Second Chance

BEFORE

The day I died started just like any other.

I had no idea when I woke that Death was waking to find my name at the top of his to-do list. Or that by the time I left the house, already running late for a meeting with a new supplier, he was stalking silently towards me.

'Beth, wait up,' Mrs Maddox from two doors down called as I stepped outside.

I cursed under my breath, but it was too late to avoid her. When I moved to my pretty fisherman's cottage by the sea in Worthing three years ago, I didn't know anyone. I'd moved here precisely because I didn't know anyone, but I hadn't done much in the way of research and had inadvertently picked a street with a strong sense of community, where all the neighbours were friends. Making it to the end of my road without collecting a string of unwanted social invitations was a daily challenge.

'I'm having a gathering,' Mrs Maddox continued. 'Just a few friends round for supper, but I'd love you to come. Next Tuesday?'

'Tuesday?' I frantically searched for an excuse. 'Sorry, we’ve got a function that day, I’ll be late back. Maybe next time.'

I had no intention of there being a next time, was already walking away.

But Mrs Maddox wasn't the only obstacle I had to face. Further down the street Rory Manning, local stud, was out washing his car. He waved, and for a horrible moment I thought he was going to speak to me as well, but at the last minute he thought better of it, focusing his attention on his wheel arches instead.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I found it much harder to turn down Rory's invitations; I actually liked Rory, and took a sneaky glance at his broad chest and sleepy smile as I passed. Really, what wasn't to like?

The fact that I kept turning him down didn't stop him asking. Mrs Maddox and all the other busy bodies obviously thought it was impossible that two single people, both just the wrong side of the big four-O, living so close could not end up together, and I'm sure they egged him on.

I could see their logic, but they didn't know anything about my past. They probably thought I kept my distance because I was shy, or maybe aloof. They had no idea.

I pushed the memories firmly down and hurried past, eager to save Rory from his fate.

Death waited in anticipation, but I wasn't in his grasp yet. The trickiest obstacle was still to come.

The curtains twitched as I passed Fred's house. I scrabbled desperately in my over-sized tote bag for my air pods, silently cursing the fashions that had made handbags so big and technology so small. To my horror Fred's door creaked open, then he was shuffling with his crab-like gait down the steps. I shoved in my earphones, the reassuring sound of Adele filling my ears.

Fred didn't get a wave. Acknowledging I'd seen him would definitely result in a conversation, earphones or no. I felt a brief pang of guilt for ignoring an old man - until I remembered the last time he'd caught me with his shopping list, including both Tena Lady for his wife and haemorrhoid cream for himself, which I'd been unable to find, resulting in the shop assistant kindly putting an announcement over the tannoy until everyone turned to look.

The memory eased the guilt and I walked faster.

I was almost at the end of my road, could see the seafront ahead. All I thought of was getting across as I stepped out, Adele still pounding in my ears.

I didn’t look. I wasn't concentrating. My right foot left the kerb, then my left.

The air changed around me. Too late I glanced up, no time to react to the car speeding towards me. I didn’t even time to scream before impact, the force of it propelling me upwards. Then gravity forcing me back down, until I crashed with an agonising thud onto the windscreen. For a horrible second my eyes met those of the driver behind the cracked glass; spotty face, baseball cap, expression of panic. Then I slid down the bonnet to the ground, my head throbbing.

As I crumpled onto the tarmac, my breath ragged and my life fading, I couldn't help feeling that Death had cheated me. The sensation wasn't anything like it's supposed to be, if Hollywood is to be believed. No life flashed before my eyes, no moment of beautiful, calm, clarity arrived, no bright light shone for me to run towards. There was just me, lying in the road in desperate pain, staring down at the horribly unglamorous M&S jeans and white trainers I’d selected for what I’d thought was going to be just another normal day. Then nothing but blackness.

NOW

The blackness stretches on. There’s no sense of time, or even of self. I'm just aware.

Then consciousness starts to return, one drip at a time. The drips steadily become a trickle, then at last burst into a flood, carrying on its swirling waters the broken debris of memories. I'm Bethany Dean. And Death came for me.

I remember the car. In panic I force my eyes open and try to stand, but my body and brain feel disconnected and I end up on my knees instead. I stare in confusion at the brightly coloured silk cushions under me, forming a make-shift bed on a dusty wood floor. I don’t know where I am, how I got here. My hands instinctively go to my head, expecting pain, but I feel nothing.

‘Hello?' I shout, my mouth feeling like it's stuffed with cotton wool. 'Is anyone there? Where am I?’ I wait until the echo of my voice dies away, but no one answers. The air is thick with silence and mustiness, as if it’s been undisturbed for a long time.

With a huge effort I push myself up, knees shaking, legs hardly able to hold my weight. I pause to catch my breath. Something doesn’t feel right; my jeans are loose, barely staying up. I stare down. They’re definitely my M&S jeans – so why do they feel two sizes too big?

Nothing makes sense. I have to get out of here, try to find someone – anyone – who can help. I glance around, taking in more of the room in the dim light; pale walls in front of me and to the left, darkness to my right and behind, no other furniture. Definitely not anywhere I recognise.

I make my way unsteadily to the nearest wall, inching along the dry, crumbling stone until I reach a pair of solid wood doors. I push hard, desperate to escape.

The deceptively heavy looking door gives way and I half fall, stumbling ungracefully to the other side. Dazzling sunlight blinds me, increasing the panic. And I'm instantly aware of sound, deafening after the quiet of the unknown room.

I can't get my bearings. I lean back against the door and stare in disbelief at the scene before me, half expecting it to vanish like a desert mirage as my eyes adjust. I blink, but nothing changes.

I’ve walked straight into a fairground. There are people everywhere, the music and lights of the rides and games assaulting my senses. To my right, a large man with red braces and an impressive beard knocks down a coconut at the coconut shy to loud squeals of delight. The surly looking attendant begrudgingly hands him a stuffed rabbit, which he proudly presents to a little girl with a messy blonde plait and a gingham dress, eliciting more squeals.

Beyond, a gaggle of children shriek at the Punch and Judy stand as a dog runs off with a string of sausages. I feel dizzy as my eyes scan past it, down towards the dodgems with their jaunty tune, all the way past the shooting game and the whack-a-mole, right down to the big wheel at the far end of the field, traversing its way high up into the clear blue sky.

I can’t process where I am, how I got here. I take a deep breath to try and slow my heart rate, inhaling the scent of fried onions and donuts from the food stands away to my left, past the big top next door. It makes me feel sick. I don’t want to be here, with all the lights and happy screams. I turn back to the door, but from this side it’s not a heavy door to unknown quiet room – it’s the entry to the ghost train.

I shiver, but before I can decide what to do a shadow falls over me. I whirl round, find myself face to face with a clown. Bushy eyebrows knit above beady eyes, dark in his white made-up face. Despite his blue and orange spotted bowtie, orange wig and unfeasibly large shoes, he looks anything but jolly.

‘Who are you?’ His tone is rough as he glances between me and the clipboard he’s holding.

For a moment I stare, almost too confused to reply. ‘I’m Beth,’ I eventually say. ‘Beth Dean.’

‘No, you can’t be.’ His stare intensifies as he scrutinises my face.

On any other day I’d tell him in no uncertain terms that I definitely am, but the complete bizarreness of my unexplained surroundings has robbed me of any certainty – even my own identity.

‘How old are you?’ His eyes narrow as he continues to stare.

‘Forty,’ I mumble, too freaked out to feel aggrieved at the question (or think to lie about the answer).

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, not again.’ He taps angrily at the clipboard and stamps one of his oversized shoes. ‘Bloody Administrators – I swear they’re getting worse. You’re supposed to be four - not forty.’

I open my mouth, but this whole new level of randomness seizes my brain and no words come out.

‘Well, there’s nothing that can be done about it now.’ He sighs, then looks me in the eye again, forcing his mouth into a smile that looks more like a sneer. ‘This is your welcome party. For four-year-old you. Enjoy.’

Before I can react he turns, making his way back past the coconut shy.

‘Hey, wait,’ I call after him, but at that moment another coconut falls, the resulting cheer drowning my voice before I lose him in the crowd.

I consider following, but I’ve no idea where he went. And he wasn’t exactly the most helpful of customers anyway. There must be someone else.

I take a deep breath, scan around again. The rides and games are mostly full of children, but away towards the food stands several groups of adults loiter. I glance at the ones closest to me, searching for anyone I recognise - or at least someone who looks like they might be able to help - but as I look it strikes me that something isn't quite right with these people; there are too many different variations in hair, clothes and style. They seem to belong to different eras, different times and places.

A woman catches my attention; sky blue mid-calf skirt above Mary-Jane shoes, a white frilled blouse and shiny chestnut hair bobbing in a high ponytail. It’s a distinct 1950’s look, which I’m not at all sure is suitable fair-attending attire, but her outfit isn't the only reason I've noticed her. She's three quarters turned away from me so I can’t be sure, but I think there's something vaguely familiar about her.

She turns and catches me staring. It’s too late to look away.

‘Beth!’ she cries as she advances, engulfing me in a tight hug. ‘Everyone, Beth’s here,’ she shouts back to the group, releasing me to a distinctly lukewarm cheer.

‘Sorry, but do I know you?’

‘Oh Beth, don’t be silly. It’s me – Aunty Glenda.’

I step back in shock. I did have an Aunty Glenda: not a real-by-blood Aunt, one of those neighbours who becomes a family friend who becomes an ‘aunt’. But she was old when I was still a child - she certainly bore no resemblance to the fifties’ siren before me now.

‘You didn’t recognise me.’ She smiles and I take in the softness in her hazel eyes, the way the dimple on the left of her mouth is more pronounced than the one the right. My stomach drops. It is her….

‘My little banshee.’

I freeze at the long-forgotten nickname, a memory surfacing; my mother, leaving me with Glenda when I was maybe five or six, me screaming and screaming at her not to go, earning me the ‘banshee’ nickname. Glenda patiently sitting me in a scratchy, flower-patterned armchair in her small front room. Her husband Stan in the chair next to me, ignoring my tantrum as he quietly continued with the crossword, John the cat balanced precariously on the narrow arm of his master’s chair, belly spilling out either side as he looked at me disapproving eyes. I don’t remember why I screamed so much when my mother left me there. Maybe there was no reason. Or maybe my child-brain was already foreseeing what was to come.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ Glenda continues, bringing me back to the present. ‘You only knew me when I was old.’ She shudders. ‘And now I’m forever young again. That’s what happens when you cross over - your whole appearance, restored to the time you were most happy with it.’

The last remnants of memory abruptly fall away as I struggle to make sense of her words. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, my heart pounding as I wonder exactly where I’ve crossed over to.

‘I said it happens to us all,' she repeats, louder this time. 'Surely you must have noticed some changes when you woke up?’

She looks at me expectantly. I instinctively run my hands over my stomach, shocked to find it miraculously flat, in a way it hasn’t been for years. No wonder my bloody jeans are struggling to maintain their partnership with my ass.

I stare in amazement at my arms, slim and bronzed all over. This is my Vegas figure and tan, I realise with a sickening jolt. I force the memories down, at the same time becoming aware of my hair; it's far longer than it was in Vegas, honey blonde strands falling well past my shoulders. This cut is from well before then, my favourite haircut of all time.

'What's going on? What's happened to me?'

'I told you,' Glenda replies, a note of impatience creeping in. 'Everyone wakes up here looking their best.'

‘But I don’t understand – where exactly is here? And how can I look different?’ My voice is raspy with the onset of panic. Part of me already knows the answer to my question. Memories of the car, the crunch of tarmac, the pain and the blackness send me spiralling. The outcome it’s leading me to is too awful to contemplate. I stare up at Aunty Glenda, willing her to give me a plausible alternative. Or even an unplausible one. Right now, I’d settled for anything but the truth.

Her eyes crinkle, radiating kindness, but she doesn’t give me the answer I want. ‘This is where you go. Afterwards.’

The answer isn’t definitive enough to dislodge my last shreds of hope. ‘After what?’

‘Oh dear.’ Her expression shifts, turning uncomfortable. ‘Your welcomer really should be here to explain all this.’

‘My what?’

‘Your welcomer,’ she says again, glancing around the fairground. ‘Honestly, they get worse and worse in this place. It’s a wonder anything gets done at all.’

‘Please,’ I say, unable to focus on welcomers or whatever else she’s talking about when there’s only one question I want answered. ‘Can’t you just tell me? After what?’

She looks reluctant, but consents to answer. ‘After life.’ She gives a nervous laugh. ‘I guess that’s why they call it the afterlife.’

And there it is. Confirmation that my worst fears are true, sucking all the air out of my lungs. ‘But I can’t be in the afterlife,’ I desperately say, still unable to let myself believe. ‘I’m alive!'

‘I’m so sorry, Beth.’ She puts a comforting hand on my arm. ‘But there’s only one reason you’d be here. And I’m afraid that’s because you’re not alive anymore.’

‘No!’ I shout, the ground pitching under me. ‘You’ve got it wrong, there’s been a mistake. I can’t be dead.’ I almost choke on the word, but even as I deny it, somewhere inside I know it’s true. Emotion rises in me as images flash through my mind; my dad, Sammie, Rachel.

‘Now, now.’ Glenda’s voice is soft again as she gently strokes my arm. ‘It’s not all bad. This is your welcome party - all these people have come here for you.’

I scan the fairground again in a daze. ‘But I don’t know them - do I?’

‘No - probably not most of them, at least. A lot of people come along just because there’s a party, no matter who it’s for. And besides, you were much too young to know many people who’ve crossed over.’

My chest constricts, her words conjuring up a new image, one that’s almost as terrifying as the fact that I’m dead: George, Anthony, Jack. All also dead. And very possibly all here.

‘Will everyone dead that knew me be here?’

‘Yes, I would think so,’ she starts to say, but then she pauses, expression shifting. ‘Although not the ones I suspect you’re thinking of now.’

My legs tremble, my breath so ragged I can’t reply.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t being nosy,’ she continues. ‘But I saw your name in the court notifications. Just between you and me,’ she says, voice lowering, ‘I’m a tiny bit jealous - three handsome men to choose from, imagine!’