I can’t get out quick enough, but feel a bit guilty about leaving Evan in here alone.
‘What are those over there?’ I ask as we make our way out into the fresh air, pointing to some of the smaller outbuildings to the side of the main house.
‘I think they’re probably like the original worker’s quarters or something,’ says Beth, fiddling with her camera equipment. ‘God knows what they’ve been used for since though.’
‘They say it was one of the people who worked here that killed those girls years ago,’ says Alex, like he just can’t help himself.
Beth looks up at him stunned. Does he ever stop putting his bloody foot in it? She doesn’t say anything, just turns her attention to the window where Evan is standing, ghostlike.
‘Those poor women,’ I think aloud, imagining the faces that lived, caged, behind the doors of the corridors inside. Those cells. This place. That room.
I hear a noise, like metal scraping against stone. Like a blade being dragged across an old stone wall.
I shouldn’t have come here.
11
AUTUMN HAS DEFINITELY ARRIVED. After being harangued by the girls and my mother into going out tonight for the fireworks display at the pub I try my best to think about making an effort, even though the thought of going out on a night like tonight makes me want to pull the duvet over my head and hope that everyone would just go away.
‘It’ll be good for you,’ my mother says as she sees the look on my face and senses my mood. All I can do is raise my eyebrows. Can’t even be bothered to ask the question or get into a discussion about it.
‘Come on, everyone will be there – it’s a community thing. I’m looking forward to it. You used to love the fireworks when you were little.’ She grabs my cheeks playfully like I’m a chubby-faced toddler.
‘I’m not little now.’
‘You’ll always be my baby,’ she says. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Part of me thinks about how nice it would be to go back to being that small. Carefree. Unaware. The other part feels pulled to somewhere else, a place I don’t know.
‘You used to sit on your father’s shoulders to watch them.’
‘What?’ I say distracted by my thoughts.
‘When we used to go to the fireworks display – you always used to sit on Dad’s shoulders to watch them go off.’
Small, brief glimpses of the past flash through my mind. I remember feeling ten-feet tall sat there on his shoulders. I remember my mum fussing about me holding on, while my dad tells her to stop panicking – ‘I’ve got her, as if I’m going to let her fall Cat!’ I remember loud bangs that felt as if they went right through me, as if they were going to explode in my chest. I remember the colours. There was always so much colour.
‘Come on, we’ll grab something to eat when we’re there. I’ll drive and you can go off with the girls – there’s plenty of people that I can catch up with.’
‘But it’s freezing.’ One last chance to protest.
‘Just as well there’s a great big fire there then,’ she replies with a satisfied smile on her face, ‘now hurry up and get ready, we don’t want to miss the display.’
‘Course not,’ I retaliate with sarcasm.
***
When we get there the car park is full but we manage to find a space. Excited children wrapped up from head to toe in coats, scarves and gloves, skip along next to their parents who constantly warn them to stay close or they could get lost.
‘See – I told you everyone would be here,’ Mum says. My phone buzzes – a signal at last – a text from Beth ‘back door… x’
‘That the girls?’
‘Yeah – they’re round the back – I’ll see you later.’
‘Ok love, have a nice time. And no drinking.’
I smile flatly and make my way over to meet Beth and the others. They look about as happy to be here as I do.
Inside it’s packed, full of laughter, and people talking over each other. The bar is jammed with bodies. I see my mum chatting to a middle-aged couple; happy, smiling. I feel the sting of resentment stab at my stomach, so turn my attention elsewhere.
‘What’s up?’ I ask Beth.
‘Just can’t be arsed tonight now, and there’s no chance of getting a drink seeing as everyone here knows us.’
Lowri pushes in between us and hooks her arms in ours. ‘Come on, we’re here now, let’s get hotdogs and see who else is here.’ She leads us over to the barbeque that seems to be smoking more than the bonfire in the distance. The smell of burning meat, sugary toasted marshmallows and fire mix together, hanging there in the cold air.
It’s getting just as busy out here. Children wave sparklers around, some fascinated by the trail of light that it creates, others looking slightly terrified about holding something so potentially dangerous. A large group is starting to gather at the bonfire on the land next to the car park.
Lowri pushes through the crowd and hands us the hot dog rolls, dripping onions and ketchup over my gloves and my coat sleeve. ‘Sorry mate.’
‘No worries.’ I lick the ketchup off the wool and the sensation goes right through me, making me shudder. They both laugh.
‘Someone walk over your grave?’ asks Beth. The feeling lingers for a few seconds longer – somewhere between pain, and cold, and an itch.
‘Something like that, yeah.’ I start to laugh. Just a small giggle at first. But it doesn’t stop; building and building until I am in flat-out hysterics. Beth is looking at me like I’ve gone mad, but Lowri notices the huge red smear across Beth’s face and starts to join in, though not quite as ferociously as me.
My body bends over, spilling onions and thick red gloop onto the floor. It comes in huge waves, releasing tension from my belly, but making it ache I’m laughing so hard. I have no idea why, it’s stupid really. In the end Beth starts too, and we realise that people are looking at us as we’re making a bit of a scene.
‘Dunno what they’ve put in these hotdogs,’ she announces, as if addressing everyone, and still giggling to ourselves we make our way over to the bonfire.
The orange flames reach up to the sky, creeping into the black night as we stand there mesmerised. Our silence is soon broken when Alex and Evan wander over to us. Alex grabs Lowri by both shoulders, attempting to scare her. She shrieks playfully, as we once more become the subject of other people’s attention. I feel my heart quicken, the nerves showing in my face which luckily is already red due to the strange mixture of the cold air and the hot fire. Please don’t stand next to me. But he does. ‘Hiya Seph.’
‘Alright?’ I ask, as nonchalantly as I can while moving the hair out of my face. I realise that my gloved hand is covered in food, like a messy child, and I feel embarrassed. But all our attention is then diverted by the loud bangs and bright colours that light up the sky, and for a moment it’s as if everything is calm and colourful.
I steal a glance at him. His coat collar is pulled up high and a grey scarf is knotted around his neck. The fire lights up his face. He turns to me, catches me looking at him and smiles. But I don’t smile back.
I once again turn my attention to the fireworks and the bonfire, and recall the conversation with my mum before we left. There is a little boy on the shoulders of his father across from me, on the other side of the fire. His father’s arms clutch protectively to his legs as the boy looks up at the fireworks, smiling and gasping. A huge bang almost cracks the sky open and he starts to cry, his father reaching up and lifting him off his shoulders to cuddle him.
A sadness swims through me.
Looking around to see if I can spot my mum I see a dark figure walking past the fire straight ahead of me, his head tilted in my direction. As he carries on walking his eyes remain on me, making me shudder, but I continue to watch him as he watches me. He stops, then walks. Stops. Then walks. All the time his eyes on me, and then somehow as quickly as he seemed to appear, his eyes are no longer burning at my skin, and he disappears completely from view. Wha
t the – ? Evan shuffles a little closer to me, brushing my arm. I flinch, and step away as if I’ve been stung by a live wire. I see the look of horror on his face, and my stomach sinks to the ice-cold ground. Then I search for that figure in the crowd again, but it is gone, and all that is left is the chill and the flame of the cold November night.
12
THE RAIN HAS EASED off, leaving my clothes and hair damp and uncomfortable. It’s a feeling that I’m getting used to now. Wearing discomfort has become daily practice, like washing my face, or pulling my clothes on. I feel it moving into my bones. Taking root.
Grey clouds move quickly across the town and over the dense band of black trees that snakes across the low skyline. The pines zig-zag across the horizon, piercing the colourless sky. Beneath them sit the rows of terraced houses, pressed together, weaving their way through the landscape.
A chapel rests below, the grey-brown stone blackened by time and dirt and people. The long low slate roof almost glimmers with the dampness, and muted light makes its way out from the arched windows that catch my eye.
The town clock chimes, and strikes one, and I realise that I’m going to be late for my first lesson of the afternoon.
I race down through the town, slipping occasionally on the wet pavements, my lunch now sticking in my throat and threatening to make its way out. My head starts to feel light, so I stop at the school gates to take a breath and pull my bottle of water out from my bag. I’m more composed after a minute or so and look through the gates into the school premises.
I have to go in. To be swallowed up yet again by another building, another situation, that I don’t want to be in. I have to go in.
***
I sit at the desk staring at the page before me. The classroom is warm and moist because of damp clothes, pumping radiators and body heat.
The windows are steamed with mist. Names and body parts have been etched onto them. Mr. Lewis rubs a tissue over the crude decorations that younger pupils have left there before the class started.
‘Sephone,’ he instructs, signalling that it’s my turn to read aloud, so I begin.
‘A rose of red grew tall and strong
it knew no part of right or wrong
til someone pinned its petals back
and turned the rose from red to black.’
The words travel through, over, and out of me, like a ghost that is searching for its resting place.
13
I LAY ON MY bed still grappling with the now-familiar mixture of thoughts, feelings and information that have run rampage in my head since our little chat at John’s.
Having time to myself has helped me sift it through, but it just makes more work, raising more questions than there are answers.
I’ve avoided my mother for days, partly because I want some space, but mainly because I’m so angry with her I’m afraid that if I let rip I won’t be able to stop.
It’s building and building though – I can feel it.
There’s a big part of me that still wants to believe what the others told me is just a big tangle of local legend, village gossip and mistaken information – all built up to make life around here more interesting for those who haven’t got anything else to stimulate themselves with.
I can feel the resentment towards this place building and building. Everyone seems to know everyone else, or know someone else who knows them. There’s something welcoming and warm about this sort of close-knit community, but it can make you feel like you can’t breathe.
It’s hard to disappear here.
I feel guilty even thinking that way when I think of Beth and Lowri, and all the others who have welcomed me in – taken me under their wing when they didn’t really need to. It wasn’t as if I was asking for that to happen. I like being alone now.
Concern, gossip, rumours, small-talk, legends. They all exist on some screwed-up, self-governing spectrum in a place like this. Working out what belongs where on that spectrum is a battle.
It’s all nonsense.
The part of me that wants to believe this is working hard – trying to convince me it all belongs to the realm of fantasy. It’s so easy for things to spread. To get carried away with the whispers. And after all, this is Wales. Myths, legends, folk tales. Old buildings everywhere – they always play with the imagination, don’t they? Ruins of this, that and the other. Castles in towns and cities and on hillsides. Roman fortresses, mansions - loads of stuff.
You can walk past these things all your life and they become normal when you live here, yet it all creates an interesting backdrop for something dark, strange and scary.
Probably does get in your head though – all that stuff. Yeah, plays with the imagination. Add a few stories on top – ghosts, murders, missing girls, the usual stories and urban legends that go around - all makes for a good laugh and a bit of a drama. Drama. The word sounds right. It’s just drama.
It’s still suddenly.
Evan comes into my mind. Slowly his image unfolds – clear and warm, but then it bites at my chest and starts to sting. I’ve treated him badly. I don’t want to think of this. So he’s gone.
The stillness has been shaken.
So, if it’s true, then what?
The stillness has definitely been shaken.
Why didn’t she tell me? How could she not let me in on something so important, something that involves the family? Even worse – how could she then bring me here, under his roof? To this place, where everyone knows something strange or horrible went down? She must’ve known I’d find out. You can’t live somewhere like this and not find out.
I can feel myself brooding, letting it cook away.
The next thing that fights for my attention, well, there’s no winning with that one. Knowing what I now know about Gabe. Feeling how I feel about him, or more to the point, not knowing how I feel about this quiet strange man that drifts in and out of our lives, eyeing me with some sort of - what? – I don’t know – discomfort? – disgust? – I don’t know what it is!
The dreams.
The figure that I’ve seen, that I feel; breathing down my neck.
The missing girls.
That place.
This house.
My stomach flips and I can feel my heart racing as the fear enters my bloodstream, flowing and growing until it hurts. I can’t stand it. Can’t take much more of all this, I really can’t.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then making their way along the hallway until they stop once my mother’s bedroom door closes.
My clock reads 9:45pm. She’s probably come upstairs to get into her dressing gown.
I don’t know the answer to any of these questions, and I’m not going to tonight. But one thing’s for sure; she’s going to give me some answers, once and for all.
I fly off my bed – knocking over the glass of water on my bedside table that’s been there for days – and out of my room to my mother’s bedroom, where I bang on the door ferociously.
‘Mum – it’s me!’
I carry on banging.
‘Jesus Christ Seph, I’m getting undressed, you nearly gave me heart failure,’ I hear her say on the other side, obviously shaken.
But I keep banging, slamming my right hand against the old wood with as much force as I can. I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Don’t even care about the pain that has started in my hand and that’s travelling up to my wrist, because I want her to open the door and face me.
Within a few seconds the door opens and she stands there, furious now, still tying the belt on her dressing gown.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ she yells at me, moving her hair out of her face.
‘What am I playing at?’ I yell back accusingly. She’s mad, but she looks confused, and her face and neck have become red and blotchy.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I scream.
‘Tell you what? Seph you’re not making any sense!’
I’m screaming those words over and over now, right in her face,
and I can see her eyes grow as she tries to grab my arms to calm me down.
She looks terrified. I’m screaming at her and she’s screaming back at me.
‘Seph stop it – you’re scaring me!’
But I can’t stop it, there’s no way that it’s going to let up, it just keeps coming – over and over – until finally, somehow, she’s got hold of me so tight that I feel myself return, as all the heat moves out of my body, and I collapse into her arms.
***
I’m not sure how long we’ve been here for. She’s sat leaning against the headboard, cradling me like I’m a small child. I hurt. My throat, my hand, my wrist. My head throbs and my eyes feel like they belong to somebody else, all puffy and still glazed with tears. I can barely breathe through my nose which is blocked because of all the crying. But still, it feels nice being here like this.
I’m ok.
She hasn’t said anything yet, neither have I. Things have settled down in my head. I can see a bit more clearly and from her perspective. Ok, so she could have told me about what happened to Gabe all those years ago, but she doesn’t know about anything else – the mansion, the man, the dreams. They all belong to me, all stored inside of me. She doesn’t know, couldn’t have known. I get that now.
Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s not really a relief to realise that most of my time is spent feeling sorry or guilty for my feelings and the actions that they sometimes lead me to, especially where she is concerned. They’re taking me over, all of them, too much pressure building up all of the time. It’s draining the life out of me. Still, I need to know.
The pain shoots up into my right wrist, as I lean on it to sit myself up next to her. I wince and she notices.
‘Careful love,’ she instructs gently, ‘I’ll need to have a look at it later, you might need to see someone if it’s not ok by the morning.’
The thought of explaining my injury to a doctor is mortifying. How embarrassing would that be?
I drag myself to a sitting position, and we both just sit there looking straight ahead for a minute or so.
The Twist in the Branch Page 5