Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (31 page)

Twenty-eight

‘Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of
darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by
sadness.’

– Carl Gustav Jung,
Memories,
dreams, reflections

9 March, 12:45 P.M.
– I’m looking up flights to Scotland: London Stansted to Glasgow Prestwick. I
have to get away. There’s one for tomorrow at noon with a flashing ‘
LAST
SEATS
’ beside it.

It’s been three days since I left the Cray and I
don’t have much recollection of how I’ve spent them. I’ve a vague glimpse into
memory of walking around like a zombie, or sitting perfectly still for hours,
staring into oblivion, while shock has a hold on me. Without realising it, at
first, I’ve found myself doing something I haven’t done since junior school.
I’ve been praying – praying for him, constantly, aloud, and under my breath. If
only I knew for sure whether it will do any good.

It’ll be dark soon and his fog will be outside
again, like last night and the night before. Although I knew he might stay
close, I’m sure he won’t break his promise. Yet part of me wishes he would– I
mustn’t
write about him! I made my choice. But I keep wondering, as according to
legend, if he can enter my house without invitation? I wish I’d asked him that.

2 P.M.
– I never use this back bedroom.
It’s small and dark with just a writing desk and boxes of my uncle’s old books.
I started this diary to empty my thoughts and feelings into it. Maybe it will
keep me from losing my mind. Something about writing it down, pouring it out, I
think might help. I have to do something to try to sleep. After hours lying
awake, too distressed to close my eyes, I end up falling into a slumber of
sorts. I don’t dream anything that I can remember, which is unusual for me, and
a relief. It’s like there’s been a trade of places between my conscious and
unconscious mind. I am living the nightmare I might usually dream, and I sleep
peacefully. It’s my only refuge, when I can get to it. If I could just be
someone else for a day; long enough to have a rest from thinking it all over –
from reminding myself despairingly that we can’t be together. But I can’t, and
my mind just wants to replay the events over and over, though I already know
how it ends.

I’ve not been to work in New Cromley and I’m not
going back. Everything has changed; I must change too. To sit on that bus again
which took me to the Cray, when I’ve spent so much time on it looking forward
to seeing him. No. I’m writing another letter of apology and resignation. Mrs
Evans must have received my letter by now. I know I wrote something along the
lines of ‘two jobs are too much for me’. I didn’t want them to think it had
anything to do with…

7 P.M.
– I’ve covered all the mirrors with
throws and blankets. I kept fearing I’d see that Thing in one. On glimpsing at
my own image, I’ve noticed a stress line in my forehead from where I’ve been
crying so hard. It’s deep, resembling a crack like it’s been carved there with
a knife. It’s reddened too, marking me, as if I’ve been burnt with a piece of
the Sacred Wafer. Slowly downward I spiral to the nethermost pit of insanity!
For a few minutes in perhaps a few hours, I resurface to breathe
level-headedness before drowning resumes.

Later.
– I’ve packed my suitcase. The task
of locating my passport is proving more laborious than I expected. At least it
keeps me occupied. Not a moment ago I found a photo of my dad. One of the few I
have. He’s holding me as a baby, happily nestled against his chest. I recognise
the passé shirt he’s wearing as one of his old favourites. Under his thick red beard
there’s a smile. I have a few scratched memories of him kissing me. I remember
the bristles of his beard tickling my cheek. Were we happy once? On the back,
scribbled in large uncoordinated letters are our names. I don’t remember
writing them, but I know my handwriting of eight years old. The word ‘dad’ is
alien to me. I only remember using it once, in the form of ‘daddy’. I had
pressed myself against the living room window, calling out to him not to leave.
He was abandoning us. I know nothing else. Then he died. I’m already such a
miserable creature. I didn’t need to find this picture!

I’ve opened a drawer to put it with my other
photos, and there on top is my passport.

10 March.
– Not yet dawn. I’ve managed a
few hours in peaceful slumber. Outside is a mystery due to the thickset fog.
He’s within my reach – I mustn’t fail myself. I’m checking emails for
distraction while penning this down. Holly’s emailed me a bunch of stuff we
could do while I’m visiting. She’s so excited that I’m practically on my way. I
feel a blow that I’m going to see her for the wrong reasons. Her email is
hardly legible where she’s darting from one question to another about my
motives. I’ll reply in a sec that I’m excited to see her soon, and that I must
go to catch my train.

8 A.M.
– It’s daylight and cloudy, but the
air is clear, which means the coast is. There or not, his suffering haunts me,
and it’s too much of a temptation to end it. Will he know I’ve gone when he
returns tonight?

8:30 A.M.
– I’ve just boarded my train for
London, Cannon Street. It’s rush-hour, very cramped. I can hear passengers
fighting for space with a ‘move down please!’ being the most common command. People
completely surround me, and yet I feel utterly alone. – We’re almost at London
Bridge where I’ll have to change.

11:45 A.M.
– I’m aboard my plane! Shockingly,
I didn’t pull back in the gateway to prolong a melodramatic moment of saying
goodbye to the path I’ve left behind. I’m trying to leave strong and decisive.
But it’s only an act. I’m writing as we’re making for the runway.

We’re off! Heading for the clouds, turning for
north. As we lifted from the tarmac I felt a part of me detach and get left
behind. But my head is clearer for it despite the popping in my ears. A huge
part of me, I admit, hoped he’d be at the airport to stop me. How fickle. I’ve
had to expel that hope. Once I make room for hope, suddenly, there’ll be room
for nothing else. Though the choice itself doesn’t feel like a choice at all –
it feels choiceless.

I won’t tell my sister a thing about all this.
She’d probably commit me, if I don’t do it first. She knows I’ve met someone,
so I’ll just let her think it’s over and that I’m not ready to face questions.
She’s good at taking hints, and I don’t want to enter into a lot of lies.

Later.
– It’s freezing here! I’m ashamed
that in the two years Holly’s been living in Lanarkshire, this is my first
visit.

Holly is driving as I write this, and she needs to
concentrate on where she’s going. So I’ve a good excuse not to make chitchat.
She met me at arrivals and gave me such a hug I got emotional from just the relief
of seeing her again. People used to say I was her spitting image when we were
younger. Now we look so different. I apologised that I haven’t brought an
engagement gift with me. – She’s looking at me now as we sit at traffic lights.
Knowing her she’s quietly concerned as I scribble away. I’m going to have to
carry my diary around with me, like a paranoid hermit, in case someone finds
and reads it.

10 P.M.
– I’m on a foldout bed in Holly’s
spare room, and can hear her through the wall playing her Nintendo DS. Before
she went to bed I asked her to remove the full-length mirror that stood in the
corner. She thought it was a strange request, but seeing the look of pleading
and perhaps apprehension on my face, she did it without asking any of the
obvious questions. I know it has nothing to do with the glass, but the
reflection I once saw. I just feel better that it’s not in here. I’d keep
looking at it. It’s not like it’s some portal where that Thing could crawl out,
but the image of it will haunt me forever. The way it looked at me! I’ll never
sleep tonight. I’m suddenly too apprehensive about the dreams in store for me.
I feel like my mind has done with the safe haven it’s been providing. Thinking
about it to this extent probably won’t help. I’ll put this away now and try to
rest.

11 March, 3 A.M.
– An odd-shaped shadow
crossed the room! I put my lamp on, but can’t see– I conclude it’s only a tree
outside, bending to a sudden gale. The speed of it frightened me to having
palpitations. I could deal with
Thom
turning up, but the idea of his
shadow makes me think of it as in league with the demon, and not the man.

8 A.M. –
I don’t want to dwell on how I
spent the rest of last night awake. I can only say I was conscious and in hell.
On lying back down after seeing the shadow, I sobbed... in disappointment that
it was not him.

Holly’s in the kitchen making coffee. She just
peered round the door, and in her usual rough way of handling me when I’m low
and sensitive, she asked with disregard, ‘Are you still alive?’

Tired as I am, I groaned in response.

‘Euan’s gone to work,’ she says, ‘so feel free to
fester all day in your pyjamas, soap dodger!’

Euan’s a nice guy, a little unsociable, which suits
me at the moment. Holly works for the Scottish Ambulance Service, and gets
weeks on and off in chunks. Luckily for me she doesn’t return to work until the
22
^nd
. She’s very cool with what she does; saving people’s lives. I
asked her how work has been and she replied with a smile, ‘I didn’t have a
cardiac all day Saturday!’

She says she’ll take me to the Highlands today if
I feel up to it. I’d better leave this here and go out to her.

10 A.M.
– As I’m trying to write this,
Holly’s steering the car from side to side deliberately to jog me. I suppose I
should be paying attention to the sightseeing, but I don’t want to stop
writing. There’s something in this, in writing it down. It feels soothing as I
pour things out. I might as well record what she’s now going on about.

‘Nope, he’s not worth it!’ she’s saying, as if
answering my thoughts (but evidently is not).

‘I wasn’t thinking that.’

‘You will.’

‘I doubt it,’ I whispered.

‘Aye!’ she says, in her quasi-Glaswegian accent.
‘You will. Screw him; he’s a loser!’

My stomach’s twisting up. I pity him! How could I
have left him? But of course most people will assume that if I’m this low over
a man he must have dumped me. Nothing else would make sense. Well, except that
which only I know.

‘I’d like to give him a piece of my mind for
whatever he’s done to upset you!’

If she knew the reason, she would perhaps rethink
that one.

She’s imitating the Scot’s again. ‘I’ll get ya a
nice lad from round here, lassie! One that
dinnae
wear a skirt.’ She’s
laughing, and I have to laugh too. It’s not the best impression she does.

We’re in the Highlands on a narrow stretch of road
that rises and falls continuously, buried against a steep hillside patched with
snow. It’s so picturesque. I’m glad I brought my sketchbook to keep me busy.
There’s a river far-off running through a landscape of tussocky moorland,
bordered by a run of low craggy hills. Driving over these high narrow roads
reminds me of a rollercoaster, only smoother and much more dangerous. She’s
always been too daring behind the wheel in my opinion, but what I call cocky
she calls confident. It’s a fine day. I’m surprised we haven’t passed any other
cars. We’re on an empty road now called Craig something (I’m sure every
signpost we pass has at least two destinations beginning with ‘Craig’). She’s
pointing out Ben Lomond ahead, which cuts against the bright blue sky. Great
puffs of white smoke are rising off its peak and join with a border of cloud
just above it.

1 P.M.
– We’re driving farther on after
collecting clasts of white quartz from the shores of Loch Lomond. I took
pictures from the pier and managed to capture the faint arc of a rainbow on the
other side of the loch. We’ve spent about an hour here but it’s too cold to
stay longer. I wish we could; it’s so diverting. – The speedometer is in shock:
Holly’s slowing down. I’m shocked; it’s an open road. This means we’re lost.
She’s cursing but I won’t attempt to note it down, even if I could keep up.
She’s rounded it all off with –

‘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.’