You'd Look Better as a Ghost

by Joanna Wallace

“I’m Jemma.” She taps her name badge, and a scurry of words stampede from my brain to mouth. I know you’re called Jemma, you total freak! You introduced yourself to all of us before your monumental meltdown. Plus, you’ve got your name stuck on that hideous tracksuit. “Hi, Jemma,” I say. “What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Claire.” I tap my own name badge, wondering what it is about the concept of name badges Jemma finds so difficult to understand.

How can I feel pity for a goldfish flipping desperately across my living room rug, yet nothing but irritation for the man I’m drowning?

real

Why are they talking about nothingness like it’s a bad thing? For me, nothingness is a perfect state. My mind flicks back to the nothingness I felt when killing Lucas. If only I knew then what I know now, I think I would have enjoyed that nothingness even more.

“And were you very close to your dad?” What do you think, Einstein? Why else would I come to a bereavement counseling group? Ignorant elf.

Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I avert my eyes and note that Kathleen uses lavender-scented soap and the same night cream as me. It’s expensive stuff and promises to ward off wrinkles. I make a mental note to try a different brand.

She’s wearing purple flared trousers with a green patterned shirt but the strangest thing about her is her head. It’s disproportionately large and a peculiar shape, like a deformed pumpkin left unsold at Halloween. She must be in a constant fight with gravity, keeping that enormous thing all the way up there—balancing on such a long, elegant neck and slender physique.

And what’s with the night fever outfit, has 1977 kicked her out? Slung her into the present day, bashing that misshapen head on every year in between? It’s hard to see what she’s eating from below, but she seems to be enjoying it—shoveling slimy-looking food from a plastic tub straight into her mouth.

She shoves her right hand out towards me, and I feel my stomach turn. Her fingers will be covered in that slimy food juice. We shake hands and now that giant head is descending towards me, the stench of anchovies arriving at the exact moment I spot slimy deposits of food lodged between her teeth. With this assault on my senses, my stomach turns again—every single part of me finds this woman repulsive. And I’m speaking as someone who once sliced open a flasher and unraveled his small intestine, just to see how long it really was.

“Right, this last question is all about history,” says Jobsworth Jez. “More specifically it’s about an event I’m sure all you residents know about . . . the Gunpowder Plot of 1605.” Bloody hell. How old does he think they are?

“Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer.” Returning the smile, I get in the car and wonder how many serial killers in the history of serial killing have used that line. I might try it.

“Besides, it’s adding a bit of excitement to our day, isn’t it?” he continues. “We thought we were just going out for a walk. Little did we know fate had something far more interesting in mind!” “Why don’t you ever shut the fuck up?” asks Frank, verbalizing my exact thought.

“I think I’ll remember it until the day I die,” which means she won’t have to remember it for long.