Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1)

by N. B. Roberts

  Slowly I raised my hands and laid them on his shoulders for support. I was about to ask if this was his love for me. He’d already stopped. His arms folded around me and his chin rested against my forehead as he whispered –

  ‘And how could I? To have you on those terms would mean losing you on all others. You’ll never understand what it’s like from where I stand, Alex. It’s a long life to you. To me, it’s a day. Oh, Alex! How can I invite you to sit here with me, when the Sword of Damocles hangs above my head? To share my burden, when this burden cannot be halved. But what– what would you have me do? You know I cannot come to you; I’m detained here in darkness. I’m kept from means of death!’

  In that moment I wanted to give in, or promise to someday. I truly felt for him, but I felt for myself too! I had to respect my own wishes. I couldn’t endure one lifetime of hiding in the shadows, let alone forever. Pretending to be something I’m not, chasing Death and killing to survive, and looking at that Thing in the mirror! It wasn’t natural – it was abominable! I couldn’t get this truth out of my heart. Though Love did its best to pin blinkers to my head so that the only road I saw was one – one which led to an everlasting future with Thom – whose real name I should never learn. I couldn’t agree to it.

  He took my hand and placed it over his heart. It was still. He put his palm to mine. I could see it beating in his eyes, rapidly.

  ‘This is my favourite sound in the world,’ he said. ‘How could I turn it off?’

  Though he said this with some conviction, he shook his head to the idea of giving in to me. He wasn’t going to let me go easily and I knew it. Just as he knew it would be wrong to choose the life he had. Though surely wrong can only exist by comparison? And it felt right to love him. Nevertheless, my decision was fixed. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t follow. He would follow. Therein lay my dilemma: that he possessed such abilities was the Achilles heel of my plan. I couldn’t even run let alone hide; try as I might. Absolutely nothing could stop him. My only way was to succeed in reasoning with him.

  ‘There is such irony in this!’ he exclaimed, keeping hold of me. ‘Of all the talk of people professing to want this dark curse! To live forever, young, powerful, to never know sickness or death! And to whom has the opportunity been given? To someone who is innately so accepting of the natural way of things! Even when Nature reveals a new breed to you, there you are with your obstinacy! I swear I’ve never met anyone like you. Could I watch you grow old and die, Alex? No! I couldn’t! – I won’t! The thought drives me mad!’

  ‘Would you make me into that Thing?’

  To this he released me altogether and took a step back. Some rational thinking must have been taking place behind those furious eyes. He knew it was wrong to ask this, to expect this of me, and worse to force it on me. An epic battle went on in his mind, and I saw it really dawn on him, as he seemed to accept it. I felt a door swing open to freedom, coaxing me there with a promise of pain.

  ‘And what shall I do when you’re gone?’ he muttered almost to himself, as his silent soles wandered the room. ‘Where to go from here? I said I was cursed.’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ I whispered. ‘I wish I could help you. Surely there must be others in the world like you. Perhaps there’s more knowledge out there.’

  He laughed scornfully. ‘A manual perhaps exists somewhere, awaiting my discovery. Next you’ll tell me to just forget you!’ He clicked his fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, fighting back tears.

  ‘You won’t come back, will you?’

  I shook my head and lifted the necklace he’d given me.

  ‘Don’t remove that, Alex, I beg you! If you do love me you’ll treasure it – in place of me.’

  ‘I do love you,’ I whispered.

  I felt an ache in my chest. But I needed to survive this. I needed to retain my soul, and to do that I would have to sacrifice both our happiness. I knew that what I did now I’d have to stick to. No going back, I told myself. It was the hardest decision I’d ever had to make. It felt like deciding whether to cut my own arm off, knowing the action was necessary to survive.

  ‘So this is what death feels like!’ he muttered. ‘You’re killing me; the last part of me that was human.’

  He stood very still. I made my way slowly to the door. It was lighter outside, and I could hear the birds had risen. Very soon I would be leaving him in pain and I knew it. I couldn’t bear it. My emotions got the better of me and I wept in front of him.

  ‘Oh, Alex, please don’t cry.’

  ‘That is like telling the fire, “Don’t burn!”’

  ‘I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.’ He watched me wipe my tears. ‘I promise I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll watch you grow old, if you wish. I won’t pester you to change. Alex, stay with me, just as you are. Maybe one day you might reconsider, by yourself I mean.’

  ‘I’m not going to let you watch me grow old. I’m not going to let temptation get the better of you. I’m never going to change my mind about becoming what you are. I’d rather love and lose, remembering it for what it is than mutilate it and watch it turn to resentment.’

  I went over to him and took his hand. I kissed it before turning for the door, moving quickly, for fear of changing my mind. I knew that the moment I was away from him it would all become so real. I forced myself to open it.

  ‘Use anger,’ he said, as I was about to close the door behind me. ‘Be angry with me, Alex. It will aid you better than despair.’

  ‘I can’t–’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘Will you?’ I looked back to him.

  He moved his eyes in another direction and shook his head.

  I left the Cray at the break of dawn. The fog was thick as fallen cloud, dragging across the ground. Broken-winged. Unable to rise up again. That early spring was in reverse. The dew was not dew at all, but a shroud of ice on the trees and their new leaves, and their berries. Over the fields, paths, the roads, cars and every item between. Night had shelled out a fine wintry icing to freeze spring in its stride.

  I walked four miles in his fog, in a trance until I reached home where it thickened. I knew he’d followed me. I knew now he’d always followed me, to see me home safe. Once I closed the door on it, I felt absolutely without hope.

  Twenty-eight

  DIARY

  ‘Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.’

  – Carl Gustav Jung, Memories, dreams, reflections

  9 March, 12:45 P.M. – I’m looking up flights to Scotland: London Stansted to Glasgow Prestwick. I have to get away. There’s one for tomorrow at noon with a flashing ‘LAST SEATS’ beside it.

  It’s been three days since I left the Cray and I don’t have much recollection of how I’ve spent them. I’ve a vague glimpse into memory of walking around like a zombie, or sitting perfectly still for hours, staring into oblivion, while shock has a hold on me. Without realising it, at first, I’ve found myself doing something I haven’t done since junior school. I’ve been praying – praying for him, constantly, aloud, and under my breath. If only I knew for sure whether it will do any good.

  It’ll be dark soon and his fog will be outside again, like last night and the night before. Although I knew he might stay close, I’m sure he won’t break his promise. Yet part of me wishes he would– I mustn’t write about him! I made my choice. But I keep wondering, as according to legend, if he can enter my house without invitation? I wish I’d asked him that.

  2 P.M. – I never use this back bedroom. It’s small and dark with just a writing desk and boxes of my uncle’s old books. I started this diary to empty my thoughts and feelings into it. Maybe it will keep me from losing my mind. Something about writing it down, pouring it out, I think might help. I have to do something to try to sleep. After hours lying awake, too distressed to close my eyes, I end up falling into a slumber of sorts. I don’t dream anythi
ng that I can remember, which is unusual for me, and a relief. It’s like there’s been a trade of places between my conscious and unconscious mind. I am living the nightmare I might usually dream, and I sleep peacefully. It’s my only refuge, when I can get to it. If I could just be someone else for a day; long enough to have a rest from thinking it all over – from reminding myself despairingly that we can’t be together. But I can’t, and my mind just wants to replay the events over and over, though I already know how it ends.

  I’ve not been to work in New Cromley and I’m not going back. Everything has changed; I must change too. To sit on that bus again which took me to the Cray, when I’ve spent so much time on it looking forward to seeing him. No. I’m writing another letter of apology and resignation. Mrs Evans must have received my letter by now. I know I wrote something along the lines of ‘two jobs are too much for me’. I didn’t want them to think it had anything to do with…

  7 P.M. – I’ve covered all the mirrors with throws and blankets. I kept fearing I’d see that Thing in one. On glimpsing at my own image, I’ve noticed a stress line in my forehead from where I’ve been crying so hard. It’s deep, resembling a crack like it’s been carved there with a knife. It’s reddened too, marking me, as if I’ve been burnt with a piece of the Sacred Wafer. Slowly downward I spiral to the nethermost pit of insanity! For a few minutes in perhaps a few hours, I resurface to breathe level-headedness before drowning resumes.

  Later. – I’ve packed my suitcase. The task of locating my passport is proving more laborious than I expected. At least it keeps me occupied. Not a moment ago I found a photo of my dad. One of the few I have. He’s holding me as a baby, happily nestled against his chest. I recognise the passé shirt he’s wearing as one of his old favourites. Under his thick red beard there’s a smile. I have a few scratched memories of him kissing me. I remember the bristles of his beard tickling my cheek. Were we happy once? On the back, scribbled in large uncoordinated letters are our names. I don’t remember writing them, but I know my handwriting of eight years old. The word ‘dad’ is alien to me. I only remember using it once, in the form of ‘daddy’. I had pressed myself against the living room window, calling out to him not to leave. He was abandoning us. I know nothing else. Then he died. I’m already such a miserable creature. I didn’t need to find this picture!

  I’ve opened a drawer to put it with my other photos, and there on top is my passport.

  10 March. – Not yet dawn. I’ve managed a few hours in peaceful slumber. Outside is a mystery due to the thickset fog. He’s within my reach – I mustn’t fail myself. I’m checking emails for distraction while penning this down. Holly’s emailed me a bunch of stuff we could do while I’m visiting. She’s so excited that I’m practically on my way. I feel a blow that I’m going to see her for the wrong reasons. Her email is hardly legible where she’s darting from one question to another about my motives. I’ll reply in a sec that I’m excited to see her soon, and that I must go to catch my train.

  8 A.M. – It’s daylight and cloudy, but the air is clear, which means the coast is. There or not, his suffering haunts me, and it’s too much of a temptation to end it. Will he know I’ve gone when he returns tonight?

  8:30 A.M. – I’ve just boarded my train for London, Cannon Street. It’s rush-hour, very cramped. I can hear passengers fighting for space with a ‘move down please!’ being the most common command. People completely surround me, and yet I feel utterly alone. – We’re almost at London Bridge where I’ll have to change.

  11:45 A.M. – I’m aboard my plane! Shockingly, I didn’t pull back in the gateway to prolong a melodramatic moment of saying goodbye to the path I’ve left behind. I’m trying to leave strong and decisive. But it’s only an act. I’m writing as we’re making for the runway.

  We’re off! Heading for the clouds, turning for north. As we lifted from the tarmac I felt a part of me detach and get left behind. But my head is clearer for it despite the popping in my ears. A huge part of me, I admit, hoped he’d be at the airport to stop me. How fickle. I’ve had to expel that hope. Once I make room for hope, suddenly, there’ll be room for nothing else. Though the choice itself doesn’t feel like a choice at all – it feels choiceless.

  I won’t tell my sister a thing about all this. She’d probably commit me, if I don’t do it first. She knows I’ve met someone, so I’ll just let her think it’s over and that I’m not ready to face questions. She’s good at taking hints, and I don’t want to enter into a lot of lies.

  Later. – It’s freezing here! I’m ashamed that in the two years Holly’s been living in Lanarkshire, this is my first visit.

  Holly is driving as I write this, and she needs to concentrate on where she’s going. So I’ve a good excuse not to make chitchat. She met me at arrivals and gave me such a hug I got emotional from just the relief of seeing her again. People used to say I was her spitting image when we were younger. Now we look so different. I apologised that I haven’t brought an engagement gift with me. – She’s looking at me now as we sit at traffic lights. Knowing her she’s quietly concerned as I scribble away. I’m going to have to carry my diary around with me, like a paranoid hermit, in case someone finds and reads it.

  10 P.M. – I’m on a foldout bed in Holly’s spare room, and can hear her through the wall playing her Nintendo DS. Before she went to bed I asked her to remove the full-length mirror that stood in the corner. She thought it was a strange request, but seeing the look of pleading and perhaps apprehension on my face, she did it without asking any of the obvious questions. I know it has nothing to do with the glass, but the reflection I once saw. I just feel better that it’s not in here. I’d keep looking at it. It’s not like it’s some portal where that Thing could crawl out, but the image of it will haunt me forever. The way it looked at me! I’ll never sleep tonight. I’m suddenly too apprehensive about the dreams in store for me. I feel like my mind has done with the safe haven it’s been providing. Thinking about it to this extent probably won’t help. I’ll put this away now and try to rest.

  11 March, 3 A.M. – An odd-shaped shadow crossed the room! I put my lamp on, but can’t see– I conclude it’s only a tree outside, bending to a sudden gale. The speed of it frightened me to having palpitations. I could deal with Thom turning up, but the idea of his shadow makes me think of it as in league with the demon, and not the man.

  8 A.M. – I don’t want to dwell on how I spent the rest of last night awake. I can only say I was conscious and in hell. On lying back down after seeing the shadow, I sobbed... in disappointment that it was not him.

  Holly’s in the kitchen making coffee. She just peered round the door, and in her usual rough way of handling me when I’m low and sensitive, she asked with disregard, ‘Are you still alive?’

  Tired as I am, I groaned in response.

  ‘Euan’s gone to work,’ she says, ‘so feel free to fester all day in your pyjamas, soap dodger!’

  Euan’s a nice guy, a little unsociable, which suits me at the moment. Holly works for the Scottish Ambulance Service, and gets weeks on and off in chunks. Luckily for me she doesn’t return to work until the 22nd. She’s very cool with what she does; saving people’s lives. I asked her how work has been and she replied with a smile, ‘I didn’t have a cardiac all day Saturday!’

  She says she’ll take me to the Highlands today if I feel up to it. I’d better leave this here and go out to her.

  10 A.M. – As I’m trying to write this, Holly’s steering the car from side to side deliberately to jog me. I suppose I should be paying attention to the sightseeing, but I don’t want to stop writing. There’s something in this, in writing it down. It feels soothing as I pour things out. I might as well record what she’s now going on about.

  ‘Nope, he’s not worth it!’ she’s saying, as if answering my thoughts (but evidently is not).

  ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I whispered.

  ‘Aye!�
� she says, in her quasi-Glaswegian accent. ‘You will. Screw him; he’s a loser!’

  My stomach’s twisting up. I pity him! How could I have left him? But of course most people will assume that if I’m this low over a man he must have dumped me. Nothing else would make sense. Well, except that which only I know.

  ‘I’d like to give him a piece of my mind for whatever he’s done to upset you!’

  If she knew the reason, she would perhaps rethink that one.

  She’s imitating the Scot’s again. ‘I’ll get ya a nice lad from round here, lassie! One that dinnae wear a skirt.’ She’s laughing, and I have to laugh too. It’s not the best impression she does.

  We’re in the Highlands on a narrow stretch of road that rises and falls continuously, buried against a steep hillside patched with snow. It’s so picturesque. I’m glad I brought my sketchbook to keep me busy. There’s a river far-off running through a landscape of tussocky moorland, bordered by a run of low craggy hills. Driving over these high narrow roads reminds me of a rollercoaster, only smoother and much more dangerous. She’s always been too daring behind the wheel in my opinion, but what I call cocky she calls confident. It’s a fine day. I’m surprised we haven’t passed any other cars. We’re on an empty road now called Craig something (I’m sure every signpost we pass has at least two destinations beginning with ‘Craig’). She’s pointing out Ben Lomond ahead, which cuts against the bright blue sky. Great puffs of white smoke are rising off its peak and join with a border of cloud just above it.

  1 P.M. – We’re driving farther on after collecting clasts of white quartz from the shores of Loch Lomond. I took pictures from the pier and managed to capture the faint arc of a rainbow on the other side of the loch. We’ve spent about an hour here but it’s too cold to stay longer. I wish we could; it’s so diverting. – The speedometer is in shock: Holly’s slowing down. I’m shocked; it’s an open road. This means we’re lost. She’s cursing but I won’t attempt to note it down, even if I could keep up. She’s rounded it all off with –