The Twist in the Branch

by Melanie Smith

  34

  THERE’S SCREAMING, AND PLEADING, and the sound of metal against stone, and the walls seem to press in on me – cold, hard, impenetrable.

  The long corridor stretches out before me. Doors are pressed into the walls, like guards, silently protecting the secrets behind them. I move forward, slowly, past each one of them. All of them locked. All of them providing a barrier to the noises that are coming from inside those rooms. But I hear them, and place my hands over my ears to try to block it out. Scratches are carved into the stone corridor wall, as if a knife has been dragged across it.

  Locked door after locked door, but I keep going, until there on my left-hand side I see a door with a key. The scratches get deeper here, and a twisted mark that almost looks like an ‘S’ is branded into the wall. As much as I don’t want to, I move towards it, placing my fingers over that mark and then over the metal of the key. It is cold and heavy in my hand, and as I turn it it lets out a weighty clunk that echoes down the hallway, which panics me.

  The pump and buzz of blood in my ears – growing – as I feel a thick slippery substance on my hands.

  Stained. Red.

  The key haemorrhages blood onto the floor, my feet. No – no … please.

  Footsteps echoing along the corridor.

  Keys jangling.

  No choice. Open the door!

  I throw it open, and step in to look at the scene now so familiar.

  That room. The bloody handprints on the wall. The candle burning low in its holder.

  Something moves behind the door, startling me so much that it takes my breath away. The door slams behind me.

  Huddled on the floor I can make out the shape of a small girl. As she looks up at me I can see that her face is stained with dirt and tears.

  ‘I can’t get out,’ cries ten-year old Sephone.

  What? – It sickens me. I reach out to help her – me – but in my hands all I hold is a mound of cold earth. My hands are caked in dirt and blood.

  I feel the frozen ground beneath me and look up at the tree.

  35

  ONCE UPON A TIME, stories were almost real.

  They were printed in ink on a page, and they lived delicately in my head, like I could reach in and touch them.

  Alive somewhere, and almost real.

  Once upon a time, the monsters in stories were not real, or so we were told. They peered out from the page, making you feel as if you needed to look over your shoulder, even though you would be terrified of what you might see.

  ‘They are not real,’ your mother and father would say. ‘I’ll protect you.’

  Now my back burns, my shoulders feel tight and heavy, and my neck strains from turning so much.

  Once upon a time, we were told that the stories we listened to as small children were real. Then we grew up, and learnt that they were not – were told that they were not. ‘It’s just a fairy tale,’ they would say. ‘Stories are not real.’

  But then something happens and we start to realise that we were right all along. We were right to be afraid of the dark. We were right to look over our shoulder, check under our bed, be afraid of the big bad wolf.

  Once upon a time has changed. Forever.

  36

  It’s him, but it’s not him.

  Dark hair. Dark eyes. That look upon his face that reads like a message of the worst kind.

  Everything screams, ‘Gabriel!’ – yet it’s not his face – or his voice, that I’m running away from. He walks slow and steady, head tilted down, eyes up and he’s right behind me as I’m running, turning to see him. My feet are trying to pound the ground as fast as they can, but I’m not moving against the force that is pushing against me.

  I hear the jangle of keys, and the scraping of his blade against the stone walls as I’m on the corridor now.

  So much screaming.

  So many doors.

  The corridor never ends.

  No … No … No…

  I’m in the ground, on my back looking up and now Gabe’s face appears - up on the surface – shovelling earth on top of me as my mother appears beside him, weeping and falling to her knees.

  37

  CHRISTMAS EVE. It’s finally arrived.

  My body feels tense and I rub at my shoulders constantly to try to ease some of the pain and the pressure, but it doesn’t work. I think about the moment that he is going to walk through the door, and replay it, over and over in my head.

  Gabe walking in.

  Gabe walking in.

  I’ll do this. I’ll say this. No this. I’ll look him straight in the eye. I’ll make sure that my mother is there to see … to hear it all.

  It must occupy my thoughts for longer than I realised, because before I know it I look up and there he is, standing in front of me. I’m so shocked it almost takes my breath away.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says with his usual awkwardness, ‘didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  I stutter and stammer all over the place – not quite the way I was envisioning my reaction to his arrival. Before I can even string a sentence together my mother comes rushing downstairs, excitedly saying, ‘You’re back – Merry Christmas!’

  I look from him to her, still feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights. As she embraces him he looks over her shoulder at me. Everything in my body screams.

  ‘Merry Christmas Sis,’ he says.

  ***

  My father lifts me up and holds me steady, as I place the star on top of the tree. It lights up once it is in position, and I feel a sense of achievement and then relief, as a deep wave of calm runs through me. I can hardly take my eyes off it, as the warm white glow pulses and grows, beating effortlessly against the dark room, lighting up the smile on my mother’s face beside us. It’s not exactly how it was, but it feels familiar, and wonderful.

  Something changes.

  A sense of trepidation. I take my father’s hand. It feels cool to the touch – then colder and colder – until it is obvious that there is no warmth in his body, and the star starts to fade – dimmer and dimmer – and then there is nothing left. I fall to the floor which is frozen and ice-cold, and as I reach out snow bites at my skin.

  Light returns, but it is not the warm glow that felt so good only a few moments ago, but a murky grey that envelops me. The tree now in front of me has no lights or decorations of any kind. Its dark tangled form looms over me and a pile of bones lay in skeleton formation at its base, and as I look at them, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach, I start to panic as the tree bursts into flames so large I can feel them about to swallow me up. The snow turns red, and all I can hear is my mother screaming.

  ***

  ‘You ok love? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘What? Yeah fine.’

  ‘I thought you were only going upstairs to get your iPod – you’ve been gone ages.’

  ‘I was listening to something. Must’ve dropped off.’ He’s sat in my chair next to the fire, fiddling with something – wires and bits of metal.

  ‘Thought so. Oh well, that’s what the holidays are for – you must’ve needed it. Beth rang, I did call up but there was no answer. She says can you call her back before eight thirty.’

  ‘Ok, thanks.’ Straight away I think about avoiding the phone-call, but I know that if I don’t make it Beth will only ring again anyway. She can be very difficult to avoid. Maybe I should have a bit of her perseverance. Some of her guts. How would things be then? The thought leaves me feeling flat, and also trapped, thinking about what it would be like to crawl out of my own body and into someone else’s. Into their head. Into their life.

  The train of thought is interrupted by the sound of music coming from the kitchen. Christmas carols.

  Really?

  The way that my mother is trying to fill us all with Christmas cheer feels nauseating, to the point where her efforts are actually annoying me, rather than making me feel appreciative.

  ‘I’m going out,’ I insist.

  ‘What do yo
u mean? I was going to start putting the presents under the tree?’

  ‘Carry on then– I’m not stopping you!’

  ‘Sephone!’ she says sharply, stealing a look at Gabe in order not to create a scene.

  I grab my coat, tug on my boots, sling a scarf around my neck, and with as much force as I can muster, slam the front door as hard as I can.

  Screw all of you!

  Immediately I feel the sting of guilt as I think about her, so I try not to, and think about him instead.

  The feeling turns to anger. He’s here, sat there as if nothing has happened. In our house. No, his house. Our house belongs to someone else now. Someone else will be decorating the Christmas tree in the front window. Someone else will be sleeping in my room. Sitting in the spot where he used to sit.

  Images of this other family feel like torture. How they’ll look opening their presents tomorrow morning. How the kitchen will look and feel and smell, as the dinner is cooking. It’s unbearable.

  The tears on my face come as a surprise to my cold skin. I don’t wipe them away, and they run down my chin, some escaping down my neck, while others are mopped up by my scarf. It leaves me feeling cold and wet and uncomfortable, but I carry on walking anyway, deciding that I’m going down to the village for some reason. Where else is there? Maybe it’s just good to know that other people are down there, getting on with things and that not everything revolves around us and that house. And him.

  I walk past the park, which is empty, and down along the main road. The smell of wood burning escapes from chimneys, and at first it feels nice, but then I’m reminded of the burning tree and the fear and the panic, and just as I feel my breath getting shallow a sharp knock grabs my attention. Then again. I strain against the chaos in my head and look up.

  Beth’s face peers out from the pub window. She looks over-the-moon to see me, but her face changes as she sees the look on my own. Then she’s gone from the glass and emerging from the front door, bouncing down the step towards me. I’m wrapped up in her embrace as she says, ‘Hey,’ and it feels so welcome that I don’t let go. I cling onto her tighter and tighter, and she reciprocates, stroking my hair, holding me close, as I cry hard into her neck.

  ‘Sshh, what is it Seph?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say attempting to pull away. But she won’t let me.

  ‘No way.’ Holding me close again. ‘You’re worrying me now, please Seph.’

  ‘It’s nothing…really… must be PMT or something.’

  ‘Come in for a bit, have a drink – we’ve finished eating.’

  The thought of sitting in a pub on Christmas Eve with Beth’s whole family and half of the village – in the state that I’m in – doesn’t sit well with me at all. Suddenly I feel embarrassed at my little display as I see faces in the window looking out at us. I can see by her face that Beth is not going to let the matter rest, and I don’t have the energy to fight with her about it.

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt your family time, and anyway, look at the state of me.’ I make an attempt at ridding my face of tears and snot.

  ‘Are you serious? Sit and listen to my uncle bang on about his holiday in Tenerife or sit and have a chat with one of my besties…erm…what do you reckon?’

  For a split second the word makes me freeze.

  ‘Now, come on please, cos I’m freezing out here without a coat on!’

  She’s coaxing me in, tugging gently at my elbow.

  We’ll find somewhere quiet to sit, don’t worry, I won’t make you suffer my lot for too long.’

  As we walk in, a certain wave of heat sweeps over me, taking me from one extreme to the other. The typical pub smell of beer and food hangs in the air, mixed with the burning wood from the lit fireplace. People’s faces are rosy from the heat and the alcohol, and I feel my own cheeks starting to flush with colour. I’m unwrapping the scarf from around my neck, hoping that I don’t look like too much of a sight, as Beth’s family are all looking my way.

  ‘Hiya love, Merry Christmas – have a seat,’ says her mum making space for me to join them.

  ‘It’s alright Mum, we’re gonna sit over there – a bit of girl time.’

  ‘Oh, ok - your dad’ll bring you over some drinks then.’

  I smile as best I can, trying to look appreciative, all the while wanting to leave their company and sit alone with my friend.

  Beth rounds up some worn-out stools and a small round table in a corner by the fireplace. The stone of the fireplace is old and blackened by the soot. A dirty poker sits at the hearth. Brass discs and plates are dotted around the stonework. The mantelpiece is a solid wood beam. It looks as though it must have been there for years and years. I wonder to myself what it may have seen during that time – the people, the laughs, smiles, arguments, fights. The urge to run my fingers over it fills me. The grooves and crevices, the knots, the contrast between the rough and smooth.

  I’m interrupted by Beth, who demands that I sit down and tell her what’s up. The fire is sweltering. I take my coat off, stalling, trying to gather my thoughts and think of what I’m going to tell her.

  I have no idea.

  Something inside me almost wants to confide in her, let her know what it is that makes me act the way that I do. I know that she can be trusted, and if I opened up to her maybe she could help me make some sense out of this. But as soon as I open my mouth I hear the familiar words spilling out of it, and I hate myself for it.

  ‘It’s nothing. Not nothing. I mean, it’s just a hard time of year and I was just thinking about everything… about back home… and – ’

  ‘You mean your dad.’

  It cuts through me like a knife. I can actually feel the physical pain as the words hit every cell in my body. My expression must be enough for her.

  ‘I’m so so sorry Seph, it must be awful for you, and with it being your first Christmas here too.’ She holds my hand from across the small table, and I give it a small squeeze to let her know that I appreciate her kindness and concern.

  A loud crack of laughter erupts from across the room, and I’m reminded that this is Christmas, and that people are enjoying themselves, relaxing and having fun.

  Beth’s dad comes over, precariously balancing a tray crammed with drinks. Beer swishes around the bottom of the glasses.

  ‘Sorry girls, Coke only for you. This time next year though.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Beth takes the drinks from the soaking wet tray.

  This time next year.

  This time next year…

  ***

  When I step back into the living room the Christmas carols are off, and the TV is flicking black and white images onto my mother’s face. She barely looks up at me as I walk in, and that’s how I know that she’s upset.

  Gabe is nowhere to be seen. I half expect her to start yelling at me about where I’ve been. But nothing.

  The fire burns low, dying slowly, and it surprises me that she hasn’t started loading more wood onto it. She sits watching, as the man on the black and white screen runs through the streets, smiling, waving and shouting ‘Merry Christmas’ to everyone he sees, as the snow falls heavily down upon him. I’ve seen this film every Christmas for as long as I can remember. Always with her.

  Our Christmas tree stands in the window, the lights unlit. Underneath, presents are scattered, neatly wrapped and delicately dressed with bows and ribbons. My mother always has an eye for detail; she likes things to look nice, spending what can seem like hours fussing and arranging something until it is to her satisfaction. Dad always loved that about her. ‘Your mum has an eye for beauty,’ he would say, then joke about how her good taste extended to men.

  That was the first thing that went after he did. When I lost her for that time.

  That feeling returns to me as I look at the tree, missing the warmth of its lights, and I almost panic.

  ‘You haven’t put the lights on,’ I say, quickly making my way over to the switch and flicking it. She makes an ‘mmnn’ sound and carri
es on watching the film, where a crowd of people now gather in a house, singing and grinning as if they have so much to be happy about. The man stands at the Christmas tree holding his young daughter. I let them get on with it and go upstairs to my room.

  ***

  After a while the dryness in my mouth leaves me no choice but to go downstairs to get a drink. She’s still there in the same position, the fire now dead, and with a blanket covering her. This time the TV is off, though she still sits there looking in its direction. I make my way towards her and sit on the floor at her feet, resting my arms on her legs.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to have a go earlier but I just needed to get out for a bit.’ I feel her hands on my head, stroking my hair.

  ‘I know love, I’m sorry too. I just want to try and make Christmas nice for us all.’ I can hear the desperation or hopelessness or something in her voice and it hurts. But even her, the person that can make things beautiful, can’t turn this into something pretty, no matter how much rearranging she does.

  We sit for a while by the dying fire, saying nothing. Her in the chair. Me on the floor. The Christmas tree straining away at the dark with the presents underneath. For a while I am so engulfed by the sadness that I forget about him. I forget that he will be sleeping under this roof tonight.

  ‘I thought you’d be having a go at me by now about going out earlier, knowing how you worry.’ I leave it to hang in the air, like there’s something that needs answering.

  ‘I knew you were with Beth at the pub, Gabe saw you.’

  ‘What – are you checking up on me now?’ I feel myself bristle.

  ‘Don’t be dramatic Seph. Gabe left not long after you to do a couple of things. To be honest I felt a bit for him, I don’t want him to come back to us arguing at Christmas. It’s not fair on him.’

  What’s fair or not fair to him really doesn’t register with me as a concern. I almost want to scream at her for even caring.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Said he was going to meet up with a friend of his.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t have any friends?’ I insist, making her bristle now.