I had no worries that her silly little camera would capture my image – none ever did – but I would send someone, just in case. Being careful had kept me alive, if “alive” was the correct terminology. No matter, it would suffice.
The girl had seen something, and whatever it was had tolled a bell deep within her. We had resonated, she and I.
But, to mimic the words of the talented and very dead Mr Hemmingway, for whom did this bell toll?
Chapter 8
Olivia
When I woke late that afternoon, the first thing I did was turn on the news and fire up my computer. The mass shooting was being called a terrorist attack, perpetrated by a lone maniac with too much ideology and religious fervour and not enough humanity. I watched any and all footage I could find. My photos were featured quite heavily, but they did little to show the true horror.
Once again, I battled through another panic attack, gritting my teeth until it was over, to emerge on the other side damp with sweat and shaking. Dear lord, I thought I’d grown out of those dreadful episodes, along with growing out of teenage acne and learning to live with my ability. My childhood had been plagued by them, shaped by them, and it had been yet one more proof of my otherness, my difference. The other kids had been quick to pounce on my weakness.
A sudden remembered stench of stale urine and overpowering disinfectant assaulted my mind, the stink so real I could almost smell it, and the memory pulled me down into its depths.
A row of seven cubicles, their doors open, is mirrored by a row of seven basins. A long mirror above them gives the illusion of space, when in fact, the room is small and narrow, the echo a result of high ceilings and white tiles.
I hate the place, but I’m desperate. Another urine infection brought on by trying never to pee during school hours is making itself felt. It won’t be more than a dribble – it never is – but I couldn’t take the chance. Wetting myself would be another nail in the coffin of my school life.
I had to visit the girls’ toilets and hope to escape anyone’s notice.
No such luck. They’re waiting for me. How they know, I have no idea, but they do.
Three of them, all in my year. The popular girls, for all the wrong reasons; the ones the boys flock around, the ones the other girls are envious of, in awe of, and scared of, all at the same time, are already in here.
Two of them are primping and preening, reapplying lip gloss, and hiking up already short skirts.
The third is behind the door, her shit-brown aura concealed by it, so I don’t see her until I’ve barged in, my bladder shrieking, but by then it’s too late.
She slams it shut and leans against it, blocking my escape.
The spit dries in my mouth and I realise I’m about to pee myself.
The shaking starts in my knees and I try to lock them together. Showing weakness is worse than standing up to them.
‘Looky, looky, it’s weird bitch.’ Stacey is the leader, the other two follow her. They’re dangerous enough on their own, but under her influence they turn into gargoyles, my own personal hell.
‘Seen any head-doctors lately? You wanna tell ’em from me, whatever they’re doing ain’t fuckin’ working. You’re still a fucking weirdo. Eh, girls? Am I right?’
The one standing next to Stacey nods enthusiastically. The one guarding the door, April Jones, has moved closer, and I guess from the nauseating aroma of cheap body spray, cigarettes, and spearmint chewing gum, that she’s right behind me.
This isn’t going to be good...
April grabs me by the upper arms, and yanks me backwards, pulling me off balance.
‘No, please,’ I whimper, hating myself for begging but unable to prevent pleading.
She holds me in place, and I watch with dread as Stacey draws a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of her green school skirt and lights one slowly. Her eyes narrow, and smoke dribbles from her mouth and nose, to curl around her head, a ghostly halo swirling among the mucky browns and sickly yellow of the colours cloaking her.
Stacey steps closer, and the other girl in front of me moves to my side, her hand clamping over my mouth to stifle the screams.
The pain is instantaneous and all-encompassing.
The stench of burning flesh fills my nose and agony radiates from my arm as a scream rips from my throat.
Later, much later, the pain will subside and I’ll be able to think again, but right now it’s all I can do not to faint.
A trickle of urine runs down my leg to splash on the unforgiving tiles and I struggle to catch my breath.
Please let it be over, please...
It is, for now.
Stacey flicks the cigarette into one of the cubicles, her gleeful, avid expression replaced by one of boredom. They’ve had their fun, my humiliation is complete.
With a final shove which sends me crashing into the nearest sink, they flounce out of the girls’ toilets in a flurry of giggles, high-fives, and swishing hair, leaving me alone with a cigarette burn on my arm and dread in my heart.
My breathing was harsh, my heart thudding hard against my ribcage, my palms damp. I wiped them on my jeans and made a conscious effort to slow everything down.
After a few minutes, I felt more in control, although hatred remained. I hated those girls for what they’d systematically done to me. I hated the rest of the kids in school for their indifference and for looking the other way. I hated myself for the panic attacks. But most of all, I hated being different.
Taking a deep breath, I returned to the screen. I wasn’t that bullied, frightened, ridiculed little girl anymore – I was a grown woman, in charge of my own life (more or less). Refusing to let the memories intrude and do any more damage to my already fragile psyche, I focused on my task, understanding that the events of yesterday were to blame for bringing it all to the surface again.
Actually, I was thankful I’d gotten off as lightly as I had at the theatre. For some poor souls and their families, it had been an awful lot worse.
From what I could gather, the terrorist had been located towards the front of the auditorium and diagonally opposite me, which undoubtedly explained why several people had been hit and had fallen sideways like a row of dominoes as they’d tried to flee the bullets. This is what had happened to the people in my row; which was why I’d been unable to move under the weight of their combined bodies.
I’d been lucky. If I hadn’t decided to leave at that precise moment, my own corpse would have been sprawled in the aisle, my lifeblood pooling underneath me.
I shook my head – this was the second time my gift had come into its own. Who’d have known? For the second time in my life, I was grateful to it.
I still hated it, but...
Ninety-three dead, and three times that number injured. It hurt to think about it. All those violently-ended lives, all those relatives and friends who would never be the same again. The survivors wouldn’t be unscathed, either. I knew I wasn’t; I’d take the devastation of last night with me to the grave.
Chapter 9
Olivia
Carew Castle was in West Wales, near Tenby, which was a small seaside town in a beautiful part of the country I’d visited as a child. I remembered rock pools, the ebb and flow of the tides, pretty, painted townhouses, a boat trip to a nearby island, and an odd little bed-and-breakfast with a ten o’clock curfew. I didn’t recall any castles featuring in that holiday, although there had been a trip to a nearby zoo which had an amusement park in its grounds. The place had been full of people, and the day had been a particularly hellish one for me.
This time around, there would certainly be no zoo and no Tenby either. The guest house I’d chosen was in the middle of nowhere, right next to a church and a graveyard. That was the good thing about the dead – no auras. Not even a ghostly hint of one.
The thought gave me pause, making me think once again of the events of last night. I hoped the woman to whom I had attempted to give CPR, had survived, and once again my gift had prove
d useful last night. It’d taken nearly thirty years for this affliction of mine to actually be of some use. Good going, Liv. Maybe you’ll get another chance to help someone else in another twenty-eight years.
Swatting the sarcastic voice away, I drove the car onto a sweeping driveway. The guest house was a large, Georgian-style building, painted cream and surrounded by trees on three sides. The church was on the left, headstones tipping drunkenly in all directions.
The website had informed me there were only three guest bedrooms. I calculated it meant a maximum of six guests (hopefully), plus whatever family lived there. I could cope with that. Just.
Two other cars occupied the driveway. I clambered stiffly out of mine, reached for my overnight bag and camera, and slammed the door. Barking came from inside the house, and I smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. I liked dogs. No auras. Although I’d read that some people could see animal auras, I considered myself lucky that I only saw human colours. Imagine if I saw the aura of every living thing, however small? I shuddered. I probably would have killed myself long ago.
Enough of this, I had a job to do. My plan was to unpack (which would take two minutes – I know, because that’s all it ever took.), have a quick wash and a cup of tea, then make my way to Carew Castle before the sun set.
The bell set the dog off again, and shouts of ‘Ziggy, be quiet’ preceded the opening of the door. A tall, slim woman in her late forties stepped to the side, a wide smile on her lips, her eyes crinkling.
‘Hello, you must be Olivia. Pleased to meet you. I’m Esther and this is my husband, John.’ She jerked her head to a man standing behind her. ‘Come in, come in. Would you like some tea? Coffee? And a slice of cake? It’s carrot, today.’
I followed her inside. ‘Tea, please.’
‘Through there. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll bring it out to you.’
Esther’s dominant colour was light blue. I’d come to understand it meant serenity. Probably. Possibly. She didn’t come across as particularly serene, but she was friendly and outgoing, and had an open, happy face.
Her husband, John, was more orangey-yellow, with tinges of earthy brown. A perfectionist, then, who liked working with his hands. Grounded.
There was nothing about either of them, or the colours surrounding them, to give me any cause for concern. I simply wished I didn’t see their auras at all. Seeing them served absolutely no purpose (until last night). The reading of auras wasn’t an exact science, and although there was a more or less general consensus on what the various colours meant, each synaesthete interpreted them differently. Then of course, there were the charlatans and wannabes, who further muddied the waters. It also didn’t help that there were many forms of synaesthesia, or so I’d read.
The tea was welcome, the cake was delicious, and my room was spacious and well-appointed. The peace, visually and aurally, was welcome. My room overlooked the drive and the lane beyond. The graveyard was also visible from my window, and I made a note to pay it a brief visit. I liked churches too, although I was in no way religious (the nasty, swirling green-grey-brown of the local vicar when I was a child had seen to that), but I enjoyed the serenity. I only liked old buildings though, the ones with history soaked into their walls and time etched into their stones. New-built churches left me cold.
The dog, a friendly copper-and-white English setter, enjoyed the fuss I gave him when he greeted me, and I brushed aside the apologies of his owners. That I preferred their pet to them was no fault of their own. Lifting a front door key from a bowl in the hall and assuring my hosts that I wouldn’t be back until quite late, I left for Carew Castle.
Sunset was at around 9pm, although it would be a further half an hour or so before the light totally bled out of the sky. I intended to be on site by then, which left me enough time to have something substantial to eat. The cake had been lovely and thoughtful, but it hadn’t gone anywhere near to satisfying my hunger, and I realised I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since yesterday lunchtime when I’d cooked myself a carbonara. I’d taken sandwiches with me to eat in the car before the performance, not wanting to have to try to find a quiet restaurant. Besides, if an eatery was mostly empty, there was usually a good reason for the sparsity of diners, and I wasn’t prepared to compromise on the quality of a meal if I was paying for it.
I found a fish and chip shop in the nearby town of Narberth, bought a piece of battered cod and a portion of chips, and pulled into a layby to eat my dinner. A pair of sparring squirrels kept me entertained as I shovelled the food in with eager fingers. There was something particularly pleasing about eating a meal out of a paper wrapper, the acidic smell of vinegar assaulting my nose, the salt coating my lips. I would have preferred to have had a view of the sea, but the woodland abutting the road was pretty enough, and the squirrels were certainly cute and quite vociferous. I honestly didn’t know they made such a bird-like racket, and I watched their antics, spellbound.
Checking the time, I disposed of the remains of my dinner in a roadside bin, and made tracks for Carew. This assignment was right up my street, and the sort of thing I was gradually getting a name for. The Sunday Times was commissioning this assignment, and I was conscious I was finally playing with the big boys. Assuming nothing untoward happened and the newspaper actually ran the piece, it would be my biggest assignment to date, and the most prestigious. It paid well, too; although I would have done it for free just for the publicity which would come from it. Not that I’d tell their commissioning editor that, of course.
Five castles or historic houses, each with a haunting theme or a grizzly story, perfect for Halloween, to be used in a six-page feature in The Sunday Times Magazine. And not just the photos – they wanted me to write the copy, too. I wished I still felt excited about it. Last night had burnt my enthusiasm away, like sun on mist.
Carew itself was a clutch of houses strung out along a B road. It had a pub, a red phone box, and a castle.
The monument wasn’t one of those castles which was perched on an outcrop and could be seen for miles, but had been built on flattish ground, and it sort of crept up on me. I was beginning to wonder if I was going in the right direction, despite the signpost and my satnav, and was about to find somewhere to turn, when the hedge on one side of the road opened out and there it was, a ruined, gothic beauty of a castle, its grey stone reminding me of weathered bone in the early evening light.
I was out of the car with the camera up to my face before I knew it, my finger on the shutter in one continuous movement.
The light wasn’t quite right yet for my purposes, so I took the opportunity to wander some way down the lane running next to the monument. I’d done my homework, and knew the lane led to a mill, and that the castle had been constructed on the banks of a tidal river. A dam along the western side had created a lake, and I was determined to walk to the other side; it was a calm, clear evening and I guessed the reflection of the castle in the still waters would be worth the trek.
For once, even the dog walkers and joggers didn’t bother me, and as long as I continued to view life through a lens, they never would. It was just a pity I was forced to take the camera away from my face now and again. If I could have kept it there forever, I might have done.
Finally, I decided I’d taken enough photos. These would be sold as stock images, which was something I made a reasonable income from. I might enlarge one or two of the better ones and put them on my website for the public to buy, mounted and framed, but I suspected there wouldn’t be anything remarkable about the images I’d just taken. They’d be run-of-the-mill. An unintentional pun – the mill on the edge of the lake was a working one, albeit only for the tourists to admire.
‘Get a grip, Liv, you’ve got a job to do,’ I muttered, after far too long spent trying to let the calm and the serenity of the scene soothe my soul, and earning myself a sharp look from a passing dog walker. I ignored him and his dark green aura. Jealousy and resentment, apparently, so they said, “they” being on
e of the websites dedicated to explaining auras. I had no idea if what they claimed was true or not. None of the so-called experts totally agreed; to me it seemed a case of pick one and stick with it, and hope for the best.
There were only a couple of things I was certain of when it came to auras – everyone had one, it faded when a person was near death, and it disappeared completely when the person died.
Actually, that was a lie – I knew a few other things, too, like black in an aura didn’t mean a person was evil, just damaged in some way, emotionally, or physically, or both; and the shade, tone, and intensity of the aura was also important, but I had no real idea why or how.
There was something else, too. I didn’t see auras in mirrors or through the lens of a camera, although I still saw them through normal glass, like windows and even sunglasses. What was really weird, was that auras weren’t even muted by the tinted glass on cars. Go figure.
I assumed that I, myself, must have one, but I’d no idea what it looked like, which was probably a good thing, as I suspected it might be rather murky at this moment. My emotions certainly were, and I took a deep breath to steady myself before scrambling to my feet and heading back to the castle.
Those photos weren’t going to take themselves.
Chapter 10
Olivia
‘Ah, you’re here. I was beginning to wonder whether you were going to show up.’ The voice belonged to a small, sturdy woman in her sixties, dressed in khaki trousers and a khaki shirt. She had a bunch of keys in her hand and a walkie-talkie on her belt. ‘I was just about to lock up. In fact, I will, if you don’t mind. I don’t want anyone else coming in. We’re supposed to shut at seven.’
The Colour of Death Page 5