by Mark Morris
It was as he had expected, though he nevertheless began to shudder even more violently, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped like a stone. He heard whispering behind him, then he actually felt a shadow pass over his back like a blanket before it crawled up the stone, darkening its message. Startled, he spun round . . . but the shadow was simply a dark cloud bruising the sky, the whispering merely the sound of wind in the thin dry grass. He turned back to the stone, heart hammering. Where the moss had been, the stone was pale, like flesh. He murmured the inscribed words to himself, giving voice to the epitaph.
“In loving memory of Alice Stone. Born fifteenth July nineteen thirty-eight. Died tenth October nineteen seventy. And . . . and Gail Stone. Born and died tenth October nineteen seventy.” His voice faltered, became a fractured whisper. “Mother and daughter, at peace together. Loved and missed forever, never forgotten.”
His eyes blurred with tears. He swiped them away with his sleeve, sniffed, cleared his throat. He reached out with both hands to touch the stone, as if to ensure it was solid. He remained in that position for perhaps a minute, then he expelled a huge sigh and stood up, brushing grass seeds from the legs of his jeans. Abruptly, he turned and walked away, resisting the urge—even at the gate—to look back. He got into his car, started the engine and drove off. Less than four hours later he was back in London.
As the train slowed on its approach to Leicester Square, Jack stuffed the letter back into his pocket and stood up. He eased himself through the crush of hot damp bodies to get to the doors, grimacing at the reek of stale flesh comingled with various aftershaves and perfumes. Staring out at the rushing walls of the tunnel, he surreptitiously slipped two fingers between the buttons of his shirt and fingered the tender spot on his stomach, which was an angry crisscrossing mass of scar tissue. Touching his healing wounds reassured him in an odd way, for it seemed to parallel his inner wounds, to indicate that they too were healing.
The train hurtled into brightness and clamour, its brakes screeching. A sea of faces, most of them blurs, impressions, flowed by, becoming more distinct as the train dwindled to a halt. The doors opened and Jack tumbled out onto the platform, barely managing to keep his balance. Somewhere, underlying the din of the busy station, he heard the haunting primal sound of a didgeridoo. He began to walk, passing a large poster on the wall advertising the paperback release of Splinter Kiss with barely a glance. Raising his head to sniff the faint draught of cool air from above, he headed toward the light.