‘Woman. We all shared a flat together. Clara. Clara’s her name.’
‘Right.’ We sit in silence, listening to the smooth purr of the engine for a few minutes. ‘Student digs, I remember those days.’
‘Ah-huh,’ is all I can manage.
‘God, our place was a dump,’ he continues, ‘it was quite a sweet terraced house, but the area,’ he whistles, ‘it was rough.’
‘Really,’ I return. Why’s she here? Could she have my current details by now, asked the servers about me, a close friend from the past, blown apart by devastation and grief, looking to be reunited? I hear Kyle’s voice somewhere in the background, as I drift back to then. For one moment, whilst throwing cold water over my face, I even contemplated confronting her. Demanding she told me the real reason for her appearance in Cornwall. Then, thank goodness, I thought better of it. Not in front of Kyle, that would be stupidity in the highest order. Maybe I’ll call back there tomorrow, on the pretence of speaking to the chef for the article, I mean, it’s hardly a pretence, I need to do this anyway. I’m not going to have my freelance job for much longer if I continue in this manner. This is what I need to do, I’ll return in the morning, do the casual interview, some chat. Then I’ll casually ask of the lady sat on table nine. I’ll explain about the laugh, grabbing my attention and how I was about to go to her, check if I was right. But of course, unfortunately we were called away by the baby sitter, one of the children was presenting with a fever. Then, if he did speak to the lady, as he so often does with all of his patrons, did she mention where she was staying, whilst here on holiday?
‘But of course, you wouldn’t know what I was talking about, would you?’ Kyle playfully flicks at my leg.
‘What are you talking about now?’ I ask his grinning face. This really isn’t a time for banter and crack.
‘I’m referring to slumming it in student digs. Little Miss Penthouse in Morningside, courtesy of daddy,’ he mocks.
I half laugh it off. ‘No, afraid not,’ I offer back. Is that it, has she come back to track down my parents? Conscious I had history with Cornwall. She wouldn’t be privy to the fact they emigrated to the USA before they died, how would she? My mind swims with alcohol and stirring thoughts. Could she be behind the estate agent trick too? Had she seen my name and was nosing around, wanting to see for herself, before she could believe it.
Could she then, be – my not so dead stalker?
43
Edinburgh 2000
Jo
Even when we were friends you caused me to feel nervous, always slightly wary of you, I was. We were so tremendously different in so many ways. Poles apart some would say. Intimidated, is probably the best way to describe how I felt in your confident presence. I wasn’t always convinced you were who you portrayed yourself to be, if your words were honest. But, I also accepted – this is who you are, I didn’t judge you. I only kept hold of my wariness of you, just in case. After all, I think it was only me who felt this way.
I followed you that night, you’d insisted the two of us visit the small cliff top café on the eve of the night of the graduation party. Knowing full well the café would be closing, you never did listen to me, didn’t think me worthy probably. A mouse, I once heard you refer to me as. You’d swung your car round in the car park, scooting shingle and dust in choking clouds around us. Wait there, you ordered me, I’ll only be a jiffy. You rummaged around for your cardigan on the back seat, then you were off, you didn’t wait for an answer and you left your mobile phone behind. When it began to ring for the third time and there was no sight of you, even after fifteen minutes – I decided to follow you. I liked Elliott a lot, and he obviously needed to speak with you, else he would have given up trying.
Treading the winding shingle pathways, smeared with cliff top bracken, hardened and resilient against the force of the elements, I came to find you. Closer and closer towards the edge of the cliffs, I couldn’t spot you anywhere. I sheltered my eyes with my hand from the low sun making its way to the edge of the sea between South and West. As I turned my gaze to the right, I finally caught a glimpse of a distracted you wandering back along the farthest cliff path. Where had you been? I wondered. And for what reason? I couldn’t quite fathom. You shrugged my questions off, snatching your mobile from my grip. I wondered again, why you’d even bothered to take me here. Were you looking for someone? I deduced there were many things I didn’t understand about you.
It wasn’t until the aftermath of the following evening, after the party – I began to question your motives for our impromptu visit. That night. I was unable to remove from my mind’s eye the sound of the sea, the garbled screaming, the silence, the eerie silence as my view seemed to slip into a slow motion horror film. But you made it back up those treacherous metal steps, didn’t you, because you’d already discovered your escape route with me the night before. But you were alone. You didn’t go down there alone? Two lives were lost that night for no reason, did you know this would happen?
After, I couldn’t sleep at night for the images, for the sounds. So, I telephoned you the other day, asked you for your help, I needed to know the truth, you see. The truth was always so important to me, whatever it is, however bad – I always needed to know. I couldn’t live with myself. But as it turns out, I cannot live with the truth either. I cannot un-know what I now know. I was right about you all along, wasn’t I? You feel life has betrayed you, people have betrayed you. You have suffered such awful loss, but why this? Jealousy? Control? The two people you wanted the most in your world, in your eyes – rejected you?
But now look what you have done, we have done.
44
A 22 Year Old Post-Graduate Student Dies, Taking Her Own Life Only Weeks After Loss Of Two Friends.
The local coroner’s office has now confirmed that a former student of Edinburgh University, 22 year old Joanne Morgan, died from an overdose, a combination of paracetamol, prescribed anti-depressants and an excessive volume of alcohol. She died alone in her bedroom, moments after sending an email to her parents in the early hours of Monday morning. The inquest heard she was at the time being treated by her GP for an episode of severe depression. It was also confirmed she had suffered with ongoing episodes throughout the previous ten years.
This tragic suicide of the Edinburgh graduate was discovered by her parents on Monday, who rushed to her apartment after reading her email. This being one week after two students were swept off the Cornish beauty spot. Both of these girls remain missing and are feared dead. Police confirm there to be no suspicious circumstances regarding this latest loss. Family have suggested this to be a sad emotional response to these events. They told us. ‘We are completely heartbroken, we knew she was upset but we didn’t see this coming, we spent the awful week following the loss of her friends with her and did not at any point believe she was as low as she must have been. We have all lost a most beautiful, empathic and thoughtful girl.’
45
Edinburgh 2017
Camilla
It’s raining, hard, pummeling the outside pavements, pummeling my mind. The lunch service was chaotic with people desperate to escape the incongruous summer weather. Water dripping on the wooden tiles from jackets strewn over the back of chairs and the umbrella stand in a puddle. Outside, the gusting wind has an unnecessary sharp northern chill, slicing through any exposed skin. I’ve pulled out a chair at one of the cleared tables, to take the weight from my feet. It’s unusual for us but before the crowds hit in the frenzied tourist, festival fringe months, we’ve decided to shut up shop between three and five. Allowing us a chance to breathe. With elbows on the table, I place my head in my hands and close my eyes. From the kitchen, I hear Drew, whistling and clanging around.
My London trips are going well, my chosen man is warming to me as I’d hoped, perhaps because he, like me, is struggling through a challenging time. I thought it important to allow him to tell me about this himself. Essential for him to have a voice, and of course, it’s important I listen to h
is story from his perspective. Do I sometimes wish I hadn’t set this particular ball rolling? Sometimes. If I’m honest with myself, probably from the moment I woke in the hospital bed in Cornwall all those years ago. The aroma of sour disinfectant mingling with the whiff of salt, and tangled thoughts. I thought I’d an idea of what happened, of what she did. I didn’t want to believe it but I had to. How could she be so different to how I supposed? I made the decision to escape quickly, to run from Cornwall, from Cornwall and her. Or at least her memory, believing she was dead. She thought I was dead. She thinks I am dead. Everyone thought I was dead. But even worse than that, what I needed to come to terms with was – she hoped I was dead. I trusted her, grew to care about her and all the time she had plans, sick, devious plans. As I lay in the hospital bed in Cornwall, I realised I needed to separate our lives as far as I feasibly could. I’d had selfish intentions too, they have haunted me for some years. Selfish though, not sinister. What I didn’t understand was why she did it, what was her motive to try and kill me? What did she hope to achieve? I’d been a good friend to her too. Hadn’t I? Why did she want me dead? These questions changed me for good, how can I ever trust completely? Build normal relationships?
I was so afraid when I returned to Edinburgh. Only now I appreciate I was also young, naïve and vulnerable, more than ever before. But most of all I was alone, but wasn’t this what I’d always wanted? Surely, it was finally my chance to do what I wanted to with my life. No one to hold me back. Here, in Edinburgh, no one left to voice an opinion, hold a judgement. A completely fresh start. It took time but eventually I made good use of these circumstances. Now look at me, a business owner and independent, respected within the field, and liked for who I am, nobody appreciating the kind of family I came from. I’m still very much scarred, enough to want answers to questions. Of myself and of her.
Once I overcame the shock of her not being dead, I had to fight the urge to dig, to discover what became of her? I understood this knowledge could hurt. I’d be opening a book, wishing to read each word, each chapter until the very end. To be able to understand each word, each sentence making up the chapters. To then perhaps write myself into the book and maybe live it? So, I made the decision to leave this book firmly closed. But fate had other ideas. Fate took me to her, forced me to see what my heart already wondered.
It’s amazing what people leave behind on these tables, deliberately or otherwise. Especially after the lunch time services for some reason. Anything from newly purchased clothing, to passports and wallets, second hand goods for the jumble and much needed spectacles. Some months ago, someone left behind a magazine, I remember them well – a lovely gentle couple, I’d chatted to them for a while about shared experiences. They’d set their minds on travelling around the UK, chunk by chunk, year on year, in the camper van they purchased on retirement. Starting up here in bonny Scotland with the last intended destination being Cornwall.
The first blow came at the mention of Cornwall. But then it began to feel good, right even, to relive the county I’d grown to love so much. It saddened me in some respect, why had it vacated my heart with such speed, such revulsion? My conversation with the couple proved to be rather cathartic, I’d thought. But then, they left the damn magazine behind, the magazine they were waving in front of me, referring to. Was it a mistake, or did they think they were doing me a twisted favour? Flicking through haunts of old? I should have binned it but I couldn’t help myself, I stashed it away secretively in my bag for future reading. Later that afternoon, whilst sitting outside Louis’s café in Grassmarket, I came across it, her photo. Staring back at me arrogantly. I froze, caught in the headlights. For the first time in all these bygone years, it all began to make sense. All the time I was secretly envious of her; her envy was even greater? How could she?
This is why, I tell myself, I’ve no choice but to keep learning, keep digging, and keep visiting my man in London. That day I ran from Cornwall as a child with the sense of an adult, believing I could start all over again. Now, with age and experienced retrospect – it was completely foolish. I need to put the wrongs right. If I ever wish to sleep well again, this is something I have to do. For some reason, I especially want to understand her motives, knowing them, seeing them so obviously, is no longer enough.
A breeze crawls through from behind, Drew always leaves the back kitchen door open when we’re closed, whatever the weather. I shiver, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. ‘Sitting down on the job,’ his hand squeezes my shoulder, ‘that will never do.’ He’s jesting, I know, but he’s right, enough moping. I stand, fixing a smile on my face before I turn to him, but he gently pushes me back to my seat, ‘I don’t think so, stay right where are you are, I’ll fetch your coffee, in fact I’ll fetch us both coffee.’ I turn to see him smiling warmly at me.
‘Lovely, thanks, Drew, I could do with one. It was mad this lunch time wasn’t it or am I imagining it, because I’m so blinking tired?’
‘Ha, no, you’re not going crazy, it was pretty manic. The weather brings people in, but even so. Still, think of the money.’ He turns and wanders over to the coffee machine, ‘so tell me, you’ve not really said,’ he calls over the hiss of the brewing contraption, ‘how’s it going in the smoke, the photography course, all good?’
It depends how you look at it, I want to say, yes, it’s going to plan, quite excellently but is it all good? ‘Yeah, I’m enjoying it, it’s good,’ I call back, and I am, the course, the stretching myself and the new environment are a welcome change in my life. After all, I started up this business with zero qualifications, nothing at all. In fact, pretty much nothing on all levels. But in the pit of my stomach, something still feels wrong about it, dishonest, a slight fluttery feeling crawls over my stomach. It wasn’t really supposed to be this way.
‘Good stuff,’ he says, placing a smoky coffee in front of me, ‘you need something else in your life, other than this,’ he waves his arm around the restaurant.
‘I know, I know, so you keep saying. But you’re as bad, you spend every God given hour here too.’
‘Sure, I do, but I do have other interests in my life,’ he pokes the top of my arm, ‘hey, I’m not having a go, Cam. No need for the big eyes look. Just trying to look after you.’
‘I know, but you needn’t worry, I’m quite used to looking after myself, trust me. It’s you I worry about.’
‘Stop putting this on to me. Look – I get you’re perfectly capable of looking after yourself, but it’s not always a good thing is it? Being, you know, alone? Not that you are, you always have me if you need another head to bounce stuff off.’
‘Thanks,’ I punch his solid bicep, ‘I appreciate it. The same goes for you too.’ Unintentionally, Drew makes me realise this is the problem, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter who I meet, who I off load to, even my therapist, who has a better insight than anyone else. Regardless of who it is, I can never quite be myself. I’ve too much hidden behind the scenes. That night on the stunning beach of Bedruthan Steps changed my life beyond recognition. Earlier that day, I had a grasp of who I was, of where I was heading and almost within a flash, it all turned completely on its head. I changed for good.
Two people missing, presumed dead. Who’d have seen it coming, except her. Then, a week later, the suicide. No suspicious circumstances for either tragedy the papers reported, the coroner’s office stated, the police established.
No idea of context or perspective, so no idea of the truth.
46
Cornwall 2017
Andi
I’m back on my knees, picking up minute shards of glass, the shudder that tip-toed down my spine is now rattling the bones in my legs. Blood drips from the palm of my hand, as her words echo through my empty mind. I don’t need this. Trepidation is circling me like a predatory vulture, feeding off the immobilised wounded. Every day, I’m backed a little further into the corner. Every day, I am waking with a skittish tummy, on alert.
She bends down, flapping, next
to me. ‘Oh my goodness, here, let me help you. Oh no,’ she says, ‘look, love, you’re bleeding. You’re proper hurt.’ Gently, she takes the glass from my hands as if I’m a child, for a moment – it feels nice, someone to take care of me. ‘Now come on, love, we need to sort this out,’ she softly advises, ‘you might need stitches, you might. Looks nasty, oh my goodness.’ She stands up from her hunched over position, but I don’t, I can’t move. ‘You alright, Andi? You’ve gone a real funny colour you have, love, are you feeling okay? You’re not gonna pass out on me or anything, are you? The sight of blood and all that? Shall I fetch a chair? Come on, lovely, here, lean on me, let’s get you up.’ She wraps an arm around me.
I shake my head, ‘I’m fine, thanks, just lost my balance that’s all. I’m fine,’ I lie. I stand slowly, testing the stability of my legs.
She wanders a few feet, still keeping a watchful eye on me, places the glass on the kitchen worktop, grabs a wad of kitchen roll to return quickly to my side, ‘here, let me have a proper look at that,’ she says, placing a tender hand on my arm.
I pull away. Don’t let her in. Don’t let her be nice to me. I’ll cry, it won’t take much this morning. ‘It’s fine really, looks worse than it is, I’m sure.’ My legs wobbling underneath me as the room travels around me, I manage to take the kitchen roll and quickly cover my hand up. ‘Think I had a bit of a dizzy turn, then slipped.’ I say. ‘Happens sometimes. It’s not as bad as it looks.’
‘Really?’ She puts a protective arm out seeing me sway again. ‘Well, that’s not right, love, is it? Does it happen often then, this dizzy feeling? Only my friend’s, friend’s husband, he kept getting a dizzy feeling. Went to his doctors several times about it, it’s nothing they kept telling him, six months later, he was dead. Brain tumour it was. It’s nothing they said.’
Who I Am: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 20