Guilt Trip

by Maggy Farrell

  He started to rattle the door handle.

  “Mel.” He was more insistent now. “I said open the door.”

  But then suddenly he stopped, and I could hear him leaving. And then there were different voices on the landing. I checked the time. Yes - it was getting late: the other guests would start coming to their rooms now. Going to bed. He’d have no choice but to leave. I was only sixteen after all.

  Once I was sure he’d gone, I turned back to the diary. The next section was messy, written in a shaky hand.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have. It was a moment of madness.

  He bought that bear as a peace offering, even though he still says it was my fault - that he was only trying to be romantic and I spoiled it by reacting like that.

  So when he finds out what I’ve done with it, he’s going to feel so hurt. So angry. But I have no other choice. No alternative. I have to go to him. Tell him. Explain.’

  She was talking about the bear. The pink teddy bear. It had been hers. And it sounded like it had been given to her by Luke after the violent scene in the bathroom.

  I thought back to Luke’s words in the tacky souvenir shop: “You girls and your cuddly toys.” He’d given her a child’s toy as a treat. ‘A peace offering’. As if that would make up for what he’d done.

  But she’d done something to it. Something she regretted. And I knew exactly what that was. She’d taken it to the Changing Well, hadn’t she, and allowed it to be hung up on the wire.

  I thought back to when I’d first seen it there. How I’d suddenly felt so liberated. So strong. Those must have been Billie’s emotions I’d been feeling. Her ‘moment of madness’. And so I guess that’s why she’d done it: some kind of crazy, rebellious revolt against Luke’s tyranny. At last.

  But then, the euphoria of rebellion over, she’d regretted her actions, knowing she would have to pay for them - somehow. I thought back to how my mind had been plunged into despair. Into complete and utter terror. I’d experienced Billie’s fear, her real dread of Luke’s reaction. Of what he would do to her.

  And yet the diary said she intended to ‘go to him’, to tell him about it - to ‘explain’. I couldn’t even imagine the courage needed to do that.

  But when I turned the page to find out more, I was faced with a blank sheet. For there the entries stopped.

  I didn’t understand. I flicked through the rest of the pages - but they were all empty.

  However there was something else: a paper tucked inside near the back. It was a newspaper cutting. I looked at the headline: Girl Dies in Tragic Cave Accident.

  And underneath was a photo of a familiar face. The girl who’d been haunting me. Billie.

  I read the first couple of paragraphs. Apparently Billie and Luke, described as ‘a young couple’ had been on the viewing platform overlooking the Hall of Teeth at Hell’s Mouth. The paper called it ‘an amorous tryst’. Billie had been ‘unwisely’ sitting up on the railing, and she’d fallen. A group on a tour heard her cry for help as they neared the cavern, and found Luke desperately trying to pull her up as she hung on for dear life. But just as they reached the pair, she slipped from his grasp, falling to her death on the limestone floor thirty metres below.

  So that was the terrible accident. That was how she’d died. Poor Billie.

  And no wonder Luke couldn’t get over her. He probably blamed himself for what had happened. For his inability to save her.

  <><><>

  Suddenly, I was interrupted by a faint scratching at the door.

  “Mel,” Luke whispered softly. “Mel. Please…”

  Poor Luke. How he must have suffered over the years. The guilt of being alive when she was dead. Like Survivor Syndrome. It almost excused his treatment of me, using me as a Billie substitute.

  But now I could hear fumbling at the keyhole. He was trying to unlock the door. I ran forward, but was too late. The chair overbalanced and the door opened a fraction, only to crash to a halt as the safety chain stopped its path.

  “Mel. Let me in.”

  I stood there, hesitating, caught between fear and forgiveness. It must have been so hard for him. To see her die like that.

  But then he grew impatient at the delay, pushing at the door again, sticking his foot in the gap to prevent it from shutting. “Mel!” His voice had a sharper edge to it now. And his tone snapped me back to my senses. What was I doing, feeling sorry for him? He didn’t deserve my pity.

  “Mel - I’m warning you…”

  His words chilled me, and I experienced again the utter terror which Billie had felt after she’d allowed the bear to be hung up at the Changing Well.

  And so I didn’t even have to think about it. Not at all. It was instinctive. Billie may have been trapped into silence. But not me. Not any longer. And so I opened my mouth. And screamed.

  It took about ten seconds. And then I heard doors opening and angry voices asking what was going on.

  Luke’s foot immediately moved from the gap, so I was able to slam the door shut.

  And then I heard him, as charming as ever, apologising and inventing excuses. Something about me having nightmares. And then doors started closing again and Luke had no choice but to leave.

  I leaned back against the door, sliding down until I was sitting on the carpet, head in hands, my whole body trembling. This man was capable of real violence.

  My mind replayed the bathroom scene: the younger Luke smashing my head against the mirror, his body jamming me up against the sink, and then slapping my face with full force, knocking me to the floor. And his words: ‘Will you never learn?’ I shuddered as I thought of him winding the belt round his hand. Preparing to punish me. Punish her. Poor Billie.

  In a way, I’d been lucky. My Luke had never actually hurt me physically. But then I’d only known him for a few days. Not enough time for the violence to evolve, I guessed.

  But there had already been talk of punishment. On the way to the Cauldron, he’d described my hangover as ‘a lesson’ for drinking all that wine; and then, when I hadn’t been repentant enough he’d lectured me and told me I needed someone to ‘teach’ me some manners.

  But luckily, my punishment that day had only been his displeasure and silence - his moodiness - though at the time that had been bad enough. I remembered how agonised I had felt at his absence. Deserted. Rejected. Emotionally devastated. And how I had wept as I climbed the Devil’s Lair. So I guess that had been enough; and Luke had been satisfied that I had learned my lesson.

  In fact, it was only a few hours later that he’d saved my life.

  Yes - I’d been much luckier than Billie…

  I closed my eyes, remembering all that water crashing down on me. The caged seat dancing around under the force of it. The water filling my mouth and nose. The terror of it

  How lucky I’d been. Lucky that Luke had been up at the dam when it broke. At exactly that moment. And lucky that he knew exactly how to fix it.

  So unbelievably lucky…

  My mind snapped to Luke telling me I needed someone to teach me some manners. And then it snapped back to the accident.

  And a horrifying thought screamed out at me.

  I had been punished. Taught a lesson.

  Because Luke had deliberately broken the dam…

  But no - he couldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t.

  And yet it all seemed to fit. Luke wanting to teach me some manners; and then Luke at the dam at the precise moment it broke.

  And when the ordeal was over, I’d been so grateful to him. I’d called him my ‘knight in shining armour’. And - I shook my head at the memory - I’d apologised sincerely for drinking and for my behaviour in making him angry.

  What a fool I’d been. I’d played right into his hands.

  And so, Luke’s own brand of justice was complete: Melissa had been chastised.

  And then I thought about him at my hospital bedside, grasping my hand, thanking God that I was still alive. The hypocrite. When i
t was all his fault. I mean, he had been so reckless. Put me in such danger. I was lucky to have survived it. I could have died.

  Like Billie…

  And so it struck me full and hard: he had done the same to her, hadn’t he.

  She’d gone to him and told him about the bear, hadn’t she. And he’d punished her, there, in the Hall of Teeth. Maybe he’d tried to scare her, holding her over the railings threatening to drop her, just like he had allowed me to dangle, terrified, in the Cauldron.

  But it had gone too far, and she had slipped from his hand.

  It was his fault that Billie was dead.

  27

  As soon as the world outside my window stirred, signalling morning, I packed the diary into my rucksack. Then, not bothering to brush either my hair or my teeth, I headed for the door. Downstairs, no one was about yet, so I tiptoed unseen across the reception area and out of the front door.

  Outside, the market was being set up, but the burger van was open, so I bought a cup of tea and a bacon roll which I ate in the bus shelter, hood up, huddled against the cold, damp morning.

  I’d spent most of the night trying to contact Billie, sitting in front of the mirror, staring at myself, willing her to come to me. But she had remained absent. And so I still didn’t know what I was meant to do, even after reading her story.

  Did she want me to go to the police? Show them the diary? Show how violent Luke had been?

  But so much of it was crossed out, obliterated. And anyway, it didn’t really prove anything on its own; not without the memories or visions I’d experienced in the bathroom and at the well. And who was going to believe those?

  And it certainly didn’t prove that Luke had been even partly responsible for her accident.

  No - I didn’t think that the police would be interested.

  Breakfast over, I checked the time. Still a bit early, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I was cold and desperately tired, and in need of someone to talk to. The one person who might actually believe me. Who might even be able to help me.

  The Spiritualist.

  I walked down the main street trying to remember which door she’d come out of that windy morning when she’d followed me into the post-office. Ah, there it was. Wasn’t it? I’m not quite sure what I was expecting - something wildly exotic and bohemian probably - but this definitely wasn’t it. It was very neat. Very clean. And very orderly. Spotless, white paintwork and window boxes with flowers in neatly-regimented rows. The picture of respectability and normality.

  I rang the doorbell, hoping that this was the right place, and, if so, that she was an early riser. After a little while I heard a shuffling in the hall and then I had the sensation of eyes upon me. The curtains hanging in the large bay window at the front of the house twitched. And a few seconds later the door was opened wide. And there she stood, wearing a long, quilted, flowery dressing gown buttoned to the throat. The last person you would expect to be communing with the dead.

  “Oh, my dear.” The same note of concern was in her voice, as she ushered me inside, introducing herself as Mrs Cosgrove.

  She fussed about, taking my jacket, sitting me at the small, white kitchen table, preparing a pot of tea, warming the china pot, setting a small timer to let the leaves draw properly.

  Eventually, handing me a cup of Lady Grey, she joined me at the table. “Now,” she said, peering at me carefully, “how can I help you?”

  I hesitated, wondering where to start. How much to tell her…

  “Think of me as a priest, or a doctor,” she said on seeing me falter. “Whatever you tell me, stays with me. Strictly confidential. You have my word.”

  Still, I hesitated. This was the first time I’d told anyone.

  But when I finally found the courage, the words blurted out of me in a clumsy confession: “I’m being haunted,” I cried, too fast, too loud.

  I looked at her anxiously. Would she laugh at me? Would she think I was lying? Insane?

  But she simply nodded encouragingly, waiting for more details.

  Tears of relief stung my eyes. It was okay: she didn’t think I was mad. In fact, she was acting as if I were perfectly normal. As if she came across such things every day of the week. And I supposed, in her line of work, she might.

  “It’s the spirit you spoke to at the meeting,” I said more confidently now. “The girl. I need you to contact her. Find out what she wants.”

  “Oh my dear.” Her face fell. “I’m not sure…”

  “Here’s my ring,” I said quickly, handing it across the table. “The one you used last time. To channel the energy.”

  “But -”

  “Please. You have to help me.”

  Nodding reluctantly, she held out her hand and I placed the ring on her palm. She folded her fingers round it and closed her eyes.

  She sat quietly, clearly concentrating hard, breathing deeply in and out until she almost seemed to enter a trance-like state. Finally, she clasped the ring to her chest. “Come through me,” she said in a slow, low voice. “Let me carry your message to the living.”

  The seconds ticked their way through the silence, from a small, slender grandfather clock in the hall.

  “Come to me,” she repeated in an urgent whisper.

  Silence stretched on and on in her small kitchen. Outside, a bird chirruped its territorial rights to its rivals.

  Suddenly her eyes opened. And she shrugged apologetically.

  “Is that it?” I asked, shocked. “Is that all you’re going to do?”

  “If the spirit is absent, my dear, then there is nothing else to do.”

  “But I thought that was your job. To summon spirits.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but…” She bit her lip nervously. “It’s just that… Well… To be perfectly frank, that’s not an area I’ve ever felt comfortable with.”

  “Excuse me?” What was she talking about? She must do it all the time. I’d seen her with my own eyes.”

  “You see, spirits do come to me, certainly. It’s happened all my life. But it tends to be whenever and wherever they wish. It’s always their decision. It’s not because I summon them. That doesn’t seem to be part of my ‘gift’. Believe me, I’ve studied the art in depth and I’ve practised to near-exhaustion using every method ever tried. But to no avail. It’s completely out of my hands, I’m afraid.”

  “But your meetings,” I cried, incredulously. “Surely you channel the energy, help the spirits to come to you?”

  She grimaced, shamefaced. “Well…not really. That is, not often. Of course sometimes the right spirit happens along at just the right time. Now that is a wonderful moment. But mostly … not.”

  I thought back to how I’d been sceptical of her powers when she was bringing very vague, general messages from ‘John/Josh’ to his grieving widow, the caterer. “So it’s all just acting?” I asked.

  “Yes, much of it is, I’m afraid,” she admitted sorrowfully. “But you see, the public expects so much. Spirits on demand. While-you-wait, as it were. But it simply doesn’t work like that. So, often I find that I simply have to…” she looked at me, embarrassed, “… invent them.”

  “But you gave me a message,” I said.

  “Like I say, sometimes a spirit just happens along,” she said. “And that particular spirit had been bothering me for days.”

  “But you can’t reach her now?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She handed the ring back to me. “She’s not here: I’m feeling no vibrations from your ring at all.”

  So that was it. The ring. Why hadn’t I realised? The ring had nothing to do with Billie. And it had had nothing to do with bringing her to the Spiritualist meeting at all. Why would it? She’d simply turned up because she wanted my help. But now I needed her help. I needed her to come to me, to tell me what she wanted me to do. And so I needed something to draw her here. “Hang on,” I cried, digging around in my rucksack and then pulling out the diary. “Maybe, just maybe, this might help.”

 
; “This belonged to the spirit?” Mrs Cosgrove asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then let us at least try it,” she said with renewed energy.

  I passed the book over to her. As she took it, the newspaper cutting fell from between the pages and fluttered onto the table. I picked it up.

  And so she began again, placing her hands on the diary, closing her eyes, concentrating.

  I tried to focus too, staring at the cutting, at Billie’s photo, willing her to appear. I stared and stared, concentrating hard, until the picture blurred and the letters of the print swam before me. And then, suddenly, I opened my eyes wide. I’d seen something. Something I hadn’t paid any attention to before. The date at the top of the cutting. April 23rd. So, the ‘yesterday’ referred to in the report - the day of the accident - must have been April 22nd?

  But now Mrs Cosgrove was shaking her head, pushing the diary back to me, apologising for being unable to contact the spirit. I grabbed the book and began flicking through the pages madly. All diaries have dates - for every entry - but I simply hadn’t bothered to look at them properly. Not since the first page.

  And finally I reached the last one. Billie, determined to tell Luke about the bear. And she must have done it the very same day, because there it was: April 22nd. Seventeen years ago.

  I thought of the black-and-white photo in its frame, always standing by Dad’s bed. My young mother smiling blissfully outside the hospital. The day the doctor created me in a petri dish. April 22nd, seventeen years before.

  So Billie had died on the very same day that I had been given life.

  I thought about Paula saying that I resembled Billie. Something about the expression in my eyes. And then I pictured Luke’s shock that first time he’d looked at me properly. Into my eyes. That spark of recognition. As if he knew me.

  They call the eyes ‘the windows of the soul’ don’t they.

  So is that what they were looking at? My soul. My inner being. My spirit. Billie.

  Is that why Billie had chosen to contact me?

  I turned to Mrs Cosgrove, my voice high with adrenalin. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”