Jessica's Ghost Read online

  For all the Jessicas

  and the people who loved them.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Andrew Norriss

  Copyright

  1

  Francis needed to be alone.

  He needed to be alone so that he could think, which was why, despite the weather, he carried his bag and his lunch to a bench on the far side of the playing field.

  Solitude is not always easy to find in a busy school, but it was February, the temperature was barely above freezing, and the cold, Francis knew, would keep most people indoors. And if anyone did come out, they would probably avoid that particular bench. It was directly opposite the main school building, and students at John Felton usually preferred to spend their lunch break somewhere that was not in full view of the staffroom and the school office.

  Francis did not mind being overlooked – not from that distance, anyway – all he wanted was the chance to think without any distractions. And he was sitting on the bench, his hat pulled firmly down over his ears, holding a cup of hot tea in chilled fingers … when a distraction came walking across the grass towards him.

  It was a girl about his own age – though not anyone he recognised as being at the school – and possibly the most distracting thing about her was what she was wearing.

  Or rather, what she wasn’t.

  Despite the cold, she had no coat. All she had on was a little black-and-white striped dress – someone who knew about such things would have recognised it as a Victoria Beckham zebra dress – which left her arms and shoulders exposed to the winter air. Wherever she was heading, Francis thought, there were good odds she would freeze to death before she got there.

  From the corner of his eye he watched as, to his surprise, the girl continued to walk directly towards him until she stopped, and then sat down on the other end of the bench. The wooden slats were still coated with frost, but this did not seem to trouble her. She sat there, and stared calmly out across the field at the building on the far side, without uttering a word.

  Francis had not wanted company, but he was curious. Why had she come across the field to sit beside him? Why had she not spoken? And why was she apparently immune to the cold?

  ‘You might want some of this,’ he said, holding out his mug. ‘It’s only tea, but it’s warm.’

  The girl turned to face him, then turned her head in the opposite direction, as if to see who he was talking to. When she realised there was nobody else, and that he must have been talking to her, a look of shocked surprise crossed her face.

  ‘Are you … are you talking to me?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry.’ Francis withdrew the offered mug. ‘Won’t happen again.’

  ‘You can hear me as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Francis. ‘Sorry about that, too.’

  The girl frowned. ‘But nobody can see me! Or hear me!’

  ‘Can’t they?’

  ‘Unless …’ The girl peered at him intently. ‘You’re not dead as well, are you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Francis did his best to keep smiling while he quietly emptied the remains of his tea on to the grass and screwed the cup back on to the thermos. It felt like it might be time to pack up and leave.

  ‘I don’t understand …’ The girl was still staring at him.

  ‘You’re … um … you’re dead yourself, are you?’ Francis tried to keep a casual tone in his voice as he packed his thermos into his bag.

  ‘What? Oh … yes.’ As if to illustrate her point, the girl lifted an arm and ran it through the planks that made up the back of the bench as if they had no more substance than smoke. ‘But I don’t understand why you can see me. I mean … nobody can!’

  For several seconds, Francis did not move. Frozen, with the thermos in one hand and his bag in the other, his brain replayed, on a loop, the action he had just witnessed.

  ‘In all the time I’ve been dead,’ said the girl, ‘no one – I mean no one – has been able to see me or hear me. Not ever.’

  ‘Would you mind,’ said Francis slowly, ‘doing that again? The thing with your arm? Through the bench?’

  ‘What this?’ The girl repeated the action of brushing her arm through the wooden slats behind her.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  The girl looked briefly puzzled, but then her face cleared. ‘Oh! You wanted to check you hadn’t just imagined it!’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Francis.

  ‘Well you didn’t,’ said the girl. ‘I’m definitely dead, but nobody’s been able to see me before. I mean, I’ve stood in front of people and screamed, but none of them ever …’ She looked across at Francis. ‘But you can?’

  Francis managed to nod.

  ‘Well, that is just weird!’ said the girl. ‘I mean, you walk around for a year, totally invisible, and then you sit down on a bench and the …’ She looked across at Francis. ‘You gave me quite a fright!’ She paused again before adding, ‘I suppose it must have been a bit of a shock for you too.’

  ‘It was a bit,’ said Francis. ‘Still is, really.’

  ‘I don’t understand it.’ The girl shook her head. ‘No one’s ever been able to see me. I mean … I’m dead!’

  ‘How?’ asked Francis.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just wondered how you’d died.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The girl gave a little shrug. ‘I can’t remember that bit. I suppose I must have been killed in an accident or something. All I know is, I found myself at the hospital one evening, and I was …’

  ‘Dead?’ suggested Francis.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And nobody could see you or hear you …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right … That must have been … Right …’

  There was a long silence, which was eventually broken by the sound of the school bell signalling the end of lunch break.

  ‘That bell means you have to go in to lessons, doesn’t it?’ said the girl.

  Francis agreed that it did. He picked up his lunch box and put it in his bag, but made no move to leave.

  ‘The thing is …’ said the girl, ‘I wonder … would you mind coming back? After?’

  ‘You mean at the end of school?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t mind waiting. Only, like I said, nobody’s been able to see me or hear me before. And it’s … good to have someone to talk to.’

  ‘OK,’ said Francis.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘No,’ Francis stood up and pulled the bag on to his shoulder. ‘No, that … that’d be fine.’

  He took a few steps in the direction of the school.

  ‘I’m Jessica,’ said the girl. ‘Jessica Fry.’

  ‘Francis,’ said Francis. ‘Francis Meredith.’

  On his way back to the main building, it briefly crossed his mind to skip lessons, go to the office, and tell someone what had just happened. He wondered what they would do. Would they call the hospital? His mother? A psychiatrist?

  Not that it mattered, he thought, because he had no intention of telling anyone t
hat he had just met a ghost in his lunch break.

  He had quite enough problems without claiming he could see dead people.

  2

  When he came out of school at three fifteen and saw Jessica waiting for him on the bench, Francis’s first feeling was one of relief. A part of him had half expected to discover that the meeting at lunchtime had been some sort of delusion, and the sight of Jessica, waiting as she had promised, was oddly reassuring.

  She had, he saw, changed her clothes. The zebra dress had gone and she was now wearing jeans and a puffa coat, with a pair of Uggs on her feet and a knitted hat on her head. She stood up as he approached.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ Francis stopped in front of her.

  There was a slightly awkward pause.

  ‘If we try and talk out here,’ said Jessica, ‘you’ll freeze. Is there somewhere we could go?’

  ‘You could come home if you like,’ suggested Francis. ‘That is … if you can. Are ghosts allowed to move around?’

  ‘I don’t know about other ghosts,’ said Jessica, ‘but this one can go where she wants. Is it far?’

  ‘About five minutes. I live in Alma Road.’ Francis led the way towards the school gates. ‘You changed.’

  ‘You mean the clothes?’

  ‘Yes. How does that work exactly? You have like a … a ghost wardrobe somewhere?’

  ‘I can wear whatever I like,’ said Jessica. ‘When I first found I was dead, I was in this hospital gown, and it was weeks before I realised I didn’t have to be.’ She glanced across at Francis. ‘I just have to think about it.’

  ‘That’s all? You just think?’

  ‘It takes a bit of concentration,’ said Jessica, ‘but … yes.’

  She paused in mid-stride for a moment, there was a faint blurring round her body, and the jeans and puffa coat disappeared to be replaced by the zebra dress she had been wearing earlier.

  ‘That … is a neat trick,’ said Francis.

  ‘I saw a picture of it in a magazine someone was reading,’ said Jessica, ‘and I thought … why not? You can’t feel the cold when you’re a ghost, you see.’

  ‘Useful,’ said Francis.

  ‘And it’s kind of fun.’ Jessica switched back to the jeans and coat. ‘You see something you like. No need to wonder how much it would cost. Just think yourself into it.’

  ‘So it’s not all bad?’ said Francis. ‘The being dead thing, I mean.’

  ‘Well, it’s not what I expected.’ Jessica frowned. ‘Not that I expected anything, really. I thought once you died that was the end, and everything stopped. Nobody ever warned me I could wind up as a ghost.’ She paused. ‘But I suppose it’s all right, once you get used to it. It’s … kind of peaceful, you know?’

  ‘Peaceful is good,’ Francis agreed.

  ‘A bit lonely sometimes, but I never get tired, or hungry. There’s nobody telling me where to go or how to behave. I can do whatever I want.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Oh, you know … go here and there.’ Jessica waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the town. ‘There’s things going on all over the place, and I can watch any of it.’

  ‘But you can’t talk to anyone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even other ghosts?’

  ‘I’ve never met any other ghosts,’ said Jessica. ‘I don’t even know if there are any. Which is odd, if you think about it.’ She looked carefully at Francis. ‘It doesn’t bother you, does it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me being a ghost.’

  Francis considered this. He had been bothered, when he first saw Jessica, that she might be mad – or that he might be going mad himself – but when she had put her arm through the back of the bench to show that she was a ghost … that bit hadn’t bothered him at all. Surprised him, certainly, but not bothered.

  ‘I think if I’d seen a ghost,’ said Jessica, ‘you know, when I was alive, I’d have run a mile. But I could see it didn’t really worry you, did it?’

  ‘No,’ said Francis. ‘No, it didn’t.’

  It had probably helped, he thought, that it had all happened in daylight – out in the sunshine with all the sounds of a busy school in the background – but it wasn’t just that. There was something about the girl walking beside him that made it impossible to be frightened of her. Everything about her – apart from the fact that she was dead – was too normal to be scary.

  It also helped that, for some reason, he liked her.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Jessica, ‘you’re one of those strong silent types who aren’t really frightened of anything.’

  ‘Oh, definitely.’ Francis pushed open a gate and led the way up the path to the door of a tall, red-brick, Victorian terraced house.

  ‘Mr Fearless. That’s me.’

  Jessica followed Francis into a narrow hallway, dominated by an enormous oil painting in an elaborate gilt frame. It was a full-length portrait of a severe looking man in naval uniform, with gold epaulettes on his shoulders, and one hand resting on the sword at his waist.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘The Admiral.’ Francis pulled off his coat and hung it on a stand. ‘My great-great-grandfather.’

  He picked up his bag and headed for the stairs.

  ‘I just have to get changed. Shan’t be a minute.’

  He went up the stairs two at a time and, in his bedroom, quickly changed from school clothes into jeans and a T-shirt. He came out to find Jessica waiting for him on the landing. She had got rid of the puffa coat and the woollen hat, and was wearing a loosely fitting knitted top with the jeans.

  She was looking at another portrait, almost as large as the one in the hall downstairs, but this time of a young woman in a dress from the 1920s. She was standing with one arm resting on a rather grand fireplace, looking out of the picture and laughing.

  ‘Who’s this one?’ she asked.

  ‘Great grandmother,’ said Francis. ‘The Admiral’s favourite daughter.’

  Jessica nodded as she continued to study the painting.

  ‘You can tell a lot about people from the clothes they’re wearing, can’t you?’ she said. ‘The Admiral downstairs, for instance. His uniform’s all buttoned up, and it holds him in, like all the rules he has to obey.’ She gestured to the picture in front of her. ‘But what she’s wearing is loose and free. You can see she’s not held in by anything, and she likes it.’

  She turned to Francis, as if expecting him to say something. But he didn’t.

  ‘Sorry. I forgot. Boys aren’t really interested in clothes, are they?’ She moved towards the stairs. ‘Are we going back down?’

  ‘I just have to put this in my room.’ Francis was holding his school bag, and heading towards another, narrower flight of stairs that led up rather than down.

  ‘I thought that was your room.’ Jessica pointed to the bedroom.

  ‘That’s where I sleep,’ said Francis. ‘I have another room upstairs for … other stuff.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  Francis very nearly said no. In fact the words were already forming in his head to explain why she couldn’t – that there was nothing up there, that they’d be more comfortable down in the kitchen, that he was hungry and needed something to eat – but for some reason those were not the words that came out. He never really knew why. Except that it seemed to be one of those days when the ordinary rules did not apply.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

  3

  Francis led the way through a door at the top of the stairs into a room that ran the entire length of the house.

  The first thing Jessica noticed were the drawings taped to the wall in front of her. They were fashion designs, done mostly in pen and ink, for a series of coats, dresses and gowns. Beneath them was a workbench with a sewing machine and, stacked beneath that, were rolls of material in a kaleidoscope of patterns and colours. To the left, under a skylight, was a table covered in a length of of
f-white cotton with parts of a paper pattern laid out on top. To the right, a dressmaker’s dummy stood at one end of a battered leather sofa.

  They were not the sort of things you might expect to find in a boy’s room but, most surprising of all, and only visible when she stepped into the room and looked behind her, was a set of shelves on which were displayed several rows of dolls. There were at least fifty of them, each dressed in a different outfit.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked.

  ‘I told you.’ Francis’s voice was studiedly neutral, but he was watching Jessica carefully as he spoke. ‘It’s mine. It’s where I do stuff.’

  Jessica walked over to the shelves with the dolls.

  ‘So all these are yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ Francis came over to join her. ‘I was trying to make a sort of illustrated history of fashion in the last fifty years.’ He picked up one of the dolls. It was dressed in a studded leather jacket and had its hair cropped and dyed in the pattern of the American flag. ‘Each doll represents a particular style, you see? Fly-girl, punk, grunge …’

  Jessica pointed to a doll dressed in a suit of what looked like moulded pink plastic. ‘What’s that one?’

  ‘It’s a Miyake,’ said Francis. ‘Japanese designer.’

  Jessica turned away from the dolls for a moment and gestured to the drawings pinned on the wall opposite. ‘And those are all yours as well?’

  Francis nodded. ‘I’m interested in fashion. Always have been.’

  Jessica stared about her, and then her face broke into a smile. ‘I would have killed to have a place like this when I was alive!’ she said.

  Francis did not reply directly, but something in his shoulders and his face seemed to relax for the first time since they had entered the room.

  ‘Let’s talk about fashion later,’ he said. ‘First, I need to know more about being a ghost.’

  He put the doll with the cropped hair back on the shelf and walked over to the sofa.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said, as he sat down. ‘How did it start?’

  It had started, as far as Jessica could remember, with finding herself standing at the window of a small room on the third floor of the hospital, looking out through the darkness at a multi-storey car park on the other side of the road.