from her hair any second. How she covers her mouth shyly when she laughs or smiles so that her metal braces are hidden; how her oversized navy-blue school jumper hangs loosely, but how she still fiddles with it, pulling it away from her tummy as if self-conscious. I notice the dimples in her cheeks that my fingers itch to reach out and touch.

Sitting back in my chair, I blow out a big breath and let the day’s frustration wash away from me as I listen to her talk. Everything feels better in my world when I’m around Maggie. As a wanderer, time seems to drag. An hour can seem like a day, a day a week, a week a year. It feels like an age since I last saw her but, in reality, it’s only been two days.

I’ve known Maggie for just over three months now. The first time I’d laid eyes on her I’d been at the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital doing my usual, hanging-out-and-waiting-for-that-validation thing, when Doreen had been rushed in on a gurney. It hadn’t looked good for her at all, so, me being me and what I was there for, I’d followed behind her, waiting and watching. Behind Doreen had trailed a distraught-looking Maggie. I’d thought Doreen Nichols was a goner that night, but I was wrong. I hadn’t realised how much of a fighter she was.

As usual, Maggie’s visit lasts about an hour before the staff begin bustling around, helping the residents out of their chairs and escorting them into the dining room for dinner. Today was a nice visit – unlike the last one. Last time, Doreen had been having an off day. She’d not recognised her granddaughter and had instead thought it was her only daughter, Margaret, Maggie’s mother. It was heart-breaking to watch Maggie have to explain to her nan that Margaret had actually died over seven years ago. Doreen had been distraught and incredibly confused at the news. Unfortunately, as with a lot of dementia sufferers, it wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed something like that, and it wouldn’t be the last either. This visit, though, was a lot brighter. Doreen was on good form, joking and laughing. The two of them were nattering like old men standing by a fence, setting the world to rights.

‘I guess it’s time for me to go,’ Maggie mutters, looking around at the emptying-out room.

‘What? Already? You just got here.’

‘It’s dinner time. You’re having shepherd’s pie and roasted carrots, I asked on the way in.’ She smiles affectionately at her grandmother.

As she stands to leave, Doreen’s breath catches and she leans forward, grabbing her granddaughter’s hand. ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me here. I don’t like it here. It’s so noisy at night, and there are bad people. They come in and steal my clothes while I’m asleep. One of them stole my favourite cardigan! Please, please don’t leave me here any longer. Take me home with you?’

Maggie gulps. ‘I can’t, Nan.’

‘I’ll be as good as gold, please? I promise I won’t be any trouble.’

The heartbreak is clear to see on Maggie’s face. Her jaw clenches. ‘I wish I could, but I’m not allowed. They say I’m not old enough to be your carer. In less than three years I’ll be eighteen, and then…’ She trails off, her expression almost pleading as she strokes her thumb on the back of her grandmother’s hand. ‘Please don’t keep asking. Ican’t.’

Doreen’s pleading expression turns hard instantly. ‘Fine, go then. Leave me here on my own with these people. It’s not like you care!’ Her tone is venomous as she waves her hand at the elderly residents all seated around the room. ‘I shouldn’t be in here. I shouldn’t have to sit here listening to them all complain about arthritis and how they want their food mushed up without lumps!’

Maggie’s eyes close as she takes a deep breath. ‘I have to go. I love you; I’ll come back at the weekend.’ Before Doreen can say anything else, Maggie bends and plants a soft kiss on her cheek before picking up her bag and coat and walking off.

I get up and follow as Maggie pretends she can’t hear Doreen pleading again behind us. She barely makes it around the corner and out of the room before her tears come. I long to wrap my arm around her, to soothe her and tell her that everything is going to be all right, but, of course, I can’t. Instead, one of the nurses is there in an instant, passing Maggie a tissue with a sympathetic look.

‘OK, sweetheart?’

Maggie shakes her head, her curls falling over her face again. ‘No.’ She sniffs, using the tissue to wipe her damp cheeks before blowing her nose.

The nurse sets her hand on Maggie’s shoulder and smiles kindly. ‘I know it’s hard, but she doesn’t do it on purpose.’

A sad smile graces Maggie’s lips as she nods. ‘I know; it’s just so hard to see her like that. She thinks I want her in here. She doesn’t understand that they won’t let me live with her anymore because of the stroke. I want to, I want to take her home and look after her, but they won’t let me because I’m not old enough. She thinks I don’t care.’

The nurse shakes her head adamantly. ‘She knows you care, don’t ever think that. It’s the dementia, it makes people say and do things they would never normally dream of saying or doing. It alters peoples’ personalities so dramatically. It’s always hardest on those closest to them, but believe me, she knows you love her, and she loves you to death. On a good day, you’re all she talks about. She’s so proud of you, always know that.’

Reluctantly, Maggie nods. ‘Yeah, thanks, Violet. I’ll see you in two days.’ Without another word, she steps out of the front door and into the rain.

On visiting days, I usually make the thirty-minute walk to Maggie’s house with her. It’s become part of my routine now, even though it’s the complete opposite direction from where Jade and I spend our nights.

I step out of the door behind Maggie, noticing that she’s not put on her coat. She doesn’t go far. Just a few steps outside the door, she stops and looks straight up into the darkening sky, not caring that the rain continues to pelt down, dampening her hair and wetting her cheeks. She stands like that for a full minute before she lets out a heavy sigh and slips on her coat, reaching into the pocket to grab another Pez sweet as she stomps off down the path. As she walks, she searches in her schoolbag, pulls out her iPhone and clamps her chunky red headphones over her ears.

An instantly recognisable guitar riff fills the air. She has the volume so loud I can hear every angsty word of ‘Mr Brightside’ blasting through her headphones. I walk at her side, wishing I had words, wishing I could take away her pain. Slowly, oh so slowly, the music seems to calm her and her shoulders lose some of their tension. It’s always like this when her grandmother says something that upsets her – she blasts the music so loudly that it’s no doubt damaging her eardrums, and it calms her.

Halfway home, the rain stops lashing down and Maggie starts humming a classic Queen song softly to herself. Maggie is tone deaf and is easily the worst singer I have ever heard in my life. She’s so bad she should even be banned from singing in the shower, but I can’t help smiling. I still love it.

I have it bad.

Completely lost in song, Maggie steps off the kerb into the road, crossing without looking. Instantly, from my right, I hear a screech of tyres on the road and the long, shrill blast of a horn cuts through the air. My whole body tightens as a white transit van speeds towards Maggie. She is completely unaware. White smoke billows from the tyres as it skids on the road, getting closer and closer. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion.

If my heart were beating, it would have stopped in that moment.

The van isn’t going to be able to stop, it’s going too fast. Maggie is going to die right in front of me and I am powerless to stop it.

Chapter Three

~ Ryder ~

My mouth opens and I scream her name, mingling with the screeching horror of the van’s impending approach still roaring from my right. Behind me, comes a loud, shocked gasp.

‘Hey! Look out!’

Turning my head to the side, I see a young lad, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His face is pale as he stares with wide eyes in Maggie’s direction … but he’s not moving. He’s making no moves to save her, to save the girl with the fiery red hair who has stolen my heart so easily. His feet are firmly planted on the ground. He’s going to watch her die.

Suddenly a crazy idea hits me. Before I even consciously make the decision to do it, I’m already acting. I don’t even know if it’s possible, but I have to at least try.

I rush towards him. If I still had a body, we would have collided and crashed to the floor from the force with which I threw myself at him. Instead, that uncomfortable squeezing, pinching sensation takes me over again, the one I always get when passing through an object, but this time my intent is not to pass through.

The boy’s body jerks and twitches as I enter it.

I clench my jaw tightly as everything blurs, then fades, and finally turns completely black. All around me – or maybe it’s just within my head, I’m not sure – there’s a high-pitched whistling, like the sound of an old-fashioned kettle when it boils. As I struggle to take hold, everything closes in around me; the darkness takes over, pushing me from all directions, squeezing the air from my lungs. Just when I think I can’t take the pressure any longer and I’m going to have to avert my plan, the pain ends.

All at once, as if the pain and pressure hadn’t just happened, everything comes back into focus again.

I see her, still walking across the road, humming her tune. Barely a second must have passed since she stepped out. The van is still hammering towards her, the driver’s desperate efforts doing nothing to stop the impending collision.

Finally noticing what’s happening, Maggie looks up, her mouth dropping open in shock as her whole body goes rigid with fright. Her hands fly out, as if that will somehow protect her from the ton of metal screeching towards her.

Instinctively, I move my legs, launching myself forward into the road, throwing myself at Maggie. My body smashes into hers with such force that she’s instantly knocked from her feet. It’s a tackle I’d done a hundred times on the rugby field when I was alive. Both of us are catapulted into the air and across the road. The engine noise gets louder, deafening even and, as we start to fall, I feel a burst of wind on the back of my head where the van narrowly passes us.

I don’t have time to properly register her grunt of pain or the air leaving her lungs in one whopping gust as my shoulder slams into her side. I don’t have time to wonder if landing on the cold, concrete road will hurt her. I barely notice her belongings cascading to the floor or her headphones flying off. I don’t have time to think about any of these things before they’re happening.

We crash to the ground, side by side. The loud thump we make echoes inside my head as it strikes the tarmac. My shoulder hits next, and I feel the roughness of the road cutting into my elbow and forearm as we skid, finally coming to a stop just before the kerb.

Pain.

I’ve not felt it in so long that I don’t quite know how to deal with it. It is almost as if every little scratch or bump is magnified tenfold.

Gritting my teeth against the overwhelming sensations, I manage to push myself awkwardly up to a sitting position. Lifting my hand and tentatively touching the throbbing spot on the side of my head is a struggle because my coordination is way off. I’m not used to being in a body again; it’s weird and feels so alien. The muscles seem to protest, fighting against me, as if they somehow know I shouldn’t be in control of them. I look down, seeing the boy’s hands in place of mine, seeing his clothes covering my body. I blink rapidly as my actions finally sink in.

I’ve taken possession of the boy’s body.

I’m unprepared for the emotions that crash over me. Panic, horror, fear, shock, pain and finally, relief, a lot of relief. I don’t quite know how to cope with all the emotions again. There are too many feelings. I’d not realised how detached I’d become since I’d died. Simple things like feeling the wind on my face, and how cold the rainwater is as it seeps into my clothes and wets my face. I’d forgotten what it felt like to actuallyfeel.

I quickly test my movements, noticing they’re clunky and awkward, but nothing screams in agony so I know I’ve not broken any bones or caused any permanent damage. The boy will ache for a little while, but it was worth it.

I turn to Maggie as she lets out a groan. She’s lying face down on the road; her red hair strewn everywhere, hiding her face. Squinting to see her better under the dim haze of the streetlight, I reach out, placing a hand on her back. The feel of her coat’s material under my fingertips causes my hand flinch away, again unprepared for the sensation of touch. Air rushes from my lungs. I just touched her. My hand touched her, actuallytouched her! Despite the pain in my head and my arms burning from the numerous grazes that hitting the road has caused, I can’t contain the smile that’s crept onto my lips. I touched her. Something I’d longed to do for the last three months, something I usually daydreamed about for hours on end.

Off to the side, the van finally skids to a halt, and the silence now seems somehow deafening.

I reach out again, tentatively touching Maggie’s shoulder, brushing her hair out of the way so I can see her face. ‘Hey, are you all right?’ I manage to rasp out through my dry mouth. My voice is alien to me, too; I guess I’d expected my own voice to come from the boy’s mouth instead.

She stirs again, finally lifting her head. Her eyes meet mine for the first time since I’ve known her. The pale-green is mesmerising, and I revel in the fact that she’s actually looking at me. Her lips part as her gaze goes from me, down to her barely damaged and very much alive self, and then over to the van that the visibly shaken driver is now climbing out of.

‘Oh, God … I … I … You … You …’ Maggie sits up, blinking and shaking her head as if trying to clear her thoughts. ‘I wasn’t looking, I didn’t…’ She gulps, reaching up and setting her trembling hand over her heart. ‘You saved my life.’

The smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I shrug, trying not to wince as that causes a sharp twinge to radiate up my neck. Her eyes meet mine again, trapping me there as her shallow breathing begins to even out. Silence stretches out between us. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve wanted to speak to her for so long, I’d had it all planned out, what I would say to her if I ever got the chance, but now that moment has arrived, I am just sitting here dumbfounded and staring back at her like a complete and utter tool.

‘Are you guys OK?’ The van driver interrupts my awkward, staring silence. ‘Jesus, that was so close. I can’t believe how close that was!’ He turns his attention to me. ‘She was lucky you were there, buddy. I wouldn’t have been able to stop in time.’ He crouches down, looking at us both in turn. His face is still etched with shock; he looks like he’s a few heartbeats from vomiting. ‘Are you hurt? Shall I call an ambulance?’