by Adam Croft
‘Who?’
There’s a noise at the door. I look over to see someone step inside the room.
It’s Matt.
58
‘The wanderer returns,’ Dad mutters under his breath, the anger and disdain clear in his voice. ‘Finished pissing about in Outer Mongolia and thought you’d pony trek your way back into her life, did you?’
‘Derek, come on,’ Mum says. ‘Let’s leave them to it, eh?’
Dad looks at her, then at me, grumbling as he does as he’s told and rises to his feet. ‘Alright. Fine. You can tell her about your chakras and entertain her with your tales of putting lederhosen on a monk in Peru, but then you can bugger off. I’m hungry now. I want a Twix.’
McKenna and Cath follow them, leaving Matt and I alone in the room. I don’t know what I’m meant to say to him. I’m marginally more pleased to see him than I would have been to see Tom, but there’s not much in it.
‘Cath told me everything,’ he tells me, sitting down on the chair beside my bed.
‘I doubt it. Cath doesn’t know everything.’
‘She’s Cath. She’s worked out more than you think.’
‘Shame she didn’t tell me that a little earlier then.’
‘Look, I know you’re probably not best pleased to see me. I’m not stupid. I know I hurt you. And your family. Cath almost kicked my head in. And I know you’re not going to just let me waltz back into your life as and when I please. I’m not expecting that. But I do want to be able to give you my side of the story. If only to make peace with it myself.’
I raise my eyebrows. How gentlemanly of him to want to satisfy his own guilty conscience.
‘How long have you been back?’ I ask.
‘I got back yesterday. Terrible timing, I know. Never was my strongest suit. Listen, Grace. I didn’t want to hurt you. We’d been together since we were kids, Grace. Neither of us ever got the chance to be ourselves. We were a unit. A couple. Neither of us was ever a person in our own right. Not properly. I know that might not have been something you wanted, but I had itches to scratch. Things I needed to do. I never wanted that to be at the expense of our relationship, I promise. But at the same time I knew you had no interest in doing those things with me. You’re a homebird. And that’s fine. But it was always going to drive us apart. We were always going to want different things. Things that weren’t compatible. If there was never going to be any movement or compromise, we were always going to be blown apart.’
I can see where he’s coming from, but it does sound a little like he’s blaming my immovability for him leaving me. He’s right. We probably weren’t compatible. Not when it came to our views on life and what we both wanted from it.
‘And did you scratch your itch?’
Matt shrugs. ‘I guess. To an extent, anyway. I’m always going to be someone who wants to see the world and experience different things. That’s never going to change. I’m still going to want to do it. I’m still going to do it. But there’s a lot of room in me now for the alternative, too.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I dunno. Putting down roots here. Having a home. A conventional life. One that allows me to slip out of convention every now and again when the itch arises. It taught me that the two don’t need to be mutually exclusive. They can work together perfectly well if the communication’s there. And if everyone involved is on the same page. I saw a lot of the world, Grace. I met a lot of people. I think I’d already started to realise a lot of things long before, but last week I got chatting to a guy over a couple of beers and some sushi. We both opened up about stuff, realised we had a lot in common. He said something about never giving up on what you want. He’d had a rough time of things and had had things taken away from him. So he learned never to take anything for granted. He was only out there for a few days for work, but he said when he got home he had some unfinished business to take care of, and he didn’t know which way it was going to go. The main thing was he knew he’d soon find out. And then he’d be at peace. He said I should make my own personal peace, too. That’s when I knew I had to come back.’
I lie still in my bed, an icy chill having run down my spine. My blood has run cold. Even though I’m certain I know the answer, I ask the question anyway.
‘Where was this?’ I ask.
Matt cocks his head slightly and answers. ‘Japan. Why?’
59
Sometimes things seem right when they aren’t. Sometimes they are. The same could be said of wrong, I suppose. And anyway, who’s to say what’s right or wrong?
We all need events in our lives to put things into perspective. To see what we really stand to lose or gain. Life’s not about achieving perfection: it’s about achieving balance. Spend too long reaching for the goals of others and you’ll miss your own without ever knowing what they were.
Nothing is perfect. Perfection is unattainable. Even the world’s smoothest surface will look like sandpaper under a microscope. And do you know what makes it feel smooth when it isn’t? Our hands. The way we detect and interpret the surface. The ridges and imperfections in our own surface, working perfectly in tandem with what we receive.
If any of us ever thinks our life is perfect, or that we ourselves are perfect, we should know that this is our imperfection. True joy is not found in enjoying the comfort and ease of a tranquil life. It’s found in seeing the darkness and realising how much light there is in everything else.
Matt’s not perfect. Nor am I. Then again, I wouldn’t want him to be. I spent too long searching for perfection, only to find it comes wrapped in false platitudes. Ones which nearly cost me my life. No-one needs to be perfect. And no-one needs other people to be happy. The traditional boy-meets-girl doesn’t always work.
Life isn’t a fairytale, nor should it ever be one. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. Fairytales aren’t perfect. Most of them consist of fighting against death and evil, coming through the other side battle-scarred and weary, and with both considerable personal loss and spiritual gain.
If that’s the case, let this be my fairytale.
60
Friday 24 April
We’re friends. We’ll see what’s there. Neither of us is in any rush. Not anymore. In any case, I’ve come to realise that I don’t need anything more than that. Sure, it’s nice to have, but it’s not what defines my happiness. It’s something that was always there, and which I always thought I needed, but I was wrong. I can be happy.
My suitcase clatters along the uneven paving as we walk towards the terminal, and I look forward to the adventure that awaits me. We won’t be gone long. A month or so. We’ll play it by ear.
I gave it another fortnight for work to get back to me with a conclusion. They didn’t, so I told them to shove it. The last thing I needed was the uncertainty, and it soon became apparent I had more important things to worry about.
Dad doesn’t seem best pleased, but he’s clearly more comfortable than he lets on. He and Mum have given us the money to go — an advance on Nan’s inheritance. Even he can see that sometimes it’s better to just live and let live.
It might sound strange, but I’ve barely thought about what went on before. What good could it possibly do me? There are reminders, of course, but I try to push them out of my mind and focus on the future. That’s the only way anyone is going to be able to move forward. And we all need to move forward.
The police were successful in charging Tom on both counts. He’s on remand, awaiting a court date. DI McKenna thinks I’ll have to give evidence, and in a strange way I’m looking forward to it. I could worry and panic and focus on the negatives. I could concern myself with having to come face to face with him again, having to be in the same room as him. But I’m not. What good would it do me? I’m framing it as my opportunity to ensure justice is done.
McKenna called round to see me after I got out of hospital. She brought flowers and chocolates. She told me about a case she’d worked on three or so years ago, where a woman was
being stalked and made out to be mentally unstable. No-one believed her. And it almost ended in tragedy. She recognised the similarities in me, she said. I’m thankful for that. If that poor woman hadn’t gone through her own ordeal, there’s every chance I wouldn’t be here now.
Matt’s told me a lot about Japan. It’s another world from here. A completely different model of society. But it’s one I want to see. Something I want to experience for myself, if only to say I have. Because what’s the alternative? Keep plodding on, doing the same old thing time and time again, living in the same old rut? I’ve got a chance, an opportunity to do something different. If only for a short while.
We lift our cases onto the check-in conveyer, knowing the next time we see them we’ll be in Japan. The land of the rising sun.
I’ve always wanted to see the cherry blossom. The Japanese believe it symbolises the brevity and cyclical nature of life. Sometimes it’s only out for a few days, if that. If there are fierce winds, the delicate blossom is gone in half the time, leaving bare twigs until that season’s leaves begin to sprout. As a result, the Japanese associate it with mortality and the acceptance of karma and destiny. They seem somehow symbolic for me now.
If nothing else, it’ll be an experience.
Acknowledgments
It always feels somewhat disingenuous for my name to be writ large on the front cover when the truth is that there’s a huge team behind every book.
To begin with, an author must translate the nucleus of an idea into a set of structured beats. When it comes to my books, it’s more a case of turning my brain farts into something usable. For that, my thanks go to Mark Boutros for his patience and good humour in being a world-class sounding board for plot and character. He’s also unfortunate enough to share my sense of humour and penchant for rubbish football teams.
That does, however, mean that my wife, Joanne, comes second (careful, now). Her continual suggestions for improvements and her unswerving dedication to ensuring each book is as good as it possibly can be is always hugely appreciated. My books would be undoubtedly poorer without her suggestions.
If there are still improvements to be made, these are unfailingly spotted by my mum or my Editor in Chief, Lucy. Lucy has read and edited each of my books over the past ten years, and nobody knows them as well as she does — not even me. She’s always the first to tell me if something isn’t good enough. And she’s always right.
The gorgeous cover is, once again, down to Stuart Bache. Not only is he one of the world’s greatest living cover designers, but he’s also a good friend.
My biggest thanks, though, must go to the tens of thousands of you who are members of the VIP Club, as well as the 2,000+ in the Adam Croft Readers Group on Facebook. Your daily love is the greatest thing a writer could ask for.
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