I unfasten all the locks on my front door and open it. It’s still early enough for my little cul-de-sac to be silent and empty. I close my eyes and walk out, reaching behind to close the door. Keeping my eyes shut, I fumble with the key. I manage to lock the door, tugging at it just to be sure. I clench my fists, turn round, walk slowly down the path. It’s not until I reach the hard concrete of the pavement that I open my eyes and look around. There’s nothing sinister, no one with a gun, no one with a knife, no one at all. I’m still safe, even if I don’t feel that way.
I focus on a spot a hundred feet away, point my feet directly at it, then shut my eyes again and walk in that direction, counting in my head. When I think I’m close, I take a peek. Everything is good.
I keep walking in this manner. It’s slow and it’s ridiculous but it allows me to keep moving. The hardest part is when my house is no longer visible. At that point I almost lose it and race back to safety. Instead I pinch my fingertips, hum and concentrate on my breathing.
It takes almost two hours to reach the start of the path that leads up the cliffs to the cemetery. The later it gets, the more cars there are on the roads. Every time one goes past, I hunch and cower but I don’t stop. Even when I make it to the beach and almost collide with a woman walking a yappy little Scottie dog, I don’t scream or cry or panic; I simply move to the side and keep going. If I had a mobile phone, I’d call my mother and tell her to come and take a look at how well I’m doing but I cancelled my contract and threw the phone into a box when I stopped becoming, well, mobile.
I continue counting my steps. After a while, I stop doing it in my head and say them out loud. The sound of my own voice, especially over the frightening thunder of the waves crashing onto the beach, is reassuring. All the same, I’m relieved when I finally step onto the path and start climbing. The chances of meeting someone here are virtually nil.
It’s too dangerous now to keep my eyes closed so I’m forced to look where I’m going. I concentrate on my feet, one after the other after the other. When I reach a barrier with a sign from the council stating that due to rock slides, the rest of the path is out of bounds, I clamber over it. Frankly, an avalanche is the least of my worries. Small stones crunch under my feet and the tide continues to roar far below. I’m getting close.
After what seems like an eternity, I climb to the top of a small rise and see the graveyard in front of me. It’s a cold morning but the sun is out and the gravestones gleam in the sharp light. I focus on the ruins at the far end. Part of me wonders whether I’m still dreaming and if I’ve really managed to make it this far. For some reason, when I have that thought my breath shortens and I feel a familiar tightness in my chest. Damn it. Not now. Not now that I’m merely steps away.
I pull out my trusty paper bag and start inhaling and exhaling into it. It helps a bit – at least, it helps me to reach the crumbling doorway with the Maltese cross still visible above. I stumble inside. It’s only then that my legs give way.
Chapter Fourteen
If you’re going to ask yourself life-changing questions, be sure to do something with the answers.
Bo Bennett
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It takes me some time to re-calibrate myself. The fact that the poor excuse for a sunrise has given way to brilliant sunshine helps; it reminds me of the Dreamlands town and makes it easier for me to get to my feet and look around. Even here, inside the derelict graveyard outhouse, sunlight breaks through the fissures in the walls and roof.
The floor is surprisingly clean; there are old flagstones with moss creeping over them but little evidence of dirt. I search around, checking the walls and the gaps for a sign of anything to do with Salib but there is nothing. I walk back outside, reminding myself to breathe steadily, and look up at the cross. I gnaw on my bottom lip then reach up onto my tiptoes to touch it. My fingertips brush against it and it feels like nothing more than simple stone. Still, I venture round to the side of the small building, where I know there are enough gaps in the old bricks to provide footholds, and clamber up so I can get onto the roof.
I manage to pull myself up. It’s much harder than scaling the side of the Department’s building. But, of course, this is the real world: I’m not dreaming now. It doesn’t help that the old wooden joists creak ominously when I move. I end up shimmying along on my belly to reach the carving at the front.