Page 48 of The Time of My Afterlife

He looks like he’s been frozen in time.

‘Sir?’ I say, softly. ‘Are you okay?’

Still silence, and I gulp.

‘Say something,’ I say, waving my hand at him.

His face flickers back to life. I watch his moody, piercing eyes darken, and suddenly I am back to being a schoolboy, and he’s about to shout at the class about how useless we are at fractions. Fear engulfs me.

‘Can you leave, please?’

My heart sinks. ‘What? But I have come all this way…’

He rises from his chair. ‘I want you to go.’

‘But Pearl has been…’

With a shake of his head, he ushers me to the door. ‘Out.’

‘You and Pearl…’

He opens the door, shoves me with the force of a young man and slams it shut. I stumble, then turn to bang on the door. ‘Mr Beaver, please listen to me.’

‘Go away,’ he shouts.

‘Crabby old git,’ says a voice from the road. I look up to see a man with a sheepdog on a leash. ‘Stay well away from that old man. Go home, he’s best left alone.’

With a heavy heart and the feeling of failure, I get in my car. I’m about to turn on the engine when I glance back at the cottage. An idea takes hold of me. If the afterlife wants me to reunite Mr Beaver and Pearl, then I must leave him a way of contacting me once he’s calmed down.

I look in my glove compartment and find a scrap of paper. On it I write my address and phone number.

As I post the folded piece of paper through his door, I wonder whether this will be enough. Will the afterlife reward me for driving for over two hours to track my old maths teacher, who is my neighbour’s true love? What have I changed? I now know his identity, and I tried to talk to him, but that’s it. My stomach performs an uncomfortable spin.

His door opens, and I look round to see him chucking out the piece of paper I put through his letterbox. ‘I don’t want your contact details,’ he growls before going inside.

As I walk back to my car, I angrily kick a few stones across the large driveway in frustration. Florence and I are doomed.

19

FLORENCE

What the hell is that noise?

Someone is hammering on my door. It must be Clark.

I’m tucked up in bed with a cup of hot chocolate and my romance book.

Earlier, I messaged Chris. When I think of him now, my heart flutters. I checked his Instagram account again, and there are still no photos of him. I’m praying he’s handsome, broad-shouldered, and has strong arms to cuddle me.

I’ve decided to be brave and encourage Chris to reveal his identity.

I think you should send me a selfie – I need to see what I am working with here.

I pull on my dressing gown and head downstairs.

Through the door, I can see Clark’s shape.

He strides into my house without waiting to be invited inside. ‘I found him.’