by J. A. Baker
Gareth didn’t ask if she was still drinking. Would it have made any difference to his decision if she told him she hasn’t touched a drop in over six months? Probably not. His mind was made up. She could tell by his stance and the way he looked at her. She disgusts him and it hurts knowing that. But it’s all too late. Everything is way, way too late.
A shape shifts and moves behind her. Her spine stiffens in response. This house is cursed. They should have moved years ago. She wanted to but Russ wouldn’t hear of it. Said there was no reason to go anywhere else. He couldn’t see it – all the damage he had caused. He had a selective memory, sifting out all the bad things, pretending none of it ever happened. He was far less aggressive in the latter part of his life and seemed to have forgotten what had gone before. In her mind it all grew, morphed into a monster of a memory, especially since giving up the drink. It gave her a modicum of clarity, which wasn’t always a good thing. Some things are best left tucked away in the recesses of your brain; kept as unremembered images which only wreak havoc if toyed with and set free.
Another movement followed by a rustle behind her causes her to shuffle her body round. From behind the curtains there is the sound of something vibrating. All of a sudden, a cat leaps out from behind the fabric and lands on her lap with a thud.
‘Sybil! For God’s sake. You almost gave me a heart attack you stupid beast!’
She runs her fingers through the cat’s thick, silky fur.
‘I thought you were outside. Are you wanting to go out? Is that it?’
She picks up the animal and walks to the front door. She opens it and scans the nearby area before depositing the cat outside. Gareth is no longer around. He has gone; nowhere to be seen.
‘Go on, you silly old cat. Go and find your real owners and stop bothering me.’
She closes the door, knowing it will be back when it’s hungry. It’s been hanging around her for a few weeks since she started feeding it. She has no idea what its real name is. She named it Sybil after a close friend who died last year. Her long time friend, Sybil, was a feline fiend, keeping dozens of cats until her house was practically overrun with the little blighters. They were all taken away by the council when she died, and her house given a deep clean by a group of men in white overalls. A young couple live there now. They’ve laid a patio and had new windows put in. Most of the houses around here have young families in them or are being run as B&Bs. There’s only Trish left out of all the original people who moved onto the road back in the day. She’s surrounded by youngsters, people who are too busy to even notice her. She doesn’t mind it too much. She would rather be left alone than have people pushing their noses into her business. They’re not her sort of people anyway – all too liberal and flowery with their showy, ostentatious houses that reek of money. Give her a good, solid family who all know their place any day, not these namby-pamby do-gooders who think it’s their God-given right to tell others how to live their lives.
There’s one sweet young thing – a single parent who works at the local off licence and lives three doors down. Things are tight for her money wise, and she continually works extra hours to make ends meet. She’s always worth the time. Trish will do anything to help her out, but the others – brisk, efficient young things with high-minded ideologies and few manners – she has no time for them and she is pretty sure the feeling is mutual. That’s up to them. She has made her mistakes along the way – lots of them – but she has never judged others. Not once.
These people, however, have a completely different mindset; she sees them gathered in their gardens together, knocking back their homemade organic wine, and can hear them putting the world to rights, clicking their tongues at those who dare to be different to them, slating those beneath them who barely have two farthings to rub together. They have no idea what it feels like to have to struggle through life, to have to put up with your lot or get caught up in the drink to try to forget it. Not a bloody clue. None of them would survive if a hard time presented itself to them gift wrapped. They’re all so used to being carried through life with no real stresses or strains to bother them that they would all fall flat on their faces if their worlds were turned upside down by a sudden tragedy. She sees them watching her, possibly even pitying her after the death of Russ. One of them even sent a condolence card on the day of his funeral. She tore it up and put it in the bin. She doesn’t need their pity or sympathy. She’ll manage just fine on her own.
She doesn’t hear the door at first. Her thoughts are elsewhere – Russ, Gareth, past times… Eva. It pierces her brain like shrapnel as it comes again; a deep thudding that echoes throughout the room, puncturing her thoughts, jolting her back to the present.
Her muscles ache as she forces her body out of the chair. She feels far older than she actually is, her limbs aching and throbbing with every movement. The top of her neck is in permanent pain and her hips feel as if she is being repeatedly prodded with sharp pins. Still, at least she’s here. Not like some of her friends who went at a very young age. Lifestyle-related deaths they call them nowadays, don’t they? Brought on by drinking and smoking and a piss-poor diet. She will go the same way no doubt, although hopefully not for a good few years yet.
She yanks open the door, her thoughts too full of other things to register who it is that is standing there staring at her. It takes a few seconds. And then she realises. Trish feels herself go faint. It’s her. Eva. Trish’s head spins, the floor sways under her feet. She grasps the doorjamb to steady herself and swallows hard hoping she has managed to cover up her shock. She should have expected this. She just didn’t expect it this soon after Gareth’s rapid departure. Everything seems to be happening at once with no time in between to catch her breath or mentally prepare herself.
She stares at the fragile-looking creature before her. The wind buffets Eva’s hair, fanning the long, auburn locks into a peacock’s tail. Her skin is pale and her eyes are a striking shade of green. She is a real beauty. Her features are all Russ’s. He may have had his faults but there was no way of avoiding the fact that Russ was a handsome man, and Eva, this tall, winsome woman standing on her doorstep, is his double. That was the first thing she noticed when she saw her in town.
Eva sees her and lets out a small shriek.
‘You!’ Is all Eva can say to her. She lifts her finger and points in Trish’s face, her fist shaking, her skin freezing as Trish reaches out to take her hand. She snatches it away, her features contorting as fury envelops her, changing her face into something starkly different to the delicate beauty she was just a few moments before.
Trish steps back, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. This isn’t how she wanted it to be. She had always hoped that if Eva ever did find her, their reunion would be in a neutral environment, somewhere that didn’t remind her of what had gone before. But it isn’t. It’s here and it’s happening right now and she has to find a way round it all; a way of dealing with it and making the best of a bad job.
‘Come in and we’ll talk,’ is all she can say as Eva stalks past her, pushing her hard against the wall. Trish rubs the base of her spine where she connects with the plaster. Her alcohol-soaked post-menopausal bones don’t take well to meeting with a hard surface. She’ll have a huge bruise there later but it doesn’t matter. This is Eva’s payback; her chance to get even. Trish follows her into the living room and observes the deep scowl on her estranged daughter’s face. And judging by the hatred exuding from her, this is just the beginning…
25
Gareth
He can leave here now and go back London. Meeting his mother didn’t answer all of his questions but he got as much out of her as he could. She has never been one for quiet reflection or soul baring. He picks up his pace and heads back to his hotel. He can finally step away from it all and go back to London knowing he did what he could. The old woman will die at some point and the relevant authorities will contact him to sort out her estate, but that’s something he will deal with when it occurs. F
or now he can concentrate on the rest of his life while she lives hers. He cares not a jot what she does with it. She can drink herself into a stupor if that’s how she wants it. It’s not his problem any more.
He stops by the swing bridge, briefly considering going to see Eva. Just one last visit to tell her exactly what he thinks of her. If he really felt like it, he could force her back here, to his mother’s house, and have it out with the both of them. He could tell the old woman exactly what her maniac daughter did, just to see their faces, to gain some pleasure from seeing their horror and misery. But he’s better than that. He is better than the pair of them put together, and he will emerge from the wreckage of this whole thing stronger and more resilient than ever. He has no idea what Eva will do with the rest of her life and right now he really doesn’t give a shit. There will be no contact from him and he hopes she at least has the good grace to do the same in return.
A group of tourists bustles its way up the steps, forcing Gareth back out of the way. One of them smiles at him and offers her apologies. He smiles back and turns away. He has no anger left in him. It has evaporated and he hopes it never returns. Anger is for the weak and the hopeless. They are furious at their lot in life and lash out to blame others. He doesn’t want to be one of those people. He has done more than his fair share of blaming over the past few weeks and it’s time to move on.
He decides against a visit into town and instead goes back to his hotel. There is no sign of Celia, and Gareth finds himself grateful for the smallest of mercies as he trudges up the stairs to his room. He can be packed and out of this place in no time at all. Another overnight stop to catch a connecting train back to London doesn’t faze him in the slightest. He contacted work when he arrived and spun a tale about a family emergency and that he would be back as soon as he could.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picks up his phone and messages his boss telling him he’ll be back in a day or two. He will breeze into work as if nothing has happened even though everything has. His life has once again been through the wringer and he has survived. Nobody will know anything about it and things will go on as they always have, which is exactly what he wants. This is a chapter of his life he wants to shut and never re-open.
Using his phone, he books a ticket back to London, back to the place he belongs. He will leave here later once he’s packed and has eaten and had a coffee to help rejuvenate him. His train doesn’t depart until later in the afternoon which leaves him plenty of time.
Gareth glances around the room at the clothes scattered. He needs to buy some sort of overnight bag to carry his things back in. A last visit back to town means he can get some food, return to his hotel and pack before checking out. He will have to hang around Whitby for a few hours before his train leaves, which is a real pain, but that’s just how it is. At least he’s going home today. That’s all he needs to think about. Everything and everyone else can go to hell.
26
Celia
Celia bustles behind the queue of people, her tray clasped tightly between her fingers. Why are people so slow? Can she not even get a coffee in this town without it becoming some sort of major ordeal? She shuffles along behind an elderly man who looks and smells like he has slept in his clothes. An odour emanates from him that makes Celia want to gag. If she doesn’t get something to eat and drink pretty soon and move away from this man, she feels sure she will scream.
The couple serving behind the counter suddenly sense the growing air of discontentment from the escalating line of disgruntled customers, and decide to pick up their pace, quickly filling up trays with plates of food and handing out cups of steaming tea and coffee.
Celia snatches hers, hands over her money and slinks off to sit in the corner. The last thing she wants to do is strike up a conversation with anybody close by. She fears she will descend into a near meltdown if she doesn’t get some caffeine and food into her system in the next five minutes.
She watches everybody bustle past as she launches into her breakfast. They troop in, red-faced and reeking of the cold air from outside.
It doesn’t take her long to demolish the food on her plate and drain her cup. She sits back, finally replete and ready to undertake anything. The fog in her head has cleared and she is thinking straight again. Last night knocked her off balance. She has spent the morning wandering around feeling dazed and unable to function properly but now she is back on form, her thoughts clear, her mind razor sharp.
She pushes her chair back, pulls her collar up and strides through the centre aisle of the cafe out into the brightness of the daylight.
It’s still relatively early and there are only a handful of people about. She thinks about what she will say when she sees Eva’s parents at the door. She doesn’t know these people and has to get them to see things from her point of view. It may get a bit heated and if it does she will have to watch herself. She has a tendency to lose her self-control. Like the time she had the argument with a former colleague about something Celia was purported to have said about her. On that occasion, Celia’s charm was in short supply and she lashed out and caught the woman in the face with her hand as she was trying to walk away. It was a silly accident but none of the other staff or the manager seemed to see it that way and Celia was asked to leave. It was a low paid job in a small shop but the stigma of it still stung.
Since working at the hospital, she has managed to get along with everybody. No problems at all. She did hear on the grapevine that shortly after the altercation with the other lady, the woman in question was given her marching orders for having her hand in the till. Just goes to show that it wasn’t all Celia’s fault and other people also have their failings and defects. That always makes her feel better. So often she has been blamed for things that simply weren’t her doing. It seems that people are always keen to drag her down and point the finger. But not any more. She has had enough of being trodden underfoot by everyone around her. From now on she is going to be more assertive and make sure people listen to what she has to say instead of casting her aside like a worn-out old sock.
The walk there takes just a few minutes. She feels an unexpected heart flutter as she knocks on the old oak door, hoping the earlier visitor has left. Her chest tightens and she finds herself gasping slightly to get enough oxygen into her lungs. This isn’t like her. She is normally a lot tougher than this, but then again, this is a fairly important event that she is about to commit herself to. What she is about to say will determine whether or not Eva’s parents decide to take their daughter back into the fold. She is about to make sure they don’t. She can’t let that happen. She simply cannot lose Eva all over again. Eva’s move to London was bad enough but at least they kept in touch. If Eva gets her feet tucked under this particular table, Celia fears she will never see her again and that is something she could not cope with. She simply will not allow it.
Celia knocks again and holds her breath as a murmur and a shuffling noise comes from the other side of the door. This is it. She has to be prepared. She has no script rehearsed in her head, no idea of what she will say or how she will greet the person who opens it to her. She curls her hands into tight fists and stuffs them into her pocket, her nails digging into her hot, creased palms.
Her face burns as the door opens with a dramatic creak. Celia holds her breath and doesn’t exhale again until she sees who is behind the door. The heat escapes from her in a hot rush of relief as she stares at the person standing there staring back at her.
She moves forward, her left foot placed on the step, her hand outstretched as she speaks. Her voice feels detached from her body, as if the words she is saying belong to somebody else. Except of course they don’t. She is here now, and she has to convince this person that letting her in their home is a good idea. She is a stranger to them so she is going to have to use all her powers of persuasion to get them on her side. This is it. This is why she is here. She is doing this for Eva, for her, for the future of their friendship and she has to get it rig
ht. No room for errors or slip ups. Every word counts.
‘Hi there,’ Celia says softly, careful not to project her voice or make it too powerful. ‘I was just wondering if I could speak to you about a personal matter regarding your daughter? I won’t keep you for too long.’
Celia holds her breath. Her hand remains outstretched. Sometimes she surprises herself with the things she says and does. There is a pause as she waits for a response. She runs the risk of being ejected, of having a door slammed in her face for the second time this morning. But then the strangest thing happens. The person stands to one side and sweeps behind her to beckon Celia inside.
As tentatively as she can, Celia steps inside into the shadows and takes a deep and prolonged breath, heat wafting around her, highlighting the slightly stale odour of tobacco and unwashed clothes that hangs heavily in the air.
No room for error, she repeats to herself in a mantra fashion, as she follows the older woman into the living room. Got to get this right if she is to get Eva back and keep her. That’s what she wants. It’s all she’s ever wanted. Just Eva and Celia back how they were years ago, before life and other people dragged them apart. Celia knows it now; she will go to any lengths to restore things to how they were. All these years and she has put her moods and unhappiness down to the fact that her boyfriends were useless or her job was unfulfilling or a myriad of other reasons, but in actual fact it’s Eva. It has always been Eva. And now she has found her, Celia will make damn sure she doesn’t lose her.
Celia’s legs almost fail her as she walks into the living room and sees her sitting there. She quickly recovers. A slight pulse visible through her sweater is the only tell-tale sign that anything is amiss. Other than that she is every inch the composed, calm individual.