He rushed through the archway to his grandparents’ cottage, throwing his tattered heavy rucksack to the floor. Thumped his way up the old staircase, before slamming the bedroom door. The piece of wood that separated him from everything he loved most. With no idea how to engage with it. He clouted his wardrobe before lobbing himself on the bed. Stoking the burning fire of hatred deep down in his gut. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow it to go out. Please talk to us, his grandparents pleaded. Tell you I killed him. That I wish it were me who died. How can I? he thought.
Alone in his darkness; blind to any route out. Drowning as his grandparents desperately stretched out soothing arms he couldn’t quite reach. He scrubbed at the blood on his hands, but nothing ever worked. Nothing ever would. Night times were the worst. Banging a turbulent head against his pillow; desperate to eradicate the words, the faces, the images. Trembling, dripping cold sweat on flaming skin. His heart trouncing against cotton. As if he were still there, at the scene. The truth stuck inside him, while the lies consumed the air.
Cornwall. His first and last taste of freedom.
His friend, brother. Was dead. The setting was a lads’ paradise. A youth hostel perched high on the cliff side. Turquoise sea views. A Cornish flag billowing above surf waves, miles of pale honeyed sand. Rocks. A boy’s hallucination, twisted into his nightmare.
Because he quarreled with Tom. Sending him into the path of the school persecutor.
Who then led Tom to a spot on the map of pure majestic beauty. Skyscraper rocks; blue sky high, with crystal lagoon pools. But Tom couldn’t swim. The bastard knew Tom couldn’t swim. Then as the daylight began to fade the bastard swaggered back with his gang. The low sun just about holding on. A test of loyalty, the bastard bragged.
Red-hot anger. Quickly followed by guilt.
He sprinted acres over the headland to reach the spot. A helicopter flew over. Minutes later, from his viewpoint on the towering rock, he watched as a small limp body was laid on cold stone. A man pumping up and down on Tom’s chest as his lifeless head lay in a backwards tilt. The man paused to blow air into his mouth. Over and over. Pumping, pumping. Until a soft hand appeared on the man’s shoulder. It was over. Tom had gone.
He’d never be able to say the words, I killed you, Tom. I did it.
Chapter Nine
Cornwall 2016
Another day over. I pull up alongside the pretty Cornish wall and wait, in need of some thinking space. My eyes wind down the narrowing road where I can steal a glimpse of the frisking Atlantic. Warm memories of childhood holidays creep over. It’s amazing how these feelings are still with me, despite life trying to warp and dissolve them. Memories create personal benchmarks, I explain to people, to measure life’s experiences against. If children have unhappy childhoods, their benchmark is set sadly low. Was my benchmark set too high? Perhaps my happy childhood was not such an advantage after all. As much as I try, I can’t relate the balminess of those memories to my present. I’ve lived three unconnected lives. Right now, I’m utterly detached from all three. I can see them; I can’t feel them. I’m no different from my clients earlier today.
When I’m with people, I feel as if it’s all happening without me being there. I’m not part of any of it. Is this normal? teary eyes enquired.
No, it is not. How can it be normal? I thought.
People talk to me, I answer. But it doesn’t feel real to me. Almost as if I’m watching my words. Do you think I'm going mad? she asked.
No. But it’s a short continuum from stress to anxiety to psychosis. Blurred boundaries can quickly diminish. Where am I on this scale?
Your bucket is too full. We each have a stress bucket. Some with a larger capacity than others. But as it fills over the day, it can be something quite insignificant to tip it over. The rising of cortisol, the depletion of serotonin, the need to ruminate, see to our disturbance of sleep. We wake shattered from too much active REM sleep, insufficient replenishing slow-wave sleep. We begin our day with an already half-full bucket, and so it goes on. A vicious circle. A rolling ball of destruction. If not managed. If not dealt with. If questions remain unanswered, I explained.
The light is lowering around me, casting atypical shadows. I notice a movement from the corner of my right eye. It’s my neighbour, Gloria, bobbing up and down a couple of walls along, attending to her abundant garden. She’s taken such a shine to Jack, his surrogate grandmother. When we first moved here she used to let herself in to greet him from school, staying with him until I was home from clinic. Now, she pops in from time to time to leave home-baked delights and fresh produce. Neither of us have other family close by. I reach for my handbag, just as an unmistakable rumble of an approaching engine grabs my attention. I freeze, my hand hovering. My stomach tightens as a blueish 911 Porsche slides past with centimetres between us. The images from last week voyage through my mind. It’s the sound, the distinguished sound of a 911 engine, gripping my throat.
Last week, driving home late from clinic, that horrible feeling of being followed consumed me. A haunting ambience, in that in-between-light-and-dark condition. The lanes smothered by a dense sea mist. There was a car, far too close for the conditions, behind me. The headlamps burning my eyes through my wing mirror. Circular, amphibian headlamps. We continued for a while, just the two of us, each twist and turn heading back via Callestick from Truro. Was I imagining it, an innocent commuter caught up in my creativity, or did I know who was behind the wheel? I strained to catch a glimpse of the driver. It was hopeless; the frog-like headlamps dazzled my vision into a block white wall. I could smell danger. Should I find somewhere to abandon my car? Attempt to run, but where? Human habitation in the area was sporadic. By the shadow I glimpsed, I was as sure as I could be – the driver was male. Unsteady legs stumbled on and off the accelerator. A little voice whispered not to turn for home, reveal where I live. I loitered along, hunting for a suitable red herring. Eventually, I saw a large farmhouse with obvious lights ahead. At the last minute, I swung sharply onto the stone driveway. Nuggets flying everywhere, quarrying deep tyre grooves. I breathed out as the car passed by.
Now, I fumble for the keys I’ve managed to drop down the side of the seat. I need to follow the car. Swinging out ungracefully in the hope of catching up. How can I not? It’s a dead end. But isn’t this sheer, utter madness? Even so, I have to see for myself. I could be wrong, but I need to know either way. I roll down towards the dead end, passing Enid Blyton cottages and gardens, negotiating the seasonal stray end of tourists wandering in the middle of the road, seemingly without a care in the world.
As I draw closer to the seafront my stomach rolls in harmony with the waves. I spot the car already parked up. It doesn’t make any sense; the car appears to already be unoccupied. Sod it! He couldn’t possibly have gone far. I scan from left to right, then notice, Charlie, the parking attendant, casually propping up his hut. How the hell did the driver get away so quickly? I abandon my car in a truly obnoxious position, blocking anyone else from coming or going, scrambling to reach Charlie before he forgets. Secreting adrenal glands pushing me forward.
Waving like a crazy woman, I scuttle towards his salty lined face. ‘Charlie. Charlie?’
‘You okay, Evie? Not seen you for a while… you’re lookin’ pale, lovely,’ he says. ‘You coming to the pie and ale night, then?’ A deep-rooted Cornish accent washes over me.
I’ve forgotten about the pie thing; I said I would, but I can’t face it now. ‘Oh, I’m not sure I can make it any more, Charlie. Something’s come up.’ I walk closer to him. ‘Did you notice the guy from this car, by any chance?’
Charlie gives the car park a once-over. Come on, Charlie, switch on. He returns uncomprehending eyes. Please, Charlie, not today, think, please.
‘This one, the blue one, Charlie, in front of mine, here,’ I implore him.
‘The blue one? Oh, yeah, that one.’ He nods. ‘The flash one. Proper job, isn’t it?’ he rolls out. ‘Difficult to say whether it’s blue or green, isn’t it? Nice though, yeah, proper nice.’