“Does anyone live there?”
“No. It’s been empty for…” She puffs out her cheeks. “… going on fifty years now. Last folks moved out when I was a girl and the place was all locked up, although that didn’t stop us climbing over and playing in there. We used to call it the haunted house, so it was a bit of a dare for us kids to sneak up to it and see if we could see the ghost. It’s fallen into wrack and ruin since, too dangerous even for the druggies and winos. Council finally came and declared it unsafe a couple of years ago, chained and locked it. Nobody’s been near it since. Shame really.”
“So there is a way in? A gate?”
“Round the front, off the Dalmedie Road, but like I said, it’s all chained and locked. You can’t get in. Do you mind if I ask why you want to know?”
“I can see it from my flat, and I absolutely love old places,” says Grace. “Would you happen to know if there is a private graveyard in there?”
The woman nods. “Actually … yes, there is. It was probably quite pretty in its day. Neglected now of course. We used to call it–”
“The Garden of Stones?”
“How did you know that?”
“I just knew it would be.” Grace beams at the woman. “Thank you so very much. You have been brilliant.”
“Pleasure, I’m sure.”
A little more walking, another turn, and Grace is at the main entrance to the long abandoned Larches, standing before the chained together gates with their ornate wrought iron birds and butterflies and ears of wheat.
Chapter 12
An electronic chirping and beeping has Grace scrabbling for her handbag. Instead of rooting about in its depths, she tips the contents onto the sofa and picks up her viciously vibrating mobile phone.
Unknown number. Should she risk answering it? If it’s a cold caller trying to tell her she can claim for a mis-sold PPI, she might just tear him off a strip, she’s in that sort of mood.
“Hello?”
“Grace? It’s Malcolm Pettit. You missed your appointment. Are you okay?”
How did he get her number? She didn’t give it to him. Alec of course. Trying to be helpful as usual.
“Grace, are you there?”
Sigh. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Where were you? I was worried. Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you not come? The coffee went cold and I had to eat all the biscuits myself.”
“I’ve been busy,” she says. “I forgot.”
Liar.
“I understand you’ve moved.”
“Yes.”
“Nice place? Settling in?”
“Yes, to both.”
“Good. It’s a positive step, moving forward.” A long pause. “Shall we make another appointment?” he says. “I’m free tomorrow afternoon, if you’re not too busy.”
Subtle. Give her next to no notice, no time to make excuses.
“You still want to see me?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? You are my number one client.”
“I thought … after what I said last time … about the bruises on my arm …” Pause. “I got the idea you didn’t believe me and thought I was making it up for attention, to get more time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She hears him sniff. “I will admit, I was a bit taken aback by your explanation–”
He is diplomatic if nothing else. He missed out the words ‘frankly preposterous’.
“–and, I will admit, I didn’t know how to respond for the best at the time. It was very unprofessional of me. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression.” Pause. “Come and see me tomorrow afternoon, Grace. We can talk about it.”
Silence.
“Grace?”
She catches her top lip against her bottom teeth and bites into it, closing her eyes. “Okay,” she says.
“Smashing. How does three o’clock suit?”
“I have to suss out the bus timetable, but I’ll try my best to be on time.”
“I can wait for you. I have nothing else on. See you then, then. Take care. Cheerio.”
The call ends, yet she holds onto the mobile phone, sighs and drops the device back into her bag. She had planned to go back to the Larches tomorrow, to have a look around and then go to the garden and tell Colin all about it.
It will have to wait now.
Mal picks up the cafetiere and fills his cup. “Tell me how you’ve been getting on. Are you finding the meditation any easier?”
“Yes,” says Grace. “Much.”
“And have you been anywhere interesting?”
“The same place as before.”
“The garden? Was your imaginary friend there, too?”
“Yes. And this time he didn’t just try and throw me out … he tried to kill me instead.”
Mal’s hand jerks, sloshing coffee over the side of her cup and into the saucer. “Excuse me?”
“He tried to slice me open with a scythe. Now you tell me, doctor, what better symbol of death is there than that?”
Mal dabs at the spilled coffee with his handkerchief. “What happened?”
“I’d just put the dinner on and had time for a glass of wine before Alec and Den got home, so I settled down for a little quiet contemplation. I got to the garden and there he was, Colin, running something over the blade of this great big scythe. I say hello and he swings round, scythe in hand, and slices my top open. For a second I thought he’d split me in two. I didn’t dare move in case both halves slid apart.”
“Obviously he hadn’t.”
“No, but it scared the living crap out of me.”
“He couldn’t really have killed you, you know?”
She leans forward in her chair. “I was going to ask you about that. What it means. Some people say that if you die in your dream, you die in real life.”
“Not true,” Mal says. “Dying in your dream doesn’t mean physical death. It usually means the end of something before a new beginning.”
“Ah.”
“Does that mean something to you? Do you think something is coming to an end?”
“I did.”
And now he understands what she means. “Ahh, you thought our relationship was over … after last time?”
“Yes. Could that be relevant?”
“If it’s been playing on your mind, very possibly.”
“And the new beginning?”
“You’ve just moved into your flat. You’re on your own for the first time. The start of a new chapter of your life. Looks like things are starting to fall into place for you at last. I’d call that a new beginning, wouldn’t you?”
Chapter 13
They are sitting in the dappled shade of the beech tree. Colin is leaning with his back against the trunk, the peak of his cap pulled down low over his eyes, while Grace has her feet in the stream and is reading aloud from his battered copy of The Woodlanders. At the end of the chapter, she closes the book and turns her face to the sun.
“This is a wonderful place,” she says with a dreamy sigh. “It’s just perfect in every detail; every leaf, every flower, the birds, the bees. I can actually feel the ripples in the water running through my toes. The imagination is a powerful thing don’t you think? I thought I would have preferred the beach, but this is much nicer. I’m so glad I made it. And I’m glad I made you, too.”
Colin pushes up the peak of his cap. “Made me? You didn’t make me.”
“Of course I did. You are an integral part of my therapy package, although I have to admit that you are not exactly what I was expecting. And some of the other things that are here–” Grace points to some nearby nettles. “I have no idea why they are here. Nasty stingy thing. And wasps. There is no place in anybody’s world, imaginary or otherwise for wasps. Unless, of course, they represent something negative in my –. Where are you going?”
Colin has rolled onto all fours, used the trunk of the t
ree to get to his feet, and is striding in his awkward gait back toward the hut.
Grace scrambles to her feet and follows him, catching up with him at the chopping block where he already has a log balanced.
“Colin?”
He takes up his axe, steadies himself, swings it in a wide arc and brings it down on the log with a dull crack, burying the head in the wood.
“I’m talking to you, Colin.”
“Talking? Aye, ye do a lot of that,” he says. “Pish mostly. Made me my sharny arse.”
He frees the axe and swings again, splitting the log into two even halves.
“You do know none of this is real, don’t you?” she says.
Another axe strike makes quarter logs. It also sends a splinter flying off to catch Grace on her bare arm.
“Ow! Son of a–” She eases the spell of wood from her arm and a small red bead erupts from the puncture, bringing with it a cold wave of fear and panic. “Okay, that’s real blood and that’s real pain,” she says. “Nothing made up about it. What the hell is going on here?”
Colin says nothing as he throws the quarters towards the woodshed, takes up another log and balances it on the block.
“Will you stop that for a minute?” Grace demands.
Colin continues to ignore her as he drives the axe head into the log again, dividing it neatly.
“Colin? I need to talk to you, and I mean right now.”
“There’s nothing ta talk about,” he says.
“Oh yes there is.” She puts herself between the axeman and the log. “What’s going on here? Where is this place?”
“Get outta ma way.”
She stares at him wide eyed, a gabbling slew of words pouring from her. “Are we inside your head, or mine? Or both at the same time? Or neither? Where the hell are we? Are you having the same therapy as I am? You are, aren’t you? That’s how this has happened. I created you to be my imaginary friend, therefore it stands to reason that you must have created me to be yours. Doesn’t explain the blood and the pain through. That’s what we need to talk about.”
“Will ye shut yer yap!” he bawls at her. “Ye’re talking bollocks.”
“Quite possibly, and as talking is part of my therapy, bollocks or no, you’d better get used to it.”
“Well it’s no part o’mine. Now shift!”
He lifts the axe and she skips out of the way. “Aha! So you admit it, you are in therapy?”
The axe falters on the backswing, disrupting the momentum, and when he hits the log the strike has no power, and he just knocks it over.
“God’s sake!”
He throws the axe to the ground and walks off toward the water trough, swearing through clenched teeth.
Grace follows. “So how long have you been doing it? Whose idea was it to make this place … and where is here exactly? The house looks familiar, but then again most fancy piles look the same, don’t they? Big house, fancy garden, great big boundary wall, wrought iron gate? What?”
Colin’s mouth is drawn into a tight knot, eyes narrowed to dark slits, voice a deep rumble. “Say one more word, I dare ye; ask one more senseless bloody question, and I swear to God I’m gain ta throttle ye wi ma bare hands.”
He gives her a look of singular hardness before turning his back on her and taking hold of the water pump’s priming handle.
“What’s on the other side of the gate for you?” she says.
Colin’s shoulders stiffen and he gives the handle a savage heave.
“I’ve found that when I put myself at the gate I have to fully focus on it,” she says, “because the second I turn away from it, I’m back where I started – in bed, on the sofa, meditating on the rug. Is it the same for you? Where are you coming from? You must be somewhere. Everybody is somewhere.”
Water gushes from the pump’s spout.
“What’s gone on in your life that you made this place as an escape, closed the gate on the world? You can tell me.”
He cups his hands, fills them with cool water and splashes it over his face and hair.
“Colin?”
He folds forward, eyes closed, nostrils flared. “Fer cryin’ out loud, woman! Take the bloody hint and leave it alone will ye?”
“I can’t. I’m like a dog with a bone once I get going. I have to know everything. I have to know why you need a refuge like this. Is there something outside that scares you? Because if we get together, talk about it, we can–”
He wheels on her, droplets flying from his wetted hair, a deep scowl hooding eyes flashing with indignation.
“Fit dae, eh? Facing yer fear is half the battle won, and talking aboot it will be the silver bullet that’ll mak it all go awa’. That’s pishing nonsense and ye ken it well enough.”
His growing anger is strengthening his accent, edging it toward indecipherable and she’s struggling to understand him, but she doesn’t let it stop her taking one more step.
“If you want to go to the gate, face your fear of what’s on the other side, we can go together–”
He drives his hand into the trough, sending up a wave of water. “Are ye no listening ta me, woman? I said I’m nae goin’ anywhere! Everything I need or want is here. I don’t need ta go outside ‘cause there’s nothin’ theer fer me. So what if none o’ this is real, if it’s all an illusion, or make believe or airy fairy land. I dinna cair! It’s better than what’s oot theer – a world full o’ war and crime and violence, where life is cheap and if you dinna fit inta the mould they make fer ye, ye can just get stuffed.” He snorts a sardonic laugh down his nose. “Aye, I can see the attractions. Wouldn’t want ta miss out on a bit more murder and mayhem and pain and disease would I? I’m better off out of it.”
“It’s not all bad,” she says. “There are some good things still.”
“Such as?”
She shrugs. “Ice cream?”
Her flippant response only serves to inflame him further. He takes a step toward her, a thunderous scowl clouding his face, hands balled into fists, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to hit her. Instead he holds her with a steely gaze, and his voice falls low and flat and hollow. “Oh really? Then tell me Grace Dove, if things outside are oh so fluffy kitten wonderful, so bloody perfectly jolly nice, why do you keep coming back here, eh?” He jabs an accusatory finger at her. “What are you hiding from?”
“I’m not hiding,” she says. “I can come and go as I please. I’m not afraid to go through the gate.” Sigh. “I know the world outside isn’t perfect, but that’s not the reason I come here. I come here because I happen to like it. It’s a nice place and I…we’ve both worked hard on getting it just right, and now I’ve come to know you a little better, and when you’re not acting like a spoiled baby, I like spending time here with you.”
He snorts again. “Mair pish! Naeb’dy wants tae spend time wi me, and I don’t need yer pity. I dinna need nosey wee quines like you interfering with my life, people who think they ken better than me what I want, what I need.”
“And what is it you need, Colin?”
“Ta be left alone! Obviously a concept alien ta ye as ye canna respect a polite request ta leave, so I’ll tell ye straight instead, in words of one syllable only. SOD-OFF! Go on! Away wi ye and take yer sanctimonious hoity toity psychobabble wi ye—” He reels away and in a few awkward strides he is inside the hut. “And don’t come back!”
The door slams closed.
Grace, stung by the ferocity of this unexpected turn of events, stares mutedly at the newly vacated Colin shaped space. She waits silently for the door to open and for him to re-emerge to apologise, but he does not.
When after ten long minutes Colin does finally venture outside again, she has gone.
Chapter 14
“I think I stuffed it up,” Grace says, clutching the fat red cushion to her stomach.
Mal, as always, sits opposite her, his expression immutable, inscrutable.
Like patience on a monument, he smiles at grief.
�
��How so?” he says.
She squeezes the cushion. “We were having such a nice time, relaxing by the stream. I was reading and he was just sitting there under the tree, having a doze I think, and there were birds and sunshine and - and I opened my big fat mouth and said something and ruined it all.”
Silence.
“Why don’t you tell me everything?”
And so she does, from when they settled down at the stream, via her attack of verbal diarrhoea, through to the slamming of the hut door, and Mal listens without interrupting her, nodding in all the right places.
“So have a screwed it all up? Is that it … over? Do I have to go back to the drawing board and start again?”
Mal interlaces his fingers, forming a little church, thumbs crossed over to make the door, index fingers pressed together to make the steeple resting against his pursed lips.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think what you have here is simply a representation of your own deep-seated insecurity, your worries about whether this therapy is the right thing for you, your uncertainties about whether it’s going to work. Even though you think you are fully committed to the therapy, somewhere in your subconscious there is that little glowing ember of doubt.”
“So Colin’s reaction to my suggesting that nothing was real, of asking if he was in therapy, his telling me to go away, his refusal to discuss it, or go to the gate … that’s my Doubting Thomas making himself known, and I was simply arguing with myself?”
“Yup.”
“So what do I do? I don’t want to not go there any more. I like it there. I like what it was doing to me, how it made me feel. I like –”
“You like Colin?”
She squeezes the cushion so tightly the seam is in danger of giving way. “Yes, I do, but when I told him I liked spending time with him, it just made him angrier.” She curls her top lip. “Couldn’t have helped that I accused him of acting like a spoiled baby, though, could it?”
“Probably not.”
Mal strokes the finger steeple through his beard and down this throat. “You can do one of two things,” he says. “A, you walk away from the whole thing and write it off as an experiment gone sour and we try something else. That’s the easy option, the coward’s way out–”
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