Page 7 of The Time of My Afterlife

With a sigh, he massages his temples. ‘We haven’t been kidnapped, and I knew this would be my fault.’

I scowl and look away.

We both go silent and listen to the fridge humming and the gurgling sink.

‘Hang on,’ says Clark, suddenly making me jolt. ‘We’re not injured.’

‘What?’

He walks over to me. ‘You and I were both run over – right?’

I glance at myself again, and then I survey him. He doesn’t look as if he’s been in an accident. His brown hair is in its usual artful mess, his jade-green eyes gleam like polished stones, and I can’t see any swelling or bruising on his face. He’s still wearing his fitted black T-shirt, which seems to stretch effortlessly across his broad, muscular chest. It’s not ripped or marked. My eyes linger a little too long on his chest. I pull them away. ‘Yes… but we don’t look like we’ve been in a road accident.’

‘Exactly,’ he says, ‘I think we’re… dead.’

My heart grinds to a shuddering halt. ‘Dead?’

He nods. ‘I think we died on the crossing. We could not have walked away from that injury-free. Impossible. I remember watching the concrete rush to greet me and thinking, “I’m going to die.” Florence, we’re dead.’

‘So, this nightmare bedsit is, what – the afterlife?’

He surveys the bedsit. ‘It must be.’

I start to tremble. ‘But… where are the angels? The fluffy white clouds? The harps and the pearly gates?’

‘Maybe this is the afterlife? Forget everything we’ve been led to believe. Life after death is existing in a grotty flat with sticky brown walls, a burping sink, an old toilet with no privacy and one uncomfortable sofa bed to share with the person you’ve spent your life arguing with.’

This is all too much. I feel like I’ve been lied to. All those people on social media who claim to have had a near-death experience always talk about a feeling of serenity, white light and beautiful surroundings. Whereas I’m in a germ-infested rabbit hutch of a flat with Clark Fielding and a faulty lift. There’s no café, no Wi-Fi, no books and no Chris on Instagram sending me flirty messages.

Today’s date flashes behind my eyes. Of all days to die, it had to be today. The familiar ache sitting behind my ribs becomes more noticeable. I recall what happened this morning before I opened the café. Whilst cleaning, I found a small child’s teddy under one of the tables. Why does life have to send us these cruel reminders? It didn’t take long for my tears to arrive. I didn’t want Laura or any of my customers to see my emotional state, so I went to stand in front of my whiteboard and thought of something that needed intensive planning – Molly’s fifteenth birthday in the autumn. As I adorned the board with colours, arrows and stick people, I decided that later this evening I would light a small candle and read aloud the words I have taken a year to write.

I gulp.

I am dead.

What will happen to my café? My mother doesn’t know a thing about running a business. She left everything to Dad and me when we started The Last Chance Café.

She also doesn’t work any more. Dad’s life insurance paid off the mortgage and left her with some savings, so she doesn’t need to. What will she do with the café?

Panic takes hold of me.

I picture Mum. She needs someone to make sure she’s okay. I’ve been struggling with her lately because she’s become friendly with a guy called Steve from the snooker hall. This has become a sore point for us, as I think she’s rushing into this friendship. It also upsets me that she can even think about moving on. Dad was such a huge part of our lives. I think about him every day. My two brothers both live abroad; one in New Zealand and one in Australia. I can’t see them coming back to look after her.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave Mum.

Tears fill my eyes, and a loud sob escapes from my lips.

4

CLARK

‘Florence, crying is not helpful…’ I stop as the sound of a mechanical groan fills the air. It’s followed by the deafening screech of metal and clanking cables. We both put our hands over our ears and slowly turn to face the old lift. The rectangular screen above the doors has come to life, displaying a flickering white downward arrow. The foundations of the bedsit shudder as the lift arrives with a thump. There’s a brief pause, as if the lift used up all its energy to get here, and it needs a few minutes to recover.

Florence wipes her eyes, and I take in a shaky breath.

The control panel crackles, and a button, which was obviously clinging on for dear life, falls to the floor. I gulp as the doors twitch before letting out a low, grating sound as they slide apart, revealing two older ladies.

They step out, greeting us with big smiles and waving white clipboards. One is tall and silver-haired, wearing a white dress. The other is shorter, with shoulder-length caramel-coloured hair, and wears a silvery trouser suit. They come to stand before us.