Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (32 page)

‘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 8
^th
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 10
^th
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

‘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 of 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.’

He squeezed me tighter. ‘My own name should have
been Irony! These mad opinions of yours are one of the many reasons I love you
so much; and it’s those that’ll keep us apart now! Alex? Alex, is this where we
part ways?’

‘Yes–’ I barely got this word out of my throat.
‘This is where we part ways.’

‘And how am I supposed to let you go?’

‘Because you promised me.’

He rolled his eyes and tried to smile with little
success. ‘I knew I’d regret that!’ He lifted my chin with his finger and turned
his eyes away a moment, as if contemplating another way to convince me. It was
useless to try and he knew it. Though he didn’t plead, his eyes were devastatingly
sad.

‘I’ll never see you again,’ he choked out in a
whisper. In the corner of his eye, I saw a globule of blood, and as it grew, it
fell and trickled down his cheek, staining his pale skin with a streak of
crimson.

Pressing myself against him, I shed my tears on
his chest as he hugged me tighter. I was about to tell him it was meant to be
this way. But it wasn’t true; he wasn’t meant to be left behind. I wasn’t meant
to go anywhere without him.

‘So stubborn!’ he said, as I sobbed. ‘I promised
you, Alex, I wouldn’t interfere. I’m envious of everything belonging to the
place you’re going. It’s so hard to think of never seeing you again.’

‘Then don’t believe that, Thom. Believe that death
cannot divide us.’

‘Then find a way back to me! Promise me, Alex –
swear it! You’ll come back and haunt me? Try! But wherever you go – on the
other side – you will think of me?’

‘Oh!’ I cried harder. ‘I could never forget you! I
swear!’

‘And when Death arrives, when it happens, will you
let me hold your hand?’

Before I could answer, his voice slammed, ‘
It’s
here!’