by J. A. Baker
‘With my friend,’ Celia replies with far more gaiety and conviction than she feels. Why did she not book a room? Such a stupid oversight. To think she has come this far and not given it a second thought.
She pulls out her phone and checks the dozens of text messages she has sent, hoping against hope that Eva has replied. She hasn’t. Of course, she hasn’t. As erratic as Eva’s behaviour is, when she is feeling vindictive or morose or just downright angry, she is infuriatingly predictable in as much as she will ignore all pleas put her way for her to be rational and logical.
Celia drums her fingers on her thigh and tries to push it out of her mind. She wants to enjoy this journey, to chat to these girls and not become overwrought about what may or may not happen when she gets there. And anyway, she has quite a few changes of trains to make before Whitby. She may as well kick back and relax for a few hours. Easier said than done when you have no idea whether or not there will be a room available or where you are going to spend the night in a strange town.
She does her best to ignore the small, still voice in her head that is telling her to get off at York and go home, forget about Eva, that her own safety and wellbeing is more important than Eva’s. She turns off to its echo as it rolls around her brain. She has to. The lure of her warm bed waiting for her at home would prove too much if she listens to it and she would then be in danger of stepping off, leaving Eva to her own devices and heading back home. And where would that leave poor Eva? Celia would never forgive herself for abandoning her friend, leaving her to fend for herself when she is quite obviously in a tricky situation, Eva’s mind absent as she does more damage to herself; trailing after people who discarded her.
Celia shuts off to it all, focusing on the two young females opposite, listening to their laughter, reminding herself that once she and Eva were like these two. Except, of course, they weren’t. She wishes it were so, but it isn’t. They were nothing like these two carefree creatures.
Celia clenches and unclenches her fists. Enough. She has had enough of this constant going round in circles, revisiting the past, attributing present thoughts to past actions and situations. It’s a vicious circle, like being stuck in a never-ending loop of bitterness and blame. She has to focus on the here and now, appreciating the present rather than constantly looking to the past.
She spreads her hands on the table and smiles. ‘So, girls. How about you enlighten me as to what it is that interests you? Apart from being a Goth, that it?’
They spend the remainder of the time chatting, browsing reading material – a pile of teenage magazines that amuses Celia no end – and swapping anecdotes about seeing ghosts. Turns out the girls are experts and Celia struggles to keep her face straight as they count how many they have seen between them on their weekly visits to the local graveyard.
Their idle chat keeps her busy and before she knows it, the announcement is made that they’re about to arrive in York. Celia stands up awkwardly as the train pulls in and they all struggle along the narrow aisle, their bodies bumping together as they wrestle with bags and coats and backpacks.
‘We’re catching the later train so we might see you in Whitby!’ Tyler calls as they both step onto the platform and haul their bags up onto their shoulders. Celia watches as they tromp away, a mass of wild hair and bustling fabric disappearing into the distance, swallowed up by the crowds of waiting passengers.
She smiles wistfully and stares up at the burgeoning clouds overhead. The weather has suddenly changed from a clear spring day to windy and overcast as she steps off the train and heads for the board that will tell her when her next train is due.
Temptation grips her as she strides across the platform. She could so easily make her way to the exit and head for home. She doesn’t. She does the right thing and checks the time. With only minutes to spare, she runs to the next platform and boards the train. She has spent her life doing the right thing, and at times like this it irks her. She has no doubts whatsoever that Eva will be far from appreciative when she gets there and if things were the other way around Eva would put herself and her own needs well before Celia and any needs she may have. But that’s not how Celia operates. She is who she is, and Eva is who she is and nothing will alter that fact. People don’t really change, do they? Eva can’t help being selfish. It’s just part of her intrinsic self. It’s one of her less attractive traits and nothing Celia says or does will ever change that. All she can do is to stick close by her friend and limit any damage that occurs along the way.
The journey from York is short before another change at Middlesbrough and then on to Whitby where the weather shifts again. She is greeted with a blast of sunshine and a soft, warm breeze as she steps off the train and looks around at the small, quaint station where a handful of people are waiting on the platform, their faces turned up to the blazing azure sky.
‘Reckon we’ve broken the back of winter now, eh? Nice to see a bit o’ sunshine for a change, int’ it?’
Celia spins around to see an elderly man, small and sprightly with a pearl-white dog sitting obediently at his side. He is wearing a beige fedora hat and a smart blue blazer and has a smile a mile wide.
‘It certainly is,’ Celia says softly, her bones crying out for the promised warmth. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’
The old man smiles back and pulls at his hat. Out of nowhere, a rush of air tugs her backwards. She feels herself being propelled into reverse as a figure pushes past her; a sturdy, solid frame of a young man whose face is creased in anger and obvious frustration. Celia stops and steadies her breathing, watching as the tall figure turns to her and mouths a hurried apology before twisting back around and heading out of the station.
‘You all right there, love?’
Celia blinks hard and stares at the man next to her, nodding at him that she is still in one piece before turning her surprised gaze to the rapidly disappearing individual who is already making his way out of the exit. Why does she feel as if she knows him? It was only a fleeting glance but in that few seconds, his features and tall lumbering gait struck a chord with her, as if they have met somewhere before.
‘Are you sure you don’t need to sit down? You look a bit pale there, my dear.’
The small dog yaps and despite the man’s kind words, all Celia can think about is getting away and following the strange character who almost knocked her off her feet and sent her tumbling onto the cold concrete.
‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ she says smiling, her jaw tight as she brushes herself down. Nothing damaged except her pride.
‘If you’re sure,’ the old man says cautiously, one of his silver, bushy eyebrows hoisted up in mild consternation.
‘Thank you for your concern. It’s nice to know some people care.’ She keeps her irritation under wraps. She’s finally here, and apart from being almost knocked to the ground, it’s been a fairly uneventful trip; enjoyable even, but worry is niggling at her and she just wants to find somewhere to stay. Her inner voice is telling her to move from here and find a room for the night before everywhere gets booked up. Finding a warm bed comes before everything, even slotting in ahead of finding Eva.
‘Ah, here’s my train,’ the man declares as he bends down and scoops the little dog up under his arm and tucks it in, leaving a furry bright-eyed face sticking out from under his jacket. It would be a comical sight were it not for the fact that she is under pressure to get going and make her way into town. Her skin prickles with exasperation and impatience.
‘Well, I’ll be off then. Nice to meet you, my dear,’ he says as he holds his free hand out for her to shake. It takes a few seconds to register, for her limbs to work as they should. She reciprocates, his palm cool and dry against her hot sticky skin.
The old man saunters away, his arthritic movements creaky and laboured, and already Celia’s mind is elsewhere as he boards the train and vanishes out of sight.
Clinging onto her bag with hot hands, she makes her way outside, shielding her eyes against the glare
of the sun. She scurries through the crowds, her eyes darting everywhere, suspicion eating at her.
She heads past the tacky shops and noisy amusement arcades where children congregate with candyfloss and ice creams, and up past the RNLI building. She remembers from her last visit that there are plenty of B&Bs up there. One of them is bound to have a vacancies sign in the window. And if they don’t… she quashes the thought, refusing to even entertain the idea. No matter what, she will find a place to stay. Turning round and going back home isn’t an option. Not when she has come this far.
Grabbing a coffee from the kiosk, Celia all but runs up the nearby steps that lead up to West Cliff. A group of Japanese visitors is standing next to a bronze statue and listening to a tour guide tell them all about the seafaring exploits of Captain Cook when she gets to the top. She passes through them, sipping at her coffee, her chest tight as she gulps down air and tries to catch her breath.
The sight of a large cream-coloured building over the road makes her heart glad. A hotel. She swigs more coffee down, the instant hit of caffeine adding more potency to her already fluttering heart. The place is huge. It’s bound to have a room free, even if it’s a tiny single stuck at the back of the building overlooking the rubbish bins. She really doesn’t care. As long as it’s warm and dry and has a bed.
Draining the remainder from the plastic cup, Celia throws the empty carton in the bin and strides over the road towards the reception area, a determined fire building in her belly. The sight of the haughty-looking woman behind the main desk doesn’t stop her as she drops her bag on the floor and places her hands on the marble top just centimetres away from the receptionist who quickly slides her fingers away like a wild animal retracting its claws.
‘A room please,’ Celia says with as much authority as she can, ‘I need a room for the night.’
14
Eva
I wake with a clear head, which is both a bonus and a novelty. I honestly can’t remember the last time I went to bed without a drop of alcohol passing my lips, certainly not since I moved here anyway. Last night was a turning point for me; getting into bed and falling into a sleep without the aid of wine and gin to help take the edge off it all, and then waking up without a mammoth headache and a tongue that feels as if it’s been coated with ground glass.
I roll over and enjoy the sensation of the cool, clean sheets beneath my skin. Everything feels so much lighter; my body, my mind. Even the air in the room feels fresher and less oppressive.
In my peripheral vision, a small beam of light catches my attention. I lie for a while ignoring it until eventually the wink of red crawls under my skin, irritating me as it drags me further in a state of wakefulness.
I reach out and grab at my phone, rubbing at my eyes with my free hand to clear the morning coat of mist that clouds my view. A stream of missed calls and messages greet me, none of them from him. Of course, they’re not. Disappointment grips me. They are from her. Each and every one of them. One after another after another. My stomach goes into an involuntary spasm. I had hoped she would have given up by now, got the message and left me alone, but it would appear that Celia is more determined than ever. She has never changed. Still hell-bent on trying to rekindle our childhood friendship, not fully comprehending that we have both moved on with our lives.
A small stab of anxiety pulses through me. I sit up in bed and stare at my phone. I could always block her but then it would probably make things worse. There is no telling how she would react to such a drastic move, and history tells me that whatever her reaction is, it most certainly would not be pleasant.
I fling my phone to one side and leap out of bed, determined I will not allow her the pleasure of ruining my day or any of my plans. She has no right to do this, to try to interfere and control my life, but then with everything that happened in the past, I guess I should have expected it really. I should have cut all ties with her a long time ago but instead I took her calls, kept her up to speed with what was going on in my life, kept her sweet; and this is where it has got me.
She plagues me at least ten times a day with repeated calls and messages to get in touch with her, to let her know how and where I am and what I am up to, and whether or not I will be visiting her anytime soon, and it is draining. As if my move here and my attempts to find my parents isn’t exhausting and stressful enough, I’ve also got Celia on my back, like a monkey clinging on for dear life. Shaking her off isn’t proving easy. I need to find a better way. I just haven’t quite worked out yet what that way is.
I know that we spent our teenage years together under the same roof but that’s where our similarities end. Celia and I are nothing alike. In fact, we are poles apart; completely different despite what she would have people think; despite what she thinks. There were so many times where bad things happened – terrible things – and I no longer want to remember those times. We have all moved on; or at least I have. Celia, it would appear, is desperate to hang onto the past, using it as a way of keeping us together when if anything, it should be the perfect reason why we should be apart.
I step into the shower and let it pummel my back. It feels good to be ever so slightly punished by the heat and ferocity of the water as it rains down on my skin.
By the time I am dressed, I have managed to push all thoughts of Celia out of my head. She isn’t part of my plan and never will be. She is an irritant; no more, no less.
Breakfast consists of a toasted bagel and coffee, the healthiest I have eaten in a long while. I’m usually too hungover to face anything other than a sip of black coffee most mornings, but today I enjoy the tranquillity of sitting in silence and eating. It’s really quite therapeutic, giving me time to organise my thoughts and get my brain into gear. I’m used to stumbling into the day, blurry eyed and nauseous. This is progress, nibbling on buttered bagels and drinking a coffee that doesn’t look as if you can stand your spoon up in it.
I finish eating and clear the pots away, keen to get outside and on the move. I want to get to their house before they have a chance to go off and do whatever it is they do most days. I have to catch them in or I think I might just go mad with the frustration of it all. At long last, I have a clear head and a sense of purpose, so much so, I feel as if electricity is running through my veins. I slept well too. No nightmares, no paralysis, just a restful evening, which is why I am so full of energy this morning. I pass the hall mirror on my way out and give my hair one last ruffle, putting a few stray hairs back into place, then smile at my reflection. Today is going to be a good day.
The air is crisp and clear and the sky a wide stretch of blue. I allow myself a small smile. It feels good to be alive. I inhale deeply and make my way towards West Cliff through the back streets. There is no way I’m going to go past that hut again and get drawn into any sort of drama with the gypsy woman and that peculiar child. I pick up my pace, the click of my heels echoing through the empty street. I love the sound it makes as my feet hit the cobbles, relishing how quiet it is here, away from the harbour where the crowds all flock. Somewhere above me a gull caws loudly and the smell of the sea air fills my nostrils. A thin smoke trail from a distant plane snakes its way overhead, cutting the blue expanse of sky in two. Everything is perfect.
And then I look up and my insides turn to liquid. I stop and half stagger into a nearby doorway, clinging onto a wrought iron railing to keep me upright, my breath coming out in a ragged, staccato fashion. My head spins and I have to take one long, deep breath to stop myself from passing out.
This can’t be happening. It just can’t.
‘You okay there, love?’
I turn to see a small gang of people behind me. My heart beats out an uncomfortable rhythm against my ribcage, tapping away like a heavy pendulum trapped in my chest as I stare at them. They are all dressed in black overcoats and top hats, one of them sporting a veil that hangs in front of her heavily made-up face. The man in front is staring at me with a perplexed expression. He is wearing the largest boots I
have ever seen and his black, leather overcoat almost touches the floor. His hand is reaching out towards me.
I want to speak, to tell them I’m fine but the words won’t come. They stick in my throat. My gullet is coated with sand, my fear making it impossible for me to say anything. Instead I nod and wait patiently until my voice finally comes. When it does, it’s deep and rasping as if I’ve spent the entire morning sucking on unfiltered cigarettes.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I mutter quietly, feeling anything but fine. ‘Just a bit of a dizzy spell. I get them all the time. Low blood pressure.’
I say the first thing that comes into my mind. I do actually have low blood pressure and suffered dizzy spells many years back but that isn’t what this is. Far from it. I wish it were.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ He looks concerned and the rest of his gang are murmuring behind him, probably discussing how sickly I look and whether or not they should call an ambulance. Mild panic crowds my mind. I have to pull myself together before one of them turns into a Good Samaritan and calls the emergency services. I can’t let that happen. I have to start acting normally.
‘Absolutely,’ I say with a weak smile, ‘feeling better already.’ I rub my hands together briskly and try to relax, my insides a swirling mass of liquid. ‘I just needed a minute to pull myself round.’
I try to straighten my stance but feel as if I am sinking in deep water, my body weighed down, the world around me distorted and blurry.
‘As long as you’re feeling better,’ he says cautiously, looking me up and down as if I’m a fragile flower that might wilt and die at any given moment. My face grows hot under his scrutiny and my armpits prickle with sweat.
After what feels like an age, they turn and leave, their long, black coats and huge hats in sharp contrast against the bright blue sky and bouncing horizon, a soft, wavering line in the distance. I stare at it, trying to use it as a focal point to pull myself round.
