Page 156 of Love at First Fright

“Ah, sorry,” Bat said quickly. “Okay, no more spider talk.”

I reached over to grab his hand, needing that anchor, that solid presence—

My fingers passed straight through him.

“Sorry,” Bat repeated, wincing this time. “I’m starting to run out of juice again.”

His legs, tangled with mine a moment ago, were gone, I realised. “It’s okay,” I said, swallowing hard.

But it wasn’t okay. It was so easy to forget that Bat was a ghost, that I’d soon be away from this place, never to see him again.

Bat’s clothes flickered back into existence like a television switching channels—one moment bare skin, the next his black T-shirt and jeans materialising from nothing.

I blinked hard. “That’s properly unsettling.”

“Sorry.” The word came out mumbled, distant. His third apology in as many minutes.

“Please stop apologising.” I sat up, pulling the duvet around my shoulders. “You never need to apologise to me, Bat.”

He nodded, biting his lip in that way that made him look awfully young. Vulnerable.

“Anyway, my turn to ask a question,” I said, desperate to regain some lightness between us.

Bat waited patiently, those large brown eyes fixed on my face.

“What the fuck is with the name Bat?”

He roared with laughter—delightful belly laughs.

I pointed at the small stitched bat on the front of his tee, grinning. “I have to know! You really went all in with it.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I always hated the name Bartholomew. Stupid name. Made me stand out at school for having posh, rich parents. Mean kids called me Barth—like barf, like vomit.”

My chest tightened, imagining a ten-year-old kid with long black hair standing alone on some playground whilst other children hurled insults at him.

“Anyway, much later, I met my bandmates at uni and we formed a band together. Had no idea what we were doing, or even what we would be called. During our first proper gig, nervous little Bartholomew knocked over the mic stand, tangled himself in cables, and ended up hanging upside down from the stage rigging for a mortifying thirty seconds.” His grin turned self-deprecating. “Someone in the crowd shouted ‘Look, it’s a bat!’ The crowd loved it, the name stuck, and suddenly our band had an identity. Bat’s Bats.”

I laughed, picturing Bat suspended like some gothic Christmas decoration. “So, you just went by Bat from that day forward?”

“Pretty much. My parents hated it, obviously. But by that point, I barely visited them anyway.”

The smile faded from his face, replaced by something harder to read.

“Do you…” I treaded carefully. “Think they’re still alive?”

Bat frowned, considering. “Maybe? They’d be pretty old by now.”

“Well, we can always see if we can find out.”

Bat sighed deeply, flopping back against the pillow. “You’re not going to let this internet research thing go, are you?”

“Probably not.”

“Fine.” He waved his hand dramatically. “Go do your mysterious hotspot tech whizz thing. Work your magic. Do your worst.”

twenty-one

Bat