IT’S TIME

by Rachael Dytor

  Her pleas go unanswered. He is undeterred but I have to help her. With all my might I give him an almighty shove and it takes him by surprise. “My God lad, I didn’t think you had it in you! Come on then, let’s see what you’ve got!” I try again but of course this time I don’t have the element of surprise working in my favour and at fourteen years old I am hardly a match for a grown man. He brushes me off as if it were nothing, as if he were merely shooing a pesky fly away.

  “Leave my big brother alone you brute!” No Caroline! She is trying to get his attention to save my skin.

  “What did you say?!” He is furious and he grabs her again and I feel so helpless. There is no-one here. No-one to hear my calls, to save us. We are at his mercy and he is only too aware of this fact. “I will teach you a lesson you won’t forget!”

  It was a moment that would be etched in my memory forever, one of those times where time stands still. You can vividly see what is about to happen and there is nothing you can do to stop it. He only lands one strike but it’s fatal. With all his might, fury, and force, using his left hand he wields it skyward and at an unbelievable pace it comes crashing down towards me. As it makes contact with my skull all I see is his ugly, contorted face. My body simply collapses, surrendering to earth with no resistance, all of my limbs jelly-like. My delicate skull hits a rock on impact with the ground and I am knocked unconscious but not before I witness something so profoundly shocking it shatters me to my core. The strike father used to knock me out takes Caroline out too. He applied such force after sending me reeling, his fatal blow manages to knock her right off her feet, with dire consequences.

  Caroline! My beautiful angel! I am helpless, there is not a thing I can do. With my whole being I try to summon the strength to move, to haul my battered body up but it is futile. The look on her face as he makes contact will haunt me in my dreams forevermore. She knows this is it. There is nowhere for her to go other than right off the edge of the cliff. Even the wind seems to be conspiring against us – his strike given extra weight with its blustery force. She was there one minute then in the next second gone, her life snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Then there is nothing. She is gone and I cannot contemplate what has just happened for there is only black, endless, impenetrable black.

  It is true there was no-one there. Outside anyway. However, a young girl witnessed the whole scene unfold from the window of one of the lighthouse cottages. She watched in disbelief as the older man had delivered that fatal blow and continued to watch as he left the young teenager all alone in the midst of a snowstorm, fearful that he had been seriously injured. She ran to the kitchen to fetch her aunt. It took quite some time for her aunt to calm her down enough to be able to ascertain what she was saying. They notified the authorities immediately.

  CHAPTER 17

  T

  he noise of machines beeping begins to register somewhere in my mind. I am being pulled in two directions. I want to remain in the comfort and silence of the black deep depths of unconsciousness but part of me is being pulled towards consciousness, curious about the beep, beep noise pervading my slumber. Reluctantly the curious part is the victor and I feel myself slowly, ever so slowly, come to life. Groggily I open my eyes and immediately shut them, the light is so bright! And the pain, it is so intense! The source I realise is the left side of my head. It is a blinding, stabbing pain and instincts make me want to lift my hand up to the afflicted area to soothe it but I can’t seem to summon the strength to move either arm let alone a hand.

  Think, Thomas. Think! What is going on and where am I? The it hits me with unbelievable force – Caroline! I see her petrified stricken face as she is catapulted over the cliff edge. I scream for her, “Caroline, CAROLINE!” What happened next was a blur but two ladies in white uniforms were at my bedside and, before I knew it, I was back swimming again in the black murky depths.

  There was no sense of time or reality, but I experienced the same thing again. I woke to pain in my head and the earth-shattering truth that my sister was no longer a part of my life. I screamed and screamed until there wasn’t anything left and those strange little figures in their white uniforms administered another shot of something into my arm and once again, there was only black.

  I slipped in and out of consciousness for who knows how many hours or days even. But what did it matter, for I had lost my precious Caroline. I favoured those periods when I was out cold because they at least provided some solace where it was eternal nothing and there was no pain to be had, be it physical or emotional. I wasn’t ready to face the harsh stark reality of life on this new plane.

  It was during a lucid phase that I came to realise where I was – in hospital. The name tags and faces changed periodically as they worked different shifts, but the same white uniforms remained throughout. There seemed to be no end to the cycle of slipping in and out of the black nothingness for each time I came to life, I was gripped with an unshakeable fear and horror over losing her. The nurse’s reaction to this seemed to be to keep giving me another shot of something which temporarily blocked all the pain and sent me diving deep down again. I could often hear them speaking in whispered tones about me, but nothing was ever tangible and with no real care for my own wellbeing, I was yet to quiz them on anything to do with my health, so all consumed I was over what had happened to Caroline.

  He was clearly walking about Scot-free without a care in the world. With no-one there to witness what had happened, he will think he has got away with it. This fact is also sending me slowly insane too. The combination of those two things – losing Caroline and father committing his heinous crimes – has rendered me helpless, unable to cope with any form of reality. I oscillate from being out cold and numb to being lucid and a screaming shaking wreck.

  I sense I have been here for some time because the snowstorm has long gone. In fact, gazing out of my window, I see very little snow left. It clings on to only the tip of a far distant hill.

  There are more hushed conversations and staff with different coloured uniforms have come to check on me. I am starting to question if they are trying to figure out how to treat me. Perhaps they think I am a lost cause? The wound on my head has become more of a dull throb rather than a sharp piercing pain and, as I run my fingertips over the injury, I can feel all the perfect little stiches in a neat row holding everything in place.

  So, if my wound is healing up and I am not in as much pain why am I still being held here? I consider the consequences of raising this question with them and fast-tracking my release i.e. a ticket straight back to the croft, then think better of it!

  The following day it starts to become clearer. On waking I am inconsolable as usual and as usual a nurse administers a shot into my arm. I expect to float away into the black murky depths again but this time I remain awake and feel slightly calmer than I did before so I deduce that she must have given me a mild sedative. I watch with curiosity as a stranger walks into my room and makes himself comfortable in the chair in the far corner.

  He has my attention. He doesn’t appear to look as though he is a member of the hospital staff as he isn’t wearing any kind of uniform but, if not, then who was he this first visitor I have encountered since my admission? He is also the first person to have come into my room, happy to just sit there in silence, not fuss over me or attend to my care. It was un-nerving just having someone sit there in stony silence observing me. How to react?

  Eventually he broke the silence. “Good morning, Thomas, it is lovely to meet you. My name is George, George Traynor. I have been asked to come and see you as the hospital staff are concerned that you aren’t coping well at the moment.” Ah ha! He wants to poke his nose in and ask lots of probing questions. There is no way I am ready for that. I feel the four walls of my room closing in on me and a pressure that wasn’t there before starts to pulsate all across my skull. The sedative works to counteract the likely increased heartrate but even still, I can feel myself going into meltdown again. I scream, “No! No! No! Go a
way!” In no time, the people in their white uniforms appear again and George is politely ushered out of the room.

  I assume that will be the end of George Traynor, so I am most surprised when he darkens my door again the following day. He selects the same chair in the corner of the room and once again adopts a silent but observatory stance. Again, I feel myself on edge, ready to lash out in a heartbeat. He knows this and appears to be playing it cautiously. “Thomas, I am very sorry if we started off on the wrong foot yesterday, the last thing I wanted to do was upset you. I do believe, however, it is important if you are feeling troubled that you get your worries out there. I fully understand that you might not be ready to voice your concerns yet so I thought it might be a good idea if you were able to write them down.” He takes time to let his words sink in then he gets up off the chair and places a notebook and pen at my bedside table. “I will leave you for now, Thomas. If you are able, please jot a few notes down and we can chat again tomorrow.” A warm smile forms on his face then he turns and walks out. I am surprised I managed to entertain him whilst keeping my cool and realise that I am more than slightly curious about this George fellow. He didn’t push and prod me; he has left the ball firmly in my court and it is up to me to decide whether or not I am ready to open up.

  The notebook and pen lie there untouched at my bedside for the remainder of the morning and well into the afternoon. I am very much aware of their presence but not sure whether I want to pick them up. After dinner it is almost an involuntary action, I reach over for them, deciding that where is the harm in writing a few things down? George doesn’t even have to see it I reason with myself; it could simply be for my benefit.

  I start by writing snippets about my siblings then become incredibly upset when I see Caroline’s name there in black and white. I rip the pages out, scrunch them up, and hurl the balled-up paper across the room in the general direction of the wastepaper bin. It takes some time for me to gather myself again, a large part of me is thinking what the point of all this is? No amount of words written down in a notebook are going to bring my sister back. Then I think of him, his cruel blow ending in her demise and my subsequent hospital admission. It is enough for me to get motivated to put pen to paper again.

  I am simply amazed at how the words are flowing. From seemingly nowhere all of my worries and concerns are out there, laid bare for anyone to read. And it was true what George said, it was cathartic – it felt so good to let it all out. I realised I had lost track of time for the dinner trolley arrived with my evening meal. I made short work of polishing off my food and went straight back to my writing. The words on those pages had never been uttered to a soul outside of the confines of the croft. My siblings were obviously well aware of everything which had happened over the years and we had many conversations about how we could bring father to justice. But we never quite knew how to go about it and were fearful of the consequences if we did talk and it then backfired. I pause mid-sentence and let myself fantasise for a minute about handing this notebook to George who then notifies the Police and, finally, father faces his reckoning. George was an adult. Surely, they would listen to him more than they would listen to me? There was absolutely no chance mother would speak out against him and George seemed to want to listen to what I had to say. Should I place my trust in him?

  It is clear to me that it is not only father who should face up to his crimes. I blame myself wholeheartedly for what happened to Caroline. If I hadn’t dropped her in it with father then led him to her, she would still be with us. She should still be here. It should be me dead and gone, a suitable punishment for my treachery. Why did they rescue me? They should have left me for dead at Neist Point!

  I write on and on until it gets dark outside, motivated by the feeling that it was at least having some positive impact getting all this emotion down onto paper and by the prospect that perhaps something may come of it if I chose to hand it over to the authorities. Perhaps both father and I would have our day in court?

  Then came the really awkward part – writing about the events at Neist Point. I wanted to get it right and didn’t want to miss anything out, so I tapped into my memory and took myself back to that fateful day. The pain and anguish were palpable as I relived it all again, but my pen flowed freely, all the events captured now in written word.

  I did a fairly good job of holding everything together until I clearly saw her face again teetering on the cliff edge. Then it all became a blur as I broke down, becoming completely undone and torn apart again. I was beyond hysterical and only began to slowly focus again when I heard my name being called …

  I opened my eyes and found the source – it was Juliet and, by her side, a concerned-looking James. From the depths of despair, the tide turned in a heartbeat and I wept tears of joy and happiness. I had no idea how they had managed to sneak out to visit me in hospital, but I was elated to see them. We embraced for a long time, so overwhelmed to be reunited together. The feeling was one of unity in our love for one another but also in our shared loss of our dear sister.

  I am relieved. There is no blame there. Clearly mother has given them an edited version of events which doesn’t implicate me. I see no judgement in their eyes. They are as happy to see me as I am to see them. Whilst still feeling guilty about this, I am temporarily relieved.

  Once we gathered ourselves, Juliet was the first to speak: “Thomas, we have been so worried about you! He wouldn’t let us come. Or mother, that’s why she’s not been to see you.”

  “It’s OK, I knew that would be the case, but I hope you’ve not taken a risk coming here, I’d hate for anything to happen to either of you for sneaking out to visit me.”

  James this time; “No danger of that, the old lush is seven sheets to the wind right now!”

  “Well, all the same, as much as I’d love for you both to stay, you shouldn’t stay too long in case he comes out of his stupor and starts asking questions.”

  “How are you feeling now?” asks an anxious Juliet.

  “Much better thanks. The pain in my head has eased somewhat so that’s good.” I decide to keep my new friend Mr Traynor a secret for now. I haven’t decided yet whether to show him my notebook, so I see no sense in delving into any of that with Juliet and James at the moment.

  James wastes no time. “Right, what are we going to do about him? He can’t get away with this!”

  “That’s enough, James. Thomas is still lying in a hospital bed, I’m sure that’s the last thing on his mind right now!” (Actually, it is at the forefront of my mind – that and my own accountability in all of this – but I also keep that to myself).

  “Sorry Thomas, she’s right. I just can’t believe Caroline has gone and he’s still swanning about like an arrogant son of a—”

  “Right James! Really, that is quite enough! Thomas is starting to feel better and you are going to make him unwell again with all this chat.”

  “It’s alright, honestly, Juliet. I am well aware he should be held accountable but I am also only too well aware pursuing him is what landed me in here in the first place and … well … sorry, I can’t find the words but you know what I am trying to say … our beautiful Caroline.” The strain is etched across all of our faces.

  Juliet, always the optimist, leads us out of our gloomy descent. “Changing the subject, Thomas, do you think you will be kept much longer in hospital?”

  “That’s a good question and I need to find out what’s happening. I feel well enough physically but I’m not sure.”

  “Well hopefully you can come home soon.” She doesn’t realise the gravitas and weight those simple words have on me; ‘come home soon.’ How on earth would I even contemplate going back there? My stomach lurches and I can feel the dinner I consumed earlier trying to make its way back upwards, so I hastily swallow it back down. Thankfully, I am saved by the bell and don’t have to furnish her with a response for one of the nurses appears at the door. “What’s all the commotion in here? It’s time for you to get some re
st, Thomas. Lights out please in the next half hour.”

  I turn my attention to Juliet and James. “OK I hate to do this, but you better make tracks before I get into trouble. We’ll come up with something, don’t worry.” As I watch them leave, I am once again reminded of the weight of responsibility resting heavily on my shoulders. It all becomes too much, and my mind gives in when my body surrenders to sleep.

  On waking the next morning instinctively, I reach out straight away for the notebook and read through its contents. I realise I have come to the decision to hand it over to George. I don’t know him well at all, but I am going to have to put my trust in someone. He has already shown care and compassion towards me, so I am going to take a chance on him. Like clockwork he appears again at the same time and sits in his usual chair. A positive thought seeps unwittingly into my psyche – since his visits, other than the breakdown I had experienced when writing about Caroline, I had managed to hold it together. This reassures me somewhat and cements the fact that hopefully I am making the right decision in trusting him.

  The positivity continues to shine through as I address him first without waiting on him to take the lead,

  “Morning Mr Traynor.”

  “Morning Thomas and, please, call me George.”

  “OK, morning George.”

  “You seem to be in a good mood this morning, that is wonderful, Thomas. Now I am not putting any pressure on you whatsoever, but did you manage to jot any of your feelings down?” I answer his question by simply raising the notebook which I had held in my lap at the ready. “That’s excellent. Do you mind if I come over and collect it from you?”

  “Be my guest.”

  For an indeterminable period of time, George pours over its contents. I try to gauge his reaction from his facial expression, but he is giving nothing away. Eventually he raises his head, shutting the notebook simultaneously. He is quiet, obviously taking his time to choose his words carefully. “I can see you have been through a very traumatic time, Thomas.” It is a rhetorical statement. I bow my head in silent acknowledgement. “We have work to do, and I don’t think the hospital is the best place for you.” His words set off a blind panic within me and what happens next is a blur but I can feel myself being physically restrained until yet another shot is administered.