The Boy in the Cemetery

by Sebastian Gregory

  That was the family: David and Lucy Jones, parents to twelve-year-old Carrie Anne Jones. It was just the three of them and they were all running away. Carrie Anne dared not think of it and tried to keep it locked in the back of her mind, whereas her parents denied the existence of any kind of problem and saw their leaving as just a fresh start somewhere new, together as a normal solid family. Yet it was there like a presence in another room, silent and unseen but there nonetheless.

  Carrie Anne remembered sitting in the bathroom, hating herself and the memories trapped within her. Her mother knew they were there. But now instead of relief and sanctuary there was only confusion. Carrie Anne knew what her father had been doing all these years was wrong, very wrong. She hated her weakness in not being able to call for help. She prayed every day someone would notice she was different and help her. It never happened. When she was younger, when she lay in her dark bedroom she would pile her teddy bears and dolls in a soft wall on her bed. She had a fragile hope of the wall stopping her father, but it never did. Although, try as she may, she could not hate either her mother or father. She was their daughter and it was her duty to love them, despite the cruel loss of her childhood and alienation of her innocence. So instead, she did the only thing she could do, and hated herself. She had found what she was looking for in the bathroom. A razor blade of her father’s from a cabinet on the wall. The orange plastic around the sliver of steel was broken easily against the tiled floor. She paused with the blade shining under the gaze of darkness. She pushed the blade against her skin, slowly and softer. Then, after holding it there a moment, she pushed it deeper still. There was no pain as the skin split, the blade being so sharp it only caused a slight stinging sensation. Immediately she felt all her frustration pour from her arm with the blood that pooled around the razor. She pushed the blade against her skin again and again, creating a tally-marked pattern. Each cut taking away heaviness that crushed her ribs. Her goal here was not to die, but to create a physical pain, a distraction from the worse pain from the scars that penetrated her soul. But as the blood flowed, that relief turned to fear, as she dripped from the patterns criss crossing her skin.

  Carrie Anne who had learned to keep silent for most of her life screamed and screamed and screamed.

  Her mother and father ran to her, bleary-eyed from being woken, their shocked faces and fear as they stemmed the bleeding with towels from the room.

  “What did you do?” they accused. “What did you do?”

  Carrie Anne remembered being sat at the dining room table. The room with the red velvet wallpaper that she had always hated but had been there since she had been born. Tears were stinging her eyes and she looked at her mother for love and comfort from the seat opposite. But her mother had withdrawn into herself and couldn’t meet her daughter’s gaze. Carrie Anne’s father paced the dining room talking with the determination of a man trying to convince himself as well as those listening. He paced up and down. He wore his usual outfit of a cheap shirt and jeans a size too big. It had been a few days since she had been found in the bathroom but the memory was fresh…

  “Get the first aid kit,” shouted father.

  Mother was crying as she ran from the room, reluctant but hurrying. In one hand father gripped her face; the other held the soaking towel against Carrie Anne’s arm.

  “Why? Do you want to destroy your mother? Is that what you want?” He spoke in an angered whisper; his teeth were gritted and spittle ran from his chin.

  “If you do this, if this continues, you will kill your mother and destroy this family. Now I promise I won’t touch you again. I’m clear now; I just got confused how I loved you. This attention seeking needs to stop. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded. With that, Carrie Anne resigned herself to the fact that this was her life now. As the lasr of her self esteembled from her, Mother entered the room…

  Carrie Anne’s arms were bandaged. They didn’t hurt but they itched like dry scrathes infected by ants.

  “I’ve been talking on the phone to a few people and I’ve decided to do what is best for this family.”

  “She needs medical help, David,” Carrie Anne’s mother said. “We need to get her some help.”

  They both looked at Carrie Anne who had hung her head down.

  “And what would you tell them, Carrie Anne?” Her father was frantic.

  “Nothing,” she whispered.

  “No, we can’t let things destroy this family. I’ve been busy; I told you.”

  “What are you saying, David?” Her mother finally spoke but it was without conviction; there was only defeat.

  “I’ve given notice on the house, and I’ve put a deposit on another, far from here, where no one knows us, where we can live in peace without fear of persecution because of a mistake. We can be a family.” Throughout his entire speech, there was no pleading for forgiveness in his voice, no real sense he had done wrong.

  Carrie Anne wanted to stand and scream from the top of her lungs. To cry for help and tell the world what had happened to her. She wanted to shake her mother, to say help me, be a mum and help me. And in her mind for the briefest of moments she did just that and reality changed to match her version of it and she was away from the nightmare that was her life. But that was for only the briefest of moments. All she could do was to cry bitter child’s tears. However, things were just the way they were. Carrie Anne could see that. She saw it in the way he looked at her and in his eyes; she knew he was alluding to their previous conversation. Agree, keep quiet or destroy her mother.

  Carrie Anne’s attention snapped back to her surroundings. She was still in the car.. It had stopped raining yet the clouds still loomed threatening more misery to come. They parked at a service station. There were a couple of small shops and a café. A petrol station stood not too far from the car park. People were coming and going from their cars, buying tea and coffeeand sweets for their children. Living normal lives. Carrie Anne’s mother undid her seat belt; she turned to speak to her daughter.

  “You’ve been daydreaming, love; what were you thinking about?”

  “Nothing much, just trying to fall asleep,” she replied.

  Her mother’s eyes flickered over Carrie Anne as if trying to read her mind. Satisfied at the answer her mother smiled.

  “Let’s stretch our legs; still got a bit to go,” said Dad. As he left the car the wind and violent sounds of the nearby road forced themselves into the car until the door was closed again.

  “Come on,” her mother added.

  The breeze outside was strong and sharp. Carrie Anne wrapped her black leather bomber jacket around her. It offered little protection from the wretched day. There was a large car park with a garish yellow petrol station servicing huge trucks from the motorway. Carrie Anne’s father walked over to the café on the other side of the concrete car park. A line of bushes not much higher than Carrie Anne’s waist separated the place from the motorway itself. The cars thundered past spraying drizzle into the air in wet clouds. She could easily just walk over and turn that wet cloud red. That way all of this nightmare would be over. This fake, sickening pretence would be at an end and questions would be finally asked and the world would know what had happened. The car horn shook Carrie Anne’s ears and she was startled to find herself on the edge of that giant road. She had absolutely no idea how she had arrived there,as huge truck bellowed past like a juggernaut, honking a noisy warning. The wet air and the gust spat at her in a blinding mist.

  Step in the road and it will all be over. One tiny step and all your confusion will be gone.

  Carrie Anne took an inch forwards. Only an inch, such a small thing, such a tiny step but so much closer to that expanse of road. An inch closer and car brakes were screeching. Her heart was pounding. Was this it? Was it all over? She moved and…her father was grabbing her in a matter of seconds.

  “Jesus Christ, Carrie Anne, what are you thinking? You could have been killed,” he shouted over the noise of the motorway. Her fa
ther and gripped her by the shoulders, again shouting in competition with the road noise.

  “I…I…I…” she had no explanation; she wasn’t sure how she had arrived here. Her daydream had obviously had more of an effect on her, but she couldn’t think as he continued to shake her…

  “You’re hurting me,” she pleaded as tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Hurt you? You are lucky to be alive.” He pulled her in towards him and forced her face awkwardly towards the chaos of the road.

  “Look,” he bawled. “You would be dead.”

  “Good,” she thought or did she say it out loud?

  A look of confusion crossed his face and somewhere her mother called, “David, David.”

  “What?” he called back but as they turned the two saw a crowd forming and watching the show. Concerned faces and upset children. Carrie Anne’s mum stood a few feet away pleading with a look of wide-eyed terror on her face.

  “Please stop,” she said. “Just stop.”

  He looked again at the crowd and let Carrie Anne go. All three walked back to their familiar red car. The mother and father put their arms around their daughter. But to Carrie Anne it felt meaningless.

  For rest of the journey they travelled in silence. There did not seem to be any conversation that could make sense for any of the turmoil that had taken place. She could not see any way out of her life. No hope and no light or tunnel. She felt sick to her stomach and overwhelmed with sheer hopelessness. Would there ever be a time when she would feel normal? Or would she have to carry on with confusion and senselessness? She looked out of the window and caught her sad reflection; it began to rain again. The world was grey and all the colour washed away with the rain.

  Carrie Anne finally dozed off and was woken in the afternoon by her father declaring that they were there. She yawned and wiped the drool from her mouth and chin. Her eyes adjusted to the mid-afternoon gloom as she blinked awake. As they drove into the driveway they were shaded by green trees hiding the house from the street. From her window Carrie Anne could see a large removal truck. Its back doors were open and a ramp led men in blue overalls in and out of the van, as they brought their belongings into the house. Her father brought the car to a halt.

  “Look how they are handling those boxes; Jesus, I will have to have a word with them. If one thing even has the slightest scratch, they won’t be getting a penny.” He violently pulled the hand brake, yanked his seat belt away and left the car, slamming the door behind him. Carrie Anne and her mother both watched him set the nearest removal man to rights. A moment or two later after exerting his authority in an arm-waving and heated exchange, father returned to the car.

  “All set darling?” Mother asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, irritated. “Just can’t get the staff. Come on, let’s see the house.”

  The house father had moved them to was as large as it was isolated. It was situated in an estate of identical houses: red roofs, white painted stone walls and each window and door resembling a bored face. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms on the second floor, living room and diner and kitchen on the first. Oh and a garage. Let’s not forget the garage. However, the house Father had chosen was surrounded by large fir trees. The house Father had chosen was hidden from view.

  He wants to keep you prisoner here.

  As they went from one room to another, manoeuvring around boxes left there by the movers. Carrie Anne’s parents become more and more excited at what the house had to offer. Wooden floors that apparently were all the rage, grey and white painted walls throughout, which Father explained was the new magnolia. The kitchen had a dishwasher, a dishwasher! The thought of placing dirty dishes into the machine animated Mother and she clapped like a child seeing a balloon for the first time. But there were more treats to come: en-suite bathrooms, blinds instead of curtains, all the things a modern household needed. Carrie Anne had never been so bored in her life and she wandered off on her own. Off the side from the kitchen Carrie Anne found a door and through the door she found stairs that led to a dark cellar. It was a clue to the real age of the house and area despite all the modern things her parents had raved about. There was pull string hanging lazily from a dirty white fixture that she pulled. Immediately a single bare bulb lit the cellar with a buzzing sound. Carefully she walked down the creaking stairs. Each step of her Converse trainers flicked dust. At the bottom she found a musty-smelling room. The ceiling that held the bulb by a wire was made of thick oak beams with copper piping running parallel. Its walls were old with crumbling plaster. In places there was white paint, other places blue or red. But whatever the decorations had been they had long ago grown old and died. A single window no bigger than a crawl space was broken where green ivy had pushed its way in and climbed down the far wall. It was the most interesting room she had ever seen. Her concentration was broken by a scratching sound behind her. She turned and followed the noise with the curiosity of Alice. Except from the corner there was no white rabbit but instead a fat, greasy black rat.

  Carrie Anne took a few steps back as the thing scuttled out, sniffing the air. She wasn’t afraid, more fascinated than anything. But she did gasp when she realised it was not alone. It chittered and from the shadow more came. Carrie Anne took to the stairs and stood on the first rung as at least thirty rats flowed into the cellar. They carpeted the floor in dirty fur and continued to the corner where the plaster had crumbled to reveal holes in the brickwork. Fascinated, Carrie Anne looked on as one by one the rats fled into the hole. Where they went from there, she had no idea. But she dare not tell her parents what she had witnessed; this was hers and hers alone. A happy distraction from herself. It was then she heard her mum calling her name.

  “I’m coming,” she called back, leaving the cellar and switching off the light on the way back into the house. She found her parents in an empty bedroom at the back of the house. It was a pleasant lilac room with a dark wooden floor and blinds over a large bay window.

  “There you are,” said her mother. “Where have you been? You’re covered in webs.”

  Carrie Anne hadn’t noticed and brushed dirt and cobwebs from her long hair.

  “I found a cellar,” she offered by way of explanation.

  “Never mind that,” Dad added. “This is your room; what do you think?”

  The words made her skin crawl but she hid it well. He made your room sound so much like our room.

  “It’s nice; what is my view like?”

  Dad turned and found the rope to open the blinds. The slats opened up and the room lit up with more light than was allowed in moments before.

  The picture from the window was the most remarkable thing Carrie Anne had seen that day, despite her experience minutes before.

  “Ah,” said Father, “I suppose I couldn’t keep it secret for long.”

  “What is that?” Mother asked also looking from the window.

  The garden was slightly overgrown with long emerald grass. It was the end of the garden that drew their attention. Where the grass ended there were black metal railings covered by the same ivy that invaded the cellar. Beyond the ivy there lay a cemetery. A cemetery that had died long ago, that much was clear from the overgrown ruin, but a cemetery no less. The other houses that surrounded the cemetery had large panelled fences blocking the view. Here it was different and it seemed an extension of the garden itself, with only the railings separating the garden and graves. It was beyond that where all three stared. There was a sea of thickets and weeds. In the sea the remains of gravestones jutted like rocks, all too numerous to count.

  “Is that a graveyard? Is there a graveyard at the back of our new home?” panicked Mum.

  “Don’t worry,” Dad replied. “It is not in use; it’s abandoned.”

  “You’ve moved us to a house with a graveyard?”

  “No not really. I mean yes, but that was why the house was so cheap. There are some legal arguments about what to do with it; it’s nearly two hundred years old.” He spoke as if he was pro
ud of his historical knowledge.

  “But it’s a graveyard.”

  Carrie Anne said nothing through the exchange. She was too intent on the graveyard. She paid no attention as her mother went running outside, her father following. From her new room window she saw her parents talking in the grass. Father was pacing, his hands waving in the air, convincing her mother he was right. Her mother did as she always did and shrank and was persuaded in that passive-aggressive way by her husband. But none of this mattered to Carrie Anne for she could hardly move her eyes away from the cemetery. And despite the strangeness of the day already she realised it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  By the evening, the furniture was not yet placed and most of the family’s belongings were still in boxes. They ordered pizza and ate it from the box, sitting on the floor. They ate in silence that was broken by a thunderstorm. It cracked the sky and rain poured in heavy sheets. At times the electricity dimmed in homage to the thunder. After dinner Carrie Anne excused herself and went to her room. She did not yet have a bed but lay on a mattress on the floor. Despite the storm the air was sticky and warm. She wore a white nightie she took from her suitcase and put her hair in a ponytail. Even the darkness felt hot. Unable to sleep and sick of staring at the ceiling she padded over to her window and opened the wooden blinds. The cemetery looked oil black in the rain and each flash of lighting cast blue shadows over the graves. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow she would walk amongst those graves and for however long she could, Carrie Anne would understand the freedom and lack of burdens of the dead. For now, however, she would have to be content with watching the storm watering the stones.

  The next day Carrie Anne woke on the floor with her sheets still on the mattress. Sometime in the night she had somehow crawled onto the floor. The wood was cold and hard and every bone in her body ached. Her mother walked into the room as Carrie Anne was moaning like a reanimated zombie with various gripping cramps.

  “Oh dear, bad night?” Mother asked.