Guilt Trip

by Maggy Farrell

  As we crashed over the side of the scaffold, his weight was on top of me, crushing my legs into the rail, then forcing my head and back to slam painfully against the metal posts. But, mercifully, the carabiner clips held fast, and my fall was brought to an abrupt halt.

  But Luke’s wasn’t, and so as I came to a stop, he continued down, sliding heavily over me, descending past me, his body plummeting headfirst to the rocky floor below.

  31

  I don’t know how long I hung there, my heart pounding, adrenalin coursing through my veins. But eventually I grew calmer. And then the pain began. Every muscle in my body cried out, and my head and back ached from where they had crashed into the metal scaffolding. It was agony, but somehow I managed to hoist myself up and back over the rail to safety.

  Unclipping myself, I looked down to the body sprawled across the rocks below as Billie’s once had.

  Opening my backpack, I took out her diary, wiping it down with my sleeve, and then throwing it over the rail so that it landed next to the body, the loose pages and newspaper clipping scattering round it.

  I wondered how thoroughly the police would study it. Would they analyse it fully, working out his real part in her death? Or would they simply glance at it, seeing it as proof that he was still grieving for his dead love? Either way, it would be enough to account for his apparent pill taking and suicide. Especially if Paula told them that one of his recent guests had slightly resembled Billie. But even if they only flicked through it, surely some of his violent nature would come to light. And the gossip would spread. It might even hit the local headlines. And then people would know the kind of man he had been.

  But whatever happened next, however much of the truth about him came out, one fact remained: Luke had finally been punished. And Billie’s death had been avenged.

  But where was Billie? Didn’t she have anything to say? She’d asked for my help, and I’d given it to her. Her killer was dead. So where was she?

  Stuffing my Coke bottle into my bag, I carefully wiped the top of the other, leaving it by the CD player. Then, grabbing my hardhat, I headed back into the tunnel. And it was then, as I was leaving, that I heard her.

  “Help me!” The voice swirled through the air of the cavern behind me.

  I turned back.

  “Help me!”

  “But I have,” I cried, “Luke’s dead. It’s over.”

  “Help me!”

  “It’s okay, Billie. He’s gone.”

  But her voice echoed on and on.

  And suddenly I could see her. She was cowering in the corner of the viewing platform, where Luke and I had been, with the young Luke standing over her.

  “And I guess that was some kind of sign, was it?” he hissed at her. “Something about how your heart had turned to stone too. Is that it?” He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her up from where she crouched so that he was yelling straight into her face. “Is that it? Some clever symbol for all your little college friends to laugh over. Is that it?”

  She must have just told him about hanging up the bear at the Changing Well. And he was furious.

  “No, Luke.” She winced with pain as he pulled her to her tiptoes. “It’s not like that.”

  “So what is it like then?” he growled, tugging harder.

  “It’s just that… that… it’s over.”

  “What?”

  I could hear people somewhere behind me, in the tunnel. People on a guided tour, coming closer. But not near enough yet.

  But now Luke grabbed her by the front of her coat, hoisting her up suddenly so that he sat her on the top rail.

  “No!” Automatically I stepped forward, but they couldn’t hear me. Couldn’t see me.

  And then suddenly it was me up there, back on the rail, supported only by the young Luke’s hands on the front of my collar.

  And Billie spoke through my mouth. “It’s over, Luke.”

  And then I was falling backwards into space until he suddenly caught my hand, and I was hanging there, dangling over the void. But it wasn’t my hand. There was no ring. It was the déjà vu hand. Billie’s.

  “Help me!” Her voice filled my head. Pleading. Begging. Echoing round and round. So this was it. This was what she really wanted. Not just for me to avenge her death; but for me to prevent it.

  But how?

  Looking up at the young Luke as he sneered down at me, savouring the moment, enjoying his feeling of power, I saw the wound on his forehead, now a large, ugly scab. I thought back to the scene in the bathroom, where I’d stabbed him with the tweezers. All that violence, and yet I had escaped unhurt.

  And so I realised: I could do this. I could change the past. I could save Billie.

  Two were stronger than one. I could feel our combined strength clinging to his hand, stopping us from falling. United, we could hold on until the tourists came. Then, unable to drop us, Luke would have to pull us up. All we had to do was hold on tight, together.

  But then I realised the enormity of what she was asking me to do…

  If I saved her, what would become of me?

  We shared the same energy. The same life force. So if she was still using it, how could I even be born?

  And the answer was - I couldn’t.

  In order for me to live, Billie had to die.

  Me or her.

  It was a matter of basic survival.

  But now Billie was panicking inside my head. She must have experienced my innermost thoughts with me. Seen the darker side of my human nature. The instinct to survive at all costs.

  “Help me!” her voice rang out round the cavern, and I could hear people running out of the tunnel, onto the platform above us.

  But now I could feel Luke letting go, trying to drop Billie to her death, before anyone could reach him. Before they could understand what he was doing. But we were still clinging on to him, our combined strength holding on tightly, preventing us from falling.

  In a second they would reach him, and Luke would have to haul Billie up. He’d have no choice. They’d probably help him to pull her to safety. And Billie would be saved.

  But what about me?

  Me!

  And so, like Luke, I loosened my grip, and opened my hand.

  And now we were falling, down and down the thirty metres towards the rocky floor. And as we plummeted I shut my eyes and willed myself to leave this dream, concentrating with all my might.

  And suddenly I was back on the viewing platform, alone, helmet in my hand, bag still on my back. Just as I had been.

  <><><>

  And so, ignoring the cries for help which had started up again, the screams echoing round the cavern behind me, I left.

  Down the tunnel and through the narrow passageway, I turned down the short path to the waterfall which crashed into the churning pool. It was deafening. A chaotic symphony of discordant sound. And yet, through it all, I could still hear Billie clearly.

  “Help me!”

  And so, as I splashed the ice-cold water onto my hair, trying to get rid of the last streaks of purple, and as I used a series of make-up wipes and then water to remove the black make-up from my eyes, the accident was once again all around me. Images of my mother flashed into my mind, her face surrounded by rising water, her eyes watching me, pleading with me as she began to choke. To die. And as she opened her mouth, her voice mixed with that of Billie. “Help me!”

  My head ached with it all. The responsibility. The guilt. The never-ending psychological trauma. I leaned heavily against the cave wall, willing myself not to black out.

  Three people. Three people, dead: Mum, Luke, Billie.

  But Luke didn’t really count. I swilled some icy water round my mouth and spat it out. He’d deserved what he’d got. I’d feel no remorse for him.

  But Billie… I hadn’t wanted to let her die. Really I hadn’t. But I’d had no choice. It was down to my own survival.

  And the instinct to survive had always been strong in me.

  My mind leapt to t
hat afternoon, ten months before. But not to the edited version I’d created for Dr Henderson and Dad, and not to the scene from my dreams. No, like Luke blotting out Billie’s words in her diary, I too had tried to rewrite my past. To erase those bits I wished to forget.

  But this was the real scene. The original version. The truth.

  It had been a bitterly cold, dark November afternoon. Mum had picked me up after netball practice as usual. But, unlike her normal, serious, responsible self, she seemed chatty and playful. I asked her what was going on. At first she denied that anything was up, but, when I kept on at her, she eventually gave in.

  Turning off the radio she looked at me, her eyes shining.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  I didn’t understand. “But you can’t be,” I said. “You can’t have children. Not without IVF.”

  “I know,” she squealed, excitedly. “But I am. The doctor confirmed it today. Somehow I’m having a baby. Naturally.” She beamed at me. “I can’t wait to tell your dad. He’ll be so thrilled. A real little miracle baby.”

  I looked at her, horrified. This couldn’t be happening. Surely I was their miracle baby.

  Seeing my reaction, Mum was quite put out. “You could at least try to be happy for me,” she snapped.

  But I couldn’t. Not in a million years. So I sat there in stony silence.

  Mum tutted, angry and disappointed. “Oh grow up, Melissa!” she shouted.

  But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it. I’d be expected to grow up. Become the older sister. And someone else would be the baby of the family now. The miracle baby. Dad’s pride and joy.

  And it was then that we came to the bend - and the black ice. Desperately, Mum slammed on the breaks, trying to control the wheel, but it was no good. We skidded across the road, over the opposite lane, crashing through the fence and down the bank, tearing through the undergrowth. And then the car toppled over onto its side and smashed into the freezing river.

  Mum was below me now, victim to the cold, black water which flooded in through the broken windscreen.

  Frantically, she tried to undo her seatbelt, but it was jammed tight. And now the water was pooling around her head and over her throat.

  I watched it rise. Watched as it began to cover her mouth so that she choked.

  For a while she would manage to crane her head sideways and up, out of the flood, but the effort exhausted her and before long she would sink back under again, only to swallow more water and cough and splutter and lift her head again.

  “Help me!”

  I could have done it. I could have held her head up out of the water, put something under her neck to support her until help came. After all, the river wasn’t deep.

  But I didn’t.

  You see, I didn’t want another baby in the house. I was Dad’s baby. His IVF miracle. I was his little honeybee. And no one was going to take that away from me. It was bad enough having him drooling over Mum all the time, without someone new making demands on his attention.

  “Help me!” My mother raised her head one last time, pleading with me.

  I watched as her hand moved instinctively to her belly. To the new life inside her. The precious new baby.

  “Help me!”

  “Help you? You and your baby? No. I don’t think so, Mother.”

  Leaning over, I gently pushed her head down with the palm of my hand. She looked at me, her eyes widening with surprise as the water covered her face. But she didn’t struggle much. She couldn’t; she was already so exhausted. Too weak from the effort of trying to survive.

  And so it was easy, watching her die.

  Then, opening the window next to me, I unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbing on to the back of my headrest to stop myself from falling, onto her, and heaved myself out of the car, dragging myself to the safety of the bank.

  And that was the truth which I’d tried to bury deep within me. To hide. To forget. The truth which had been trying to break free for almost a year, plaguing me with feelings of guilt. Not Survivor Syndrome at all. But the after-effects of murder.

  <><><>

  And so, I guessed, all things considered, Billie’s death wasn’t so terrible. Not compared with killing your own mother. I mean, it’s not as if I’d really killed Billie, was it; she’d already been dead for seventeen years. Surely guilt over this would pass, soon enough. It was like Mum’s baby - a mere embryo, not a real person at all. It didn’t really count.

  <><><>

  And so, I pulled myself together, put on my hardhat, and left the sound of the water behind, retracing my steps, following the main tunnel again, through Darwin’s Parade, under Lucifer’s tongue, past the various examples of flowstone.

  And as I stepped out of Hell’s Mouth, I took a deep, clean breath of fresh air, feeling the oxygen swelling my lungs. I felt invigorated. Alive.

  I had survived. Like one of those bees emerging from her queen cup, I’d killed off any rivals to the throne. After all, there was only room for one queen bee in any hive. And in my life, that was me.

  And so it was my turn to live.

  Throwing my hardhat back into its crate, I walked down the covered steps. Outside, the rain had stopped, and there was even the odd break in the clouds. In the far distance a shaft of sunlight bounced off something shiny. Metal. The bus was coming. I’d better get a move on to the next stop before it got there.

  As I hurried on down the road, I planned what I’d do when I got back to the pub. First, I’d pack up all my stuff ready for our journey home tonight. Then I’d meet Dad in the bar for dinner. Poor Dad! It had been really tough for him lately. And as Mum’s anniversary approached, it would only get worse.

  But we’d get by.

  My stomach growled fiercely - I hadn’t eaten since breakfast - and my mind wandered to dinner. I wondered if they’d have any more of that sticky honey pudding. I fancied something sweet.

  Maggy Farrell is a British author who loves Young Adult Fiction, old black-and-white movies and chocolate biscuits.

  Catch up with her on:

  www.maggyfarrell.com

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  www.twitter.com/maggyfarrell

  Oh – and if you liked her book –feel free to review it!