Page 41 of The Time of My Afterlife

Scooping up her long hair, she pulls it into a ponytail. ‘She’s lonely. We talked and I also gave her some advice on a creative project. It was weird.’

I pull out a kitchen stool and sit down. ‘Why?’

‘Jane and I have so much in common. She’s into books.’

My brain loses contact with my mouth. ‘Does she review them too?’

Florence’s eyes are narrowing, and her eyebrows have formed a sharp ‘V’. ‘How do you know I review books?’

Oh, God. Why did I say that?

Quick, Clark, think! She must not know the truth.

‘Oh, erm, your mum told me.’

She gives me an odd look, and an awkward silence descends upon us.

‘If you helped her, then we will have passed,’ I say as her shoulders drop a little and she chews on her nail.

‘I did, but I’m not sure it…’ She pauses, and my stomach goes on a nauseating spin. ‘…it was enough.’

I gulp. ‘Why not?’

Her eyes are studying something on my tiled kitchen floor. ‘I have a feeling.’

All the saliva in my mouth evaporates. If I am right and the afterlife only gave us three chances, we are doomed.

‘But you helped her?’ I query.

Florence casts me a pained expression. ‘I think I was a bit bossy.’

‘Not surprising.’

She scowls. ‘I was trying to help her. What about you?’ she mumbles. ‘How did you get on?’

‘I changed a lightbulb in Pearl’s bedroom, and I saw a photo of her true love.’

She gasps. ‘And who is he?’

I take out my phone. ‘He’s in his youth, but he’s got a familiar look about him.’

‘I’m good with faces. Let me see.’

I show her the photo. She stares at it for a few moments. ‘Is that Pearl dancing?’ she asks.

‘Yes, she looks stunning, doesn’t she?’

Florence nods. ‘Her dress is amazing.’

I point to the man. ‘What about him? Do you recognise him?’

Her eyebrows rocket up her forehead, and her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ shape. ‘Mr Beaver.’

My heart grinds to a halt. I look at the photo on my screen. Surely not. Mr Beaver?

I look again, and Florence is right. It’s him. Those dark, piercing eyes used to stare at us while we were figuring out his maths problems.

She nods. ‘I can still smell his tweed suit jacket – damp and cigarettes. I also remember the algebra tests he set us. Our test sheets would be handed back looking like he’d attacked them with a red pen. And I can still picture him terrorising the school corridors, handing out detentions like sweets.’