Two Shades of the Lilac Sunset

by Rosen Trevithick

  “Is Mr Danning here?”

  Ross appeared behind them in the hallway. “Yes.”

  Ryan stepped into the house. “Ross Danning, we are arresting you on suspicion of causing actual bodily harm to Nathaniel Gordon on the Sunday 23rd August. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  Ross looked gobsmacked and finally nodded. “I understand.” He turned back to Demi and shot her a confused and hopeless look.

  Demi felt as though her insides were filling with lead. A drum started to beat inside her head. She saw Willow and Katrina out in the road, gawping as the police led Ross – lovely, gentle Ross – to their car.

  Morning of Thursday 27 th August – outside Falmouth Police Station

  The next morning, Demi waited outside Falmouth Police Station feeling dizzy. Her heart was racing, her blood was pumping and there were prickles all over her face. She’d experienced many emotions in the last few days; but prevailing now was a sense of impending doom.

  The door opened. There stood Ross with his shoulders raised, gurning like the blue one from Monsters Inc. Demi felt an unexpected flash of fury. She tried to smile as he walked towards her, and greeted his hug with forced affection. “So?”

  “They’ve charged me for thumping him. It was on the garage’s CCTV”

  “Is that it?”

  “What else did you think they were going to charge me with?”

  “Nat’s murder!”

  “But you know I didn’t murder Nat.”

  “Yes, I know that, but I’m not the police, am I?”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Of course I’m fucking angry!”

  “I told you at the time that I’d punched him. This is not new information.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t realise it was serious enough for you to get charged. You spent the night in a cell. You could get a criminal record. God, Ross, you know how I feel about violence.”

  “I knew you felt strongly about women’s rights, but …”

  “I feel strongly about violence against anybody. Violence is violence!”

  “Yesterday you said you’d sympathise with anybody pushing him off a cliff.”

  “I’d sympathise with Willow pushing him off a cliff, because I saw the state he got her into.”

  “So it’s one rule for Willow and another for me?”

  “You weren’t traumatised.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  “You hit him and now he’s dead!”

  “Not because I thumped him.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “You could have given him concussion. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t balance.”

  “It was just one punch. It wasn’t even that hard.”

  “That’s why was there so much blood on your shirt that you had to change it?”

  “Demi!”

  “I can’t talk to you right now.” She began to stomp up the hill. Ross followed, attempting to reason with her, but Demi was too angry to respond.

  Morning of Tuesday 1 st September – inside a house on Mayfield Road

  Willow looked at Ross roaming the house like a bear with a sore head. This was not good – not good at all. She listened to her phone ring. “Come on, pick up …”

  Finally, Demi answered. “Hey, Willow.”

  “Demi, you need to come home from work.”

  “I’ve still got another half hour until I finish.”

  “Now Demi.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Ross has come over and he’s collecting his stuff.”

  For a second Demi said nothing, then she muttered in a hushed voice, “What?”

  “He’s taking his guitar, his DVDs, everything. Demi, this is really it. He’s really leaving.”

  Demi paused, then she replied, “If he wants to go, then let him.”

  “You don’t mean that!”

  The phone cut out and Willow felt sure it was deliberate. Now what? She hurried downstairs and into the living room, where Ross was sorting through a pile of DVDs. “Why don’t you wait until Demi comes home from work? She’ll only be half an hour.”

  “She’s made it very clear that she doesn’t want to see or even speak to me.”

  “She’s just upset; we all are.”

  “Exactly – we’re all upset. But I didn’t shut her out.”

  “It’s only been a couple of days.”

  Ross continued sorting through films. Willow felt sure she’d seen him search that pile already.

  “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

  “No thanks. I just want to be out of here as quickly as I can.”

  Hmm. Willow decided it would be best if she left him to it and went into the kitchen to boil the kettle. Ross leaving was the last thing she wanted to happen, particularly over something that seemed so pointless. She wished Demi wasn’t so stubborn.

  Ross came into the kitchen and began thumping open cupboards.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  He didn’t reply. He just started opening drawers.

  “Ross?”

  “My whisky.”

  “You’re looking for your whisky in the knife drawer?”

  Ross huffed and went back into the living room yet again. Willow put teabags in two cups. Or should that be three?

  Finally, she heard a key in the front door. She went into the hallway to meet Demi.

  The door flung open. Demi stormed in. “Where is he?”

  “In there.” Willow indicated to the living room.

  Demi charged inside. “What are you doing?”

  “Finding the disks for my Dexter boxed set.”

  “Actually, I think you’ll find that’s mine. Yours only goes up to season three.”

  Ross threw down the boxed set. “Jesus, Demi. I don’t care about the fucking Dexter boxed set. You have it. Have all the stuff if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t want any of your sorry belongings. Take them all.”

  Ross put down the things he was holding and looked up at Demi with his big, earnest green eyes. He lowered his voice. “What’s happened to us, Dems?”

  “You got charged with ABH, that’s what happened. Soon you’re going to have a criminal record for violence!”

  “So you’re kicking me out because I thumped Nat?”

  “Yes!”

  “We all know what this is really about. It’s about you needing to believe that this is all my fault so that you don’t have to face up to the fact that your precious sister pushed a man off a cliff!”

  Demi and Willow stared at him, speechless.

  The standoff was broken by the sound of the doorbell. Demi shook her head aggressively then went to the door. It was Jack and P.C. Jones – not those unpleasant detectives, but the local cops that she actually liked. The timing was dreadful, but she invited them in.

  Jack looked Willow up and down, “Am I glad to see you in 3D?”

  “So you’re not here to arrest me?”

  “Not at all. Quite the opposite. Mind if we sit down?”

  Willow nodded and the officers made their way into the living room, where Ross was still standing in the middle of a pile of DVDs. Eventually, he sat down as well.

  “I’m glad you’re here too, Ross,” said Jack. “My colleagues are winding down the investigation into Nat Gordon’s death.”

  “I’m not going to be arrested?” repeated Willow.

  “The post-mortem showed swelling to the face consistent with a light impact from a fist – which Ross has already confessed to. The other injuries were consistent with a fall from a height.”

  “So he wasn’t pushed?” asked Demi.

  “The location of his injuries and the broken branches sugg
est that it wasn’t suicide. Suicidal people tend to find spots that are open and either jump or dive. He landed on his back.”

  Willow, Demi and Ross stared, motionless.

  “However, there is no evidence that force was used to knock him over the edge.”

  “So he just slipped?” asked Demi.

  “We don’t know. Without any witnesses, there is no case to suggest otherwise.”

  “Did he die right away?” asked Willow, her voice brittle.

  “Yes. We believe he died on impact.”

  Willow closed her eyes and slowly let long-imprisoned breath ease from her lungs.

  “None of us killed him,” said Demi, perhaps giving away a little too much about her own part in the events. If either policeman noticed, they let it pass.

  Demi’s relief was twofold. Not only was her sister off the hook, but she herself had got away with impulsively spiking his drink. Had Nat chucked away the smoothie? Were antihistamines undetectable in a post mortem? Did the police assume he just had hay fever? Who cared? – she was out of trouble and so was Willow.

  “Furthermore, given the light nature of the injuries to Mr Gordon’s face, we are dropping the charges against you, Mr Danning.”

  Ross, punched the air. “Booyaka!”

  Demi laughed, despite herself. Their eyes met. At first she nodded, then a smile began to claim the corners of her mouth. Ross met her smile with one of his own. He put the Dexter boxed set back on the pile next to the television.

  “The coroner is expected to release the body for burial within the next few days,” explained Jack. “I hope that you’ll all be able to put this behind you and move on with your lives.”

  Afternoon of Thursday 26 th November – inside a house on Mayfield Road

  Willow glowed with pride as she unpacked the suitcase of dresses she’d taken to The Princess Pavilion. Nat might have bought her way into the first exhibition, but she had been invited back on merit. What’s more, a local shop owner had expressed an interest in stocking half-a-dozen of her creations. It was a firm foot in the door.

  And yet Willow still found herself half expecting Nat to appear from the shadows, to reveal that he’d been standing watching, for many minutes, perhaps hours. She wondered if his ghost would ever fully perish.

  She put on her running kit. It was time to reclaim the cliff path. She couldn’t let Nat spoil one of her favourite places forever, just because he had the misfortune to die there. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but the first time would be the worst.

  After saying a quick goodbye to Demi and Ross, Willow took to the road. She wasn’t as fast as she had been in the spring, but her stamina and muscle tone were coming back. She was best off-road so was glad when she reached the cliff path beyond Swanpool.

  She took in the green fields sealed with weathered fencing, the view of the sea through the grand house on the cliff and the armadillo-shaped headland. She had expected the surroundings to remind her only of Nat, but she remembered the dozens of times she’d been there as a child and the hundred times thereafter. Nat’s presence was abiding but it was not the only feature.

  With a surge of optimism, Willow jogged forwards. The path began to darken as trees wrapped around it. The branches were almost bare now.

  She continued forwards until she reached the narrow path that meandered downwards to Stack Point. The tide was close to high, as it had been that morning – the morning that Nat tumbled to his death.

  As she looked down the sheer drop to the rocky cove below, she felt vertigo engulf her. The ground churned beneath her. She felt herself dragged back in time, consumed by the memory.

  Suddenly, she’s down at Stack Point again. She’s looking out for Nat’s car. How many times will he circle the seafront before he realises that she’s nowhere obvious and starts a more thorough search?

  She sees a man on the footpath above Stack Point House. He’s wearing a turquoise sweater and is a good head and shoulders taller than a nearby dog walker. It’s hard to be sure from here, but it looks like Nat.

  She tells herself it can’t be him. With the whole of Falmouth and beyond to scour, how could he possibly know to start here? She knows he couldn’t have followed her – she’d been too careful.

  Then her blood begins to curdle. You don’t have to follow somebody to track them, not with modern technology, not with smartphones. She gets out her phone. She can’t see anything suspicious on the main screen, but when she scrolls to the second page of apps, she sees an unfamiliar icon. She clicks on it. Fuck. It’s an app for finding a missing phone – an app that can easily be abused to find somebody who wants to hide – needs to hide.

  She’s about to throw her phone into the sea when she realises that the sudden loss of signal might tell him that she’s onto him. Instead, she wedges it between two juts of rock.

  She wonders how far away he must be now. She wishes she was on the main path with its two exits, and not on this dead end offshoot. She’s got three choices: jump into the sea, stay where she is, or run. She’s a good swimmer, but not that good. She knows what she has to do. She gets up and scrambles towards the main path as quickly as she can.

  Every time a person passes by, her insides flip. She has to keep moving because sooner or later a pair of those footsteps will be Nat’s. She has to get to the main track if she wants to get away from this dead end side path.

  Then she sees him – Nat.

  She feels an urge to jump into the undergrowth but it’s too late to hide; he’s seen her.

  Instinctively, she changes direction. She begins to stumble and skid back down towards the sea.

  Nat’s faster that she is. He gains on her. He’s so close he can almost touch her. He reaches out and grabs her by the arm, dropping his phone in the process.

  “You told me you were going for a run.”

  “I was. I am.”

  “Then why did you email your sister?”

  “I … you’ve spoken to Demi?”

  “Come home.”

  “Why did you try to break her up with Ross?”

  Nat took an exasperated breath. “He was trying to sleep with you.”

  “No, he wasn’t!”

  “Miss Cassidy, come home.”

  “No!” Willow lurches away from him.

  He tries to keep hold of her arm but she wrenches free.

  He tries to grab her other arm but she pushes his arm away.

  He loses his footing.

  He falls backwards – backwards onto the spindly branches that separate the path from the sheer cliff.

  He hovers there, embraced in branches.

  He tries to find his footing.

  He reaches out an arm.

  Willow leans forwards to help him up.

  The branches begin to splinter.

  Their hands touch but it’s too late. One branch snaps and after that they’re like dominoes, with each branch beneath him snapping in quick succession.

  He cries out and disappears from view.

  Willow hears a thud.

  Is that it? A thud.

  She feels sure that if he had plummeted to his death there would have been a deafening smack – something dramatic – not simply a thud.

  She gets down on her hands and knees and creeps as close to the edge as she dares. She peers over.

  At first she can’t see him. She wonders if he’s stuck half way, perhaps on a ledge just beneath the path, preparing to grab her by the hair and fling her over.

  But then she sees him. He’s lying in the shallows of the water – half in the sea, half out. He’s not contorted or impaled; he’s just lying there.

  She’s going to cry for help but then she sees his eyes. Even from here she can see that they are open. Is he looking at her or is it just her imagination? The eyes give her a gut-wrenching sense that he’s alive.

  She feels both relieved and terrified. What will happen when he recovers from this? Life will become a living hell – it’s already a living hell. What would
he do next?

  She notices his phone. She remembers the filth that’s on there – photographic evidence of the worst moments of her life. She can’t imagine wanting to live if anybody ever sees those pictures. She picks up a stone and smashes it against a rock.

  Moments later, she resumes her climb to the main path, keeping an eye out for witnesses. She sees a small family but they’re not looking, too interested in each other. If they’d seen Nat fall, surely they’d all be staring at her?

  She wonders if she will ever be able to look anybody in the eye again. She feels as though she has ‘my boyfriend raped me, so I pushed him off a cliff’ tattooed on her face. But he didn’t rape me. If it had been rape I’d have been saying ‘no’.

  She’s crying now. She’s almost hysterical. She has to get off the beaten track. Fear and self-loathing drive her across the main path and up through the undergrowth. As she recalls, there is a field at the top of the slope – a big empty field where nobody will see her mortified, devastated face.

  She stops for breath. Is he alive? What is it that she’s fleeing? A fatal accident or Nat? She can’t wait around to find out. She has to get away from here.

  Despite the memory of that morning replaying in Willow’s mind as if it were yesterday, she didn’t feel owned by it. She knew from films and literature that people who’ve witnessed sudden deaths can be tortured by the memories forever. But recalling Nat’s death did not feel like torture. It felt like closing a dustbin.

  She wondered about his phone. What had happened to it? She remembered breaking the screen but had no memory beyond that. She cursed herself for losing something so important – and so demeaning.

  She cast around but knew she wouldn’t find it. If the full force of the police service had not found it, it seemed unlikely that it would turn up now. She had to let it go.

  Would she ever forget his face as he fell backwards? Would she ever stop wondering if she could have escaped without it turning out that way?

  But she had escaped, and that meant that she could carry on with her life. If she let this blight the rest of her life then he would have won.