Meet Me When My Heart Stops E-Book

Becky Hunter

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 475

Beschreibung

'Swoonsome love story with echoes of The Time Traveler's Wife' Good Housekeeping 'Utter joy!' Prima 'Unforgettable' Woman and Home What if your soulmate could only ever be the love of your afterlife? Emery's heart could stop at any moment... If the people around her act quickly enough, it can be restarted, but in the meantime she is briefly technically dead. Each time Emery's heart stops, she meets Nick, who helps people accept their death and move on. Usually he only meets people once, but with Emery he makes a connection. Although Emery lives life to the full, a part of her is always waiting for her heart to stop - so that she can see Nick again. But Emery and Nick can never share more than a few fleeting moments - because if they were to be together, it would mean the end of Emery's life... 'Prepare to have your heartstrings tugged and your tear ducts emptied' Red 'Grips your emotions from the very first page ... a love story not to miss' Holly Miller'

Leseprobe

Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2024 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

This paperback edition published in 2024 by Corvus

Copyright © Becky Hunter, 2024

The moral right of Becky Hunter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 872 5

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

Chapter One

The first time Emery dies, she is only five years old. She is playing in what I presume is her garden – a neat sort of garden, well tended, with climbing plants twining their way up the wooden fencing and a stepping-stone path that winds through the grass to the pond at the back, where insects hum around the lilies. The smell of freshly cut grass hangs in the air – not from this garden, which is tastefully overgrown, but from one of the neighbours’, hidden from sight in an illusion of privacy. Soft music thrums from the slightly crackly radio inside the kitchen, the back door open wide to tempt a summer breeze.

Emery’s father is standing on the patio, tending to a barbecue. The sausages sizzle as he drops them on. Her mother is sitting a few feet away, sun hat pulled down over her face, a full glass of rosé next to her on a table. Condensation beads around the edges, but the glass looks untouched, all her attention instead on a printed-out document on her lap.

There is another girl too, sitting on the edge of the patio, not far from where Emery plays. She’s older – maybe around ten – and tall, in a slightly awkward, lanky way. She has similar colouring to Emery’s mum, the same olive skin tone, her hair a warm brown curtain around her face. She is reading, the pages of the book well thumbed: Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. But she keeps glancing up, towards Emery, like she is checking in on her little sister, even though she can’t possibly know what’s about to happen.

I turn my attention to Emery reluctantly, unable to put it off any longer. I know it’s her I’m here for, of course. But there is a heavier-than-usual dread in my stomach this time around. Because she’s only a child.

She is barefoot, crouching in the grass, peering intently at something there. One hand is clutching a stick, the other splayed on the ground, supporting her weight. She’s not really moving, just staring, a crease in her little forehead, like she is contemplating a problem she can’t solve. Dark curls fall to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face. Something in me twinges as I look at that face, at the innocence there. A deep, painful twinge I thought I’d managed to shut down, out of necessity.

She springs to her feet with sudden determination, still clutching her little stick. I see the grass stains on her dungarees, the way she trips over their cuffs, slightly too long for her short legs.

‘Emery?’ It’s the father who is calling, frowning over at her, barbecue tongs in hand. ‘Where are you going?’

The mother glances up, her face partly obscured in the shadow of her sun hat. ‘Leave her be, James.’ She says it on a sigh, and I know why. It shouldn’t matter where Emery is going, what she’s doing. She should be safe here, in their garden. James glances at his wife, then back to their daughter.

‘She hasn’t got shoes on,’ he states.

‘She’ll be fine.’

‘There are stinging nettles by the pond.’

‘Well, she’ll learn not to go near them barefoot again if she gets stung, won’t she?’ Emery’s mother is looking back down at her document now, so she doesn’t see the way her husband’s eyes narrow in silent disapproval at her words.

Emery is already off in any case, sprinting down the garden, towards the pond. The pond – perhaps that is the danger? I never know how, exactly, it will happen, only that it will. Sometimes it’s obvious – the hospital bed or the car driving too fast – but often, like today, I’m in the dark. All I know is that it will happen, and imminently. I only ever see the brief moments before someone’s death, get an impression of their lives right then. To give context, I think, though I can’t be sure – it’s not like anyone handed me a rule book.

Even knowing all this, I can’t help the lurch towards her. Can’t stop myself from trying to grab her, to keep her away from the pond. Because I don’t want to see this tiny girl, full of light and energy, fighting for breath as water floods her lungs. But it’s fruitless, of course it is. I feel the jerk around my midriff pulling me to immobility. I am not supposed to prevent what is happening here.

In the end, though, it’s not drowning I have to worry about.

‘Ow!’ It’s an angry sound, not hurt, not afraid. But as she frowns down at the thorn in her foot, I see her go pale. It’s not even a big thorn, and there is only the smallest pinprick of blood escaping the wound. It’s nothing. Something to extract with tweezers, and for Mummy to kiss better.

But in the instant before she falls to the ground, I already know, the way I do every time. It’s over, just like that, her heart ceasing to function. Because this tiny thorn, the smallest of pricks – that’s all it took for this little girl’s heart to stop beating.

She collapses, landing with a soft thump on the summer-dried ground. Her curls splay around her face, and a few centimetres from her limp, chubby fingers, the stick she was playing with rolls to a stop.

‘Emery!’ The scream comes from the sister first. She is running down the garden, her long legs covering the distance with ease.

There’s a clatter, tongs falling to the patio, as James abandons the barbecue, running too, his wife not far behind. Her face is set, almost businesslike, and she pushes past her husband to get there first. ‘What’s happened?’ she demands. ‘Emery?’ The word is a little harsh, like she’s expecting the child to get up, as if she’s playing a prank on them all. But I can hear the panic lacing it.

This might be the worst of it, though I change my mind frequently on that. But hearing them scream, the loved ones who are left behind, hearing them plead or sob, or just go silent, an emptiness descending on them – that is up there with the things I hate the most. Sometimes there is no one around to see it, the moment of passing. That’s hard too.

I don’t have to watch the rest, though. I see the mother crouch down, her touch soft despite the firm set of her face, hear the whimpering of the sister as she looks over her mum’s shoulder, and then I am somewhere else entirely. And so is Emery.

She blinks at me with those big brown eyes. She is in the same dungarees, though these ones do not have grass stains on, nor are they a bit too big for her. She must not have noticed either of those things, in that garden.

I can’t help wondering how I look to her. I am me, every time, and there are elements that I know remain constant – they can’t imagine me into someone else entirely. My hair will always stay the same colour, for instance – tree-bark brown – and I’m always around the same height and weight. But just as subtle things about their appearance can change, in this place, I’ve gathered, the way they perceive me can be altered too.

‘Who are you?’ There is no fear in her voice, only a healthy dose of suspicion.

I take a breath. This should be the bit I’m good at, by now. ‘I’m here to help you.’ I try to inject calmness and confidence into my voice. Try not to think of how very young she is, how unfair it is that her life has been snatched away by a thorn. Sometimes, this part is quick – with the ones who knew death was coming, who have had time to accept that, to say goodbye. For those, often comfort and reassurance is all that is needed. Some are angry – that can take a little longer. What will it take for Emery? What does she need to help her come to terms with her death? How am I supposed to help a child accept that?

I feel something acid rise in my throat, a bitter taste. Maybe that’s why I’ve never had to help a child before now – because I haven’t been ready. Mind you, I don’t feel ready now. And it’s pointless to try and think of the higher purpose here – I’ve given up on that. I’ve tried to give up on that.

Emery cocks her head at me. There is something there, in that action. Not familiarity, but a strange sense that it will become familiar, somehow. It’s enough to make the back of my neck prickle with unease. ‘Help me do what?’ she asks.

My mouth feels dry. Usually, they are aware that they are dead, on some level. It’s not like we stand over their body or anything; they don’t have to watch loved ones grieve or panic – that would hardly be conducive to ‘moving on’. Whatever the hell that means. But they seem to come here with an understanding of what’s happening, even if they don’t want to admit to that.

Is it her age that prevents her from understanding what seems to be implicit for everyone else? She has so little life experience; everything must feel new and strange, all the time. I’m struck then by my inadequacy. By the complete and utter bullshit of all this. That I have been put here, somehow, and now I am supposed to help her when I have absolutely no idea how to do that. How is that fair to her? That I, of all people, should be the last one she sees before she dies? I may have only spent moments in her life, but I know with utter certainty that she deserves better than that.

‘Help you come to terms …’ She frowns, little bushy eyebrows pulling together. Right. She is only five. ‘Um … I’m here to make sure you’re okay.’ She nods slowly.

‘Well, I’m Emery.’

‘Yes,’ I agree. Her name is the only thing I already know about her.

‘And this,’ she announces with grandeur, ‘is weird.’

I’m half waiting for her to ask whether she’s dreaming. That happens a fair amount – people unable to let go, clinging to the possibility that they will return to consciousness. But she doesn’t. She looks around instead, and it’s only then that our surroundings come into focus, as the memory takes shape around us.

It’s a bedroom. The twin beds have matching linen – blue and white striped duvet covers, pillowcases with bright blue and purple flowers, and a white fluffy cushion to set the whole thing off. The room is an odd combination of understated – pale, faded green wallpaper – and over the top; a bright abstract painting with bold colours and shapes takes up half the wall opposite the beds. There’s a sink in the corner, with a small mirror and a wooden shelf hanging above it, where two toothbrushes sit in a plastic cup. A faint smell of bacon hovers in the air, coming from outside the closed door.

Emery goes to sit on one of the beds, reaches over to play with the lamp on the bedside table. A dim yellow glow flickers on and off around the room. ‘Hey, I remember this place,’ she says.

I perch on the other bed. It creaks under my weight. ‘Tell me about it.’

She glances at me, and I see a flicker of unease there for the first time. Odd; the memory usually makes people feel more comfortable, not less. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t you want to?’

She picks up the fluffy cushion from behind her, pulls it to her chest and looks at me over the top of it. I feel it again – that pull of recognition. Like I know her. Only that’s not quite right. Because that look she’s giving me – it feels like an older version of her is peering out at me. Something that can’t be possible.

‘It’s BMB,’ she says eventually.

Despite the situation, I feel my lips twitch. ‘Do you mean a B and B?’

‘Right. That. We went on holiday – Mum, Dad and me and Amber.’

‘Amber – that’s your sister?’

She nods. ‘My big sister,’ she qualifies unnecessarily. To be fair, she doesn’t realize it’s unnecessary. ‘I was allowed to share a room with her. This room. She would never let me before because she said I would keep her awake. She said I snore.’ She wrinkles her little button nose at the indignity of that. ‘Which I don’t.’ She hugs the cushion tighter to her, and when she speaks again it’s with a frailty that sends a fracture through my heart. ‘Why are we here?’ Her voice is so small. This is the reason I try to treat it all clinically, try not to let myself think too hard about the people themselves, what they are like, what they’ve lost. It’s the only way I stay sane.

‘It’s a memory. It’s your memory.’

She frowns. ‘If it’s my memory, why isn’t Amber here?’ She glances at the door, like she’s expecting her sister to walk through it. There is something so hopeful about her expression, and there it is again, the horrible twinge, something I wish I didn’t have to feel, because it’s too damn hard.

‘She can’t come,’ I say gently. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s just you and me.’ Other people are never in the memories. I suppose it’s because they can’t come here in the same way – or maybe because if they were here, they wouldn’t leave room for me and what I have to do. But I think the memory still allows whoever I’m with to remember the people who made it special, and that must be part of the comfort.

Emery looks at me again, and I see some sort of realization settle on her. ‘I want to go home,’ she whispers.

I don’t know what to say. No, that’s not true. I should tell her the truth. You can’t go home. I can hear the words in my mind, know the right tone to use, apologetic but firm. But they stick in my throat. I take a breath, and it feels shaky. The memory around us seems to tremble too. I think for a moment it’s me, that I’m losing my mind – because why not lose that too? – but Emery sits up straighter, her eyes darting around, her fingers turning white as they press into the cushion.

‘What was that?’ she asks sharply.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, before I can think better of it. She gives me a frightened look, and I curse myself inwardly. I’m here to make her feel better – I shouldn’t admit to not knowing things. But it’s true – I have no idea why the memory feels fragile, like it’s not solid enough around us. I want to blame it on her being so young, on the fact that her memories will be fragile because of that, but I’m not quite sure that’s it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t mean to scare you.’

‘I’m not scared of you.’ She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘I know you’re a goodie.’

It nearly makes me laugh. Goodie. As opposed to ‘baddie’, I presume. There’s something weirdly satisfying at being classed as good by her, though. ‘How?’ I can’t help asking.

She shrugs. ‘I just do.’

‘Then why are you scared?’ An obvious question, perhaps, but I need to get her talking about it.

She worries at her lip. ‘I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.’

Supposed to be here. It’s something I’ve grappled with many times over – the suddenness of death, who is or isn’t supposed to die, and when. Who decides that?

I get up, cross to the end of her bed and perch on it. Despite the shakiness of the memory earlier, the carpet feels solid enough underfoot. I wait until she makes eye contact, still curled up with her cushion at the head of the bed. ‘I can’t do much about the fact that you’re here,’ I say, and my voice is almost a whisper. ‘But I promise you, you’re going to be okay.’ I don’t usually promise anything of the sort. I’m very careful about the assurances I give – because I have no fucking clue what happens next. So I shouldn’t be promising her. But I can’t help it.

She takes a breath, nods. ‘Can I go back now? They’ll be worried about where I am.’

I start to open my mouth to speak, not even sure what I’m going to say, but something stops me. Things always feel very real in these memories – there might not be people, but right now I can hear the clatter coming from downstairs, and the smell of coffee has merged with the bacon. The tip of Emery’s head is reflected in the little mirror above the sink, and the duvet is soft where my palms rest on it. All of this I expect. What I don’t expect is the haze that is now settling around it all, like heat off sun-drenched tarmac. This, like the tremor, is something I’ve never seen before.

Usually, when they are ready, people fade. I’m not sure where they go or what happens exactly, but it’s almost like they recede into the memory itself, becoming a part of it, before everything disappears completely. But right now, Emery is not fading. She is becoming more solid, standing out against the haze of the memory.

‘What’s happening?’ Her voice is higher-pitched now, reflecting the frightened child she is. It brings me back to myself, makes me realize how I’ve been staring. She looks down at her hands, hands that are standing out in stark contrast to the murkiness of the memory. ‘What’s wrong?’ she demands, and I’m reminded of the determination with which she got up from the grass and sprinted across the garden. What was she running towards? I want to ask, but I’m out of time.

‘I …’ I swallow, the words sticky in my throat. Because it shouldn’t be possible. ‘I think our time here is up.’

The tension in her body seems to ease at that, and she nods, like it’s an answer that makes perfect sense. She gives me a very considered look, for someone so young. ‘Will I see you again?’

I don’t know what to say. Usually, when I see someone, it is unequivocally the end. But with her, I get the sense that it’s all only just beginning.

All at once, she disappears, not with a gradual fade like the others but with a sudden absence, yanked away from this place completely, like she was never supposed to be here. And in the brief moment before I am joined by someone new, I whisper into the darkness, ‘Yes, I think you just might.’

Chapter Two

One minute later (August 1984)

AGE 5

Emery woke to the sound of her mum crying, which struck her as odd, because her mum never cried. Sometimes her face would go red, and her eyes would go all scary and shiny, but she never sobbed like she was doing now. It made Emery not want to open her eyes. Because it must be really, really bad if her mum was crying.

She could feel her mum’s hands on her chest, knew they were her hands because they smelled of that funny hand stuff she used. She knew she was lying on the ground outside because it was hard and bumpy underneath her back and the grass was tickling her bare feet and she could smell that grassy-earthy smell. She could feel the sun on her face and arms, and it was really warm, but actually she felt kind of cold right then, and as she thought that, she shivered. And that made everything hurt. A sharp, horrible pain that she didn’t want to feel again. Mostly where her mum’s hands were but sort of all over, too.

Her mum’s breathing hitched. ‘Emery?’

Emery opened her eyes, looking up into her mum’s blotchy face. She noticed that one of her hands was much hotter and stickier than the other and looked over to see Amber, completely white, gripping it. Beside Amber was the stick she’d been playing with moments ago. She’d dropped it, she remembered. As she’d fallen. And ouch, yes, that was why! She could still feel the thorn in her foot.

‘You’re hurting my hand, Amber,’ she said. Her voice scratched her throat on its way out.

Amber let go, and her mum laughed, though it sounded a bit like another sob. ‘James! James, she’s okay!’

‘Oh my God, oh thank God.’ Her dad’s voice sounded all breathy and weird. He wasn’t on the ground with them, but she could hear footsteps. ‘Emery, can I—’

‘What are you doing?’ her mum screamed. ‘You’re supposed to be on the phone to the ambulance!’

‘Yes, and they’re coming,’ her dad snapped.

‘Well get back inside and find out how long they’ll be!’ Emery flinched at the harsh tone. ‘Sorry,’ her mum said, stroking her hair. ‘Sorry, darling.’

Emery blinked up at her. ‘What happened?’

‘You were …’ But her mum broke off. ‘How long, James?’ she barked instead.

Emery tried to sit up, but her mum pushed her back down. Emery looked at Amber for help, but Amber was just staring at her, and her eyes looked really, really big, like maybe she’d start crying too. ‘Why do we need to go in an ambulance?’ Emery asked. She knew about ambulances. They had lights and they carried very, very sick people to doctors to make them better. They were for people with broken legs or who were about to die. Emery looked down at her own legs, wriggled her toes experimentally. The thorn was still stinging, but otherwise her legs seemed fine.

But her mum was still looking at her weirdly, and Emery felt her lip start to wobble. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

Her mum let out another sob, so that when she said, ‘Nothing, you’re fine, darling,’ it sounded like a lie.

But Amber was smiling now. ‘It’ll be fun, Little Em.’ Her voice was croaky, like one of the bad guys in a film. ‘Maybe they’ll put the lights on.’

‘But why? I’m fine. I think I just fell over. And then there was this man—’

‘A man?’ her mum asked sharply.

‘Yes. A man. He was nice. He said he’d help me.’ Emery bit her lip. ‘But I don’t think he knew what to do really. We were back in the BMB.’ She frowned. ‘The B and B.’ She looked up at her sister. ‘Remember, Amber? Me and you shared a room.’

‘Darling,’ her mum said hesitantly, ‘you haven’t left the garden.’ She put a hand to Emery’s head, like she did when she was checking her temperature.

‘He was real,’ Emery said firmly.

‘Well,’ her mum said, her voice still all choked. ‘Well, he sounds …’ But whatever he sounded like, Emery didn’t find out, because her mum trailed off. ‘James! Can’t you tell them to hurry up?’

‘Yes, Alice, what do you think I’m doing?’

Emery looked at her sister. ‘He was real, Amber,’ she said, sticking out her lip a bit for emphasis. ‘I saw him.’

Amber lifted her hand to brush hair out of her face. Her hand was shaking, Emery noticed. But she nodded. ‘I know.’ Emery let out a relieved sigh. ‘Like Kitty, right?’ Amber continued. And Emery’s heart sank, because it turned out her sister didn’t know. Because Kitty was made up – an imaginary friend – and this wasn’t like that at all.

* *

Emery sat on a bed with white sheets, kicking her legs as she looked around the boring room while the doctor talked to her parents. There was nothing to do in here, and it smelled funny, and she could hear weird noises from the room next to them. They’d been here for ages while two different people had poked at Emery and put her through a machine, which had been scary, and then while they were waiting, Amber had found a piece of paper and a pen and they’d played noughts and crosses, but even that had become boring after a while. And the doctor talking to her parents now wasn’t even the nice one. The woman had been nice. She’d asked Emery about her favourite things, and they’d found out they liked a lot of the same stuff, like strawberry ice cream, but not vanilla because that was boring, and fizzy cola bottles and The Aristocats.

‘It’s a very rare heart condition,’ the doctor was saying. He had a long nose and his two front teeth stuck out a bit. Emery looked at Amber, who was sitting on the other side of their mum while their dad paced around the room, and stuck her own front teeth out. Amber grinned but made a flapping gesture to tell her to stop it. She wasn’t that much older, really, but she did like telling Emery what to do.

‘It’s a little like reflex anoxic syndrome, where the child stops breathing, only this time, it’s Emery’s heart that stops beating.’

‘Stops beating?’ her dad repeated, and Emery saw the warning look her mum gave him. Saw the glance her mum gave her. That was how she knew it was bad. She felt her heart give a little jolt, rested a hand there. She could feel it beating. She wanted to tell them that, but no one was looking at her any more. She reached out for her mum’s hand, and her mum took it, squeezed.

‘Shock can trigger it,’ the long-nosed, big-toothed doctor continued, like her dad hadn’t said anything at all. ‘It doesn’t have to be something particularly painful or scary, just enough of a surprise to trigger a … spasm.’

Spasm. Emery had no idea what that was. Was it bad? He made it sound bad.

‘The condition is in the very early stages of research, I’m afraid, so I can’t tell you an awful lot …’ her mum muttered something under her breath at that, ‘but as long as her heart can be started again within four or five minutes, there should be no damage to her brain.’

Emery frowned. What did he mean, damage to her brain? Was her brain hurt now? She didn’t have a headache. Maybe she should tell them that, too.

‘How are we supposed to do that?’ her dad asked, and his voice sounded too high, all squeaky. He wouldn’t stand still. Emery watched him pace. He was still in the shorts he’d been wearing in the garden – his ugly brown ones – and those sandals he wore even though you could see his hairy big toe, and he looked silly in this white room, she decided.

‘CPR training for a start,’ the doctor was saying, ‘and you’ll need to make sure that any caregivers or teachers are aware of the condition and what to do.’

‘And what if no one is around?’ her dad asked. He said it quietly, like he thought Emery wouldn’t be able to hear, even though she was sitting right there. Grownups did this all the time – had conversations and thought she wasn’t listening. They did it less with Amber – no one really talked about Amber in front of Amber, and they didn’t talk about things they didn’t want overheard. That was why Emery was always the spy if she and Amber played a trick on their mum and dad. Not very often, only when Emery could make Amber play with her, but still.

‘Like I said, we’re still in the early stages, but if her heart won’t restart of its own accord, then …’ The doctor broke off, clearing his throat, and glanced at Emery. And fine, she might not understand everything he was saying, but she knew it was to do with her heart and her brain, and from the way her parents were reacting, it was all quite bad. She felt a lump in her throat. She was trying not to be a cry-baby, but they were scaring her.

Her mum glanced at her too, then looked at Amber. ‘Amber, maybe you could take your sister outside. Here.’ She fumbled in her handbag and brought out two whole pounds. ‘Go and get something from the vending machine.’

Amber nodded, took the money and jumped off the bed, holding her hand out for Emery. Emery frowned. She didn’t like them talking about her in front of her, but she also didn’t want them talking about her when she wasn’t there.

‘Come on,’ Amber said, smiling. ‘Bet they have Freddos. We can get loads of Freddos with this.’

Emery took her hand, because she really did want a Freddo, and she really was fed up of this room.

She glanced up at her sister as they walked down the corridor. ‘What did they mean, about my heart? Is it broken?’

‘No.’ But Amber said it really quickly, and she was frowning – and Emery considered the possibility that maybe even Amber didn’t know, which was crazy, because Amber knew everything.

‘I don’t want it to be broken,’ Emery whispered. ‘And I don’t want my brain to be funny either. Why did they keep saying that?’

Amber put an arm around her and squeezed. Amber’s arm was all skinny really, like a twig, but right then it felt strong and safe. ‘It’s just the doctor being silly, Little Em. Doctors are very serious, you know that.’ She said it wisely, in her more usual omniscient tone.

Emery pursed her lips, because she didn’t know that, but maybe if Amber thought she should know it then she should pretend she did. So she nodded. And she felt fine, didn’t she? She’d fallen over, that was all, and the grownups were making it into a big deal.

‘Want a piggyback?’ Amber asked, bending down so Emery could clamber on. Amber had such long hair now, Emery thought. It was way longer than hers, even though she’d been trying to grow it for ages. Their mum said it was because Amber’s hair was straight and it would take longer for Emery’s to grow, which didn’t seem very fair. It wasn’t her fault her hair was curly, was it?

Amber took Emery into a big room with loads of people sitting around and Emery saw the vending machine on the other side of it. ‘So, who was this man you saw?’ Amber asked. When Emery said nothing, she prompted, ‘You said you saw a man? Was he there to look after you when you fell?’

‘I suppose so.’ Though Emery and Amber had had a few babysitters, and he was definitely nothing like them.

‘What’s his name?’

Emery shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’ Maybe she should have asked.

‘Well, shall we give him one?’

Emery said nothing, just held onto her sister’s neck, bobbing slightly as Amber walked.

‘Em? We could make one up for him. What did he look like?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Emery said, the way Amber said she didn’t want to talk about loads of things these days. But Emery didn’t want to talk about it because Amber thought he wasn’t real – and if he wasn’t real it would be okay to give him a fake name, but he was real, so it wouldn’t be right. What if he didn’t like the made-up name? She wouldn’t want a made-up name. Sometimes she wanted to be called Rella, because it was a cooler version of Cinderella, but mostly she wanted to be called Emery.

‘Okay,’ Amber said. She was quiet for a minute and then, just as they reached the vending machine and she dropped Emery to her feet, she said, ‘It’ll be okay, Little Em, you know that, right?

‘I know that,’ Emery said, confidently. She believed it, because Amber wouldn’t lie to her. She could trust Amber more than anyone ever. Then she remembered that the man had also told her it would be okay. And somehow, she knew she could trust him too.

Chapter Three

Seven years later (April 1991)

AGE 12

Emery squared her shoulders and marched over to her dad where he was sitting on one of their blue camping chairs in a circle with the other adults, around the embers of last night’s fire. They were all cupping steaming mugs of tea or coffee, poured from thermos flasks. Someone had got up super early and been to the bakery and bought some pastries and a stack of newspapers, which were now being handed round. They all looked pretty bleary-eyed to Emery; she knew there had been a lot of wine involved last night. From inside their tent, she and Bonnie had listened to them cackling into the early hours of the morning, clearly overexcited on the first day of the camping trip.

Her dad looked up at her, wearing that ridiculous red bobble hat of his, the one that made him look like a weird, slimmer version of Father Christmas. It wasn’t on straight, and on one side some of his black curls, the ones that she had inherited, had broken free. Why they were going camping in April was beyond Emery – hadn’t everyone known it would be cold? Her dad had been checking the weather obsessively in the week running up to the trip, until her mum had snapped at him one evening: It’s the New Forest, James, not the bloody Arctic.

‘Me and Bonnie are going to go and explore for a bit,’ she announced. Her breath steamed out in front of her in the crisp morning air.

Her dad lifted one eyebrow. ‘Are you now?’

‘Yes.’ She’d figured that telling him rather than asking him was a better strategy. ‘We’re going to take our bikes. We won’t go far, just around the campsite.’

She watched as her dad frowned, and felt her heart sink. She’d wanted Bonnie to ask him because she thought he might be more likely to say yes to her, but Bonnie was a wimp and had insisted they each ask their own parents. And as Emery’s mum was nowhere to be seen yet, that left her dad. She’d been all for just sneaking off, but Bonnie had adamantly refused.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ her dad said, not meeting her eye.

Emery dredged up her calm, patient voice. ‘We’ll be perfectly safe.’

‘Emery, you’re only twelve and I’d rather you weren’t off on your own.’ Her age wasn’t the reason, and they both knew it. ‘We’re all going to go horse riding soon anyway,’ he continued. ‘That will be fun!’ Emery doubted it – she had a suspicion her dad wouldn’t actually let her get on a horse once they were there, and even if he was persuaded, there would be no chance of her going fast, like she wanted to.

‘I don’t want to go horse riding – I want to go cycling with Bonnie.’

His frown deepened, making the other lines on his face crease in solidarity. His eyebrows were peppered with grey – that probably meant the rest of his hair would go grey soon, too. ‘It will be a nice activity to do together, as a group. And we’ll be getting ready soon, there’s not enough time for you to go off on your own.’

‘Dad! You’re being unfair.’ It was childish, and she regretted the petulant tone as soon as the words were out, but she couldn’t help it. It was unfair.

Her mum appeared at this point, wearing the thick-rimmed glasses she’d got a few years ago, her hair, the same warm brown colour as Amber’s, tied up messily on top of her head. She was wearing an oversized shirt over tracksuit bottoms, and she shivered as she pushed the tent flap aside. She’d arrived late last night, Emery knew – she’d had to work, so had missed the first day of the trip. Not that that was anything new – she often worked during their holidays. ‘What’s all this?’ she asked.

Emery folded her arms. ‘Dad won’t let me and Bonnie go cycling on our own around the campsite.’

A sigh. ‘Oh James, don’t be silly – of course they can go.’ Emery met her mother’s gaze for a moment and felt a flash of solidarity zip through the space between them. Yes, her mum might work all the time, and yes, some of the other parents thought she was a bit ‘aloof’, but at least she got it.

‘I don’t think it’s very safe,’ her dad said stiffly, turning to look at her mum. Emery could only see the back of his bobble hat, but she could imagine the look he was giving her.

‘It’s perfectly safe,’ her mum said with a wave of her hand. ‘That’s why we picked this place – child friendly.’

‘That’s not what I mean, as you well know.’ There was a beat of silence, and Emery suddenly felt like all the eyes around the circle were on her. She glanced around, looking for her aunt Helen – another voice of reason she could add to the argument – but she was nowhere to be seen. Probably still in bed, knowing Helen.

‘You can’t wrap her in cotton wool her whole life, James,’ Emery’s mum said quietly.

Emery shifted from foot to foot, feeling heat rise across her chest. The other adults were pretending not to listen, but she still didn’t want everyone knowing about her condition. Although come to think of it, maybe her dad had already told them all so they knew what to do if something happened. She scowled at the thought. She’d told Bonnie because she’d had to explain why her dad was weirdly overprotective, but she’d made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. Which it wasn’t. It had only happened once, and she barely remembered it.

‘She’s going to be a teenager soon,’ her mum continued. ‘What are you going to do, stop her from ever leaving the house?’ Emery found this ridiculous – the idea that magically turning thirteen would transform her into an entirely different entity who would be entitled to more independence. Then again, if turning thirteen magically did grant her more independence, who was she to argue? ‘Besides,’ her mum continued, ‘it might never happen again. We can’t live waiting for it, it’s not healthy.’ She raised her voice then, cutting off whatever her dad had been about to say, and looked across to the other side of the circle. ‘What do you think, Maureen? About Bonnie and Emery going off for a little bike ride while we all get ready?’

Emery glanced over to where Bonnie’s mum was sitting with rollers in her red hair – a more vibrant red than Bonnie’s ‘strawberry blonde’. She’d literally never seen Maureen look anything other than perfect, so it was a bit like seeing an actor without a costume. Then again, Maureen already had a full face of make-up on. She was who Bonnie and Emery went to if they wanted to try out make-up – she’d already taught them how to do eyeliner. Emery’s mum hardly ever wore make-up – she’d told Emery it was frivolous when she’d asked her why not, and that it was pandering to the patriarchy. Emery had had to look up the word ‘patriarchy’ in a dictionary, but she still wasn’t sure why wearing eyeliner was such a big deal.

‘Oh, I think it’s a great idea,’ Maureen said. ‘All for it.’

Emery saw a muscle jump in the side of her dad’s neck, the way it did when he was annoyed but trying to hold it back. ‘I’m still not sure it’s—’

‘Colin is going to go too,’ Maureen said, her voice booming over the ashes. A few of the other adults looked up from their newspapers, wondering what all the fuss was about. Bonnie gave her brother a scathing look, but Emery didn’t mind if Colin tagged along. She was trying out the idea of having a crush on him – she figured it was about time she had a crush on someone, and Bonnie’s older brother seemed like the sensible choice, out of the options available.

Her dad gave Colin, with his floppy blonde hair and Guns N’ Roses hoodie, an appraising look. No doubt a fourteen-year-old boy was inherently untrustworthy – though Emery doubted her dad had been anything but trustworthy when he was fourteen. He’d been the type of kid to immediately own up to starting an argument, according to Aunt Helen, which, she said, was highly annoying because it had meant their parents never believed her if she told them something was his fault, since he’d tell them himself if it was. Now, he pulled his red bobble hat off his head and ran his hand through his curls. ‘I’d feel better if Amber could go with you too.’

As one, they all looked over to where Amber was curled in one of the nearby camping chairs, pulled back from the circle, her long legs folded under her oversized jumper. She’d had a fringe cut recently – a fringe that categorically did not suit her, as Emery had told her on multiple occasions – and she seemed to be hiding behind it, pretending she couldn’t see any of them.

‘We don’t need a babysitter,’ Emery huffed. Then she glanced at her sister again, immediately feeling guilty for saying it. But Amber didn’t appear to have heard, and was still frowning down at the textbook she was reading. She probably didn’t want to hang out with her and Bonnie – that was what she always said if Emery ever asked her these days. She was far too busy making a big deal out of studying for her A levels, and had grown distinctly boring as a result. Emery had already vowed not to be like that at seventeen – where was all the fun, going out to parties and kissing boys, that kind of thing?

‘Amber?’ their dad prompted. ‘Will you go with Bonnie and Emery?’

‘And Colin!’ Maureen called.

Amber looked up at their dad, a slightly wild look in her eyes – amber eyes, though their parents insisted they hadn’t known they would turn out this colour when they’d named her. ‘Dad, I can’t, I’ve got to revise.’

‘I’m sure you can—’

‘I said I can’t, okay! I’ve got mocks when we get back.’

Emery glanced over at Bonnie at this, and they exchanged a quick grin before looking away from one another, not wanting to do anything to jeopardize the negotiations. But Amber got so worked up, it was hard not to find her funny at times. Her dad couldn’t exactly complain, though – he was the one always telling them to think about their career options and that the grades they got now would affect their whole lives; what did he expect?

‘Just go, Emery,’ her mum said quietly. She followed this up with a small nod, and her lips twitched into a smile. This was why Emery loved her mum. And before her dad could argue any more, she took the permission and ran, gesturing at Bonnie to follow her. They exchanged a victory grin as they unlocked their bikes, Colin just behind.

‘Ready?’ Emery asked, looking between Colin and Bonnie as she swung her leg over her bike. Without waiting for an answer, she sped off, pedalling as fast as she could, wanting to be away before anyone could call her back. She heard Colin laughing behind her and grinned over her shoulder at him, revelling in the freedom.

She slowed when they reached the edge of the campsite and Colin pulled up next to her, Bonnie a few metres behind. ‘So where are your grand plans taking you?’ he asked.

Emery shrugged. ‘We were just going to go and explore the site.’ She frowned around at the tents. ‘I was expecting there to be something a bit more to actually explore, though.’

Colin glanced at the gravel track that led away from the campsite and towards the road. ‘Let’s go into the village.’

Bonnie came to a stop on Emery’s other side and made a face, clearly about to protest – she wasn’t very good at doing things she wasn’t supposed to. But Emery spoke before she could. ‘You’re on.’ And fine, okay, it was partly out of a need to impress Colin, to show that she was as mature as he was, but it was also because she knew her dad would like the thought of her going to the village even less than riding around the campsite, and that made her want to do it even more.

They both started pedalling again, the gravel crunching under their tyres, and ignored Bonnie’s ‘Guys!’ behind them. She’d follow, Emery knew. She was getting hot in her coat now, the sun warm on her face. Maybe April wasn’t so bad for camping.

‘So, you working hard at school like your sister?’ Colin asked, putting on a teasing voice.

Emery rolled her eyes. ‘My exams don’t even count, like I have to think about any of that.’

‘You will soon. They start you early, trust me.’

It was said with all the wisdom of a fourteen-year-old, and Emery couldn’t help snorting quietly. She glanced at him as they reached the end of the gravel track and headed right, following signs to the village. Colin wasn’t bad-looking – he was tall-ish, and his skin was pretty clear, and his eyes were a brighter blue than Bonnie’s grey-blue, which was a good thing because if their eyes were the same it would be too like kissing her best friend. Not that she was even sure she wanted to kiss him, but she should probably get her first kiss out of the way at some point.

‘They’ll start you on work experience and everything soon,’ he continued. ‘Get you planning your future.’

Emery pff’d. ‘Trust me, I won’t be planning my future any time soon.’

‘Colin wants to be a journalist,’ Bonnie said from just behind them, her tone almost scathing. ‘He did his work experience at the Cambridge Evening News, didn’t you, Colin?’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘He went on and on about the news, when all he did was make tea and bring biscuits.’

‘That’s not true,’ Colin said with a grunt.

‘It is, I heard you telling Mum.’

‘Shut it, binface,’ Colin growled. His cheeks were slightly pink now and it made him look younger, more like the boys in Emery’s year, even though he made a big deal about being in Year 10.

They raced along the pavement next to the road, swerving around pedestrians, until they reached a cobbled street. Colin braked suddenly so that Emery and Bonnie almost ran into the back of him. Emery peered down the street to see loads of little quaint touristy shops and cafés opening up. And – yes! ‘Hey, let’s get ice cream!’ She repositioned her bike and started pedalling towards the gelateria up ahead, complete with a blue and white awning and a fat cardboard Italian man outside.

‘You read my mind,’ Colin said from behind her. Good thing Emery had thought to bring her pocket money, just in case.

The three of them rested their bikes next to one of the metal outdoor tables and headed inside. Bonnie got two scoops of mint choc chip – her go-to – and Colin went for chocolate, which Emery deemed boring, picking the ginger-pineapple just because it sounded the most obscure.

‘You really going to eat that?’ Colin asked, with a suspicious look at her yellow ice cream.

‘Of course.’

He made a face. ‘You’re braver than me.’

Emery laughed and tried out a casual hair flick. Bonnie gave her a funny look as she did so. Maybe not, then.

The three of them sat on one of the benches outside. Emery looked at Colin over her ice cream. ‘You seriously want to be a journalist?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, I mean, yeah. Probably.’

It was baffling to her that anyone could know what they wanted to do. Amber was like that too, so convinced she’d be a physiotherapist, a random career plucked from a hat before she’d even left school.

She frowned at Bonnie. ‘You don’t know what you want to do, do you?’

Bonnie shook her head. ‘No idea.’ Well, at least someone was with her.

When they’d all finished their ice creams, Emery sighed. ‘We should probably go back.’ Maybe if she wasn’t gone for ages and proved that she could look after herself, her dad would chill out a bit more for the rest of the trip.

They all clambered onto their bikes, and Colin gave Emery a sly glance. ‘Race you back?’

She was off before he could say go, grinning to herself as she sped away from him, ignoring a woman who shouted at her to watch out and laughing as she careened around the corner, back to the gravel path that led to the campsite. She heard Bonnie’s familiar huff of frustration as she left her behind, heard Colin laughing too as he tried to catch up with her.

He overtook her halfway along the gravel path, and Emery felt her legs burn as she tried to get in front again. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, was reassured when she saw Bonnie – a little way back, but still coming.

She was practically neck and neck with Colin as they swerved into the campsite without slowing down. ‘Hey, guys, wait!’ Bonnie called, but they were too caught up in the race to take any notice of her.

They were nearly back now – she was sure their tents were just up there. She pushed a bit harder, her thighs screaming at her, and yes! She was neck and neck with Colin. She could see their group ahead, caught sight of her dad standing up, facing them, though he was too far away for her to make out his features. Seriously? Had he been waiting for them this entire time?

It was that moment of distraction that allowed Colin to get the better of her, and he pulled ahead, grinning back at her, his blonde hair flopping across his eyes. She scowled, tried to pump her legs faster. She didn’t see the bump on the track until it was too late. She hit it at speed, a jolt running through her as the bike skidded out from underneath her.

She felt the solid impact when she hit the ground, and even as she threw out her hands to break her fall, pain lanced down her neck as her head was whipped back. Her teeth clashed together, the force of it ricocheting through her skull. A sharp pain seared the inside of her mouth, and she tasted the metallic tang of blood.

Then, for a brief second, there was nothing.

Chapter Four

Emery blinked a few times. There was no pain any more. No taste of blood in her mouth, no headache, and when she checked her palms, no sign of the dirt that she’d face-planted into.

She was also, as it turned out, not in the campsite any more. Instead, she was in the middle of a forest. She realized then that she was high up – on a wooden platform, halfway up one of the trees, a light breeze tugging at her curls. She was in the shade, but sunlight filtered through the canopy overhead, creating pockets of light and dark on the forest floor below. She heard laughter somewhere near by – a child’s delighted squeal – and glanced around but couldn’t see where it was coming from. There was no one else here.

No one except him.

‘I knew it,’ she breathed. He was standing a metre or so away from her, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. Jeans. For some reason it seemed bizarre that he was wearing jeans, of all things. She looked down at herself, saw she was still in the same coat she’d put on this morning.

‘Knew what?’ he asked conversationally, as if it was totally normal that they’d be meeting like this. His voice was low, with an accent. Scottish? She was pretty sure that was a Scottish accent – faint, but definitely there. Why on earth did he have a Scottish accent?

‘I knew you weren’t a figment of my imagination,’ she clarified.

He was watching her intently. His eyes were a light grey-green colour, kind of mysterious-looking. Though to be fair, she was pretty sure anyone would look mysterious in this kind of situation. He was tall – she’d thought that might be because she’d been so small last time around, but he really was tall, and she reckoned if he pouted, he’d have the kind of face like that actor Bonnie was obsessed with – David someone or other – who had these great cheekbones and an impressive jaw and really good eyebrows, all offset by his dark hair.

‘Emery,’ he said, and it was almost like he was trying out the sound of her name.

She shifted from foot to foot. She wasn’t sure where to look. She settled for staring at his chin. ‘Yes. I thought we’d established that last time.’ She was speaking too quickly, not quite managing the cool nonchalance she was aiming for. But what was she supposed to say? She’d spent years wondering whether it had really happened. She’d tried to figure out what he might be – an angel, a ghost, a spirit of some kind? In the end, she’d almost convinced herself that she’d made the whole thing up. Yet here he was, in front of her. Talking to her.

‘Sorry,’ he was saying. He slipped a hand out of his pocket, ran it through his hair – a nice chestnut-brown colour, like the conkers she’d got into the habit of collecting a few years ago. Then she’d found out that they kept spiders away, and actually, she quite liked spiders and the spiders needed somewhere to live too, didn’t they? So she’d stopped collecting them. ‘I suppose I’d wondered if you were a figment of my imagination. The girl who went back to life,’ he mused.

It was all so damn freaky that she decided not to comment on that.

‘It looks different,’ she said instead. ‘To last time. This place, I mean.’ She gestured around the forest. She noticed now that there was a zip wire on the platform, heading through the trees. She couldn’t make out where it went to – part of the fun had been not knowing. And then she remembered there was a little clearing, further ahead, and that the forest wasn’t really as big as it seemed. She frowned. ‘Or – is it a place? Is this real?’

‘Well,’ he said, rocking back on his heels, ‘I’m not sure about it on a metaphysical level, but I’m going to go with yes, it’s real, in that it’s happening. It doesn’t look the same because this place moulds to your memory – a memory you feel comforted by. I suppose that changes as you change as a person.’

‘You suppose