Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

Sometimes in this life; the dawn of another day isn’t that great. Heartbreak is your black dog; your shadowy companion. Do we all hide our secret, saddened hearts from the world?

  Life is pain.

  I don’t remember my head hitting the pillow, and I can’t even be grateful right now that Arthur’s AKM sleeping device worked so incredibly well. I hear the tail end of my own long drawn out sigh.

  On the floor before me, lies the novel my mother must have read as she stayed by my side last night.

  Sunlight glints through the top of my curtains.

  I could just sit here on my bed and count the number of hours until I have to go to sleep again and pray that I can hang on till the end of the day. But today is the day is the day I die, and to be honest, bring it on. What is there to hang on for in this torrid, soul-crushing, pointless, cameo-appearance of a life anyway?

  I find myself sitting upright and a deep and prolonged sadness sinks to the bottom of my heart as I look at Buddy’s bed. I feel an incredible and stark numbness. I feel utterly barren.

  On the side-table next to the bed, is a picture of me cuddling my younger brother when I was three. I remember it being taken. Love him, I do.

  When you feel anger, injustice and grief all at the same time, how come the grief always wins out?

  I shower quickly, scoop the book and the bell into my shitty, broken ruck-sack and head downstairs. I’m fussed over by mother for several minutes, but she stops suddenly when she realises that I just want to get out of the house.

  ‘The police want you to stay here today. There’s a spate of crimes all over Jacobsfield.’

  I nod, but within five minutes, I am over the back fence and down the small hill that leads into the forest at the back of our house, using the trees for cover.

  I check my mobile phone; still no message from Dezza. I call a couple of times, but get no response.

  ‘Damn it, Derek!’

  I really need someone to talk too; someone to care and there’s nobody at all.

  I stop dead.

  Tiny slithers of sun poke through the canopy in the trees above my head. I stand in one of the rays, and let it shine on to my face before I start sobbing uncontrollably, my whole body shaking with sadness. I weep and weep, freeing myself of my bag, so I can sink to my knees for a few minutes.

  I feel utterly desolate.

  It passes.

  Wiping my runny nose on my sleeve, I stand and continue on my pointless journey turning left on to an alleyway at the end of the forest, walking slowly towards Harley town centre.

  Tonight’s quarter peal at the church has surely that’s been cancelled in light of the terrorist past of our Reverend. The free paper was good reading this morning: Jacobsfield is seriously messed up.

  I text Arthur, to let him know that his device has worked well. Even if I make it out of this day alive, tomorrow I’ll set the timer to keep me asleep for twenty-four hours. I’ll keep that setting for seven times fifty two.

  It’s as I reach the main road and approach St. Harold’s again that I feel fearless. Or, is it that I’m past caring? Either way, I honestly don’t care who kills me today.

  And then I see Mark.

  He’s sitting at the same bus-stop I used for cover the other day. He stands, looks across at me and stares.

  I approach him, silently glaring at him. He looks surprised. I don’t care if he notices my puffy eyes and reddened cheeks.

  ‘I have called your mum, she knows I’m okay.’

  Oh, you’re so selfless, Mark.

  ‘Why were you hiding over there the other day?’ I demand, pointing to the cemetery entrance.

  Mark’s looks stunned.

  ‘Do you know who defaced the gravestones and threatened me?’

  Mark has a look of a man trapped by his own guilt. I can tell he’s stewing over two things: Firstly; his realisation that I’d spotted him, secondly, his head-scratching bafflement - who on earth is this Shelly Clover?

  ‘Was it Elvis or Camille, or someone else?’ I try to keep a calm tone.

  ‘Shelly…I?’

  ‘How do you know Camille, Mark?’

  His mouth closes to swallow hard, and drops open again.

  My questions come thick and fast. He wipes his brow, his eyes widening.

  ‘How do you know?’ he says slowly and softly. ‘Did Elvis...?’ he stops, as he tries to regain his composure unsuccessfully.

  He shakes his head and takes a seat, and he seems unsteady.

  ‘Did Elvis what?’ I demand, my voice rising.

  He rubs his head for several moments causing his skin to pinken slightly over the large scar on his left temple. This is a man who visibly withering before me, crumpling upon the red, plastic, bus-stop seat.

  I give him a few moments and as I do this, I hear the bell chiming in my bag. I glance across at the churchyard wondering what I am been alerted to. At that exact moment my phone vibrates twice; two text messages in quick succession. I look at Mark. He’s now smoothing his hand over what little hair he has. I’m about to pin him down with another barrage of questions when he speaks.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Shelly, I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I was going to tell you but not like this.’

  He looks up at me and there are tears in his eyes. They stream down his face silently.

  Obviously, things have been going on for Mark during the last couple of days that I have no idea about. I hold the image from the book at the forefront of my mind. Mark wounding Camille, and the Carrion Crow facilitating this. The Stone Angel told me to ‘Save Mark.’ A puzzling thought comes to mind: The Stone Angel said Mark visits this cemetery.

  ‘She’s my daughter, Shell. Camille’s my daughter…’

  I listen to some seagulls pass over my head.

  Their calls echo back and forth, until they disappear into the distance.

  Silence.

  Mark peers up at me…waiting.

  ‘Oh...that can’t be...that, just can’t be...Don’t sodding say that…Don’t you bloody dare!’

  ‘Camille...is my daughter, and…’ his voice wobbles and he looks down at his feet unable to meet my gaze.

  ‘...and you are too.’

  A car drives by, blasting its horn at a stubborn seagull still in the road: I don’t flinch. I don’t move at all.

  And then, I laugh.

  I laugh at the whole universe as it points its greedy, selfish finger at me. The question I didn’t even want answering: Who is my father - such is my dislike and distrust of men – has asked itself, without my permission? And, without warning, it has been answered. Camille and me, hand in hand, escaping the clutches of the mad woman...And, there was the smiley long haired man.

  Mark. The smiley long-haired man; now bald; scar on forehead.

  Surely, in the name of everything human and real, I should be feeling a different emotion, anything but one that induces this incredulous laughter.

  How is this even possible? Camille and I? Sisters?

  I’m chuckling at the sick joke.

  I want to throw up all over the down-trodden, litter-laden street at this disgustingly inaccurate assertion.

  I part my sandy brown hair, and rub lump after lump on the back of my head. I think about mother while trying to see beyond the words Mark has just uttered.

  Not a single muscle twitches on his face as I peer fixedly into his eyes.

  ‘Not a chance, mate. I have four brothers, I don’t have a sister. It was Camille’s birthday yesterday, the day after mine. Twins? That’s not possible. My mother - giving her up for adoption. Ha! Gotcha.’

  ‘Shelly, I know this is a shock. Christina and I were going to tell you, but something came up; we had to handle it carefully. We wanted to say something sooner rather than later, but I’ve only been back with your mum for a few months and there was never going to be an ideal opportunity. But then, Elvis found out. Elvis found some old letters that...’

  ‘What?’ I whisper. />
  ‘You what?’ Much louder.

  I tune in and out, struggling to comprehend revelation after revelation as he speaks. The man who I thought was my dad had long hair and didn’t have a massive scar over his right brow.

  The truth is beginning to sink in.

  ‘This can’t be true. You’re not my dad. My dad had long hair, he wasn’t a frigging alcoholic and he didn’t have a massive scar on his face...’

  ‘I did have long hair a long time ago. The doctors shaved it off when they operated on me. I was assaulted...’

  ‘…by a crazed woman who smashed you over the face.’

  I let my bag slip from my back on to the pavement. I pull my fringe back with my palm and stare into the blue sky. Oh no. Oh no. Is the book making all of this happen?

  ‘Mark, the woman who murdered Buddy…who was she?’

  I realise that my question could be construed as burgeoning acceptance.

  The word, 'Buddy’ gets stuck in my throat and I fight to maintain my composure.

  Please don’t answer.

  Please don’t know the answer to this.

  Mark visibly falters on his plastic seat. He looks like he’s taken one in the guts.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t remember.’

  ‘How on earth could I forget my own brother being murdered, and, come to think about it…and that other little girl…Evelyn…Evelyn Parker?’

  Mark is dumbstruck; he opens his mouth up and down like a guppy fish. The bell is having a cardiac arrest inside my bag, both of us too consumed in one another to be easily distracted.

  ‘So that was you with your hair long; my dad with long hair. You abandoned us to that mad woman – you deserted us while she attacked us...’

  ‘I didn’t.’ he protests with a whisper, but I am on a roll.

  ‘You left us to be attacked. Who was she Mark and where the hell have you been for the last ten years when I needed you - when I needed a father? Is that what you were trying to tell Camille; that you were her dad too…here…yesterday?’

  I make a disbelieving stuttering sound as I struggle to understand.

  ‘Wh-what? How does that even make sense, Mark? Did my mother have her…adopted?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You…You are the reason I hate men. You are the reason I hate this world. You are the reason my life is so painfully shit. What kind of man are you? I hope Elvis finds you and kills you and I want to be there to see it. You don’t deserve to be on this earth you vile scum.’

  Mark stays silent; tears roll down both cheeks as he nods. The bell chimes at a ridiculous rate.

  I’m incensed. I can’t even form more words.

  ‘It’s not like that, it’s not like that at all.’ he whispers.

  ‘It’s not like what? Welcome…welcome to my world, Mark. My innocence was stolen from me because of you. I don’t even know what innocence is. I don’t know…what security is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved. I don’t have anyone who cares for me. Every day is agony. Every day is torment… because…of…you…’

  ‘I’m sor-‘

  ‘Do you have any idea how many lives you’ve screwed up?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Shel, you didn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to be alive. You’re right. I don’t...deserve…’

  ‘I hate you. I can’t even put into words how much I detest even thinking about your existence. Why are you even living? Give me one good reason. You’re only here to mess up as many people as possible. You’re the real murderer. You’re…’

  ‘You’re right…’ his voice tails off.’…Every…day…of my life…has been pointless…’

  With that he stands to his feet shakily and staggers towards the curb and into the road. The truck is on him in an instant, its horn blaring as there is no time for it to brake, just no time at all.

  It’s instinct, it must be, it happens so quick. I hurl myself after him and into him, yanking him over as we both fall under the truck.

  The screech of brakes: the smell of burning rubber; the shadow of death; the dust and the diesel fumes – all blur into a fraction of a second. Daylight explodes on the rear side of the truck as it passes over us.

  If anything like this has ever happened to you.

  If you have ever escaped death - it’s true what they say: You never feel more alive than in that instant before your death… and the very moment after you’ve escaped it.

  We lie side by side hyperventilating.

  My senses have never been more attuned. I feel an instant urge to stand up and stretch my life back. I don’t even try to speak, I know that I can’t. I can’t move any muscle of my own accord, but my body quivers involuntarily anyway. The screech of braking stops as the truck grinds to a halt, and a man in a blue outfit comes charging towards us, his legs buckling from beneath as he falls before us.

  ‘Good grief. Good grief. Good Lord, no.’

  Was that the moment I was meant to die? Why am I not dead? I move my head to face Mark, who shivers and shakes in shock.

  The wide-eyed driver stares at us, from one to the other, in disbelief.

  ‘You’re alive. Good Lord; you’re alive!’

  Relief sweeps across his face as he crouches in front of us. I can hear the bell ringing in the distance – slower than before.

  I realised that in the book late last night; Mark had disappeared off the edge of the page during the course of the Carrion Crow Nursery Rhyme. He had drawn something from his pocket – his own dagger – and had stabbed himself. His face went blank as the illustration took shape. Was his life ebbing away? Somehow, on some deep level, I knew that Mark was being hemmed in, forced to make a desperate move, about to take his own life; the bell alerting me to it with everything it had.

  The driver of the truck pulls me to my feet, but nearly loses balance doing so.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’ he says.

  ‘It’s okay. We’ll be fine.’ It feels like somebody has stretched my tongue back into my throat like an elastic band.

  Mark is getting to his feet as a car passes by on the other side of the road, the occupants all slowing to rubber-neck. Good British Citizens. One passenger tries desperately to get his phone out to film the aftermath.

  Good Jacobsfield natives.

  ‘He tried to throw himself out in front of my truck. He needs help. He’s bloody suicidal...’

  The truck driver’s relief is turning to justified anger.

  Maybe Mark does need help, but I really need some answers from him. I think quickly, it’s not the driver’s fault at all, but I alert him to the twenty mile an hour road-sign next to the bus-stop. The man in the blue suit momentarily freezes.

  ‘I thought this was a thirty zone.’

  ‘Just went down a couple of days ago; I know it’s not your fault, but we’d have to call the police and then they’d be asking questions about your speed. To be honest, my...erm...we have just had an argument and I think we can get it sorted. I’d prefer it if we can just leave.’

  The driver is indecisive, but a sense of palpable relief floods his face. An offer to exchange mobile numbers is enough to see him hastily retreat to his lorry cab, albeit with exceptionally wobbly legs.

  Mark is standing now, but he isn’t moving or capable of speech for that matter. He’s sobbing. I shakily head back to the curb to collect my belongings, and then drag Mark across the road towards St. Harold’s out of the way of any nosey eyes.

  My heart positively pounds within my chest. I consider if that’s that for me: Have I now cheated death? I want to be able to call Dezza and tell him all about it – and then I remember that my phone buzzed twice earlier.

  Mark is compliant as we cross the road. He has his right hand over his reddened, snotty face and is whispering, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ but he is a broken man and not capable of saying anything coherent.

  My hand spasms uncontrollably as I try to retrieve two text messages. I’m basking in an adrenalin rush. I’m hop
ing the messages are from Dezza.

  I check – one from an unknown number and one from Astra.

  Astra’s reads:

  Shelly darling. Found somthin else @ bak of charity shop. Think it goes with book I gave you. On kitchen table. Hav a look. CU@ quarter peal. Love Aunty A x

  The other reads:

  Hi Shelly, It’s Eren. Pls could you call me, it’s urgent, my dad’s awake – but v weak, but he’s insisting on talking to you.

  Priorities have changed. Mark first, then fit-hunk Eren, then Aunty Dawson.

  We walk into the cemetery and sit on a dilapidated wooden bench by the entrance, away from the sight of prying eyes. Ahead, I see several single tracks carved out in the gravel…

  Motor-bike tracks.

  Elvis has been here.

  By my side, Mark is regaining composure. He can’t meet my gaze, so I speak. I’m not sure if I truly mean what I am about to say.

  ‘Mark, I’m sorry for what I said back there, I don’t want Elvis to kill you; I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘You were right. I’m just a worthless son of a bitch. I should’ve died back there, I should...have…’

  ‘Mark, I think there’s more going on here than meets the eye.’

  I sigh and look at the gravestones.

  He looks at me, his face, red and ruddy.

  I whisper the next part to him.

  ‘Mark, I need some answers. I don’t know if you were telling the truth back there, but I think that we are all been tricked by something that I don’t exactly understand myself. I’m trying to piece it all together. Mark, I need to know about the woman who murdered Buddy and I need to know more about your relationship with Camille.’

  He turns away and considers. Choking back the tears, he stares straight ahead, lost in thought for a few moments, before wiping his nose on his sleeve and nodding to himself slowly.

  ‘Her name is Miriam. She was Camille and Evelyn’s mother....’

  Woah. Evelyn?

  ‘Evelyn wha...? I don’t under... So, mum didn’t give up Camille for adoption.’

  Mark flashes me a puzzled look. ‘No.’

  ‘Your mum and I originally split up when she was pregnant with you; I didn’t know that she was carrying you at the time, she never told me. Apart from this, it seemed like the right thing to do as we were always at each other’s throats – we were a lot younger back then.’

  He pauses.

  ‘We were always splitting up and getting back together. Anyway, during the rocky patches of our relationship I hooked up with a woman called Miriam. I was in two relationships, over two years, going back and forth to see Miriam, while I was with your mum.’

  He looks intensely uncomfortable telling me of all this.

  ‘Miriam knew she was the woman on the side and she got pregnant with twins. At the same time, Christina conceived you and then, about a year later, she fell pregnant with Buddy.’