Guilt Trip

by Maggy Farrell

  Dad touched my arm, signalling that he wanted to hang back for a moment to take some quick test-shots, so I gladly stayed with him, letting the others pass us by, relieved to be out of the crowd.

  And so we were left alone to explore this strange, subterranean world.

  Having taking some shots of the draperies, Dad’s attention was soon caught by some helictites - bizarre, white, straw-like structures which burst out of the walls in clusters of thin, twig-like branches. They looked like hydra - those weird fresh-water creatures from science lessons. Or some kind of obscure, blind, worm-like species writhing and wriggling out of the rock.

  Moving further down the dark passage, we came to a sign: ‘The Devil’s Hand’. It was an accurate description, for above it was an almost sinister formation where deposits had hardened into long, jointed, knuckled shapes - like brown, wizened fingers. As I looked at them, they seemed to be clutching at the walls, grasping, clinging, and my head filled with images of those horrific spidery-crab-like creatures from science fiction - the ones which attach themselves securely to your face as they lay their embryos inside you.

  <><><>

  Continuing on, following the twists and turns of the tunnel, we eventually caught up with the others. However, rather than the noisy crowd of before, they were all still and silent, as if waiting in anticipation of something.

  Dad asked what was happening.

  A man at the back of the crowd pointed up ahead to a wide, flat flowstone formation hanging from the passage roof.

  “You have to be careful of that one,” he informed us cheerfully. “It’s called Lucifer’s Tongue. The story goes that if it drips on you as you pass under it, then you have the Devil’s spit on you. Very unlucky, apparently.”

  I looked at it glinting in the artificial lighting, water flowing over the surface and gathering at the tip, then dripping down onto the walkway below - just where the tourists would be passing underneath it. And so the story of the Devil’s spit had been invented, made up, to entertain the crowds. And it seemed to be working, the tourists lapping it up, each one passing under it self-consciously while the others looked on with pretend baited breath. Dad rolled his eyes at me, but there was nothing for it, so we stood in line, waiting to take our turn.

  But as the queue got shorter, a chill started up my spine. It wasn’t that I believed in the superstition of the Devil’s spit - I mean obviously that was just nonsense; but for some reason that day I couldn’t take any more. My nerves were jangled enough already. It was a culmination of everything: ten months of nightmares, the déjà vu, the teddy bear, the voice on the wind, the failure of the stronger medication, the poster of Nirvana, and falling out with Luke, to the journey here in the eerie mist, and now being crammed into this strange, confined landscape inside the ground with all these people, and the lack of air, and the ever-constant dripping of water in the background, and the unbearable tension of waiting...

  And then it was my turn.

  All were silent, watching me. I had to do this. Holding my breath, I looked up at the glistening tongue above me. At the drip gathering there, waiting for gravity to play its part. To fall. The Devil’s spit.

  And then I lifted my foot, about to take a step, waiting for exactly the right moment. When, tap! Something dropped onto the top of my helmet.

  I let out a scream. And the tension shattered into merry laughter around me.

  “Dad!”

  “Sorry, Mel…” He gave me a sheepish grin. “Just couldn’t resist it.”

  <><><>

  As we moved on, Dad ahead of me now, the passage widened out enough so that people began walking side by side.

  He looked back when I didn’t immediately join him: “You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I said. But I was lying. His silly trick had actually hurt me: it seemed so insensitive, so uncaring.

  But then, of course, Dad didn’t know that I was in the middle of some sort of brain meltdown. Obviously he knew about the recurring dream; but I hadn’t told him that it had changed now, or anything about the voices or the visions. Nothing at all.

  So it wasn’t his fault: he was simply trying to have fun with his daughter.

  I caught up with him, smiling, punching his arm. Poor, clueless Dad.

  <><><>

  “This next section of the tunnel we like to call Darwin’s Parade,” said Mike after a while, “because the roof is very low for fifty meters or so.” He looked at our blank faces. “You’ll see what I mean in a minute.”

  Puzzled, we stooped down, trying not to hit our heads. And then the laughter began as people realised: walking like this, knees bent, arms seeming longer than usual, we looked like our ancient ancestors, the apes.

  Dad started acting up again, comically scratching his armpit and making stupid chimp noises at me. But though I tried to laugh like the others, I actually found it a little overwhelming. The noise was just too much for me, amplified as it was by the low roof. And I began to feel claustrophobic again. Trapped. Boxed in.

  However it was only fifty meters and then we were able to stand upright again.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have escaped from the din, only to find the air now filled with a strange murmur.

  “That peculiar bubbling noise is known as the Gargle,” Mike informed us. “It’s actually the sound of a subterranean waterfall, but its noise is strangely distorted by the natural acoustics in this part of the caves.”

  It was distorted. A strange eerie sound, like the low rumble of distant thunder, or an approaching tube train whose lights can’t yet be spotted down the long, dark tunnel. And as we moved on, the noise grew. Louder. And louder. Building up and up. Echoing off the walls: a cacophony of water.

  When the path branched into two, Mike directed us to the left, down a very short tunnel to an underground pool, the very source of the sound, its surface bubbling and churning, seething as the waterfall pounded into it from on high.

  And as we crushed into this dead-end, everyone trying to get to the front to see, I began to feel ill.

  It was too much. Too loud. Too confusing.

  It was the sound of the accident, closing in on me, surrounding me. Choking me.

  I had to get out of there. Now.

  I began pushing my way through the crowd, but now everyone was turning back to the fork, and I was caught in the middle, pushed and pulled along. And then we became bottlenecked, herded together as the cave walls of the main passage narrowed, closing in before us, requiring us to turn sideways in order to squeeze through, one by one.

  I felt faint. I needed air. I needed to breath.

  And now we had reached the famous Hall of Teeth, everyone keen to get through the opening onto some kind of high viewing platform.

  There were too many of us. We were too crushed. Penned in. Constantly jostled by the ebb and flow of the crowd as impatient people tried to elbow their way to the front. And all the time the deafening roar of water still played in my head.

  Until suddenly I was almost through, pushed onto the back of the platform, catching tiny glimpses of the view between others’ shoulders. Tiny disjointed snapshots of a thousand shining stalactites piercing the air.

  And then I heard it. A faint cry echoing through the huge cavern.

  “Help me…!”

  And gradually its volume increased. And now it was inside my head, its thin plaintive tone piercing straight through the loud crashing of the water. But no matter how I tried, I couldn’t shut it out as it repeated and repeated, swirling around my mind.

  And so the real world seemed to retreat, no longer existing for me. And, while my body suddenly seized up, paralysed, my mind played and replayed the scene of the accident in full: the ice, the barrier, the bank, the water. My mother reaching out to me, pleading for me to help her. The words repeating, over and over in my mind. Her eyes staring into mine. Staring until they were lifeless.

  Until my mind, too, seized up, unable to function any longer, the images melting t
ogether into a white blur, while the pounding of the water and the desperate cry for help merged into white noise.

  And everything was suddenly blank.

  13

  That evening, I lay on Dad’s bed flicking through the TV channels while Dad busied himself around me. He was getting ready for dinner at a restaurant with the organisers of the photography exhibition.

  “I still think we should ring Dr Henderson…” he said, for the umpteenth time as he examined the contents of his wardrobe.

  “I’m alright, Dad. Honestly…”

  “But what I don’t understand,” he said, pausing in his search and turning to me, “is, how can anyone just develop claustrophobia out of the blue? You’ve been down loads of caves before without any bother at all.”

  “I haven’t developed anything,” I said. “It was just a one-off thing. The cave was just too narrow and too crowded, that’s all.”

  “But no-one else fainted,” he argued. “No-one else got ill.”

  Turning back to the wardrobe, he selected two shirts and held them up for my inspection. I nodded at the green one. It would look good with his best jacket.

  “So what I’m wondering,” he continued tentatively, “is whether it might be some kind of delayed reaction. You know… to the accident.”

  “It wasn’t anything to do with the accident!” I cried.

  “I don’t know…” he said. “It happened just after the subterranean waterfall.”

  “But that doesn’t mean-”

  “And you were a bit shaky at the Falls too, weren’t you.”

  “Because I was starving!” I shrieked.

  “Hmmm… I still think we should phone Dr Henderson…”

  I sighed loudly, as if this was all so boring. I had to make Dad think he was fussing over nothing. Over-reacting.

  I didn’t want him phoning Dr Henderson. They’d end up sending me away to a ‘special’ hospital: I was sure of it. Especially once they found out that the new tablets hadn’t worked.

  And besides, I didn’t want him to start dwelling on the accident again. Thinking about Mum. Remembering about the stupid Spiritualist meeting on Sunday.

  <><><>

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door. Dad finished buttoning his shirt as he answered. It was Luke.

  My stomach lurched as I thought about how I’d irritated him earlier with my gossiping and then I’d run off like a spoiled child. How he must despise me.

  “Just come to check on the patient,” he said, standing in the doorway.

  I wondered whether this apparent concern was simply part of his job as landlord, but then he looked over at me, into my eyes, and I knew for certain that it was genuine. That he’d forgiven me.

  “Nothing serious I hope?” he asked.

  “Claustrophobia, apparently,” Dad told him. “That’s what the paramedic said.”

  “Claustrophobia?”

  “Yes. First time ever. Happened down in Hell’s Mouth.”

  “Really?” Luke was clearly quite shocked. He looked at me curiously. “How did that come about then?”

  Dad spoke for me: “Oh, just too many people packed into a small space.”

  I was relieved to hear him say it like that: a simple explanation without any reference to the accident. Maybe everything would be okay after all.

  “Right…” Luke hesitated. “Anything I can do?”

  “Well…” Dad began. “I did say she should get some room service. You see I have to go out for this dinner…” He turned to me and shook his head. “No - it’s no good, Mel, I can’t leave you like this…”

  “I’m fine!”

  “No. It’s not right.”

  “I’ll be fine!”

  “We’ll keep an eye on her,” Luke said. “Don’t you worry.”

  “Well…” Dad reached for his jacket.

  “We don’t usually do room service,” Luke said, “but I’m sure we could make an exception.”

  “No, it’s okay, thanks. I’m not hungry,” I said, not wanting to make a fuss.

  “Well - maybe later then,” he said, turning to leave. “You know where we are if you need anything.”

  Dad came over and kissed the top of my head. “Take it easy, honey,” he said. “I’ll try not to be too late.”

  <><><>

  There was nothing on TV - nothing I could get into anyway - so I spent the next hour just lying there, bored, but too tired to do anything about it.

  At about eight o’clock, there was a gentle knock and Sandy stuck her head round the door.

  “You awake, love?” she whispered.

  I put on a fake smile. “Sure. Come in.”

  She was carrying a tray. “Cheese toastie with coleslaw on the side and an apple juice. Compliments of the boss,” she announced, placing it on the bedside table. “So…feeling any better?”

  “Just a bit tired, really,” I said. “And maybe a bit cold.”

  She came closer to me then and felt my forehead, plumping my pillows, fussing around me like a mother hen.

  “Sandy…” I said tentatively. I knew fine well I shouldn’t pry but couldn’t help myself. Luke’s reaction earlier in the bar had made me curious. “Do you know anything about an accident? Only someone mentioned it in the market and said her mum was a waitress here.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, her tone suddenly hushed, almost reverent, “- you mean the girl who died?”

  “She died?”

  “Yes - it was tragic. Everyone was devastated apparently. They lived in you know. Great friends of Luke’s family.”

  A great friend of the family who’d died? Then no wonder Luke hadn’t liked me asking about it. I cringed afresh at how it must have looked - me idly gossiping about something which had brought his family such grief.

  I wanted to ask Sandy for more details, but didn’t know how. I didn’t want her to think badly of me too.

  But now she was starting for the door. “Anyway, I’d better be getting back to it, love,” she said. “You take care.”

  And then she was gone.

  I looked at the food on the tray. I wasn’t really hungry, but I picked at it anyway. I didn’t want Luke to think me ungrateful on top of everything else. After all, it had been sweet of him to think of me.

  <><><>

  Half an hour later, there was another knock at the door.

  “Come in?”

  It was Luke.

  He stood, looking in, his lean body filling the doorway.

  “So - how are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Not so bad.”

  There was a silence made uncomfortable by the fact that I was all too aware that this was a bedroom. And that this time, we were alone.

  “Thanks for the food,” I said, more to fill the gap than anything.

  He smiled, glancing over at my plate: “All done?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll just remove this, then,” he said, crossing the threshold now, coming into the room, over to where the tray lay, on the table next to the bed.

  Beside it was a framed photo.

  “This your Mum?” he asked, looking at it.

  I nodded. It was a black-and-white one taken by Dad. Mum was standing outside a hospital, smiling. It had been taken on April 22nd, forty weeks before my birth, the day I was made in my petri dish and placed inside my mother to grow. Dad always kept it by his bed: it was a really good one of Mum.

  “So did she not want to come on this trip, then? Not an adventurer like you two?”

  “No - she’s um…um… She died.”

  “Oh, Melissa.” He shoved the tray down again with a clatter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay.” I held my hands up as if to ward off his concern.

  “How… I mean… do you want to talk about it? Or do you want me to leave?”

  “No, it’s okay.” I was embarrassed by his sympathy and tried to act unconcerned, just giving the facts without emotion. “It was a car accident. On the ice. We
drove into the river.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yes. Only…” My mind went back to the scene. The sound of the water. Her begging me for help. I could feel myself beginning to tremble. Recounting the story was too much for me to handle on top of everything else that had happened that day. Luke took a step towards me, then hesitated. I could feel his desire to comfort me. “Only … her seatbelt was jammed and ... and…”

  A tear rolled down my cheek. I hastily brushed it away, but another followed. And then another.

  And then Luke was sitting on the bed, pulling me to him, wrapping his arms round me. And it felt so good.

  For almost a year I had had to be strong, keeping my feelings in check in order to keep Dad going, only ever discussing it with the cold, unemotional Dr Henderson who seemed to view it purely in scientific terms. But now two strong arms were holding me tight. Supporting me. Comforting me. And so the floodgates opened and almost a year’s worth of pent-up emotion broke free.

  14

  The sharp bend.

  We skid across the ice, the black river below, waiting for us.

  Bursting through the barrier, we race down the bank to meet it.

  “Help me…!” Mum cries out, the sound reverberating, on and on…

  I watch her as she struggles, the cold water flowing around her, caressing her, lapping at her face. Her nose. Her mouth.

  I open my window and unbuckle my seatbelt, holding on to the headrest, my feet on the dashboard.

  Through the window, the darkness dissipates, revealing a sky full of gleaming stalactites.

  And then he is there. Luke.

  He stretches out his hand to me, and I reach up to take it…

  15

  I lay in bed thinking about the night before. How Luke had held me as I cried, the front of his T-shirt soaked with my tears. Holding me so close until eventually, my body no longer racked by breathy sobs and shudders, my mind entering into an almost trance-like state, I must have fallen asleep.

  I had only woken, later and alone, when Dad came home, automatically turning the light on. And then I’d stumbled off to my own room, falling back to sleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.