Page 158 of Love at First Fright

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

The bat tattoo. Exactly the same as mine, still dark against his weathered skin.

I rolled up my sleeve, staring at my own version. Three drunk idiots in a Bristol tattoo parlour, swearing eternal brotherhood over the buzz of needles and terrible techno music.

“You guys really did go all in on the bat theme.” Charlie grinned.

Something spread through my chest—not the usual chill of ghostly existence, but something properly human. Connection. Belonging. The knowledge that somewhere out there, Ollie still carried a piece of our band on his skin.

“Right, then,” Charlie said, fingers poised over the keyboard. “Bartholomew Frederick Whitmore.”

He’d remembered my full name in all its atrociousness.

The loading icon spun. I held my breath—or pretended to—waiting for something, anything, to appear.

Charlie’s shoulders slumped as he scrolled. “Huh. Nothing.”

“Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I died before all this Google hysteria.”

He tried again: Grimthorne Manor, Bartholomew Whitmore, Death.

Still nothing about me. A few articles popped up about its “grim” history. Lots about Vivian’s death. I recognised some of the photos—I’d seen them on various screens over the years, when new owners moved in and had… questions.

Charlie clicked through some of them, skim reading before closing it down and moving on to the next.

Then he typed in: Bartholomew Whitmore, Bristol, Missing

Eventually, he groaned, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I thought for sure there’d be something! You got fucking stabbed here! You just… disappeared! Wasn’t there like, a police investigation?!”

I touched his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. “Charlie, chill.”

“How can you be so chill about this?”

I shrugged, though my chest felt hollow. “Made peace with not knowing a long time ago.”

“Ollie and Jezza might not even know that you’re dead!”

“I think they would probably have guessed after a few years,” I said gently. “They probably think I got wasted without them, and fell into the river or something.”

“Surely they would have contacted the police, even if your parents didn’t?”

“Definitely. But people go missing from cities all the time. Probably hundreds from Bristol every year. A random twenty-three-year-old man wouldn’t have warranted a search party.”

“You weren’t a random man, you were a local rock star!”

“Local rock star?” I roared with laughter, the sound echoing off the bedroom walls. “Mate, we had about three groupies, and one of them was this creepy old lady who Ollie was seriously considering taking a restraining order out against. She used to follow us to gigs and try to slip him her knickers.”

Charlie’s brilliant grin lit up his face. “Well, if I’d been around, I would have been your biggest fan.”

The words hit me square in the chest, bright and fierce and unexpected. For a moment, I could picture it—Charlie in the crowd at the Cavern, eyes bright as he watched me play, maybe catching my attention from the stage…

But then his smile faded, and I knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth.

“So… next shall I see if I can find your parents? Just to see if they ever tried to find you, at least?”

I shook my head quickly. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. Too many cans of worms being opened at once.”

Charlie studied my face for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough.”