She turned back to her bed and blinked rapidly to allow her eyes to adjust from the bright sun outside to the darkness of her room. As her eyes grew accustomed once more to the dark she noticed a sheet of paper poking out from under her duvet. Wondering what she had left lying around, she walked over and picked the sheet up from where she had recently been lying. The paper was creased in a way that led her to believe she may have slept all night on it.
However, her calm demeanour slipped into sheer panic as she recognised Jackson’s distinct block capital writing.
All that was written was a four-verse poem, entitled ‘The Ghost’ by Baudelaire. Written beneath it was a French title, ‘Le Revenant’ and at once she realised what it was. Jackson had many times recited that poem to her in French and had never told her the English version. It seemed that now he was dead, he was quite happy to share the information with her.
“Like an angel of wild eye,
I shall return to where you lie
And towards you, noiseless, glide
With the shades of eventide.
I shall give you, dusky one,
Kisses icy as the moon,
Embraces that a snake would give
As it crawled around a grave.
When the sombre morning comes
You will find your lover gone,
My place cold till night draws near.
As others reign through tenderness,
Over your life and youthfulness,
I want, myself, to reign through fear.”
Nausea washed over her and she sat down weakly on the bed; it was too much for her. Today of all days.
The sounds of Lula getting dressed woke her from her trance and she ran out into the hallway.
“You all right, D?” asked Lula, looking more fabulous than she had ever done in her life, with a sharp suit and perfect make-up.
“Uh, yeah, I just need to get washed up and dressed and I will be ready, all right? Are you OK?” she asked, mildly perturbed by her sister’s almost sinister calm.
“I’m just fine!” Lula smiled and went downstairs.
Within a couple of hours all the family had arrived at the house and Dakota found herself standing in the hallway waiting for the funeral cars to arrive to take them to the church. The silence was unbearably uncomfortable, nobody knowing what to say to each other as Lula busied herself with nothing in particular.
Dakota was standing once more facing the photograph of the Dakota Badlands her father had taken. And again that feeling of utter loneliness washed over her, and memories of her mother comforting her were enough to make the tears start.
“What’s wrong, D?” asked Lula, appearing at her elbow. Dakota noticed a faint smell of whisky, weakly masked by perfume and mouthwash.
“Nothing, just thinking of Mum and Dad,” she replied, wiping the tears from her face. “It’s a bit early for whisky, isn’t it?”
“Don’t tell me what to do, D. Let’s just try and get through the day, shall we?” her sister answered sharply.
When the cars arrived, Dakota found herself with Lula and another person she had not yet met, but was alarmed when her eyes met his to recognise something of Jackson in them.
“Oh D, this is Marlon, Jackson’s cousin. He has to ride with us because he is the only immediate family from his side,” explained Lula, unable to take her eyes off the man sat beside her.
Dakota felt badly for her sister, seeing that look of adoration that she reserved only for her Prince Jackson. She wondered if Lula would ever get over his death properly. Or would she spend the rest of her life having late night conversations with his ghost?
The thought then occurred to her that if Lula was staying awake at night, she couldn’t have been taking her medication. She realised that it wasn’t a good time to discuss this with her sister, so she contented herself with looking out of the window for the short drive to St Brigid’s church.
The church was sadly empty apart from about fifteen people, a poignant indication of Jackson’s solitary life and how he had only really had Lula and herself for many years. Dakota wondered where his father was buried and what had happened to his mother. She found it hard to believe that after all the years she had shared with Jackson, she still knew so little about him. She had tried often to find out more about his background but had been met with silences.
Dakota had declined Lula’s offer to read something at the service, but when it came to be Lula’s turn to read the poem she had chosen, she was so distraught she begged Dakota to read it for her.
She walked up to the front, nervous and desperately aware that all eyes were on her, and after a few breaths she began to read a poem that she had heard before, only last time it had come from Jackson’s lips.
“Lula wanted me to read this poem by James Joyce, on her behalf… It was one of Jackson’s favourites.” She paused before she began to read words about rain and dead lovers.
“Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
Where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
At grey moonrise.
Love, hear thou
How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
Ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
Then as now.
Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie and cold
As his sad heart has lain
Under the moongrey nettles, the black mould
And muttering rain.”
It felt odd for her to be reading a love poem to Jackson in front of everyone, but they all knew it was supposed to be from Lula’s lips, so nobody could have guessed that she was indeed speaking her own feelings for him, too. But for one moment she feared that Lula might have read something in her eyes, in the quiet tears that slipped down her cheek as she read those words. Could she have seen it? The heart of her broken in two, pulled out on show to everyone? Or was she really that practised at hiding her feelings that she managed to even hide that deepest of emotions? Loss.
Dakota could not help but shed some tears when his coffin was carried away and out into the waiting cemetery to be interred. In her mind, she could see him walking away from her in the moments before the rock struck his head and he hit the floor. She felt like he was still walking away from her and always would be.
“Oh D, this is the very graveyard where we met, where I first fell in love with him, and here we are again, only he is going to be a part of this place now. He should be here, lying on one of the graves, reading his books as though no one else mattered.” Lula sobbed as they walked slowly to where the freshly dug grave yawned up from the earth, waiting for its latest guest.
The sun that had been shining that morning was gone, and the first spots of rain were falling on the headstones, on all the graves that lay around, her family, her dear mother and father and all her dead brothers and sisters. Now she would have another grave to visit, another place to sit in the rain.
As the priest began his graveside eulogy, Dakota's eyes wandered around the quiet cemetery, over the many headstones and statues, to the distance where she could just make out the Boncoeur crypt where Lula and Jackson had consummated their relationship, and where she and Jackson had briefly paused to kiss.
Further to her right lay Pan’s Wood, a source of complete gloom in the grey daylight. What secrets those trees knew, she thought. How many tales could they tell if they could, stories of passion, of lies, secret meetings and of murder. How many people had died in those woods she did not know. There had been seven of Goldman’s stolen children, and there had been the murder she had committed – the murder of the man whose grave she was now standing over.
She looked down at his coffin and the sudden panic of being found out surged in her again, that deep down fear of the truth coming out somehow. But it passed as it always did after a moment or two and she regained control of her mind and realised that Goldman could not be so stupid as to turn himself over to the police and tell them about her
and Jackson. Anyway, she repeated again in her head, he has no evidence anymore.
She was brought back to herself by Lula’s fresh sobs as she dropped a handful of earth onto his wooden death suit, along with spots of autumn rain.
Before any amount of time had passed, they were back at home, settling into the thin wake where the few relatives were helping themselves to triangle-shaped sandwiches and sausage rolls. Lula was gliding around the gathering with her make-up re-applied and was now doing the social butterfly act. Dakota had had quite enough and disappeared into her bedroom with a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice. She lit up her cigarette and sighed with relief that her tearful pleas with Lula for some time alone had been met with sympathy.
The light early autumn rain had continued through the afternoon and yet had not let the heat escape. The gardens that lay below her window were still in the gloom, save for the occasional shudder of a bloom over-heavy with rain. In her heart, she dreamed of Jackson returning to her across the carpet of late flowers that adorned the forest floor, lavenders brushing his feet as he made his way towards her, a love as deep as all roses flowering in his heart.
Dakota turned away from the window, blowing a steady stream of cigarette smoke around the room, but paused when something on the bed caught her eye. Sitting up against her pillow was a white envelope bearing her name. Her knees turned to jelly and her hands shook a smattering of ash onto her carpet as her mind reeled and raced to make sense of why she was looking at Jackson’s handwriting for the second time that day.
Before going any further, she took a huge swig of vodka and orange as she began walking to the bed, picking up and opening the envelope.
‘My dearest D,
Meet me by the witch tree at midnight, we have to talk….
Your Lover man, till the bitter end,
Jackson.’
Her heart was beating so fast it burned, there was no mistaking his writing; she had seen it a hundred times before. She had been right; he had returned from the grave to haunt her. Why was he calling her back out to the woods? To get his revenge and kill her? Just like him to get the last word. She half laughed.
Part of her knew it could be suicide to return to the woods, but she was also aware that if it was Jackson she wanted to see him.
She also contemplated the fact that it could be Goldman, returned at last with the perfect way to get her out to the woods, a letter forged to make it seem her dead lover had returned from the grave. No matter who it was from she was going out there, in the desperate hope it was actually Jackson.
Lula noticed her sister’s pale complexion later that day when she finally made her way back downstairs to say goodbye to the mourners.
“Hey, are you feeling OK, D?” asked Lula.
“Not really. I feel sad and a bit drunk. I think I drank too much,” explained Dakota weakly.
“Don’t be sad; he isn’t gone, you know!” Lula said with a wide smile of perfect teeth.
“You really think he has come back? You don’t think it’s just your way of dealing with the grief?”
“No, I know he is here, D. Don’t question me,” replied Lula as something like rage flickered in her eyes. “I needed him so he came back, and he is going to stay. Don’t worry, you will see him soon. He told me he would let you see him soon.”
“Oh, I see.” Dakota sighed, catching sight of her ashen complexion in the mirror.
“Well, I am going to take an early night, hun. Will you be OK?”
“Oh yeah, I’m just going to drink till I pass out.” Dakota smiled and kissed her sister who gripped her tightly.
“It will be all right, D. Don’t worry, his killer will be caught, I will find out who did it and they will get what they deserve,” Lula said strongly, and after staring briefly at her sister she went up to bed.
THIRTY-FOUR: Pan’s Wood
Just before midnight Dakota put her jeans and favourite grey sweater on and hid a knife in the pocket of her coat before climbing out of her bedroom window and heading for the woods.
The roads were quiet and still and the birds had all gone to sleep, but there was life out there in the inky night. As she crossed the road to head into the woods, a fox darted out onto the road, pausing to stare at her. The moment was brief but Dakota felt as if time had slowed to a halt. There they stood, the girl and the fox, in the middle of the road a few feet apart, watching each other. There was something there between them, as though they were acknowledging the fact that they were both creatures of the night, a wildness about them that they had no control of, a need to be there while it was dark and everyone else was sleeping.
And then the fox padded away into the night to look for food, and the girl walked on into the woods to look for answers.
She could have found her way to the Witch tree and the grove blindfolded by now, but she never thought she would be out there again; the night Jackson died, so did any reason she should ever come back to their grove. But now she was not sure if it was he who had called her back or the sick individual she had hoped was dead. Goldman should have died, she thought, and with her hand on the knife in her pocket, she wondered if she was up to committing another murder.
A low wind moaned through the trees, the cackle of leaves an undercurrent she wanted to ignore. She could feel someone else nearby, watching her from the darkness, carefully moving in time with her like a shadow she did not know she needed.
Every time she paused to listen, the footsteps would stop also. A slight shuffle was all she could make out in the various sounds that filled the woods that night: the small rustling of animals in the undergrowth, the steady wind above her head and the movement of an unknown creature, stalking her towards her destination.
As the Witch Tree appeared in front of her, a wind kicked up and disturbed the already fallen leaves into a small whirlwind. But as they flew up into the air, her eyes registered the presence of many pieces of paper flying alongside the brown reminders that summer was gone.
It seemed as though someone had ripped hundreds of pages out of a book and thrown them on the forest floor. As she stepped forward, the wind brought one of those pages up against her leg, and stooping down she brought the page to her face, angling it so that the dappled moonlight could illuminate the page.
‘….I know it’s all wrong but I can’t help it, he makes me feel so loved and wanted and like I finally matter. Lula seems too crazy to care whether I am all right or not, Jackson knows how to look after me…’
Dakota’s head spun as she realised she was reading a page from her own diary.
The forest floor felt like it was rising up to meet her as her head grew dizzy and a wave of nausea crept up from her belly.
Her diaries were the only way she had ever been able to talk about her life and she had kept them secret and safe beneath one of the floorboards in her room for as long as she had been writing them, which was since she was nine years old. She had written down every single experience she’d had since that age in detail and had been glad she could express herself freely in those pages.
A lifetime of secrets all in those books, secrets that she had always hoped would stay between her and those lined pages. But someone had found them and someone was letting her know that all the evidence the police needed to prove she had murdered Jackson was right there.
Her entire body was shaking as she ran grabbing every page she could get her hands on before they blew away into the grim distance of the woods. Her arms full of paper and her heart hammering its way out of her chest, she only stopped when something caught her eye.
Ahead of her, just beyond the Witch Tree, she could see the burning tip of a cigarette glowing around the entrance to the grove. Only the trees and leaves moved as Dakota felt her heart stop in her chest with fear, her eyes glued to the orange dot that glowed then dimmed as the owner sucked the air out of it.
Another movement caught her eye then. To the left of the grove she could see the outline of a figure shaded from the moonlig
ht by the trees. Dakota wanted to speak, to ask who was out there, but her throat felt as though it had collapsed.
Jackson stepped out of the trees and into the moonlight. Dakota fell to her knees. The sight of him had taken all the energy out of her body. He had come back from the dead; Lula wasn’t crazy – he was really there. He stared at her intently, with neither hate nor love in his eyes. His skin was the colour of the sky just before it snows and his eyes looked bluer than ever. Every inch of her body was crying out for him, every cell in her body was bursting with love for him, and in turn her heart felt like it was going to explode with the pain of having lost him. She had killed him, and she missed him more than she had ever missed her parents. In those few moments while she looked at his ghostly form standing in the clearing, she realised she could never live without him, and she prayed that he had come back to kill her.
“Jackson,” she whispered through a cracked and suddenly useless throat.
“I think I’d offer an apology if I were you,” said another voice from the grove. At first she couldn’t place it, but she did know it. It just seemed like her mind had capsized and all she had ever known was slightly foggy in her mind.
As the wind picked up again and blew a page from her diary into her face, Dakota felt her heart seize up as Lula stepped out of the grove, one of Dakota’s diaries in her hand.
THIRTY-FIVE: The Bitter End
Dakota was frozen to the spot as her eyes flicked from Jackson, now leaning arms crossed against the Witch Tree, to her sister, smoking and smiling in a way Dakota had never seen before. Perhaps it was the fact that her mind was racing so fast that her body had lost all movement, but she couldn’t make out singular thoughts anymore, nor could she move from her kneeling position in the centre of the clearing.
“Surprised? I bet you are, you sneaky little thing!” Lula laughed, stubbing her cigarette out on the side of a tree. “Thought it was just going to be you and your Loverman, huh? Sorry to disappoint but I thought I should make an appearance. You know how it is.”
Purgatory Hotel Page 24