off." Her voice was almost a whisper. "I thought it was for the best. I never intended it to go on for this long â just a break in communications. But I got busy and my life got messy, and before I'd even paused for breath a year had passed. Then another. Then it was too late. I know it's a lame excuse, but it's the only one I have. I really am sorry. It should have been easy to pick up the phone."
  The distance between us narrowed, and I felt that I could almost reach out and touch her, just to reassure her that everything was fine between us. "I could say the same. I didn't even send you an email." The truth was that I'd written several, and then deleted each one without sending them. Some relationships are not meant to change; certain kinds of love are too fragile to ruin with romance.
  "Listen," I said, taking control of the conversation. "Let's not do this to ourselves, and to each other. We've both been a bit shoddy. We can leave it at that, or talk about it later, over dinner."
  I could sense her slow smile. "Okay, Thomas. I agree. There's no point inâ¦"
  "Waking the dead?"
  She laughed, and the tension was gone.
  "Where are you staying?"
  "The Crowne Plaza Hotel, in Leeds city centre. Do you know it?"
  "Yes, I know it. I performed an exorcism there five years ago, left a double room in one hell of a state. There was spit and ectoplasm everywhere."
  "No matter how well I know you, I can never get used to this stuff." Her voice sounded hollow; the tension was returning.
  "I was joking, Ellen. I stayed there once, but not on business. I attended a psychology conference in the dining suite."
  Thankfully, she laughed again, but this time it was more guarded. My stupid quip had reminded her all over again of the crazy parts of my life, the things I'd seen and done, the dangerous situations I often found myself in. A lot of it was what she had run away from: she simply couldn't handle the knowledge I possessed. Nor was she prepared to let our relationship play second fiddle to Rebecca's lengthy absence â and I couldn't bring myself to blame her for that.
  "Dinner? Tonight?" Her voice pulled me back from the brink of too many painful memories, and I clung to it as if her words were a series of narrow ledges over a vast pit.
  "Yes. That would be nice. How about I meet you at your hotel? Eight o'clock? I'll book a table at a nice little Italian place I know around the corner â you do still enjoy good tiramisu, don't you?"
  "If I could, I'd eat nothing else."
  When I replaced the telephone in its cradle, I experienced an odd sensation that felt like I was rushing backwards to meet something terrible. Ellen's call and the events of the past twenty-four hours had forced me to think about things I had not dwelled on in years. I moved across the room as if in a daze, groped for the drinks shelf, and poured myself two fingers of Bushmills single malt. Then I poured some more.
  This was at least a three-finger memory.
  When I left hospital after the accident my body was almost fully healed. I had a few scars here and there, and my neck ached if I didn't exercise it every few hours, but overall my frame had held up well to the impact.
  The psychological scars, however, proved a lot more difficult to treat. I'd spent hours with surgeons to mend my body, but would have nothing to do with the useless counsellors and therapists recommended to me. They did not know me; they had no knowledge of my life before the accident, of who I really was.
  And, of course, there were the ghosts.Â
I see the first one three weeks after the accident, and even then I am aware that never again will I experience it so vividly, so⦠simply. It is long after midnight, possibly somewhere close to 3am. I am sitting up in my hospital bed, staring at the blank wall opposite, when a young
  The distance between us narrowed, and I felt that I could almost reach out and touch her, just to reassure her that everything was fine between us. "I could say the same. I didn't even send you an email." The truth was that I'd written several, and then deleted each one without sending them. Some relationships are not meant to change; certain kinds of love are too fragile to ruin with romance.
  "Listen," I said, taking control of the conversation. "Let's not do this to ourselves, and to each other. We've both been a bit shoddy. We can leave it at that, or talk about it later, over dinner."
  I could sense her slow smile. "Okay, Thomas. I agree. There's no point inâ¦"
  "Waking the dead?"
  She laughed, and the tension was gone.
  "Where are you staying?"
  "The Crowne Plaza Hotel, in Leeds city centre. Do you know it?"
  "Yes, I know it. I performed an exorcism there five years ago, left a double room in one hell of a state. There was spit and ectoplasm everywhere."
  "No matter how well I know you, I can never get used to this stuff." Her voice sounded hollow; the tension was returning.
  "I was joking, Ellen. I stayed there once, but not on business. I attended a psychology conference in the dining suite."
  Thankfully, she laughed again, but this time it was more guarded. My stupid quip had reminded her all over again of the crazy parts of my life, the things I'd seen and done, the dangerous situations I often found myself in. A lot of it was what she had run away from: she simply couldn't handle the knowledge I possessed. Nor was she prepared to let our relationship play second fiddle to Rebecca's lengthy absence â and I couldn't bring myself to blame her for that.
  "Dinner? Tonight?" Her voice pulled me back from the brink of too many painful memories, and I clung to it as if her words were a series of narrow ledges over a vast pit.
  "Yes. That would be nice. How about I meet you at your hotel? Eight o'clock? I'll book a table at a nice little Italian place I know around the corner â you do still enjoy good tiramisu, don't you?"
  "If I could, I'd eat nothing else."
  When I replaced the telephone in its cradle, I experienced an odd sensation that felt like I was rushing backwards to meet something terrible. Ellen's call and the events of the past twenty-four hours had forced me to think about things I had not dwelled on in years. I moved across the room as if in a daze, groped for the drinks shelf, and poured myself two fingers of Bushmills single malt. Then I poured some more.
  This was at least a three-finger memory.
  When I left hospital after the accident my body was almost fully healed. I had a few scars here and there, and my neck ached if I didn't exercise it every few hours, but overall my frame had held up well to the impact.
  The psychological scars, however, proved a lot more difficult to treat. I'd spent hours with surgeons to mend my body, but would have nothing to do with the useless counsellors and therapists recommended to me. They did not know me; they had no knowledge of my life before the accident, of who I really was.
  And, of course, there were the ghosts.Â
I see the first one three weeks after the accident, and even then I am aware that never again will I experience it so vividly, so⦠simply. It is long after midnight, possibly somewhere close to 3am. I am sitting up in my hospital bed, staring at the blank wall opposite, when a young
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