"Thought not," she said, softly.
And I cried some more. Proper crying. Ugly snot and tears and despair crying.
You'll know it if you've done it.
"Hush," said Tish. "Hush."
I did my best to hush. My best wasn't very good.
"You want to tell me the story?" she asked, when I was quieter.
"You up for it?"
"Hey, I know everything else. I know that you're see-ghosts-girl. I know your target weight. I know what you shout when you come."
Our bedrooms were next to each other. I'd had some dubious one-night stands.
I wiped some snot from my upper lip. "No you don't. You know what I shout when I'm faking it."
"Just tell me the story," she said.
And she held me real close then. Real close.
So I told her.
Her name was Alice. Alice-Jane.
She was five when she died.
I was seven, my brother was nine.
She was my little sister, and she died.
It was murder.
The story got a lot of coverage. There was a picture of me crying at the funeral. It made one of the national papers.
Farewell to an Angel, said the headline.
But it wasn't farewell, not really.
The night after her murder, Alice-Jane came into my bedroom.
A few hours later they took me to hospital.
I stopped and blew my nose.
Tish carried on holding me.
I asked her where I'd got to in the story.
"They sent you to hospital."
"Yeah. And I was grateful. I didn't want to stay in the house, not after seeing her. I was sedated and when I woke up a shrink asked me some questions. He gave me a teddy bear."
I began to feel cold.
Tish turned up the heating.
"So what did you tell the shrink?"
"I told him my parents had killed Alice-Jane."
Tish put her hand to her mouth.
I carried on with the story.
I told her how the shrink's face went very still behind his smile and then he asked me some more questions. I asked him when my parents would come to visit me. He said that they loved me but he didn't think they'd be able to come visit for a while.
He was right. They didn't come.
Instead there were a lot of whispered conversations in the corridors, and a lot more questions. Detectives came. There were more teddy bears. One day a social worker carefully asked me who I'd like to live with, if I had a choice. I said I wanted to live with my grandparents. So I went to live with my grandpa and grandma Robinson, may she rest in peace.
"She's the one whose funeral you went to?" said Tish.
"Yeah. It's why I was the star turn at the wake. All my grandma's friends and neighbours remembered me. I was the little'un. Mr Nash and Mrs Nash lived next door to my grandparents, and Mrs Nash used to babysit for me when my grandparents were out."
I stopped.
Tish stroked my hair.
I looked at my empty glass.
She poured me some more vodka.
And then, suddenly, I'd had enough of ancient history. I went to bed.
All night I heard Tish in the next room, unable to settle.
Early December was drab and flat. The shopping was hollow. The rooms at home were cold.
It is hard to be cheerful when I know what I know, and the other person knows it too. Or most of it.
Tish and I bought all the Keanu Reeves DVDs we could find.
We spent too much money on each other, and told each other, so the other person knew.
Mid-December my brother rang.
"Hey," said Tish, after the call. "Hey."
She couldn't say bland comforting things like: it can't be that bad, because she still didn't really know how bad it was. We hadn't talked since that last conversation.
"I just want to make it past Christmas," I said.
"Sure," she said. "Sure."
On Christmas Day Tish and I watched back-to-back Keanu movies, one after the other.
His suit is nice in
Johnny Mnemonic.
His everything is nice in
Point Break.
But
Speed was our favourite.
It's the t-shirt, and the body, and the way he rescues the heroine. It's nice to think there's someone out there who will always save the girl.
We ate curry on the couch, wrapped in duvets, wishing we were Sandra Bullock for a day.
That night, when we pressed eject on the final DVD Tish poured us more mulled wine, and we toasted a Christmas survived.
"A good plan of yours," I said.
"I like to think so." She smiled, and then, just casually, said: "How's it going, kid?"
"It doesn't get more relaxed than this," I said. And it was true. Movies and drink and not cooking always do it for me.
"Good," said Tish.
She was right, it was good. Except for the sudden sense of a whisper I had, the sense of words in the air around me. I looked round, wondering if I could see the speaker.
"What is it?" said Tish.
An image in the room then. A body, a face. Clearer and stronger than I'd seen in years.
"Can you hear someone at the door?" she said.
"Not exactly," I said. "Look, Tish, you might want to go bed now. Or phone a friend, see if you can stay at their place."
"Why would I want to do that?"
"I need to have a conversation."
"Well, fire away, let's talk," she said, uneasily.
"The conversation isn't going to be with you," I said.
"Then who-"
I watched her face change as it hit her. "Oh God. Not here. Not with… You promised."
"Just go to your room, it'll be fine."
She ran.
Little Alice-Jane appeared as the door slammed shut.
She'd come to wish me Happy Christmas.
After, I took Tish hot sweet tea. She was in shock and couldn't stop shaking, even though the heating was turned up high. I put a couple of blankets over the duvet. Still she shook.
I climbed in beside her and held her and said hey, hey, hey, as she cried. As you do.
It didn't make much difference.
Never does.
She slept till long past noon and when she woke she tried to pretend that everything was okay, but she wasn't even fooling herself.
I waited till she'd had a shower, and coffee, and something to eat, and then I asked her, just casually, "How's it going, kid?"
"You never finished the story," she said, not bothering to fake that she was alright. We have neighbouring bedrooms. She can't fake for shit, we both knew that. "You didn't say whether-"
She stopped.
"It's okay," I said. "Ask me anything."
"Did your parents really kill your sister?"
"No, they didn't," I said.
Tish shook her head, as if I were a sudden stranger.
"But you told the shrink at the hospital that they did."
"Yes. And the police. And the social workers. And they all believed me. In fact, there was enough evidence for a conviction. My parents went to prison, and they committed suicide there. Not because they'd done it, but because they hadn't."
Tish stared at me. I watched her calmly, waiting for the inevitable next question.
It came out in a whisper.
"Amy, did you kill your sister?"
I shook my head. "No. I didn't kill my sister."
Tish breathed with relief. But then another question. There's always more.
"Then why? Why tell everyone your parents did it?"
I imagined my parents' ghosts, there at my brother's Christmas dinner table, happy in the bosom of their family, even though the living could not see them. Would they be bitter at their lives cut short? No, they wouldn't, even though their deaths had been ugly.