by Jodi Taylor
I was thinking. The covenant had been broken. The stones had not received their payment. Their strength had not been renewed. They’d stood outside of time for so long and now time had rushed back in. The ceremony had failed and now the village was failing too. With luck, never to be restored. I found I wasn’t sorry.
‘Well, thank you anyway,’ I said.’ Thank you for going back for my things.’
‘That reminds me,’ he said, opening his wallet again and passing me my credit card. ‘I persuaded the young girl to give me this back. That was good thinking there, Cage. Sometimes I think you’re not as away with the fairies as you’d like the world to believe. Good to see you utilising modern skills.’
‘Can you teach me that trick with the credit card? When you opened my door.’
‘No.’
‘But isn’t that a modern skill?’
‘No.’
He passed me my coffee.
‘Well, thank you for rescuing me.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ he said, looking pleased. ‘I’m a real prince.’
‘A real prince would teach me the trick with the credit card.’
‘How short lived is gratitude,’ he said, looking mournful. ‘Shall I take your case upstairs?’
‘No. I’m going to throw it all away. I don’t want it in my house.’
‘I risked life and limb for that.’
‘You just said they couldn’t wait to get it and you out of there.’
‘And you were worried enough to stand out in the freezing cold waiting for me so shall we both stop talking?’
He was right. I rummaged until I found Ted’s photo and set it up in its old place on the shelf. I never even noticed the cracked frame. That wasn’t important any longer. I sat beside him on the sofa with my mug of coffee. ‘Well, thank you anyway.’
‘You’re welcome. Glad to be home?’
I nodded.
He glanced upwards towards the light fitting. ‘I meant what I said about the surveillance stuff. That’s my problem. You don’t have to worry.’
‘Again, thank you.’
He turned to look at me. ‘I am sorry, Cage.’
We both knew what he was talking about. I blinked back a sudden tear. ‘I know. Drink your coffee.’
Chapter Ten
It was wonderful to be home and I was so happy to pick up my quiet life again. I know some people complain of boredom but trust me, boredom is very underrated. I stood in the middle of my little room and inhaled the familiar and well-loved scents of home. It was so good to be back. I decided I would never willingly leave it again. Adventures could happen to someone else somewhere else.
I spent two days cleaning my house from top to bottom, and then sat down with a coffee to enjoy the fresh smells of lavender and lemon. My house isn’t large, but it is all mine. I have a long sitting room with a kitchen area at one end, divided by a smart breakfast bar. The walls are a soft cream and the wooden floors a lovely mellow honey colour. There’s one bedroom upstairs and a modern bathroom in white and chrome. If I looked out of my windows I could see the castle opposite, dramatic against the sky, with the remains of its old moat fringed by soft willows. My house is a little jewel – the only drawback being the lack of vehicular access. I didn’t have a car so this wasn’t a problem, but I’d been told delivery men would not love me and refuse collectors would not be my friends, and they weren’t. Shopping was a daily occurrence because one bag of food at a time was about all I could carry up the hill. Despite that, I loved my little house. It sheltered me, welcomed me when I’d been away, and kept me warm and dry. I thought it was just perfect.
True, my stairs are only about two feet wide and meander up through the middle of the house and getting anything bigger than a mug of coffee upstairs is almost impossible and anyone larger than me has to turn sideways to get up them, but that’s not an obstacle for me so I can safely ignore it.
I made several trips to the shops, restocking the fridge and cupboards. I brought back some fresh flowers to put near Ted’s photo. I threw away all the stuff in my suitcase and shoved it back under the bed. Wouldn’t it be nice if the nightmare of the last fortnight could be as quickly and neatly put away? Out of sight – out of mind. If only things were that easy. I sighed. Time to get back to life – back to normality – and the best way to achieve that was to behave normally. Ignore the flashbacks. Ignore the dreams. Because, as Jones had said, ‘It couldn’t possibly have happened, could it?’ Time to settle back down again and get on with my life.
I visited the public library, chatted with the staff there, heard all about their Christmases, and came home with an armful of books. Everything was just as it had always been – which was exactly how I liked it. I curled up on the window seat with my books and read away the winter days.
I didn’t contact Jones and he didn’t contact me. I suspected he was leaving me the initiative and, since I still didn’t know how I felt or what I wanted, I was content to leave things as they were for a while.
The weather was cold but sunny and I tried to make sure I went outside every day, either walking around the castle green opposite, feeding the swans and ducks, or walking down into town, across the bridge. I strolled in Archdeacon’s Park and admired the early bulbs. I took advantage of the seasonal sales and bought myself some new clothes to replace the ones I’d thrown out. I visited local art galleries and exhibitions. I made sure I kept myself busy and slowly the jangled memories began to fade. I slept better, the bad dreams lessened and I kidded myself I’d put Christmas and its aftermath behind me.
And then, one morning I met my neighbours, Colonel and Mrs Barton who were on their way out. Today must be one of her good days. Her paper-thin colour, a washed-out duck-egg blue, was stronger today and drifted my way when she saw me. The colonel’s colour was as dark green and boxy as ever, curled protectively around his wife.
I said good morning and asked if they’d had a nice Christmas.
‘Lovely,’ said Mrs Barton, her eyes unusually sparkling and focused. ‘Apart from all that dreadful weather, of course.’
Her husband turned to her. ‘Eh?’
‘The snow, dear.’
He laughed. ‘What – that little dusting on Boxing Day?’
‘No, dear. It came down very heavily – for days – don’t you remember?’
I could feel the blood draining from my face. She remembered the snow. No one but me remembered the snow, but Mrs Barton did. I smiled what I hoped was an encouraging smile. ‘What snow was that, Mrs Barton?’
She turned to me. ‘You must remember, my dear. All that snow. All that angry snow.’
I don’t know what the colonel said to that. I know he said something to me and I have no idea what I said to him. I couldn’t think at all. Because here was someone who remembered as I did. ‘All that angry snow,’ she’d said, and she was right. There had been a lot of snow. A lot of angry snow that had suffocated the world in white silence. I hadn’t dreamed it after all. Someone else remembered the angry snow.
I remember holding on tight to the iron railings outside my house while I got my breathing back under control. Jones had talked me into believing it was a concussion-induced dream and I’d allowed myself to go along with it. But what if that was the real reality? Was this the dream? Was I, at this very moment, expiring under the weight of all that snow? Were these the last thoughts of my dying brain?
The world whirled around me and for a few moments I experienced pure disorientation. Where was I at this moment? Was it even possible that I was lying in a drug induced coma in the Sorensen Clinic from which I’d never actually managed to escape?
Somehow, I got myself back inside. I shut and bolted the front door and took refuge, as I always did, back in my house. I sat on the sofa and curled into a ball, almost too frightened to move. I was shivering with cold and fear. My thoughts were frightening me and I wondered if I was going insane. Or if I was already insane.
No. No. I had to stop this. I had no idea
which reality was which and it wasn’t something over which I had any control anyway. There wasn’t anything I could do except live my life as best I could. Life is valuable and not lightly to be tossed away, as I’d discovered at Greyston. I’d been saved and, in turn, I’d saved someone else. I wasn’t going to throw all that away by spending my time crouched in misery at the end of my sofa. Drastic action was called for. Some sort of physical exertion to blast away these dark thoughts.
I couldn’t spring clean again. To spring clean a house twice in such a short time was too bizarre even for me. I decided that just for once, the answer lay outside.
The weather was improving. Spring had come early this year. The days were mild and sunny. Early daffodils started to appear in window boxes and the willow trees sprouted soft green shoots. Sap was rising everywhere and mine along with it. Suddenly, I wanted to be outside. To fill my lungs with fresh air and blow away the winter cobwebs.
I’d seen on the local TV news that the council had opened up the old towpath along the River Rush and it was now possible to walk all the way from Rushford to the coastal port of Rushby. It was eight miles from start to finish, which was too much for me, because that meant it was eight miles back again as well, but I could work up to it slowly. In the meantime, there was a shorter stretch from Rushford to the Whittington Bridge which was three miles there and three miles back. I could walk to the bridge, eat my packed lunch, rest for an hour and then do the three miles back again. I’d probably be exhausted but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. And it would be good for me to be outside enjoying the spring weather. And a change of scenery would give me something more cheerful to think about. Yes, I’d do the walk to the Whittington bridge.
I picked a Wednesday, because I didn’t think there would be too many people around mid-week, packed myself some sandwiches, fruit, crisps, and water, some spare socks, a waterproof and some money for emergencies. Seriously, it looked as if I was setting out for the Arctic. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen to me as I strolled along this popular and frequently used footpath, but if anything did then I would be ready for it. I spared a thought for Michael Jones who could probably live on the moon for six months equipped with nothing more than a paperclip and a slab of Kendal Mint Cake.
It was a lovely day. The sun was shining, but it wasn’t hot and there was a pleasant breeze to keep me cool. I pulled my door to behind me, waved to Colonel and Mrs Barton as they sat in their window, and set off on what I was calling my Big Adventure.
I picked up the river at the medieval bridge, descended the steps to the path, turned left and set off. The first hundred yards or so were nicely paved. I walked past green-and gold-painted narrow boats with their pots of bulbs blooming away and a ginger cat asleep on the roof in the sun. Their names, picked out in gold and red, glinted in the sunshine. Leon, Lavender, Charlotte, and Valkyrie.
I walked past the old harbour master’s cottage, now a small museum, and through the warehouse area. These were big, solid, brick buildings with their names painted in bold black letters across the front. The Victoria Warehouse, the Albert Warehouse, the Bearland Warehouse, and the tiny and still empty Hartland Warehouse at the end. Most of them were now home to trendy coffee shops and inappropriate modern flats.
I walked past the old railway sidings with their rusty rails and derelict engine sheds, also earmarked for development, until finally, around the bend, quite suddenly, there was real countryside.
I’d come about a mile and a half. Time for a break. I stood a while, drinking water, leaning on a gate, and watching lambs bouncing around the fields as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The occasional horse and rider passed me. I stepped aside to give them room and they thanked me. Is it being around horses that makes people so polite?
I was really enjoying myself. This was lovely. I made a deal with myself that every Wednesday, weather permitting, I would go out for a walk. A proper one, with sandwiches and walking boots. Rushfordshire is a lovely county and there were plenty of places I could walk to. There was Pen Tor, up on the moors. Or the higher reaches of the Rush valley. That was very lush and pretty with birches and ferns and cascading waterfalls. Now that I was out and about I could see I spent too much time on my own and inside. And I had definitely been spending far too much time in a dark world that was a thousand miles away from this lovely spring day, full of sunshine and prettiness and lambs and nice people and their horses.
I marched along, developing a rhythm, that, while it didn’t exactly eat up the miles, at least ate up the yards. My backpack was heavy but that was because I’d brought enough food for four people. It would be considerably lighter on the way home. I was beginning to feel hungry and looked forward to arriving at the Whittington Bridge, which I thought I could see in the hazy distance. I would pass under the bridge and then there was a set of steps cut into the embankment. My plan was to climb up, have a look at the view – they said you could see the sea from there – find a pretty spot and substantially lighten the load of my backpack.
The far side of the river was flat pastureland dotted with cows – the flood plain, but there were woods on this side, ringing with birdsong and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth. Dappled sunshine splashed the path ahead of me. I was enjoying myself so much. This was fun.
The bridge grew larger and closer. It was a Victorian affair, restored when they renovated the towpath, and carried the main railway line from Rushford. The brickwork was a deep purple colour, and it arched beautifully over the river. I could see the reflections of the flickering water on the underside of the roof. The shadows under the bridge looked cool and welcoming. I suddenly realised how hot and tired I was, but I was very nearly at the furthest point of my journey. I heaved my backpack into a more comfortable position and stepped from the warm sunshine into cool shadow.
The world changed.
At first, I thought I’d simply underestimated the contrast between the bright sunshine out there and the sudden darkness here under the bridge. I blinked a couple of times and waited for my eyes to adjust. If they did then it didn’t make any noticeable difference. I looked all around me. Nothing but blackness. Thick, heavy blackness.
I remember thinking how remiss of the council not to fit some form of lighting. The tunnel under the bridge was obviously much longer than I expected, so you’d think there would be lights, wouldn’t you. If only to stop people like me toppling into the river in the dark.
Blinking had not helped. I wondered if I’d gone blind because to me, darkness is never complete. There are always rich, deep colours within the darkness, swirling and twisting about me. Dark light. But not this time. I wasn’t blind but I couldn’t see a thing. Except darkness everywhere. The sound of birdsong had died away, along with the gurgling river. I was alone in the silent darkness. My heart began to thump.
I pulled myself together. Really, my nerves were not in a good state at all. Of course I wasn’t alone in the dark. I’d walked in – I could walk back out again. All I had to do was turn around and face towards the light. Back from under the bridge and out into the real world of sunshine and birdsong.
I turned around and then I really did start to panic because there was no sunshine. Or birdsong. There was no path back into the real world, just the dark, empty silence all around me. I turned again. And again, spinning around as if I was in some sort of game, and daylight was some mischievous sprite eluding me just for the fun of it.
But there was nothing. I was completely in the dark. And worse – I was lost. Because I’d spun around so many times that I couldn’t remember which way I was facing. Where, in all this darkness, was the river? Two steps in the wrong direction could have me falling in and my backpack was heavy and would drag me down. I shrugged it off, hanging it over one shoulder, where I could easily jettison it should I have to, and turned my head this way and that, frantically seeking a lighter patch in this impenetrable darkness.
The sensible part of my mind was telling me that thi
s was ridiculous. I was only underneath a bridge. Just a small bridge carrying a minor railway line over the not hugely wide River Rush. It wasn’t exactly the mouth of the Amazon. Fifty feet at the most. There was no way I shouldn’t be able to see light at the end of the tunnel. It was impossible. The whole thing was impossible. And ridiculous. And stupid.
And then I had the answer. Of course – for some reason the other end of the tunnel was closed off. That the council hadn’t put up barriers was careless in this Health and Safety-burdened world, but these things do happen. There was nothing sinister going on here. All I had to do was calm down and find either the brick wall or the edge of the path – being very careful with that one – and then keep walking until I found the entrance I came in by, which was obviously just around a bend somewhere. Then I could make my way back out. Then I’d have lunch – somewhere in the woods – because once I was out of this place I definitely wasn’t coming back in again – and when I was back in the warm, safe sunshine, then I could laugh at myself for being so stupid. I really had to stop thinking bad things all the time. Not everything that happened to me was sinister or evil.
Dragging my feet carefully, keeping all my weight on my back foot and waving my arms around like insect antennae, I inched my way forwards for what seemed like a very long time. Surely, I should have reached my destination – any destination – by now. How big was this bridge?
Suppose it wasn’t a bridge at all.
I don’t know where that thought came from and I didn’t have any time to think about it because away off to my left and ahead of me, I heard a soft sound. The same sound I was making. The sound of someone dragging their feet through loose, dry gravel.
Relief flooded over me. Someone else was in here with me. Someone else was lost too. We’d find our way out together. I opened my mouth to shout, ‘Who’s there? I’m over here.’