Page 46 of The Time of My Afterlife

No – I am overthinking this. I need to distract myself and get rid of these annoying thoughts.

Chris hasn’t sent me a message for a while, which is unsettling.

I glance at my whiteboard. I need to bring back the positivity with some bookish wedding planning.

18

CLARK

It’s a long way to Pixie Cove in Devon. The roads are busy, and an accident on the motorway sends me and my satnav into meltdown. Luckily, the weather has been on my side, sunshine all the way.

I stopped at the services for the loo, and as I was on my way back to the car, I saw that my father had left me a WhatsApp message:

Looking forward to sitting in your house and drinking a cuppa with you soon. Make sure you buy some decent biscuits for your old man.

It made me smile and think about how grateful I am that he and I bumped into each other again. I started thinking about all the things we could do after he visits: go watch the football, play golf, or spend a weekend in London. But as the sun crept behind a cloud, my worries over the afterlife’s test returned. Dad and I might not get a second chance. I briefly thought about Mum and whether I should tell her about how I’m back in touch with him. If I die, he will tell her we’d been in contact and she’ll get upset or throw a plate of food over him at the wake. The thought left as quickly as it arrived. I will be dead and they will just have to deal with it. I stuffed my phone in my pocket and hurried back to the car.

I’m ten miles away from Pixie Cove – the home stretch. I find a sports radio channel and listen to the commentary of a snooker match.

My mind has zoned out. I’m thinking about Harry, who loved snooker. When Dad left, it was Harry who helped me through the ordeal. He’d turn up and take me for a pint and a game. We’d talk about everything, and I always felt better once we’d said goodbye. I will never forget how he rescued me from a dark place.

I remember his last words to me – Promise me you’ll look after Florence.

If he’s looking down from heaven, will he be proud? Will he think I did what I promised?

At first, I started doing little things for Florence – things she wouldn’t notice; when a storm took off some roof tiles, I made sure my mate, a roofer, knocked on her door the next day. I caught the pastry thief who kept nicking stuff from the café, and when Yvonne (her mum) told me that Florence wanted a new car, I made sure my mate, who owns a car garage, put a leaflet through her door.

Florence’s miscarriage changed everything.

When I was seventeen, Mum discovered she was pregnant. It was a shock for her and my father. She’d assumed her symptoms were the sign of an early menopause. Even though there was going to be seventeen years between me and my new sister or brother, I was over the moon. Then Mum had a miscarriage. It affected all of us, and I think it led to their marriage breaking down, and me not speaking to my father for ten years.

Florence’s miscarriage stirred something in me. It brought back all my pain.

I had been so pleased for her when I found out she was pregnant. I had to stop myself from telling her how proud I was of her for keeping Ben’s baby and raising their child herself. Even though Florence is the most annoying person in the world, I knew she would make a fantastic mother. Bossiness and being a pain in the arse are essential qualities for being a good mum, and Florence had those in buckets.

When her mum texted me that Florence had lost the baby, I cried in my car.

That was when I started masquerading as Chris. I just wanted to make sure Florence was okay. At first, it was just innocent interactions. As Chris, I traded friendly bookish messages and liked all her book review posts. But over time, it’s developed into something deeper and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop. Guilt gnaws away at me. It’s wrong to make her think I’m someone else. Once I pass the afterlife’s test, I will stop sending her messages. Maybe Chris could admit he has a girlfriend or something?

Pixie Cove looks idyllic. The coastal village lies in a crescent around the small sandy cove and is hemmed in by tall, craggy cliffs. As I park in the main car park, I see I’m surrounded by whitewashed cottages. The air smells of sea-salt and fish and chips, and my stomach groans with hunger.

I walk to the edge of the stone quay and look out across at the fishing boats bobbing around in the water. To the right of me is the little strip of beach where tourists are busy enjoying the late afternoon sun.

This is the place where Mr Beaver has chosen to live out his retirement. I can’t fault him. Pixie Cove is beautiful.

Florence missed out on choosing not to come with me, though it’s probably for the best. We would have argued all the way here.

I walk up the path to the little town and head towards the local bookshop. It’s been made from weather-beaten timber and has a hand-carved sign that creaks in the breeze. Inside is a cosy maze of narrow aisles and mismatched shelves. The owner, a woman, has a mass of dark, unruly curls and a pair of thick, red-rimmed glasses.

She smiles, bright and breezy, as I approach the counter.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘This sounds weird, but do you live locally?’

‘Yes, I do.’ She repositions her glasses. ‘Lived here all my life.’

‘Ah. Do you know of a man called Rodney Beaver?’

Her smile dissolves, and her face darkens. Bingo.