I may have gone over the top by the end. I took a sudden dislike to the sink in the upstairs bathroom. I know it sounds weird now but trust me. It was maddening. It was the wrong colour, for a start. And – oh, who cares what the reason was.
It was there. And so was I. And I had a new-found superpower, and I was going to use it.
With the help of the emergency hammer conveniently hanging nearby, and with some gratifyingly loud smashing sounds, I managed to make the entire sink come completely away from the wall. As the torrent of water began to stream out of the bathroom and down the staircase, I watched it happen with a shiver of delighted satisfaction. It had been fun.
I contemplated my work. The water cascaded down the staircase, the lightshades hung broken from their fixtures, and there were piles of torn bed linen lying in strips on the floor next to broken wardrobe doors and dented walls. And do you know the best bit of all?
I’d played and played, and no one would be able to get me to tidy up.
Later, with all the tourists fled or evacuated, I swaggered around the empty rooms, enjoying my new sensations of power and strength. I felt brilliant. Like a crisp duvet pulled tight across a bed, all fresh and wholesome. Washed clean.
At the end of my victory lap, I found myself standing in front of the framed photo in the hallway.
For a split second I couldn’t remember who any of the people in the picture were.
Who is this suntanned quartet sitting on a hay bale, and why am I standing in front of them?
Was this my favourite pop band or something?
Then something clicked, the words poured into me in a relieved rush, and I gasped them out loud. ‘Mum, Dad and Birdie.’
Of course it is. Of course. I’m just a little tired, that’s all!
To distract myself, I glanced down at the visitors’ book.
The comments were grumpier than usual.
Not coming back ever again; chaotic, horrible vibe downstairs.
Staff seem plus plus terrified – must be tripleshifted.
Had quite a decent cup of ExoGrind in the café, but as we tried to leave there was a noisy outburst in the study. When we tried to find out what was going on, the door was slammed in our face. Unforgivably rude. NEVER COMING BACK.
House falling to bits. There was a flood upstairs and a child must have broken something. We tried to explore, but we’d only just arrived and then we were told to leave! And we’d only just got here! Next time we’ll save our money for the World of Data in Worth Matravers, thank you very much, as you always know what you’re getting there (and the parking’s cheaper).
I grinned at that.
The last entry on the page was so small I nearly didn’t see it. The handwriting was cramped and jerky, like it had been scribbled down in a rush.
It was just one word.
It said:
A FEW DAYS later, once everything had been fixed and repaired, Sea View opened to the public again. The tourists I’d terrified were given discount vouchers for the café as compensation. The general public was fed the official line that the damage I’d done had been caused by bad plumbing.
I wasn’t looking for the limelight, particularly, so I didn’t mind the lie. All I’d wanted was for things to change. For my family’s history to be treated with a bit more respect. But …
… everything remained the same. The comments, gasps for air, the endless chats about when to treat themselves to a CuppaGrubba. Oh, and I was still completely alone. I could smash the world to bits and I would still be completely alone. Nothing had changed at all.
And that just made me even angrier than ever.
Outside, in the garden, I glared at the crowds queuing up for lunch. I was in the kind of mood where I only had to glance at something to feel furious about it. That stupid café, for instance, where Dad’s shed should have been.
I walked in through its open door. It was the café’s busiest time of day. Long queues. Harassed grown-ups bearing trays overloaded with bowls and plates and cups and mugs.
Very overloaded trays. Brimming with stuff, they were.
I mean, that was just asking for trouble.
Sometime later, panting and covered in food, I finally stopped.
I wasn’t sure at which point the café had emptied completely. Had I broken the coffee machine which now lay in a pathetic heap on the floor, burping out jets of steam and making a worrying hissing noise, or had it fallen over by accident? I could dimly remember screaming, but wasn’t sure if it had been mine or someone else’s.
I couldn’t recall exactly if I’d opened the ice-cream counter and scooped out all the flavours and thrown them at the walls, but judging by my slippery multicoloured hands, I had to admit it was likely.
Just as I was admiring how pretty the mustard and ketchup looked smeared on the windows, a stern voice behind me said: ‘You really need to stop doing this, you know.’
I whipped around and found myself face to face with the skinny boy in the bright top.
‘Are you talking to me?’ I said, an incredulous smile tugging at my lips.
He looked around the empty café and raised an eyebrow.
‘Who else would I be talking to?’ he said.
‘But … but … you’re …’
‘Alive?’ He spoke as if he was in a library and didn’t want to get told off – quietly, barely moving his lips.
‘And I’m …’
‘Dead,’ he volunteered.
‘Yeah.’ I felt all sorts of things: confusion, relief and panic, and underneath it all, like a golden precious egg, hope.
‘Have you … have you always been able …’ I gulped, ‘to see me?’
He flushed.
I held his gaze.
Finally he gave a tiny nod.
‘Why haven’t you
