Free Dead Romantic by Ruth Saberton

other ghosts, haven’t you? I knew it! That bump on the head has woken you up to your psychic skills.”
    “Oh please,” I say. “You sound like Susie. And anyway, you found me , remember?”
    “I was drawn to you,” Alex agrees. “And there’s a reason for that. A really good reason.” He stops, looks for a moment as though he wants to say more, and then just pulls a face. “Enough of that. Were you a Thornefan?”
    I take a sip of my wine. It’s chilled now, a bit like the rest of me. “I hate to break it to you but I’d never heard of Thorneuntil this evening.”
    Alex places his hand over his heart. “Well, that puts my ego neatly in its place. Five Brit Awards and two Grammys, Cleo. We were a little bit famous?”
    “Good for you,” I say.
    “Oh well, you don’t look like the kind of girl who listens to pop music so I shouldn’t really be surprised. Anyway, music isn’t what links us. It goes back further than that. Cleo, I’ve been searching for you. How do you think I recognised you at Museum Tube station?”
    “For me?” My head is a carousel of confusion. I wait for him to elaborate but Alex is suddenly quiet, as though he’s already said enough.
    “Go on,” I say encouragingly, and he sighs.
    “It’s kind of complicated, so if it’s all right with you I’ll start with a Saturday night several weeks ago. Do you remember that evening when you were alone on the platform at Museum Tube and a strange man with a scar made his way towards you? He looked like he was going to sit down, didn’t he? But then he started talking to thin air and moved on?”
    “And later on he attacked a girl outside the station,” I nod. “He claimed he left me alone because I had a man with me.”
    “You did,” says Alex simply. “Me. I sat there and put my arm around you and I prayed with every fibre of my being that he’d see me. It must have worked.”
    “I smelt a citrusy scent,” I recall. “And I can smell it now.”
    “CK One,” says Alex proudly, with a wink. “Drives girls wild.”
    I’m intrigued. “How come a ghost can smell of aftershave?”
    He grins. “What am I supposed to smell of, rotting flesh? It’s eau de toilette, to be precise. And anyway, why does it matter to you? You don’t believe in me, remember?”
    I’d almost forgotten that minor detail. In fact I’m starting to forget a lot of things since Alex reminded me about the strange incident at Museum Tube station.
    “This isn’t possible,” I protest.
    “So you say, but here I am. I think you have a gift. That whack on the head has unlocked it.”
    “Oh please! You’re not serious?”
    “Think about it, Cleo. You can see me. I can manifest to you. Jesus, you have no idea how hard I’ve tried to reach my brother. It’s impossible. There are some people who genuinely have the gift and you, Dr Carpenter, are one of them. You can really see me! Besides, ghosts love you. Your office is full of them. Can you find Aamon a proper football, by the way? That rubber-band one is crap. And get that bloody cat a basket.”
    I goggle at him. “You think you’ve seen Aamon?”
    “I don’t think , I know! We played a bit of footy together. He’s a pretty cool kid and he wishes you’d talk to him rather than just thinking about his remains. He says you’re right about his evil stepmother too.”
    “What?” There’s a sensation like somebody’s dropped a scoop of ice cream down my neck. I haven’t shared this finding with anyone; it’s far too early days and I was waiting for another CT scan to come back before I could verify my worst suspicions. “How on earth do you know that?”
    “Because Aamon told me,” says Alex patiently. “She sounds like a right bitch. Aamon says she wanted him out of the way so that her son, snotty Setau, could rule in his place. She stabbed him in cold blood, right between the neck and the top vertebra. The cat tried to claw her, so she killed that too. They were mummified very fast and