‘Can you see me?’ Fergus croaked from the doorway.

They screamed.

Chapter Nineteen

He’d been dead. It was no illusion. The moment of death had been marked with a blinding flash. There had been a sense of lifting out of his corporeal body and travelling instead with his spirit. Burdens behind him, Fergus Ariss had risen up to take his place in the afterlife.

He’d steadied himself before opening his eyes. It would undoubtedly be more colourful, more vivid than the earthly world. His mother would be waiting for him. Perhaps there would be a celebration, and an explanation as to how it all worked. He’d felt fleeting concern, but then remembered he was dead. What was the worst thing that could happen now?

Letting his mind float free, he focused on his breathing. Gone was the tight throat that had made his voice ugly and small when he was scared. There was no discomfort or grief. No restriction in his stomach or bowels. Bodily concerns were washed away. There was only warmth and an anticipation of the love to come.

Fergus had opened his eyes.

‘What the fuck?’

He’d run his hands over his body. It was intact, his soul still contained within. He’d slid his fingertips over his wrist and felt no pulse. The room around him was the same one he’d died in. The photos were still on the wall, the bed still out of reach. Sitting up, his limbs had strobed through the light, leaving little past images of his movements in the air. Everything was the same and yet a world apart. His heart was still in his chest. The lack of sensation in his body had left him floating, in spite of the fact that he could see his body making contact with the floor.

‘What went wrong?’

He’d walked slowly to the dusty mirror, hardly daring to look. Approaching the image by sliding sideways into view, he’d found he could still see himself. There was a representation of himself still in the world. It moved its eyes when he moved his, yet he saw no breath on the glass when he blew. There was blood on the floor and on his clothes from his fall, but no pain in his body. Fergus had pinched himself, hard. The result was the faintest buzz through his skin, as if someone were shouting to him from a great distance.

Ripping open a cupboard, he shoved aside box after box until he found what he was after. The sewing box was a biscuit tin from decades ago, paint peeling and faded. Inside were needles that hadn’t seen the light of day in more years than he could recall. He’d plucked one from its pin cushion, wiped it on his sleeve and stuck it firmly into his thigh before letting go, glaring at it, daring it not to hurt him.

‘Nothing,’ he whispered. ‘Why am I still here?’