A Pocket Full of Posies (Book 1)

Chapter Six

An undying urge to hit something really, really hard has been gnawing at me lately. I'm practically jumping out of my seat with enthusiasm to meet up with Tom and head to the gym after this lab session. The boxing society are gathering there, and I missed last week's session because I had a nap that turned into a four hour sleep after my morning lecture. I can't say for sure why this urge to hit something has manifested itself, but I'm going to take a stab and guess it has something to do with the disturbing, confused state my life is currently in.

Jamie's grandmother hasn't paid me a visit since her meltdown the other day, and based on her famous last words, I may die at some point in the foreseeable future. On the cheery side of things, due to the fact my charade of being a vegetarian is still going strong, I've become an expert at cooking sausages when nobody's looking. I'm sure that'll come in handy at some point in the future. Might even be CV worthy.

We're meant to be designing three-dimensional underground transport structures based on equations given to us by our tutor, but I've got Ava's spirit book perched on my lap while I pretend to do work on the computer in front of me. Carmen's almost as useless as I am at leaving things around the flat, which I use to my advantage.

I've been trying to see if I can spot anything in the book about the creature I keep spotting, but haven't managed to find a single word on it. It's hardly helping with my concerns over possibility that I may legitimately be having psychotic episodes. I flick through more pages, only to be met with more and more disappointment as every page--

"Spirits appear as they did at their time of death once they have entered the Reflective World, but all physical appearance is discarded once they enter The Beginning," a deep voice booms above me, and I slam the book shut. The seminar tutor stands over me, his eyebrows raised. "As much as I love a good ghost story, I can't quite grasp what it has to do with underground means of transport."

I wonder if middle-aged men who make bad jokes are aware of how predictable their humour is. I say nothing in response, and instead just flash the scruffy haired man a sarcastic smile. I don't think he notices the sarcasm because he lifts his chin up in response, as if proud of himself for catching--and in his mind--scaring me.

Tom is already waiting for me outside the class when we finish, and he must've been waiting a while because he takes the piss out of the row I received ten minutes prior. He proceeds to ramble on about ghosts for the entire journey to the gym, and in a way, it's a good thing because it riles me up in preparation for hitting things.

I know I bring it on myself half the time, but a break from all of this dead people crap would be a godsend, even just for one day. Our flat is meeting up at one of the local pubs after this gym session, and I'm tempted to have a drink purely to do just that. I'm slightly concerned I'll develop an alcohol addiction if I continue with that attitude though, so I may pass.

The boxing session feels like it's over within seconds of arriving at the gym, and I spent the majority of it alone, hitting the biggest punching bag I could find. Other than some warm-up practices with Tom, I didn't particularly interact with anyone. I've never had much interest in actual fights. Considering my go-to instrument is a drum kit, I think I just like hitting things. I'm sure it's perfectly rational and healthy.

We all meet up outside The Cavern to walk to the pub Ava has recommended to us, and I'm surprised to see that Katie has actually showed up. She snagged herself a boyfriend a week into uni, and between us, I think we've seen her four times since. Unsurprisingly, he's here with her, in all his shaved head and steroid-induced glory. There's no sign of Mason, but that doesn't surprise me because he's made his own group of friends outside the flat.

We head off into the city, each one of us following Ava like a load of lost mongrels. We catch a bus just outside the university's south entrance, and it drops us off barely two minutes away from the pub. Jamie hasn't said a word during the journey, and there are plump bags under his eyes. His hair is unusually unkempt, and it's all suggesting that he did call his grandmother after all. I slow my pace as we approach the pub so that I trail along beside him at the back of the group.