Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

It was my turn to take a bathroom break. I needed to get out of there. Fast.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Hans and Frederick, trying my best to seem like I was steady on my feet as I rushed away.

I don’t know how I made it to the bathroom, but I did. I shunted my way into a cubicle and dropped myself down on the toilet with the room spinning.

It couldn’t be true. There was no way I could be a ghost whisperer, whatever that even meant.

Once again, though, it all came flooding back to me… the countless times I’d told Mum and Grandma about the people I’d seen across the street in my imagination wearing vintage clothes. The countless times they’d told me I was daydreaming.

Stop lying!There’s nobody there!

I’d heard the same response so many times that I’d stopped saying anything at all, giving myself the same message that they had. Stop being a stupid little girl.

Finally, I’d stopped questioning it, stopped talking about it. Stopped believing in it myself.

And now here I was, just turned eighteen, back in the midst of the fantasy confusion I’d had when I was eight.

I felt two different sides of myself battling, but there was no doubt which was going to win the war this time. For once in my life, the stupid little girl was going to stand up for herself and come up trumps. How could she not? Meeting a vampire named Hans and hearing him talk of witches, and wizards, and ghosts. There was no denying it. George and his wife were sitting at the bar.

Whatever the outcome of the inner battle, I had to get a grip of myself.

I couldn’t break down in the Regency bathroom, rocking on the tiled floor like the world was ending. The world wasn’t ending at all. My eyes were simply opening.

I moved from the cubicle to the basin and put my hands under the cold, running water, trying to slow down my heartrate. I needed to calm down. I thought that might be working a little until the bathroom door swung open.

There she was. Margaret. And she wasn’t just a waving figure at the other end of the bar this time, she was right up close, standing beside me.

She was a frail old lady, but she carried herself so well, standing tall. The wrinkles around her eyes complemented her warm smile, and she was dressed so perfectly demure, in a cream blouse and dark green skirt, with an emerald broach at the collar. She looked like she belonged on George’s arm. Most definitely.

“My husband has said lovely things about you,” she told me. “He said you were an excellent barmaid, always very helpful. That’s a massive compliment for an old grump like him.”

I felt like a fool, out of my depth when I replied with a ridiculous thank you, that’s a lovely thing to hear.

“It’s really quite the novelty to be seen by someone after all this time,” she said. “For over a decade I’ve been wandering around our house, trying to get George to see me, but it was like screeching at a wall. I only wish I’d accompanied him to the bar sooner, I may have been able to have a bit of chatter to fill my days.”

She gave a little chuckle.

I knew I was staring, and my mouth was gaping. I was talking to a freaking ghost.

“Just as well George met his end and came to join me, wasn’t it?” she went on. “I was about to give up and go haunt someone else, just to get them to notice me.”

She was joking, but my laugh in return got stuck in my throat. I sounded like a coughing frog.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Are you ill, my love? You look like you’re burning up.”

“I just can’t believe this is really happening,” I admitted.

“Can’t believe what is happening?”

I gestured at her wildly. “This. Seeing you. Seeing George. Everything.”

Her expression showed her confusion.

“Surely this can’t be the first time? You are a witch, after all.”

The room spun, my eyes trying to stay fixed on her.

“Sorry, what? What did you say?”

Her eyes sparkled along with her broach.

“A witch, sweetheart. You’re a witch, yes?”

I shook my head. “No.”

She looked as though I’d just told her the moon was made of cheese.

“You’re not a witch? Really?”

I kept on shaking my head. “No. I’m not.”

“Good Lord. What are you, then? A psychic, or full-blown ghost whisperer? You’re not a vampire yet, clearly.”

“I’m none of them,” I blustered. “I don’t think so, anyway. I’m just a girl from Orcop.”

“I’m sure that can’t be the case.” Margaret put a hand to her chin, pondering. “Surely the vampire you’re with must know what you are. Maybe you should ask him if you haven’t already? I’m sure he’ll be able to enlighten you.”

It seemed I’d have the chance to ask Hans very soon. There was a knock on the door, and even though it was the ladies’ bathroom, he stepped straight on inside.

He looked from me to Margaret.

“Ah, you’re not alone?”

“How do you know that?” I asked him. “Can you see her? She really is here?”

“No, I can’t see her, but I don’t need to. I can tell from your expression. It’s plainly obvious that you’re speaking with her.” He paused, then addressed the empty space beside me. “Hello, Margaret, sorry I can’t see you in person, but I am pleased to hear you are well.”

“Hello, Hans,” she replied, then patted my arm. “Do thank him, please. For delivering my George to me. I know he was the one pulling the strings behind the scenes. George knows it, too. He was quite an angry sod when he first crossed over and saw his body at the bottom of the stairs, but he soon got over it when he saw me.”

Alrighty then. I took a breath and looked at Hans. “She says thanks. For… for killing George.”

He waved his hand. “I can’t take all the credit, Margaret. I only gave the nod.”

I couldn’t believe this. I was in some kind of alternate reality, acting as an interpreter between a ghost and a vampire. Just what the hell was going on?

Of course, Hans read my mind.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re bound to be a little bit disoriented. That’s totally understandable.”

“Understatement of the century,” I managed to say.

I was still wobbly. I leant against the basin, then looked Hans right in his stunning green eyes.

“Is Margaret right? Am I a witch? Or a psychic, or a ghost whisperer thingy?”

He tipped his head from side to side, as though he was pondering.

“Oh, go on, tell him to hurry up,” Margaret said with a chuckle. “I’m as curious now as you are.”

I very much doubted that was the case.

“What am I, Hans?” I said. “What the hell is happening to me?”

He took my hands from the basin and gripped them tight. Then he spoke to the space beside me.

“Leave us alone, please, Margaret,” he said. “I think this conversation should be a private one.”

“Of course, sorry.” She put her hand on my back before she walked away. “Good luck, darling. Enjoy the revelation. You’ll have to let me know how it goes.”

The bathroom door swung back open as she left, but Hans didn’t seem convinced.

“Did she leave?” he asked me.

“Yes,” was all I could say, staring blankly as the door closed up again behind her.

“Excellent.” He paused, and his expression was a serious one. “I really didn’t expect to be having this discussion in a club bathroom after you’d been talking to a ghost, so, my sincere apologies for that, Katherine, but I really didn’t believe George would be here so soon. It usually takes a lot longer for souls to adjust to the fact they are dead, let alone take a jaunt out to their local, but I guess he has Margaret to thank for that.”

I closed my eyes. “I don’t give a shit about the location, Hans. Just answer me, please.”

“Patience,” he said, and I’d have wanted to give him an uppercut if my hands weren’t so damn shaky and clutched in his.

My voice sounded so frantic when it launched from my throat.

“FUCK PATIENCE! What am I?! Am I a ghost whisperer, or a psychic, or a witch, or whatever else the hell is roaming around the place? Am I a werewolf? A human bat? A reincarnation of King Arthur?”

He sighed. “Well, now. That’s the very opposite of patience, isn’t it? Try not to lose your cool, little one.”

“How can I not lose my fucking cool? I’ve just had a ghost asking me if I’m a witch in a fucking bathroom! I’ve gone mad, that’s it, isn’t it? I’m in a mental asylum somewhere, drugged up to the eyeballs.”

Hans stayed so steady, shaking his head at me.

Then the thought really slammed me – I was in a coma! Maybe I’d been hit by a car on the way to work, and now I was in a coma, playing inside my mind.

“You’re not insane and you’re not in a coma,” Hans said, “How about you go finish your merlot and we’ll resume the conversation when you’re a little calmer?”

I stared at him in shock, because he sounded like all this was the most natural thing in the world. Like it should be obvious that these entities existed and I should have known all about them.

“I am surprised you don’t know about them, yes,” he said.

His tone changed and he cursed under his breath.

“Your mother and grandmother did a very good job at hiding the truth from you, didn’t they?”

Stupid girl.

Even now his eyes were so green they were mesmerising. I tried to focus on them and not the world that was twisting and warping around me.

I took a deep breath, and tried to still the inner whirlwind. There was no point in denying it. My rational beliefs were crumbling to nothing, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I sighed to myself, my hands still gripped in Hans’. He stayed as calm as ever while my mind lurched through my memories.

Maybe I should have fought an awful lot harder in the first place. Every time Mum and Grandma told me I was bloody insane…

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Hans said. “You were just a child. You’re blossoming into a very skilled woman right now. You should be proud of yourself.”

“What am I?” I asked again. “Seriously, just tell me, will you?”

His gaze was so intense it took my breath.

“I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. Make sure you only ask questions when you’re ready to hear the answers. Once you’ve heard them, you can’t go back.” He paused. “So, I’m asking you. Do you really want to know?”

Yes. That’s what I thought in an instant. YES, OF COURSE I WANT TO KNOW.

Hans spoke again.

“Be sure, little one. Be very, very sure.”

I could sense the trapdoor, thumping in my subconscious, and it gave me its usual shiver of NO.

NO.

DON’T DO IT!

Don’t ask the question.

But I couldn’t fight it anymore. I couldn’t walk out of the bathroom with no idea what the fuck was happening to me, or who the fuck I really was…

I sounded surprisingly self-assured when I spoke next.

“Yes,” I told him. “I want to know. So, I’m asking you again. What the hell am I? A psychic, a ghost whisper, or a goddamn witch, Hans?”

He sighed, and gave my hands another squeeze before he answered me.

“You’re all three,” he said.