I’m standing on the pavement watching two paramedics fight to revive my battered, bloody body. I desperately will them to succeed, even moving closer in the hope I can jump back into my skin at the right moment, but it’s futile. I’m pronounced dead minutes later.
But I’m still here, I tell myself. What does that make me? And then my thoughts turn to Ella. What will happen to her if I’m dead? She’ll be all alone, abandoned by both of her parents: the very thing I swore she’d never face.
‘Wait! Don’t give up,’ I shout at the paramedics. ‘Don’t stop! I’m still here. You’ve got to keep trying. You don’t know what you’re doing. Don’t fucking give up on me! I’m not dead.’
I scream my lungs out, begging and pleading with them to try to revive me again, but they can’t hear me. I’m invisible to them and, ironically, to the onlookers gathered at the police cordon – several waving camera phones – keen to catch a glimpse of the dead guy.
In desperation, I almost try to grab one of the paramedics, but something holds me back. Some part of me knows that a spirit can’t share space with a living person. But how am I so sure?
‘Why am I still here?’ I yell at the sky.
And someone answers me. A voice in my head. Like my own but different. ‘Think. Dig deep. You know why.’
But I don’t know why and the voice won’t say any more.
I see the driver who killed me. She’s chain-smoking menthol cigarettes under the watchful eye of a young bobby. She’s telling him what happened. My immediate reaction is to shout at her; to vent my anger and frustration. But then I note the despair in her face. She’s deathly pale and shaking. She knows what she’s done. She has to live with it. That’s punishment enough.
‘Have you got the time?’ one police officer asks another.
‘Three o’clock.’
Shit. Home time. Ella. Instinct kicks in and I start to run towards her school.
The last few stragglers are leaving the school gates by the time I arrive. I rush to the back of the building, where Ella will be waiting, and see her standing there alone, a forlorn look on her face. I feel a strong sense of déjà vu but push it to the back of my mind as I run across the empty yard, waving. ‘Over here, darling! It’s okay. I’m here now.’
I don’t know what I’m thinking. Why would she see me when no one else has? Watching my six-year-old daughter stare straight through me is quite the reality check.
‘I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous,’ the voice from earlier says. ‘Ignoring your gut. That’s denial. You need to think. Dig deep.’
‘Ella, Daddy’s here,’ I say for the umpteenth time, kneeling in front of her so we are face to face. Her lips are chapped and her right hand, which is clenching her Hello Kitty lunchbox, is covered in red felt-tip ink. It reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on what.
I gasp as I realize I won’t be able to remind her to use her lip balm or to help her ‘scrub those mucky paws’. Oblivious to my presence, she stares expectantly towards the far end of the playground.
I look at the open door behind Ella, knowing somehow that her teacher, Mrs Afzal, is about to emerge. She does. And she says what I know she’s going to say. ‘Is he still not here, love? You’d better get inside now.’
‘He’ll be here in a minute,’ Ella insists.
‘His watch might need a new battery again,’ I say in sync with my daughter.
How did I know she was going to say that?
‘Why do you think?’ the voice asks me. ‘Dig deep. She’ll be here in a minute.’
Who’ll be here?
Mrs Afzal mentions getting the school office to give me a call. I picture my mobile ringing in the back of the ambulance while they drive away my dead body. I imagine one of the paramedics, my blood still splattered across his green shirt, rooting through my pockets to find it. The panic I feel is strangely familiar. How long before Ella discovers what has happened?
I’m about to follow them inside when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It should surprise me, but it doesn’t. I know that when I turn around, she’ll be there.
‘Who’ll be there?’ the voice asks me.
I don’t know.
I turn, and then I do know.
Seeing her face is the key that opens up my mind, flooding it with memories of now and the future. Memories I shouldn’t have. But I do, because I’ve been here before.
‘Hello, William. Sorry to sneak up on you like that. I, um, I’m—’
‘Lizzie.’
She looks puzzled. ‘Yes … that’s right. How did you know?’
‘You already said.’
Her nose twitches. ‘I did? Oh, right. Anyhow, you’ve probably got a few questions.’
Not as many as you might expect, I think.
I hang around for a short while, watching everyone. The clock’s ticking but I still have a few hours to go. It’s strange being back in my old house again, watching them all grieving for me afresh. It’s my world – and yet it’s not. This time I have to stay detached, an observer. I have no place here.
Everything happens pretty much the same as I remember it, although I’m able to observe more now that I’m not so confused and frustrated. Watching Mum break the news of my death to Ella is even more distressing than the first time I saw it. I was in a haze then, like everyone else is now, which must have cushioned the blow. There’s also the fact that I don’t have long left with her. I’m harshly aware of that. She might not be able to see me now, but I savour every moment I spend with her. If only she didn’t look so sad, so lost.
It breaks my heart all over again, even though I know it’s coming, when she’s sitting in her princess castle and says: ‘I know you’re not dead, Daddy. Please come home soon, so Nana can see that she’s wrong. You promised you’d never leave me and I know you meant it. Please come home, Daddy. I miss you.’
Seeing my father alive again is hard as well. I wish I could talk to him and tell him what he needs to know. He’s in shock, like Mum and Ella. Lauren and Xander too, I suppose, but they’ve not flown over yet. I wonder if they’ll still end up moving here. I hope so. It’ll be good for Ella to have the two of them around.
Everyone knows what’s happened but can’t fully comprehend it. That will last for a while, at least until the funeral. So too will that terrible feeling they’ll have every morning when they slip free from the warm blanket of deep sleep and it dawns on them that the nightmare is real.
I wish I could spare them all of this, but I can’t. It’s part of a process they have to go through. At least they’re not aware of having to go through it for a second time. That’s my burden.
As this awful day draws to a close, I watch Ella go to bed and then I stay with Mum and Dad until they turn in too. I whisper my goodbyes at the foot of their bed before returning to Ella’s room.
So, here we are, I think. This is it: my chance to say goodbye.
Once I’m satisfied that Ella’s in a deep sleep, I kneel at the side of her bed and repeat the procedure as I carried it out before.
I place the open palm of one of my hands on top of the other. I hold them just above Ella’s head, close my eyes and focus on my daughter. I try to blank my mind of everything apart from Ella. I picture her standing there in front of me, eyes twinkling above her gappy smile. I imagine myself ruffling her beautiful blond curls before picking her up for a hug. I think back to some of the best times we’ve spent together, some in a future that no longer exists.
It takes a couple of tries, but I’m not worried. I know it will work eventually. I continue to focus on my daughter, calmly battening down the hatches of my mind until there’s no way anything else can get in there. Then comes that sudden lurching feeling of the world folding in and swallowing me whole. I’m falling.
Down.
Down.
Down.
When it ends and I breathe the cool, damp air into my lungs, I let out a scream of joy. I scrabble to my feet in the dark, breathing the same overpowering fishy smell as last time, and rush out through the tunnel.
I hoped this was where I’d find her again. Sure enough, as I spill out of the darkness on to the toasty, sun-drenched Cornish beach of Ella’s imagination, I see the pink blur of her princess castle in the distance. Looking down at my new outfit – the same chinos and checked shirt as on my last visit to this place – I ditch my trainers and socks and roll up my trouser legs. Then I race towards my destination as fast as my bare feet will carry me.
I’m the happiest I’ve felt in a long, long time. There’s a tough conversation ahead. I know that. But it doesn’t dent my elation, this incredible sense of liberation, because I’m finally sure that I’m doing the right thing. It won’t be easy for Ella to come to terms with my death, but she’ll get there eventually.
I can already picture us embracing outside the tent: me and my precious daughter. As I sprint towards her, I wonder what magic will unfold in this fertile playground of her sleeping mind. I know my stay here will be limited. Before long Ella’s brain will recognize that I don’t belong and I’ll be ejected, like on my last visit. But I plan to make the most of my time here. I’ll use it to prepare her as best as I can for life without me; to make sure she knows how much I love her. I also hope to plant a seed about Dad having a stroke, which might help to change his fate this time around. I don’t know what Ella will remember when she wakes up, but I have to believe that my words will wedge themselves somewhere in her subconscious.
Not that I’ll be staying to find out. My time as an observer is over. As soon as I leave this dreamland, I’ll call Lizzie, take her hand and surrender myself to the pure white light that leads to the other side. I try to imagine what it will be like as I keep running and the pink tent draws closer. How can it be any more perfect than this place?
I hope Alice is waiting for me, like she said she would be; like she has been in my dreams. I hope we can get past what I did to her and love each other again as we did at the start. And I hope Ella will join us there one day – but not until she’s old and grey with a happy life behind her. I hope …
I’m close enough. I can’t hold out any longer. ‘Ella,’ I call. ‘Ella? Are you there?’
Nothing happens for a second and my heart skips a beat. Then I see the door being slowly unzipped from the inside by a little hand. My incredible daughter’s head pops out and she beams a huge grin at me. ‘Daddy!’ she yells, racing out on to the sand in her favourite red and white polka dot swimsuit; jumping into my arms. ‘Oh, Daddy. I knew you’d come.’