Page 8 of Lost Souls

That sort of thing.

“So many questions. Sheesh. Glad I’m sitting down, Mr Garth. My name is Ambrose.”

“And?”

“Just Ambrose. Means ‘immortal’, but hey, what’s in a name? Oh, and I’m here to collect your soul.”

So, there you have it. The secret, as they say, is out of the bag. And what a secret! What a bag!

“Nurse! SECURITY!”

For a man in his parlous condition, Arnie Garth can scream pretty damn loud. Loud enough to draw that same admittedly intrigued nurse right back in.

“What is it, Mr Garth? Why you yelling?”

“Why you think?” he says, nodding his shiny head and all his drips in my direction. “Who let this guy in? Get rid of him!”

“What guy?”

“Are you blind, lady?Thisguy!”

Now he’s pointing straight at me. But, of course, the nurse doesn’t see a thing. Except for an empty chair. Hey, it’s not her soul I’m after. Yet.

“You’re seeing guys?” she says, shaking her head. “This is a new one. I’m fetching the doctor. He will love it.”

And she’s off again, muttering to herself, leaving a somewhat bewildered Arnie Garth. And, of course, me.

“Over here,” I say, when he looks to the chair again and for one blissful moment doesn’t see anything.

Swivelling his head, he finds me right across the private room, on a second, empty bed, playing with an oxygen mask.Whose Life Is It Anyway?– now that’s mykind of movie. Although a few songs wouldn’t have hurt.

“‘Pull back to reveal Ambrose, a commanding man in a smart yet not ostentatious suit. Handsome, with just a hint of masculine cruelty.’”

Not even a smile. Ah well.

“Nurse couldn’t see me, Arnie,” I explain, moving back to the chair with a certain fleetness of foot that that would not have left my idol Gene Kelly unimpressed. That man could dance on a cloud.

I’d have thought the selective-seeing bit would be pretty evident by now. It’s the other stuff that could require a more detailed explanation.

“To all intents and purposes,” I say, “I’m a special effect.”

“Cut the crap!” protests Arnie. “I’m a very sick man.”

“Oh that, my dear Arnold, is an understatement. You are in a worse shape than honey-bunch John Wayne at the end ofThe Alamo. Can I be honest with you? And please don’t nod, not in your condition. You are inches away from a brain aneurism that will lock you into your body for as long as you live. You’ll see, hear, and feel everything. But you won’t communicate, not even with a ‘blink yes or no’ code. You’ll go slowly insane, and no one will know it. Excepting me, of course.”

“I really, really hope you’re not a doctor.”

“Better than,” I tell him. And now I cough a little, which isn’t my usual MO, you should understand, but truthfully, I’m just a little embarrassed this time round. “Actually, by rights, Mr Garth, you should be dead already, but there was – well, I’ll be honest with you, there was a glitch.”

“A glitch!I’m still alive because of a glitch?” says Arnie, getting quite chatty now for someone on the brink of virtual extinction. “Well, thank God for glitches, is what I always—”

“Wait – not so much,” I say, holding up a hand not as well manicured as my friend’s here, but passable. “The glitch is…”

Okay, so now I’m going to have to admit something here, although it pains and troubles me. As I said, I’m feeling just a tad uncomfortable right at this juncture. I won’t keep you in the dark too long and I hope you’ll forgive my uncharacteristic reticence, but I can feel a huge sigh sinking me into the hospital chair, which is pretty unusual in itself, as I have absolutely no body mass and am basically an apparition.

“See, Mr Garth,” I say, a bit sheepishly, “every child that comes into this world, they’re given what we call a soul. Bless ’em.”

Here’s where I pause for dramatic effect, old ham that I am, but also because, I won’t lie to you, this is the really tricky bit.