Guilt Trip (12 page)

 
Carefully I slid open the top drawer: a
novel and an iPod. And that was it. Nothing about Billie at all.

I had
come to find a photo. Something which would tell me once and for all whether I
was actually being haunted by Luke’s dead love, or whether I was imagining it
all. But, on finding nothing, something else became apparent: Billie was a
thing of the past. Over. Done with. Finished. And Luke didn’t love her any
more. He couldn’t. Because, if he did, he would never have wiped her from his
life like this. So completely.

I sat
down on the bed, weak with relief, hope surging up in me. Maybe, just maybe -
if Luke no longer loved Billie - then he really loved
me
.

“What the
hell do you think you’re doing?”

Luke was standing
in the doorway, staring at me.

A
confusing mix of shock, embarrassment and joy flooded my emotions. Luke had
just found me trespassing in his private space. Sitting on his bed, for God’s
sake, like some kind of demented stalker. But it would be okay. It had to be. Because
he didn’t love Billie anymore. He loved me.

“You gave
me a shock,” I said with a nervous laugh.

But Luke
didn’t react. “I said, what are you doing?”

The
steely tone of his voice wiped the smile from my face. Things weren’t okay
between us at all. He was angry with me again. Furious in fact. So disgusted
with me that he couldn’t even look at me properly, his eyes constantly slipping
away to somewhere in the corner of the room. Automatically, I followed their
direction, but there was nothing there to see. A clean, cobweb-free corner. Nothing.

But my apparent
lack of concentration only incensed him further. He wanted an explanation.

“Answer
me,” he demanded, his tone ever more threatening.

I looked
at him, at the cold, hard expression in his eyes. This wasn’t
my
Luke, the Luke who took me to play
crazy golf, who bought me a necklace, who laughed at my darts-playing and danced
the tango with me - the one who didn’t love Billie, but loved
me
. This was a stranger.

A tear
ran down my face, soon to be joined by more. I couldn’t stop them. I was
devastated. It had all gone so horribly wrong. Over before it had really begun.
And I didn’t really understand how it had happened.

“Why are
you crying?” His voice softened slightly, though he made no move towards me.

I looked
up at him. “Because everything’s ruined,” I said, the tears streaming,
unchecked. My voice cracked and the next words came out in a thick rush of
emotion: “Because I just want everything to be the way it was before!”

He was
back in an instant. My Luke. Kneeling on the floor in front of me, his hands
cupping my face. He looked deep into my eyes, wiping away my tears with his
thumbs. Then he drew me to him, kissing me on my forehead, a warm, loving kiss,
like a father to his child. And then he kissed me on the tip of my nose so that
I let out a tiny, embarrassed giggle. And then we were both smiling and laughing
and he was kissing my face - tiny, gentle kisses. Kissing away my tears.

And when
his lips finally met mine, I melted into him. My first
real
kiss. Don’t get me wrong, obviously I’d made out before - experienced
the clumsy fumbling kind of kisses of boys from school who just wanted to ‘get
lucky’. But this was a real kiss. A loving kiss. A kiss full of love.

And then his
hands were in my hair and his kisses became more intense, more passionate. And
I felt so wanted. So loved. And then the pressure of him against me gradually
pushed me back onto the bed so that his weight was on top of me, and he kissed
his way down my chin, then down my throat, so that my body hungered for more. And
then he breathed a sigh of love into my neck.

“Oh,
Billie.”

My feet
splashed through puddles as I stumbled heedlessly across the empty market
square, my vision blurred by tears and rain alike.

Billie. He’d
called me Billie. He’d been kissing
me
,
holding
me
, touching
me
. But all the time he’d been thinking
of her.

Staggering
up to a modern, one-storey building, I crashed through the double doors and
into a brightly-lit hall. The community centre.

It was
full of people standing about, chatting and drinking tea, all of them turning
to stare at me as I stood, dripping, a puddle forming around my rain-drenched
feet. I thought maybe I’d made a mistake; that this couldn’t possibly be the
right place. But then someone detached himself from the crowd and hurried over.
Dad.

“Melissa!”
he cried, his forehead creased with worry. “What’s happened, sweetheart?”

“Dad!” The
urge to throw myself into his arms was overwhelming. But how could I tell him
what was wrong? How could I admit to him that his only child - his ‘honeybee’ -
had willingly kissed a virtually middle aged man? Lying on his bed, making out
with him. He’d be horrified.

No. I had
been a major fool and now I was paying for it. Alone.

So I had
to stand there, pretending that everything was fine. “I just thought I’d join you
after all,” I said, trying hard to hold it all together. “But I forgot my
umbrella.”

Dad
laughed, briefly putting his arm round my shoulder and giving me a quick hug,
his funny little daughter. But then he quickly let go of me, realising just how
soaked I was, making a fuss about how I was still recuperating and shouldn’t be
sitting around in wet clothes.

By now a
couple of women from behind the tea urn had bustled over, one handing me a tea-towel
to try to dry myself off, the other a ‘nice cup of tea’, a custard cream
balanced on the edge of the saucer.

And so I
was welcomed into my first Spiritualist meeting.

“You
better hurry up, dear,” the first woman said. “We’ll be starting again in a few
minutes.” She held out a shallow dish in front of me, on which lay various
small items. “Have you an object to hand in?”

I looked
at her blankly.

“An
object, dear. Something personal, which you carry with you often.”

 
“Why not hand in your ring, Mel,” Dad
said and unthinking, among all the fuss and flurry, I did as he said, giving him
my tea to hold as I took Mum’s wedding band off my finger and placed it on the
tray.

“Something
to help channel the energy,” the other woman explained. “Help the spirits to
find their way.”

“No, I -”
But the first woman had already gone, carrying the dish to the front of the
hall where she placed it on a table, centre-stage, while everyone began to take
their seats, which were arranged in rows facing it.

“But, my
ring-”

“Don’t
worry,” Dad said as he steered me to a row near the back, “you’ll see it again.”

And so I
sat down beside him, powerless to do anything about it. They had taken my mother’s
ring to help channel the energy. To help the spirits make contact. But I didn’t
want to talk to mum, the woman I had watched die - what could I possibly say to
her?

I closed
my eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to curb my growing panic. I was being
hysterical. Ridiculous. I mean, I didn’t even
believe
in ghosts.

Okay, so
for a second there I had allowed myself to think that
maybe
I was being haunted by Billie. But that had all been in my
head. I knew that now. My subconscious creating an image of some random girl in
order to tell me something. Something I already knew, deep down, but was
refusing to see. That Luke didn’t love me. How could he? He still loved Billie.

I thought
back to earlier that evening. When he’d called me by her name. How I’d scrabbled
out from under him, like a wildcat, kicking and scratching, a primeval instinct
to fight myself free, while he, the stronger of us, was too stunned to do
anything about it. I’m not even sure that he realised what he’d done at that
point. That he’d called me Billie.

But now everyone
started shushing each other. The Spiritualist had returned. Nervously, I peered
round the people sitting in front of me, trying to get a better view. And there
she was. An older woman - wearing a chiffon scarf. It was the woman from the
shop - the one who’d accosted me so dramatically. The one I’d callously labelled
‘the village nutter’, descendant of a witch.

I didn’t
know what to think. Half of me wanted to laugh out loud with relief that this mad
woman thought she could contact the dead. But the other half was terrified. She’d
stared at the postcard of the Hall of Teeth hadn’t she, when she told me in no
uncertain terms to take care. And then I had collapsed just as I entered that
very cavern. So was she actually psychic?

But
again, I was being stupid. Maybe she was a little fey. Had the gift. Whatever
you want to call it. But that didn’t mean she could talk to the dead. The dead
didn’t come back. There were no such things as ghosts. I had to get a grip on
myself. There was no way this woman could contact my mother.

And so I
sat, arms folded, watching as she began her performance.

Picking
out a bracelet from the dish, she swayed, trance-like, as she held it in her
hand.

Then, eventually,
she opened her eyes: “This person is connected to food in some way,” she said,
looking round the audience.

A group
of people on the left-hand side made noises at this. The bracelet clearly
belonged to one of them.

The
Spiritualist turned to them. “I’m thinking maybe something to do with a café…or
a shop...”

“I’m a
caterer,” one of the women said tentatively.

“Ah yes,”
said the Spiritualist. “That’s right.”

And
everyone began whispering to each other, as if she were some kind of mystical
genius.

“I have
someone here who wants to talk to you,” she continued. “I can see a name, but
can’t quite make it out… I think it starts with a J…? Maybe John…?”

“Is it
Josh?” said the woman eagerly. “My Josh?”

“Ah yes. That’s
right.”

And then
she went on to relay some bland, general message which could have applied to
almost anyone, telling the woman how Josh missed her and loved her and hoped she
was taking care of herself.

And
everyone was taken in.

I looked
around me in amazement. How could they be so blind? This was so obviously a
fake. Okay, so she had guessed a few things - almost - like the connection to
food. But then maybe she knew of the woman anyway. Made it her business to keep
her eyes and ears open, to read the local papers, watch the local news. After
all, we were in a country town not a huge, seething metropolis. And almost
guessing the guy’s name? John? Only one of the most common names in the land. And
the woman had seized on it, twisting it to fit her own needs: her Josh.

But these
people were grieving. They’d believe anything if it meant connecting to their
loved ones once again.

Like Luke.
It seemed he’d do anything to get Billie back, to relive his time with her. Even
using a substitute: flattering her, paying her attention, making her fall in
love with him. Just to pretend that she was Billie. To believe that she’d come
back to him. Just for a moment.

Thinking
about him, I felt empty inside. Literally gutted. Hollow. Bereaved.

And then
Dad nudged me out of my thoughts.

I looked
up to see the Spiritualist standing in another trance-like state, Mum’s ring in
the palm of her hand.

“This
person,” she began in what seemed to be her customary way, and then stopped, a
pained expression crossing her face.

She
looked round the audience, searching, frantically scanning the room, stopping when
she came to me.

“Oh my
dear,” she said, hurrying up the aisle towards me. “Oh my dear!”

Everyone turned
round to stare, alarmed by the change in proceedings. This obviously wasn’t how
it usually happened.

“You have
to beware,” she said. “Be careful!”

Dad
grabbed my hand tightly as I began to tremble uncontrollably. Having dismissed
this woman as a complete fake only seconds before, I was now terrified of what
she had to say.

“I don’t
think-” Dad started, but she ignored him, taking my free hand, placing the ring
in it and folding her hands around mine. Then she closed her eyes as if
communing with the spirits.

“She
needs your help,” she said dramatically. “ ‘Help me!’ ”

“Help me…!”
I could hear the desperate cry in my head, louder than I’d ever heard it before,
and strangely distorted.

“She
wants you to loosen it,” she said, staring intently at me. “Loosen it!”

And then
she dropped my hands and stepped back unsteadily as if drained.

At this
her two helpers rushed over, one leading her off through a side door while the
other announced nervously that the medium was now exhausted and couldn’t channel
any more spirits this evening.

The noise
level in the room rose considerably at this. Several people went forward to
collect their items, but many gathered round us, wondering if we knew what it
was all about.

Someone brought
Dad
his
wedding ring which he’d
placed on the tray, and then he helped me to stand, arm tight round my shoulder
to shield me from the others, as we made our way to the exit.

<><><>

As we
entered the pub’s reception, Luke was there, pacing the floor.

“What’s
the matter?” he said, looking warily at Dad. Maybe he thought I’d told my
father everything. How he’d kissed me. How he’d held me. How he’d called me by
his dead girlfriend’s name.

But Dad
was too shaken up to notice.

“She’s
had a bit of a shock,” he said, leading me towards the stairs. “I’m going to
take her to her room.” He turned back to Luke standing helpless on the carpet. “Get
her something hot to drink, could you? Maybe chamomile tea or something?”

<><><>

In my
room, while I changed out of my wet things into my sloppy T-shirt, Dad fussed
around, drawing the curtains, turning on the bedside lamp, fluffing up my
pillow, smoothing my duvet. It seemed that he needed to keep busy.

But
finally, once I was in bed and he had nothing more to do, he collapsed into a
chair, his head in his hands. A broken man.

Not long afterwards,
there was a tap on the door, and Luke came in with a chamomile tea for me, and
a brandy for Dad.

“Is there
anything else I can do?” he said, lingering, obviously desperate to know what was
going on.

Dad just ignored
him, barely even noticing that he was there; but I stared at him reproachfully.
He’d done enough already, hadn’t he? Reducing me to, at most, second best. Runner
up. Something less than Billie.

But the
look he returned was so full of sadness - sadness at having lost me - that I found
myself almost feeling sorry for him.

But then I
sneered bitterly to myself: he hadn’t
lost
me at all, had he. He’d
thrown
me
away. Dropped me as he reached out to catch hold of something better. Even
though that something was dead and decaying, rotting away in a grave somewhere deep
in the cold, damp earth.

And so I
turned my back on him, my face to the wall.

<><><>

After he had
gone, Dad and I stayed like that for some time - separate and silent, each of
us lost in our thoughts.

I
couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Was it some kind of trick? A hoax? Had
the Spiritualist simply researched our family tragedy and exploited it? Or did
she have the skill to read minds, seeing the accident playing itself over and
over in my head, and then building her act upon it? Or maybe she was able to
pick up ‘vibes’ from the ring?

Or was it
actually true? Had my mother
really
come back from the grave?

My mind
was knotted with confusion.

<><><>

But eventually
I heard Dad stir, picking up the glass of brandy and drinking it off. And then
he leaned over the bed, trying to see if I was asleep.

“Melissa?”

I stayed
still, making it easy for him to go. He probably needed another drink. Or two. Poor
Dad, he didn’t deserve this. Tonight must have been awful for him. To hear the
accident recounted like that by the Spiritualist, hear her voicing Mum’s plea
to be saved. That was a detail he’d never heard before. Well - I couldn’t have
told him, could I - it would have haunted him forever - as it did me. But now he
knew...