Nobody True (47 page)

I felt my old, uncomplicated love for her returning, a child’s natural blind devotion, and I decided to leave before memories tarnished it. Aware she could never feel the touch, not even the whisper of a breath, on her cheek, I bent low and kissed her anyway.

Holding a mental picture of my house, I allowed myself to travel there by thought alone, which was a wonderful means of transport. Swift, too.

I’d expected to find Andrea on her own and had intended to wait for Primrose to return from school. When I found both of them there I realized it must be a weekend, probably a Sunday by the feel of it. Andrea was resting on our bed, and Prim was next door in her own bedroom, kneeling before the yellow and pink doll’s house we’d bought her for her last birthday. Prim was absorbed in organizing her “little people”—small, plastic men, women, children and animals, who inhabited the make-believe world she loved to escape into—around the wooden building’s various rooms, her own imagination giving them life and story.

Having first established where they both were, I went back to my wife. I gazed down at her lovely face as she lay on the bed and saw that the large wad of gauze held by Elastoplast, which had covered her damaged nose when I had returned to the house after Sydney’s death, was gone. Her face was gaunt and her eyes were damp with unreleased tears. I hoped that they were the last, that she’d finally cried herself out and this was only a moment of weakness, the worst of the grieving having run its course. And yes, I knew she had grieved terribly for me; the dullness of her aura told me how depleted by sadness she felt and I could sense the wretchedness of her spirit itself (I’d become very adept at such sensing lately).

As I watched, she closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to lose herself in a memory. Somehow I knew it was of me.

I noticed what she clutched in her arms, pressing it to her breast. It was one of my old sweaters, its colour a deep blue. A framed photograph stood on the bedside table, a place it had never occupied before. A family shot, a fairly recent one; me with one arm thrown over Andrea’s shoulder and hugging her tight to me, my other hand resting flatly against Prim’s chest, pulling her close between Andrea and myself. All of us were laughing and, as I remembered, not just for the camera—we were at Disneyland, Paris, and had spent most of the day laughing.

Perhaps, before, some of the reluctance to return home was, in part, because I feared Oliver might be there. But he wasn’t. There was no impression of him either. Again, this came from Andrea herself. I sensed nothing of Oliver (and I told you that my perception, or if you like, my intuition, had become acute) and I hoped he was now absent from her life. Maybe the shock of my death had cleansed her of him; maybe guilt had made her realize how deceitful they had been together, and that love cannot flourish on guilt. Could be that Andrea had finally seen Oliver in his true colours—a lying, vain, cheating cokehead. Again, I hoped so.

And I also hoped that, in time, she would forgive herself. I wanted her to find happiness in the future, not misery or loneliness.

I leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Lastly, I went to see Primrose.

She was still playing with the doll’s house and her tiny plastic people when I entered her bedroom and when she unexpectedly looked over her shoulder, I thought she could see me. There was no expression on her sweet little face though and, just as quickly, she returned to her game.

I went over and sat on the floor next to her. I watched her profile as she arranged her little fun world and spoke the tiny people’s lines for them. I used to be fascinated by the playlets she made them perform while I surreptitiously watched from behind a newspaper whenever she set up the whole production downstairs in the living room. Her inventiveness since the age of five had always amazed me, each performance turning into a simple morality tale—plastic children (the same size as the adults) becoming lost, those same kids stealing, then repenting and becoming good once more, the father figure arriving home late from work yet again and missing his dinner, but promising not to work so hard anymore (I wonder where she got that one from?). It’s always wonderful to watch your own child grow and develop physically and mentally, and I was a sucker for it.

And now this would be my last opportunity to be entranced by her (don’t ask me how I knew, I just sensed it was so, and as I’ve said, my perception was becoming pretty sharp). I was sure my father was right when he said that by hanging on, “haunting” them, I’d interfere with their healing process, because part of them would not accept my death and subconsciously they would sense my presence. The mind sometimes absorbs ethereal elements that it will not always relay to the brain; such messages or unrealized perceptions are never lost though, and their influence can often be felt.

I noticed Prim, like her mother, had a photograph by her bedside. But this featured just the two of us, Prim and me, cheek-to-cheek headshots, our grins perfectly matched.

I sat with her for some time (I knew it had been a while, because when I glanced out the window, the sun was much lower in the sky). It had to be now, I thought. Staying any longer would only make it harder to leave.

Trying to dismiss the heartache that was threatening to undermine my resolve I bent forward on my knees and put my arms around Prim, careful not to encroach her small body, and touched her soft cheek with my lips.

I kissed her and she suddenly jumped. I withdrew sharply, not wanting to frighten her. She looked directly at me for a moment, but then her gaze went beyond where I knelt. She turned her head, to the left, to the right, and then behind her. For a little while, her expression was one of bewilderment and then, her tawny-flecked eyes shining, it changed to one of amazement.

“Daddy?” she whispered in awe.

Unchecked tears spoilt my vision. I knew she could not see me, nor would she hear me if I spoke. Nevertheless, I said, “Yes, Prim, it’s me, Daddy.”

No recognition in her eyes, no sign that she had heard my voice. As I knew there wouldn’t be—I was not a proper ghost.

She frowned and looked around the room again. She moved off her knees and sat on the floor, her ankles crossed as she pondered. There was still puzzlement there on her innocent face but, thankfully, no alarm.

Then she smiled and looked at our picture by the bed.

I smiled too.

48

So that’s my story. I hope it’s been of some interest to you.

Maybe, when you awaken from your out-of-body dream, you’ll have forgotten everything I’ve told you. I know I forgot dreams sometimes when I was alive.

The point is: do you believe me? Well, ask yourself why would I lie? I’ve spent too much time with you to waste on gibberish—it was dark when we met by chance and now the sky to the east is growing lighter. It doesn’t matter anyway. You can trust me or not. It’s up to you.

You might also ask yourself why this storyteller died but his soul did not go to its proper ordained place like most souls? I’m still a little puzzled by that myself, but this is how I see it.

For one, my soul was not in its body when I died—when I was murdered.

Two, there was some work for me to do in this world before I left it. I had more murders to prevent, because Moker’s killing would have gone on and on until she was caught. That’s why I found myself in Moker’s basement flat at the beginning of all this. It seems a Higher Source—at least, that’s what my father called it the last time we talked—a Higher Source guided me there. The rest was up to me.

And three, my unusual status gave me the opportunity to learn about myself and about life. I suspect many other souls get the same chance before they move on but, of course, the living wouldn’t know it. In my incorporeal form—my astral state, if you like—without flesh and blood, and all the hang-ups that go with that, I was pure mind with no physical distractions. The sensory gift we all have, but few of us use, was unfettered, my psyche was liberated. Is liberated—it’s an ongoing thing.

I’ve begun to understand and appreciate just a little about life on this planet. Not much, but way more than before. I won’t bore you with the “love is all” cliché, although that plays a big part in the understanding, and an even bigger part in our next stop. I’m assured—by my father—that it’s going to be something wonderful, but that’s all he said. No, we’re here on this earth to learn acceptance. Yep, that’s right—acceptance. Acceptance of everything that life throws at you. All the good, all the bad—everything. Doesn’t mean you don’t work—or fight—to defeat it or make the bad things good, but sometimes we have no control at all over it. That’s when you have to accept; you have no other choice.

My father told me acceptance leads to forgiveness, which is vital for progression, according to him, but I don’t believe it’s quite as simple as that—for us, anyway—and not as easy. Believe me, I know it isn’t easy. I think acceptance can lead to forgiveness, but it’s too hard for most people. How do you accept a tyrant, a child molester, a rapist—a murderer? I had to accept that last one, although I did my best to stop the killer. But it doesn’t matter to me anymore. I can be objective—forgiving—because I’m no longer part of it all. Because ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, the tribulations in this life are not so important, not compared to what happens next, the wondrous things that will come to each and every one of us.

What’s helped me begin to understand is this gradual disconnection with the world I’ve always known—the place you’re living in now. Jealousy, deceit, anger, acquisition—it’s all trivial as far as the big picture is concerned, and it fades into insignificance when you’re totally free of those imperfections yourself. That’s why I’ve forgiven Andrea, Oliver and Sydney. My mother too. As for my father, it seems there was nothing to forgive. I’ve accepted the emotional pain they caused me. It isn’t easy, nor that simple, but the more my presence here wanes, the easier and simpler it becomes.

The only person I’ve not yet fully forgiven is myself, because I had some of those imperfections or faults I mentioned. But I’m working on it.

You know, even Alexandra Moker should have accepted her disfigurement, but unfortunately it—and the lifetime of rejection she suffered—corrupted her mind and soul. I think she’ll get another chance though, but it’s only a guess.

I don’t expect to be around much longer. But that’s okay. I’ve seen a lot. I’ve finally taken excursions into the countryside and even though I’m becoming more distant from this world, the true beauty of nature took my breath away (metaphorically speaking, yet again!).

I’ve spent ages in art galleries, really looking at paintings and sculptures, really absorbing them and, for the first time, truly appreciating the artists’ intent.

I’ve explored famous old buildings and some spectacular new ones, museums too, gaining insights into other times, other civilizations.

I went to the palace to see the queen again—she wasn’t in the first time. Very tedious, not the kind of life you and I would like, I promise you.

I’ve sat in parliament and, believe me, most MPs are just as lazy and self-important as we think they are.

One dark and beautiful night I tried to reach the stars, but never even got as far as any helicopter might fly. Something pulled me back and I knew it wasn’t gravity; it was as if I’d reached my limits and my own will would not take me further. But I saw stars and planets as I’d never seen them before, zillions of them, each one a separate dazzling jewel.

I’ve seen over our world from a new perspective and I can assure you, it’s more fabulous than you could ever imagine.

Now time’s running out for me.

I can feel myself slowly vanishing, my mind gradually becoming disenfranchised from this place. Look at my arm. It’s almost transparent. And by the way you’re squinting at me, I suspect the rest of me is disappearing too. It’s okay. I feel ready to leave.

Am I afraid? My destiny was daunting to me, but that’s not so anymore. In fact, I’m eager to go on. There are many more answers on the other side as well as more mysteries. I know, because not only have I become acutely sensitive to this world and its meaning, but I’m already beginning to perceive something of the next. I think it’s going to be incredible.

It’s been good to meet you and get so much off my chest. It’ll help me forget the hurt. You’re the only one I’ve been able to communicate with in my wandering, so thanks for listening. Ghosts, yes, but not out-of-body spirits like you. Besides, they never wanted to chat. I glimpsed Moker before and she glimpsed me, but it wasn’t the same as this. There was no contact. Incidentally, I feel I ought to warn you to beware of the OBEs—look what happened to me—but I know you have no choice. Just don’t journey too far away from your host body, okay? And if you can, always leave it somewhere safe.

You know, my feelings of being drawn away from this life have been growing stronger even as I’ve been speaking to you. I think my departure is more imminent than I expected.

Take care of yourself and remember what I said about acceptance. It can resolve many things. And again, be cautious in your spirit state—you’re leaving your body very vulnerable. Don’t abuse your gift, use it only for good things or not at all. Learn things and treat your body like the temple it is. Treat it with reverence—it’s more valuable than you know. Oh, and I hope you didn’t mind my little digressions from the main story. Just thought you might be interested. Besides, I haven’t had the chance to talk like this for quite a while.