Guilt Trip (2 page)

The sharp bend.

The black ice.

The car swerving, smashing through the
barrier, overturning as we descend, landing on its side in the cold river.

I am aware of Mum in the seat next to me. Below
me now. She fumbles with her seatbelt, trying to loosen it. But it’s jammed
tight. She’s trapped.

“Help me!” she cries, even as the water
begins to consume her. She looks at me, startled, as it enters her mouth so
that she splutters and coughs. Choking. Drowning.

Desperately, I press the button and my
window lowers. I unfasten my seatbelt, clinging on to my headrest, my feet on
the dashboard to prevent me falling onto her.

The same old dream…

But - not quite. Something is different
this time. An addition.

It looms over the open window. A dark shape,
thick with shadows.

I was tired at first the next morning. Slow
and sluggish through lack of sleep. I’d been awake since the early hours,
spooked by my own imagination. For the last ten months I’d dreamed the same
thing every night: a horrible recurring nightmare. A never-changing reconstruction
of the accident.

And yet, last night a dark shadow had
entered the scene.

But why…?

So I put it down to my tired state
when it happened again: my brain
failing to keep up with the rest of me. I was in the bathroom about to wash
down my usual daily tablet with some water. But then - déjà vu again. As on the
day before, it was only a little thing: just my hand moving towards a tap. But
it was weird that it had happened in exactly the same spot.

<><><>

The countryside we drove through that
morning was different from the pretty, gentle landscape of the day before. The sky
was cloudy now, so the green farmland seemed a shade darker, and more overshadowed
by surrounding slopes. And as we drove on, the grey limestone scars became more
abundant, more jagged, more imposing.

Our first stop that morning was Horseshoe
Cove, a tall, sheer cliff-face of limestone, which curved round in a big, natural
semicircle at the head of a valley.

“Eighty metres high, apparently,” Dad whistled
as we approached. It was a very sheltered spot, and eerily silent, so that his
voice echoed strangely from the pale expanse.

I looked up at it: an eighty-metre wall of
curving rock. Nature’s fortress rising up before me.

But Dad was already moving off.

“Come on,” he said.

“Where to?”

In answer, he grinned and pointed upwards
to the top of the cliff.

It was
tough going, clambering up the steep, roughly-hewn,
rocky steps - about four hundred in all. I had to take several rests along the
way, but Dad surged ahead without stopping, ignoring my moaning, leaving me to
drag myself up at my own pace.

By the
time I reached the top, I was exhausted.

“Come on,
Melissa!” he shouted, beckoning me over to him eagerly. “Come and see.”

But I couldn’t.
Not yet. Unzipping my jacket to let out some heat, I bent double, hands on
thighs, concentrating on catching my breath while my whole body seemed to reverberate
with the force of my heart pumping the blood round my body.

Finally, my
temperature cooled, my breathing back to normal, I went over to join him.

And then
I saw it - the top of the limestone cove - a huge bed of rock which seemed to
have split or cracked into clearly-defined blocks. I stared at it. It was like
a strange, uneven chessboard or a mosaic. And yet it was entirely natural.

 
Dad laughed at my expression. He loved catching
me out like this: off my guard. When I was being wowed by geology.

“What you’re
looking at is a limestone pavement,” he said. And then, inevitably, he began to
explain. “Basically, this place was once covered in glaciers which stripped away
layers of soil, leaving this limestone exposed and fractured,” he began. “Then,
over time, any rainwater pooling into the fractures gradually eroded the rock…”

As he
rambled on, I switched off. I was too thirsty to take in one of his lectures.

“Have we
got a drink, Dad?” I said as soon as he’d finished. “My mouth’s parched.”

But he
was already off, peering down the cracks with interest.

“Look at
this,” he said in an awed voice. “All these rare plants.” He knelt down on the
rocks and started fiddling with lighting and lenses, trying to capture this
secret world.

I began rifling
through the rucksack looking for a bottle of water or something - anything to
quench my thirst. But there was nothing. I did find some sweets - extra-strong
mints - but they just made it worse.

I stood
watching Dad for a while, passing him equipment when he asked and being
grumbled at when I accidentally got in the way; but I soon got sick of this and
wandered off to explore on my own.

At first
it was simple enough, hopping from one slab to the next, but soon I had to take
care as the gaps became deeper, some so black they seemed bottomless, and now
and again I had to retrace my steps as I came upon a sudden, unexpected drop,
as if a huge chunk of rock had fallen away.

It was an
odd, bizarre place. Almost like a maze. A strange, dangerous ice-age puzzle.

 
Eventually I managed to work my way to the
very edge, directly above the cliff of Horseshoe Cove, and stood looking out,
surveying the landscape, a patchwork of greens stretching out before me, breathing
in the fresh, clean air as the cold wind tugged at my hair and open jacket.

And then
I thought I heard something.

A voice
on the wind. A faint, echoing cry, too quiet to distinguish properly.

Looking
down to the cove below I spotted a family. Four tiny, insignificant, ant-like specks
in a vast, natural world. The noise must have come from them.

<><><>

By the
time we got back to the car, despite my many protests, Dad said it was too late
to go for lunch. Apparently we had to get on as we had another visit to make. So
it was only when he
had
to stop for
petrol that I could grab a welcome drink and a chocolate bar from the tiny garage
shop.

After a
long drive, Dad pulled into a large car park. Then we set off down a public
footpath, following the signposts for ‘the Falls’. Soon the faint, distant
rumble of water could be heard, growing and growing as we continued on, until,
by the time we’d reached the riverbank, it was almost deafening.

“Pretty
impressive, huh?” Dad shouted over the din.

I looked
at the loud torrent racing past us, rushing and plunging as it crashed over a
series of wide limestone steps. All was noise and movement and energy.

Dad
started climbing down some perilous rocks, eager to capture the full power of
the falls up close, so I wandered off along the riverbank, a smooth expanse of pale
limestone pitted with tiny rounded pools. It was almost lunar. A modern sculpture,
carved and polished by the force of the wild waters.

Soon I’d
rounded a bend, leaving Dad behind, and had reached the next section of the
river, another dramatic series of wide cascades, the water churning and foaming.

The wind
was blowing stronger here, so it was difficult to distinguish the roar of water
from the roar of air. And maybe it was that which did it. The assault on my
ears. A thunderous clamouring.

Suddenly,
it took me back to that dark afternoon. To the accident. To the sound of the
river gushing into the car, and swirling around my mother’s face.

And then
I heard it again: a voice on the wind - a thin wisp of a cry. But this time I
could make out the words.

Mum’s
last words.

“Help
me!”

Suddenly
my legs wobbled as my knees buckled, and I sat down hard on the limestone, my
head in my hands. When would this be over? It had been almost a year - and yet
I didn’t seem to have got over it at all. If anything, it was getting worse. I
thought of last night’s dream: the dark shadow that hadn’t been there before. And
now I was hearing voices.

Why was I
doing this to myself?

But I
knew why. Dr Henderson had warned me about it. She’d said that, eventually, if
I didn’t face up to my feelings, then things would have to come to a head. All
those unresolved issues, all piling up and up, month after month. Something
would have to give.

Survivor
Syndrome, she called it. The guilt of being alive.

She’d
even prescribed some stronger medication for Dad to keep hold of, just in case
it got too bad.

So was
this it - the voice on the wind? Was this the climax of my emotional turmoil?

“Melissa?”

Dad was
hurrying towards me, looking concerned.

Immediately
I plastered on a fake smile. No need to tell him. No need to worry him. No need
to make him think about Mum.

“Just got
a bit dizzy.” I smiled brightly. “Must be that sugar hit on an empty stomach.”

“You
sure?”

“Yeah, of
course.” I started to get up, trying to ignore the woozy feeling in my head. “You’ve
just got to remember to feed me more often.”

Dad
smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s just see the top cascade and then we’ll get
you back to the pub.”

<><><>

Dinner
that night more than made up for the day’s hunger. Spicy spare ribs and a bowl
of skinny fries. Diving in, we tore strips of tender meat from the bones and
licked the tasty sauce from our fingers.

“Food
good?” Luke had brought us fresh drinks.

“Superb,”
said Dad, while I frantically tried to wipe my sticky mouth. “Just what we need
after a busy day.”

“Been
anywhere nice?”

“Horseshoe
Cove and the Falls,” Dad said. “Very impressive.”

“Spectacular
aren’t they,” Luke agreed.

The two
of them fell into an easy conversation about the glories of limestone in
creating a geological wonderland. They were both clearly smitten by the
subject.

But then Luke
turned to me. “And what about you?” he asked. “What are you into?”

It was a perfectly
normal question, but as his eyes looked into mine, I felt it again. An
awareness. An unspoken understanding between us that we had a connection
reaching far beyond this seemingly polite conversation.

And so, stomach
fluttering wildly, I was thrown into panic mode, suddenly unable to recall
anything I had ever done in my entire life.

But thankfully,
Dad answered for me. “Oh, she’s into geology too,” he said. “Obviously, being a
teenager she likes to pretend that it’s all extremely boring and ‘uncool’; but
secretly she’s as potty about it all as I am.”

“Really?”
Again, the question was directed at me, Luke studying my eyes as if trying to
see inside me - trying to work me out; but it was Dad who answered it.

“Oh yes,”
he continued. “You should have seen her expression when she beheld her first
limestone pavement today.” Reaching across the table, he took hold of my hand. “You
loved it, didn’t you, Mel,” he said.

And so I
left Luke’s searching gaze and turned to my father, to find him beaming proudly
at me.

And then the
other barman called over to Luke and he had to go.

And so we
were alone again. But still, Dad continued to hold my hand, looking at me affectionately,
delighted to have a daughter who shared his interests so thoroughly.

It had
been a long, emotional day, and his approval felt like a duvet, warm and
comforting. Cosy and safe.

And then
the moment was over and he turned back to his food.

The sharp
bend.

The black
ice.

The car
careens across the road and through the barrier, tearing down the bank,
overturning as we hit the dark river.

“Help
me!” Mum stares at me, pleading, begging. The sound seems to echo on and on and
all around me. “Help me!”

But her
seatbelt is stuck. And the icy water pours in, its roar finally engulfing the
sound of her cry.

Frantically,
I stab at the button, opening the passenger window, which is now above me. I
unbuckle myself, hanging on to the headrest, my feet on the dashboard to stop
me falling, and get ready to heave myself out.

But when
I look up, the shape is there again. A dark presence. Looming. Blocking my
exit. My escape.

The next
morning it happened again.

I was cleaning
my teeth in the bathroom, and was just reaching for the tap, when - déjà vu - I
saw my hand as if I was seeing a memory.

I froze,
a rash of goose-bumps racing up my arm. Three times? Three times in exactly the
same spot? This wasn’t possible.

I shoved
my tablet into my mouth and quickly gulped it down.

<><><>

I was
preoccupied, still pondering on it all as I left the bathroom, only to bump straight
into Luke coming through the next door, the one which cut across the passageway
itself. He was carrying a toolbox.

“Hi
there,” he smiled warmly, looking into my eyes as he ran his hand through his
hair.

I nodded a
quick ‘hi’ and then, head down, continued on my way, embarrassed at being caught
coming out of the bathroom, and very aware that I wasn’t wearing any makeup.

But,
locking the door with his key, Luke followed me up the corridor. “Everything
okay?” he said, obviously in for a chat. “Happy enough up here in the attic?”

I nodded
again, feeling even more awkward now as I recalled the bother there’d been over
the rooms, and how babyish I must have seemed to him.

“It’s nice
and quiet up here, isn’t it,” he continued, pausing outside my room as I
unlocked my door. “I wouldn’t want to sleep on the first floor myself. Bigger
rooms, but nearer the noise of the bar.”

Automatically
I looked back down the corridor, at the door he’d just come through. Was that
where he slept then? Through there?

But then
I blushed furiously when I realised - he was watching me.

 
“Yes,” he laughed playfully, raising his
eyebrows in mock-horror as if it was a terribly shocking thing to say, “I sleep
up here too.”

Scurrying
into my room, I cursed my own ineptitude. If only I’d said something witty and
hilarious and wonderful. But no, just like the night before, I’d been unable to
say a thing; and instead, I’d stood there, like a child, silent and stupid as
he teased me. He must have thought me ridiculous.

<><><>

Ten
minutes later, hair freshly straightened and a thin smudge of my usual shimmery
gold eyeliner on, I was beginning to feel more myself again. Back in control.

As I
applied a slick of mascara to the first eye, I thought about how strange it was
that make-up had now become an everyday thing for me. A mask of normality. I
wondered what Mum would have said about it. She was always a bit funny about
that kind of thing. No earrings. No excessively high heels. “Not till you’re
older.”

I coated
the other lashes, seeing a flash of gold on my finger as I did so. Mum’s
wedding ring. I’d worn it since the day she’d died.

And it
was then that something occurred to me.

My déjà
vu experiences hadn’t been quite right. In all three cases, something had been
wrong. Incorrect.

As I
pictured my hand in the sink, reaching for the tap, something was missing. In
each image, there was no ring: my hand was bare.

I stopped
and thought hard for a moment. No, surely that was wrong: déjà vu didn’t work
like that.

So what
was going on?

Was it my
mind
making
me see my finger bare?

I
wondered what Dr Henderson would say about it
. No doubt
she’d put it down to the same old thing: that deep down some part of me still
didn’t want to acknowledge what had happened. To accept Mum’s death. And then
we’d move on to talking about it again - Survivor Syndrome - the guilt of
living.

<><><>

At breakfast it was Dad’s turn to bring a
leaflet. “Today we’re off to the Changing Well,” he said, waving it at me
happily. “A petrifying well, its water full of minerals.”

“Okay…” Still wrapped up in my worries, my
voice came out less enthusiastic than I’d intended.

Dad looked at me, surprised. “And these
minerals get laid down as sediments which eventually build up to look like
stone!” he said, as if this fact couldn’t possibly fail to excite me.

I smiled at him then - I didn’t have the
heart not to. My Dad - the geek - so crazy about boring old rocks. I didn’t
want to spoil his holiday with my worries.

So, taking the leaflet from him, I examined
it. “It says here that it was inhabited long ago by an evil witch who turned
her enemies to stone,” I said.

Dad rolled his eyes at this. He hated what
he thought of as touristy stuff. But secretly, I was quite pleased. Maybe it
wouldn’t be so dull after all.

<><><>

After breakfast, I set off to get some
snacks for the day’s outing. I had no intention of going hungry again.

It was a fresh, blustery day. Litter danced
in the gutters. A woman coming out of her house fought to rescue her chiffon
scarf from the wind. Pulling my jacket around me against the cold, I hurried
down the street.

I could see the newspapers in racks outside
the post-office-come-shop flapping fitfully in the breeze.

A bell on the back of the door jangled as I
entered, bringing some of the wind in with me.

“Ooh - shut that door quickly, lass,” the
woman behind the counter grumbled. “It looks like summer’s already finished for
this year.” The customers queuing at the counter made the usual clucking sounds
that people always make about the British weather, while I looked around.

Arms full, I soon joined the queue. Two
giant sausage rolls, two bags of salt and vinegar, a couple of chocolate bars
and two bottles of Coke. Not necessarily the most nutritious meal, but that was
one advantage of having a father with his mind elsewhere. Mum would have gone
mad, but Dad was too absorbed in rocks to bother about my 7-a-day.

To my right was a revolving postcard stand,
which I scanned idly while waiting to be served. There were a few different
shots of the fells, complete with heather and sheep; various cheesy village
scenes taken at different times of the year; and then I spotted one of the Hall
of Teeth, the cavern with its roof full of stalactites.
Careful not to drop my snacks, I picked the postcard out of the
rack and examined it closely. Yes - I’d definitely seen it before.

As I peered at it, I felt a sudden shiver
down my spine and that old expression leaped into my head:
like someone just walked over your grave
. At the very same moment,
the shop bell jangled violently as the door flew open on a gust of wind. Crying
out in shock at the sudden noise and commotion, I spun round, only to find a
new customer, an older woman, the one in the chiffon scarf, battling with the
breeze, struggling to shut the door behind her.

I groaned inwardly as the other customers chuckled
at me. Why was I so easily spooked these days? Three counts of déjà vu, a dark
shape in my dream and a voice on the wind and I was behaving like a complete
idiot, crying out at the slightest thing. I mean, what had I expected to come
through the door? The ghost of the Devil’s Lair?

As the woman joined the queue, I turned
back to my postcard, trying to ignore the amused looks I was still getting. But
just as it appeared that everyone had finally lost interest in me, going back
to their, no doubt, inane gossiping, I was suddenly startled by a sharp intake
of breath very close to my ear.

Glancing round, I found that the newcomer
had now moved uncomfortably close to me, apparently unaware of the concept of
personal space, peering rudely over my shoulder at the postcard in my hand. Then
she looked at me, her brows knitted with anxiety.

“Do be careful!” she hissed.

I turned to the others for some kind of assistance.
This was obviously the local madwoman. But they weren’t paying me any attention
at all now.

Not knowing what to do, I looked back at
the postcard. Was she afraid that I would damage it somehow? Hurriedly, I
stuffed it back in the rack. Anything to shut the old bat up.

But she continued.

“You must take care,” she whispered
urgently to the back of my head. “Take care!”

As the queue moved up, I was aware of her
eyes boring into me, but I didn’t look round: no need to give her any
encouragement. I just hoped that, getting no response from me, she’d give up. And
it seemed to work.

When it came to my turn at the counter, I
made my purchases quickly, stuffing them all into my bag, leaving the shop with
my head down so as not to make eye contact with her again.

Outside, I could see Dad further down the
street, parked by the side of the road as arranged. I hurried over and climbed
in while he started the engine.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Just met the village nutter,
that’s all,” I said, flinging my rucksack onto the back seat and grabbing for
my seatbelt.

“A bit of local colour, eh?” Dad laughed,
indicating and pulling out. “What happened?”

“Oh, nothing really. She was just worried I
might break something,” I said. After all, that’s all it had been, really.

But as we drove by the shop, the woman was
just leaving. Spotting me, she stopped and stared, lifting her hand up slightly
as if about to beckon to me, a worried frown on her face.

 
“Oh God, there she is,” I said.

“Don’t look at her!” I added loudly as Dad
peered over curiously. “She’s probably a descendant of the witch of the
Changing Well who’ll turn you to stone.”

I laughed nervously. I knew I was being
stupid, spooked by nothing - again. But as we passed her, I turned away, leaning
over to switch on the radio, deliberately blocking her out.