CHAPTER 4

       SIX DAYS DEAD

      There were no more breakthroughs over the next few days. I tried again and again but got nowhere. It made me wonder whether I should have taken the opportunity when I had it and tried to wake her up. I even feared that perhaps Lizzie was doing something to hinder my progress. But I persevered. I stayed glued to Ella’s side day and night, talking to her the whole time like she could hear me.

      I was so occupied by this that I paid little attention to my ‘tribute’ when it appeared in the paper, other than noting it was the lead story on page five and Mum seemed happy with the wording. In the grand scheme of things, the article was of little concern. Of far more importance was the fact that Ella wasn’t herself. She had major mood swings. One minute she’d seem happy, playing with her dolls or running around the garden with Sam. Next she’d be in tears about some minor thing that had upset her or, worse, she’d fall silent, withdrawing into herself.

      She wet her bed one night, which she hadn’t done in ages, and was really upset when she woke up and realized. It was heart-breaking to watch her frantically trying to change the sheets herself at 3 a.m. Luckily, Mum heard her and came to the rescue. ‘What are you doing, silly sausage? You don’t need to do that yourself. That’s what I’m here for. Why didn’t you come and get me?’

      Ella, cheeks bright red, ran to hide in her princess castle.

      ‘Don’t worry, darling. These things happen. It’s only normal.’

      ‘It wasn’t me. It must have been Kitten.’

      Meanwhile, Mum and Dad had their work cut out juggling the police, who were pursuing a charge of death by dangerous driving against the 4x4 driver; the coroner, who had opened an inquest into my death; and the funeral director, who was busy arranging my send-off. There was also legal guardianship of Ella and my estate to sort out. Just as well I’d heeded Dad’s advice to write a will, which kept things clear cut.

      My parents were doing their best to stay positive and to hold things together for Ella, but I could see how hard it was for them. Dad was drinking and smoking more than ever and Mum, usually a picture of health, looked like she’d not slept in weeks. They were still staying at our place, although they were missing their own home comforts and had discussed moving Ella soon after the funeral. Their house was only a twenty-minute drive away, so the plan was for her to stay in the same school for the time being.

      They kept her out of classes for a few days, but then she asked to go back. I decided to accompany her, to make sure she was okay, but I didn’t stay long. I felt like I was intruding. That was her space – her private time away from home – and she’d always been protective of it. Ever since her early days in reception, we’d got into a daily routine of me asking what she’d done at school and her replying that she couldn’t remember. I’d found it strange at first, but a lot of parents said their children were the same.

      Anyway, I stayed for about forty-five minutes on that first day. She was very quiet to start with and she had a little cry on the way to the classroom after assembly. But things improved after her best friend, Jada, gave her a hug and said she’d look after her. I headed home, only to find that Mum and Dad had gone out and I had no way of getting inside.

      ‘Fantastic,’ I said, slumping on to the doorstep and sitting there with my head in my hands, feeling sorry for myself. It started to rain. I should have been cold and wet out there, wearing just the frayed jeans and T-shirt I’d been stuck in since I died, but all I felt was the usual numbness. Part of me wished it would spread to my mind: the one place where I could still feel something. But what would be left of my humanity without that? The pain I experienced each time I saw Ella’s sorrow was what drove me forward, determined to break through to her.

      It was then I noticed a black Audi driving past. It slowed as it reached my house, but the car’s tinted windows stopped me from getting a good view inside. A few minutes later it was back, coming from the other direction this time, and it pulled up on the opposite side of the road. I was curious now, so I got up to cross the street, hoping to get a closer look and to find out who was in there. Just then another car, a navy Ford Fiesta I didn’t recognize, pulled up at speed and swerved on to my drive.

      ‘Bloody hell,’ I shouted, diving to one side and narrowly avoiding the car’s path. I didn’t know what would happen if a moving vehicle hit me; it wasn’t something I particularly wanted to find out. I picked myself up to see the Audi disappearing into the distance and a young, slightly taller version of my mother stepping out of the driver’s side of the Fiesta. ‘Lauren,’ I said. ‘I might have known.’

      My sister had always been a crazy driver. You’d have thought she might have toned it down a bit after her younger brother’s death in a road accident, but that would have been far too sensible. Fifteen years of living in the Netherlands also meant she was out of practice at driving on the left-hand side, so goodness knows how many near misses there had been on the way from the airport.

      Lauren’s husband Xander, a six-foot-six-inch Dutch giant with floppy brown hair in a centre parting, prised himself out of the front passenger seat and strode over to ring the bell of the front door.

      ‘I don’t think anyone’s home,’ he announced eventually.

      Lauren, who had the boot open and was rooting through her case for something, swore loudly. ‘I don’t believe this. Mum said they’d be here; otherwise we could have gone straight to their place. Hang on, I’ll give her a call.’

      ‘Hello, sis,’ I said loudly into her ear as she dug her mobile out of a coat pocket.