Chapter 3 - Explanations

"You're kidding me right?" George looked as if he were about to add something else, then coughed, shook his head and threw up his hands as if in surrender. It was almost as if he were saying 'Ok, I give up, this is just too damn weird.'

They were all sat in the lounge, the boys balancing plates of cake and cups of tea on their knees. Annie was sat down too; 'Emiline' was standing by the window, glancing outside regularly.

"Let me get this straight," Annie said "you saw George, and he saw you, right?" the girl nodded "and so, you got thinking that it was strange, and you wanted to know how he could? So, you followed him back to the house and then, then, you… You went back to your house and you baked a cake!?" This made Mitchell snort, seeing the silliness of it all and hearing the near hysteria in Annie's voice.

"Yes." Was all she said in reply. Mitchell snorted again, and then laughed properly, shaking and slopping tea all over the floor. He had been the only one to remain completely silent until then.

"And you're…" she pointed to the two boys who turned their heads towards her "a vampire and a werewolf?" The disbelief was apparent.

"You know," George mused "I have always wondered why the order's always 'a vampire and a werewolf.' Couldn't it be 'a vampire a werewolf and a ghost.', or even 'a werewolf, a ghost and a vampire.'? It wouldn't hurt to change it round sometimes."

"Yeah, that's right, that's about the size of us." It was the first time that Mitchell had spoken directly to the girl. "Just while we're you know, here, can we call you something a little shorter like 'Emma'? Or something?"

"You can, but you may not. I won't answer, even if you do." She grinned "I don't suppose that will make much of a difference though." Annie suddenly looked up.

"How did you die?" The room went silent; the smile faded from Emiline's face, the atmosphere was suddenly tense. "Don't want to talk about it? Ok." As if just brushing the question away. Emiline said

"Whilst we're on that topic… Mitchell can I, um, feel your pulse?" She blurted out the last part "I know Annie and I don't have them, George will of course, but… you have a solid, proper body and I can't quite convince myself that there isn't something going on." Mitchell held out his arm and pulled his sleeve back as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Truth was, he was getting used to that request, Josie had asked similar of him when they had first been together.

"Be my guest."

She extended a tiny white hand towards the wrist, pressed cold light fingers against it. In that moment there was no discomfort, no hesitation, and no inhibitions. Annie and George watched, but they themselves were not there, not included in the scene, and could not interact with it or react to it. Something happened then, something that could have been called magical. Mitchell could feel that strange, unreal cold that came from touching a ghost, Emiline that solid, material one that was all a vampire's. She waited; there was no pulse, no rhythm of life. Yet his living eyes were on her, drinking it all in, as if the thirst were for sight and not for blood. She lifted her hand away, just a fraction of a centimetre, but he grabbed it back, clasping it in his own. He recognised something of her, he knew her, though he could not have done. Her eyes were like saucers and…

"I have never been able to believe that a ghost has no pulse either." In truth, he was desperate for the moment to come back. There had been purity in it, like that of a single perfectly sung note which resonated. He was unable to recapture it, his nature suddenly violent. He pulled up her sleeve, and pressed his fingers to her veins. Then he jerked his hand up again and stared at the wrist, whilst she leaned away from him, her other hand over her face.

"When I was 18." She said

"What? What is it?" The energy in the room became intense and frantic George leaned over to see, and Annie bolted to peer over the back of the sofa, trying to understand. Mitchell traced the lines with a finger, the flicker of recognition coming again. 'So young,' he thought 'just too bloody young.'

"Why did you do it?" Mitchell asked "Why did you kill yourself?"

"Let go. Oh please let go. You'll, well, just let go. Please!" If anything Mitchell tightened his vice-like grip on her hand. He was shocked, and sad, and really, really angry.

"We all had our lives taken away from us!" He yelled "George got scratched by a werewolf whilst out walking. I gave myself up to save my men in the trenches. And Annie, well, she was bloody murdered. Her fiancé threw her down the stairs! There's still a crack in the floor tile where she hit her head."

"Mitchell, don't." But it was no use

"She'd done nothing wrong at all she was brutally killed! But you, you! You had it all ahead of you, but you just threw it all away, you selfish, selfish… What was it all about? Useless parents? Unrequited love? Some hopelessly romantic gesture of adoration which went too far?

Shit! Don't think I'm not jealous that you had the bloody choice, but you people just make me sick. You take it all for granted and then just expect we unlucky ones to sympathise when you've screwed it up. We never got to choose!" He was the opposite of the man who had let the ghost feel for his pulse. The utter peace of that moment was now forgotten and would only be remembered with hindsight, too late.

"Mitchell," it was Annie, talking softly, trying to keep the tremble of fear out of her voice "I'm sure she could explain, if you just let her." She stroked his hair absent-mindedly, desperate to calm or placate him. The motion itself did not console him, but he had at last vented a little of the rage that had built up inside him since the discovery of Owen's crime. This was as much about Annie as anything else. He looked down again at the entrapped hand and sighed before flinging Emiline's hand away and yelling.

"What?" George had remained silent through this, almost disappeared, but now remembered his existence beyond observer. Mitchell was staring, and so was Annie. George followed their gaze back her hand again. The cuts seemed almost to be glowing. 'No, he thought, that's not right, they're glistening.' What had a minute ago seemed to be just normal scars were now looking as if they'd only just been made. The blood began to run and the girl clasped her wrist. George couldn't help thinking that her hand had made a slightly wet slap as she did. Emiline staggered, then closed her eyes and steadied herself. The other three watched her, static. Her forehead creased with a sort of concentration.

A minute or so passed, and when the girl took her hand away from the cuts, they were gone. Not even any blood was left to show that the event had happened.

"Whoa, hold on here," said George "would anyone like to tell me what the hell is going on?"