‘Where’s that bloody turn?’
We’re coming to the end of the road that’s perfect for drag racing. A billion arrowed signs point in every direction. She’s reading each one.
‘I think it started in Craig something?’ I mumbled.
‘Oh, funny aren’t you? Well, there’s hope if you can crack a joke amidst all your gloom. Ah! That way.’
The tyres screech in pleas with her to slow down as we take that turn. I’m sure my side of the car just lifted off the ground an inch.
4 P.M. – We made it. She’s left me in the car while she goes and gets us a fish supper. She teased about getting me a deep-fried Mars Bar! Apparently they do that up here as some sort of novelty. Holly’s parked facing Loch Long. It looks like a painting where the water is so flat and serene, specked with little white boats against a backdrop of dusty-blue mountains. I’m sketching as it grows dark, and the waxing moon is bright, reflecting off the loch like a spotlight. The placid water reminds me of a gigantic mirror. – Things are bearable until the distractions fade.
12 March, noon. – I cracked last night. There was no hiding my miserable face from Holly this morning. She only remarked that we could stay indoors today if I didn’t feel up to doing anything else. After examining my tumescent eyes, then the rest of my face –
‘Your lips look bigger,’ she stated.
‘They swell when I cry,’ I admitted, subdued.
She slowly shook her head. ‘As if you didn’t have enough problems.’
‘Thanks. Sorry though, for coming up to see you when I’m all doom and gloom.’
‘That’s what big sisters are for, Dodo! Want to watch a film?’
I nodded.
It was easier than I thought to lose myself in it, to escape reality.
14 March, 3 A.M. – I locked this diary in my suitcase for a couple of days in an attempt to do without it. It seems I can’t. The sound of content snoring invades my ears from the next room, but that’s not keeping me awake. There are moments when I catch myself smiling in reverie at something comical he said or did. My smile then reverses… It’s been less than two weeks since I saw him but it feels like months. I don’t think I’m any closer to understanding his idea of time. More than anything I’m questioning how this all works. I made my decision, but it’s a constant battle inside just to accept it. My mind is shouting at my heart to let go. But how can I if I don’t really want to? Am I holding on without accepting that I am? If so, I’m prolonging my own suffering against my conscious will and better judgement. Yet what can I do about it? Why does the mind set up against its own self? How do we lack the control? Am I not after all the operator of this mind as I am the body? Am I just the instructor, where instructions can be ignored? Worse, I am a passenger who sits in the backseat and complains along the way!
15 March. – It’s creeping towards 4 A.M. I hear the birds rising outside. What’s he doing right now? Does he still go to my house of a night unaware I’m not there? Because he hasn’t followed me here. I’ve only a few more days…
2 P.M. – My sister has some very good taste in music, and equally some of what she listens to is complete trash. I’m sitting cross-legged on her sofa as she’s singing along while ironing a stack of washing. I’ve offered to help but she’s insisting that I’m a guest, and ‘Guests don’t do other peoples housework,’ adding, ‘I’ve got a system here and you’ll get in the way. Just sit there and write in your book!’
She looks so contented there as though she could iron an endless pile of clothes and sing rubbish for the rest of her days. The noise is too awful so I’ve asked her to put on something decent.
‘I’ve heard your definition of decent music,’ she scoffs. ‘No wonder you’ve got a face like a slapped arse. You need to listen to something more upbeat.’
She’s ended this lecture with irritation in her tone. I’m not surprised. She always gets like this when I question her taste in anything. Our parents aptly named Holly; she’s prickly.
‘Do you fancy visiting Edinburgh Castle tomorrow for your last day here? Of course it does mean you’ll have to get dressed.’
‘I’d really like that, but only on the condition that I buy lunch or dinner.’
‘Deal,’ she rounds off, just in time to continue singing the next verse.
Later. – Our deal has changed. There’s a snowstorm due. Holly said the roads will be too dangerous. She reckons there’ll be at least a foot of snow by morning, and following another spew of blizzard, another foot by noon tomorrow. I wonder if Death’s co-worker, Fate, is crossing my path with this. If the blizzard hits the airport, I might have to stay longer. I have mixed feelings about that. I asked Holly if she thought it might prevent me flying home.
‘I doubt it! This isn’t England,’ she sniggered. ‘They know how to deal with a few snowflakes up here! They don’t panic on a scale of national meltdown at the first sign of a bit of ice.’
This made me laugh. Holly’s very proud of wherever she currently resides. She’s loyal too, and is only ever unpatriotic when she’s out of England. Although I’ve no doubt anyone who spends a couple of years in Scotland would regard two feet of snow as a ‘bit of ice’.
16 March, dawn. – I’ve actually slept almost six hours. If only I felt like I had. The blizzard is in full swing outside. What a refreshing sight. From the window there’s a view over the backyard and adjacent road, where tremendous clumps of snow are whizzing round and hugging the glowing streetlamps. Behind the houses a snow-covered heath is barely visible in this whiteout, and I can’t see where land ends and sky begins. I don’t have much faith in my plane taking off tomorrow.
11 A.M. – I’m surprised that Euan has still gone off to work today. Holly said that there are delays at the airport, but the reports say the blizzard is only passing through. It looks like I will be returning home.
17 March. – I didn’t have time to scratch out a few words in here this morning. We’re on our way to the airport now. Euan came in with pizza last night. After dinner we played poker, and it exhausted me so much – from just trying to concentrate – I managed to sleep a full night. I didn’t even write of my apprehensions about returning home. Perhaps that’s why I woke this morning to the sounds of my own sobs – no tears – just whimpering. So my subconscious is suffering too. It’s not as calm about all this as I thought. But something located in the temporal lobe of my brain is working to protect the rest from the memory of those dreams. I’m going to try not to think about it and just be positive. Being here has been incredible, despite the circumstances – I’m glad I came.
10:30 A.M. – I couldn’t possibly continue dry-faced when saying goodbye to Holly at the departures gate just now. It was emotional. She gripped me hard for a hug. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you,’ she said. ‘I hope you feel better soon about– you know! Don’t forget to call me when you land.’
I’m surprised at no flight delay at all. We’re airborne and in about an hour we’ll be landing at Stansted. I’ve this feeling that there’s that part of me, which detached itself when I left, waiting to reattach when we land. I’m going to have to put this away now and listen to music. There’s so much turbulence, I can barely write.
Noon. – I can’t find my mobile anywhere! It’s not in my hand luggage and I’ve pretty much emptied my suitcase at baggage claim. I hope I’ve left it at Holly’s. I hope I can remember her number to use a payphone.
Putting the clunky black receiver to my ear, I dialled distrustfully. Sure enough –
‘You’re lucky your head’s screwed on.’ Holly laughed. ‘You left your phone on the bed. I’ll stick it in the post to you,’ she said, before asking how my flight was and saying she missed me already.
4 P.M. – Almost home. I’m on my train and dreading walking back inside the house. Feels like it will take me back to a week ago when I left.
Later. – I knew this would happen. On closing my front door, I came straight upstairs. I felt drawn to this dark back room
where I first started this diary. It seems an appropriate analogy. It’s like a dark retreat in the back of my mind where I can shut myself away to try to assess the damage. How can I begin to repair myself without a full assessment? Perhaps he was right and I should try to be angry with him instead of despairing? I can’t imagine being angry with him. I love him. I feel I’m back to square one. Where’s all my strength gone? I’m trying to look forward instead of back, but it’s blank: there’s nothing there. How long will this grief be a necessity before it becomes an indulgence?
18 March, 9 A.M. – No fog outside last night. I got out of bed automatically to check. It was a little cloudy and windy but no trace of him. Did I expect him to stick around forever? Perhaps he thinks I’m still away. But where could he be?
Noon. – About an hour ago I was checking my emails and found one from Beth. She’s asking if everything’s okay, having heard from Stacey that I’ve given up my job. I replied just to let her know I’m fine and have been visiting Holly alone. She won’t be easy about it, so I’ll have to keep in touch. There are a few emails from Stacey too, which mainly repeat the same thing. The first, dated 8th March, reads –
Alex, I got ur text yesterday and I replied. Now I’ve called u but ur phones off! What’s going on?
And the second, dated 10th March –
Alex, I’m getting really worried now! Have u run away with the ghost? He’s been gone from the Cray since u have. Daniel said he’s taken some time off and gone to Manhattan! R u with him? Mrs Evans is getting really worried as well. She’s not upset with u 4 leaving. She thinks ur living very dangerously though.
I feel sick! He’s gone to America to find his maker! And because of me! I can’t even call him. I’ve no number for him without my phone. There’s an email from my sister, too, saying she’s posted it today.
19 March. – I wrote nothing in here last night, just sat at my window, wringing my hands, watching for him. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the nothing there was to write about. Not a trace of fog ensued from the hours I spent on the windowsill. Now and again, from staring too hard, or from some rogue hope, I thought I caught a whirl of mist or something alike on the air. I conjured up these visions, these phantoms, and knowledge of this expelled them as quickly as I invited them. The streets were deserted and yet I had the strangest feeling of being watched. Even examined. Up close and from afar at the same time. It felt nothing like the feeling I had when I knew Thom was nearby. This was different. Very different. It wasn’t just in the shadows or on the wind. It was down the street, in the gardens, in every stone and blade of grass. It was in my bedroom, in each curl of the curtains, and in the glass before me. I still feel it now. It’s everywhere, watching me. Though it doesn’t frighten me, I don’t like it. It’s unfamiliar. Since having this feeling everything looks different too. The sky is like a painting: a Monet, or something.
Later. – Reading back over this I feel like I must be going crazy! It’s still true though. The look and sound of the world has improved in my perception, but the taste and smell has deteriorated. What can it mean?
20 March. – I still have that sensation of someone watching, more so now. Time feels different; I keep thinking about the short lives of the moths and butterflies. I can’t explain why. Last night I had a sudden burst of energy – or restlessness. I started going through my things and clearing out anything I deemed useless. It made me feel better in that moment, but not for long. I feel like I’m about to go on some adventure and I need to get things in order first. I really want to see my mum. I want to sit with her and just talk about the days when things were good. I’m so glad I’ve seen Holly, but most of all I want to see Thom. I need to see him! Every feeling is back with a vengeance and I can no longer pretend at distractions. I feel like I’m counting the hours, like it’s one big countdown to when I will give in and go running, or something else I just don’t know yet.
I’ve checked my emails and found a new one from Stacey, sent late last night. It says that Thom’s supposed to be returning to the Cray today! Please let it be true – he’s not been hurt! Will he be here tonight? It’ll be dark soon. I already know I’ll go running out to him! To be with him as long as he’ll still have me. There’s risk, but I’ll have to take it, because I can’t live without him. It grows dark now and still there’s nothing to suggest he’s here.
Midnight. – I’m going to the Cray!
Twenty-nine
PARTING WAYS
‘You must either make a tool of the creature, or a man of him. You cannot make both.’
– John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice
I flung my diary onto the bed and raced about for my trainers. Nothing would delay me now, whether he was there or not. I’d rather be going out of my mind there instead of here. My hands shook as I tied my laces. I still had my latchkey to the wicket in the side gates. Getting onto the grounds would be no problem. Getting to the house from here might prove more difficult with no trains running after midnight, and I didn’t have the jeep. Night bus services wouldn’t start for a while, and I wanted to get moving. I quickly dialled a cab: one hour’s wait. Impatiently, I tried another only to find the same. Of course, I’d forgotten about the normal people of the world who might spend an evening doing normal things out on the town.
My mind was everywhere. I couldn’t sit still. The more hurdles put up before me, the more the urge became uncontrollable to get to him. It felt like watching sand slipping through an hourglass. I had to see him now. But what would I tell him? Other than I was sorry and ashamed of myself at just turning up, only to reiterate that I won’t part with my soul. I would stay with him for the remainder of my life, if he’d take me; that’s all I could offer. All I knew was that I needed him to hold me. I wanted to kiss and comfort him in return. That thought had me racing out the door, grabbing my jacket as I did.
I began to jog the four-mile journey to the Cray. Physical exertion, they say, helps relieve mental torment. Some of which consisted of that promise I’d made to myself; I must never go back. Here I was doing that. So how could I trust myself when I’d sworn I would never agree to become that Thing? It was a reasonable pledge, and yet I felt so selfish to march in on him offering not his desires, only my own.
The high street was not as busy as I’d expected, though a few merry people were about. I raced on and clocked a signpost –
Old Bixney Village – 3 miles.
I still felt watched, and in that sense followed. I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder in uneasiness of it. Whatever shadowed me wasn’t human. It was someone I couldn’t outrun; I couldn’t shake off. I reached Albany Avenue – a long road to walk – to get to the top of Bourne Hill. More than halfway to the Cray, my heart pounded double to find it suddenly hazy down this street. It was mistier still up ahead. I knew this fog! I breathed it in as I panted and paced. The density of it left the streetlights above me like UFO’s dancing in low cloud. A dark swirl up ahead broke a path in the vapour. Someone moved fast through it. I willed it to be him! The figure darted like black lightning and came to a sudden halt. My heart restarted. Relief hugged me. I saw him! The man I loved, who I knew as Thom. My Thom! Like he’d read my mind and we were meeting halfway. His great black eyes flooded with surprise to see me. I ran forward and threw my arms around him, reaching my face to his and kissing his lips.
‘Thom!’ I mumbled. The taste of him sent my head spinning. His fiery scent filled me with pleasure. He kissed me back, fiercely.
Grabbing the tops of my arms, he pulled away. He was silent and solemn, looking at me puzzled. Taking half a step back, his face became horrified. Tilting his head up he seemed to be studying the air.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked desperately. ‘Say something?’
He faced me again; a sort of sickness came over his eyes. It dawned on me. He wasn’t meeting me halfway. He didn’t even know I was coming to him. Just as he’d once told me, nothing fazed him when on the scent of Death. He was in pursuit o
f it, hunting Death’s next victim, which would become his. That word victim slit my throat as I thought it. My eyes widened in realisation. All the time I felt watched, it was Death stalking me.
‘Is it my time, Thom?’
His eyes closed, jaw tensed. ‘I can save you from it! Let me?’ They opened, and were full of such hope that I felt a stabbing pain through my heart as I shook my head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, stepping forward and crushing myself against him. ‘I love you, I do, but I can’t–’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alex! We don’t have much time. I’m not going to spend it saying goodbye when we can prevent having to.’
I still shook my head. ‘I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, and I’m still hurting you. I wish I’d never been born!’
‘Don’t say that!’ He wrapped his arms around me. ‘Just say that you’ll stay with me.’
‘In any other way I would, but’ – I shook my head – ‘not like that.’
‘Of course!’ He gritted his teeth. ‘She’ll tell me next that she’s not afraid of death. It’s just a part of life. She can’t abide what I have to give, so would rather journey alone to the undiscovered country, from which no traveller returns!’ He pulled me back a little and examined my eyes closely, hoping I’d contradict it.
‘You know me so well. It’s true, and you’d be a hypocrite to let it offend you. You don’t want to live the way you do! If you had a choice, you would choose any other way, even death! I know you would. But don’t think for a second I’m not afraid of dying. Of course I am. It’s only natural to be afraid of the unknown, of change. But that’s all it means to me. I don’t see death as the end! It’s a transition. I don’t know what comes after this, perhaps nothing, but I do know what comes next if I choose to live as you do. I’m more afraid of that! I have to take my chances. As much as I want to spend my natural life with you, it doesn’t look like I have that option now.’
Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) Page 32
