A week after Richard’s fatal heart attack, I watched his coffin sink down into the flames at the crematorium in Plymouth.
I cried. The rage inside of me swirled with the thoughts of what could have been, and then clashed with the knowledge of what was, and I cried.
Neil had offered to come with me, of course, but I said no. I wanted to be there on my own.
As I left the crematorium I thought I spotted Janice Ward leaving in a taxi, but I could have been mistaken.
It took another three weeks for the swelling inside my head to go down. Three weeks for the dreams to lessen, three weeks for the visions and smells to diminish and three weeks for the pain in my upper leg to subside.
During the three weeks I worked out dates and events and realised that Richard had killed both missing girls shortly before my real mother had become pregnant with me. Before he had raped her. My real sister, wherever she was, would still have been a baby at the time.
It was true that Richard had been a monster, and I was pretty sure that was why the feelings I had experienced had been so strong.
Of course it crossed my mind that he killed my mother. Perhaps she had threatened to leave him. I would never know.
But I knew I had seen her, perhaps only as Richard had seen her, through his memories, but at least I had seen her. And that was enough.
Neil and I were sat the other side of Colin Connell’s coffee table, books either side of us, and Colin, smiling, opposite.
‘So your final visit, Christine,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
I reached over for Neil’s hand and he took mine.
‘I’m feeling good,’ I said. ‘It’s all just a bad memory.’
I didn’t smile as I said it.
Colin wasn’t sure if I had just made a joke or not.
I helped him out and smiled.
‘As the swelling has gone down it’s like the memory bit inside my head is closing up again,’ I said. ‘It opened up and I became aware of the memories I’d inherited from Richard — now it’s closing again.’
‘And the physical sensations?’ Colin said.
‘Pretty much gone,’ I said. ‘Obviously all these things are a part of me, deep inside somewhere, but as long as I don’t get mugged on a regular basis I should be OK.’
Again he wasn’t sure if I was joking.
‘You know where I am if you need me in the future,’ Colin said. ‘I’d be more than happy to continue seeing you, both of you, if you think it might help.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m OK, Colin. Thank you. I’ve got my head around it all now, pretty much. I understand what happened, I’ve made sense of the things I saw and did. The blackouts were as a result of the head injury, the things I did during the blackouts were as a result of Richard. The whole mess got whizzed up in a blender in my mind and body and — “hey presto” — out popped Christine the nutter.’
I let go of Neil’s hand and did a weird kind of jazz-hands type movement.
Neil and Colin looked at each other.
‘And how are you, Neil?’ Colin said.
Neil shook his head and raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m good,’ he said, and looked over at me.
‘He’s promised not to lie to golf secretaries, and not to hang around street corners hoping to beat up muggers,’ I said. ‘And I’m going to make him promise not to work so late anymore. And to never do another barbecue.’
Something tapped the window behind us and made me jump.
‘It was a leaf,’ Colin said. ‘The weather’s on the turn again.’
I gave Colin a hug as we left, so did Neil. In fact I was pretty sure Neil wiped his eyes, but he turned his head away when I looked.
Colin was right, the weather was on the turn.
As Neil and I walked arm in arm along the garden path to the gate, the wind picked up again. Stuff on the air buffeted my face and lifted my hair.
And I caught the smell of something.
Involuntarily I squeezed Neil’s arm with mine. My footsteps faltered.
The smell grew stronger.
Neil looked at me.
‘Christine?’ he said. ‘Chris? What is it?’
He looked into my face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes had narrowed and he looked the very picture of concern.
‘I can smell something,’ I said
‘Chris, you’re crying? What is it?’
The wind lulled and the smell stayed with me. A beautiful smell, full of love and childhood and happy memories of dead-heading in the garden.
‘I can smell roses,’ I said.
The End
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