Read Online Reading the Ceiling by Dayo Forster - Free Book Online

hosts of phantoms into one dead person at a time, and then they seemed manageable – I knew I could confront a solitary ghost, just not too many at the same time. At twenty-one, I was overwhelmed by the ghost of a single person who’d left me.

4
Freefall
    I fall into a half-hearted doze, my body accepting the weight of an arm flung onto it. My mind thrashes against sleep. I’m fighting an image of me in deep repose – slack-jawed, dribbly, and likely to murmur things out loud. Kamal used to say I wouldn’t even let him go have a pee in the night without my arm tightening around him or me saying out loud clearly: Don’t leave me yet . Kamal is gone. Someone else owns the arm currently draped on me. When I can no longer bear the tension of keeping myself awake, I shake Akim and say, ‘C’mon, you have to leave now.’
    He lifts his arm off me, groans and mumbles, ‘I’m asleep, why do I have to leave?’
    â€˜Just because.’
    When he does not move, I jab him with my elbow and he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He stands to reach for the trousers he draped over the armchair. The orange street-lamp outside my bedroom window throws in burnt light.
    This is not the first time Akim and I have had an early-morning conversation like this. I’ve muttered reasons before, whatever I could dredge up, lies I can no longer remember.
    As he leans over, his arched back is a set of planed muscles smooth to the touch, nice to hold. He is gorgeous to look at. I still want him to leave.
    As he dresses he says, ‘Will I see you tomorrow – I mean later today?’
    â€˜Hmm, maybe.’
    â€˜OK then, I’ll find you.’
    When I hear the door thud close behind him, I fall into a dreamless sleep into which the alarm peals a few hours later.
    London’s steel sky hides the sun. As I sit at our tiny kitchen table, I look out on chilled, defenceless gardens and laddered television aerials set at jaunty positions on slate roofs. I grimace at a day ahead filled with lectures as I spoon out the last of Meena’s homemade strawberry jam onto the unwilling butt end of a French loaf.
    Morning indecisiveness glues me to my seat. Shall I shower now, or in fifteen minutes after listening to the news on the radio? Shall I try to catch the bus or use the underground and give myself a spare half hour? Should I write out my Christmas cards before going in or wait for a break between lectures? Are my spare stamps in my panty drawer or in the sleeve of my manilla folder? Did I stuff my last ten-pound note into that striped cardigan or should I investigate how many coins lurk at the bottom of my handbag?
    Meena shuffles in, buffing the wooden floor with her fluffy blue bunny slippers.
    â€˜What this country needs,’ I remark, ‘is a good old storm to clear the air and leave it smelling fresh. Something to shift this drabness that stays and stays.’
    â€˜Morning,’ she says, stifling a yawn and heading for the fridge. ‘Fixing the world, are you?’
    â€˜Kind of.’
    â€˜Where’s Akim?’
    â€˜Chucked him out just after midnight.’
    â€˜Hmm.’
    â€˜What do you mean – hmm?’
    â€˜He’s a nice guy.’
    â€˜And what do you want me to do about that?’
    â€˜He’s rich. He likes you. A lot. Why don’t you try to keep him?’ I sigh. She yawns as she extracts a carton of milk.
    â€˜I don’t know why.’
    I feel her look at me, but I stare out into the garden. ‘It’s too early to talk about this sort of thing,’ I continue. ‘And how are you and Hari getting on?’
    â€˜Ah, now. You’re trying to change the subject.’
    She lifts her heavy black hair off her shoulders, twists it into a knot at her nape, and secures it with a pink flower hairband that she slips off her wrist.
    â€˜Duh?’ I reply.
    â€˜You’re awful, go away.’ She