Honest (20 page)
Authors: Ava Bloomfield
The bus pulled
into the harbour, but even before the driver put on the breaks, I’d seen it
there on the hill. The charred, boarded–up remnants of my cottage, abandoned
and left to rot like an old husk.
Even the
water, grey and listless as it tossed against the harbour wall, seemed fixed in
time; as if peering hard enough into its depths would reveal the tips of
Peter’s fingers, himself still swaying underwater, cradled in the sea’s mouth.
I huddled up
in my coat as I got off, the breeze immediately sweeping my breath away. I
choked, the salt like fire on my tongue, the brine stinging my eyes. That
slight, niggling irritation had remained in the atmosphere all this time. It
was like sandpaper to the skin; cloying and impertinent as a lover, both
painful and necessary.
I took a deep,
deep breath and held it in my core; kept it close behind my protruding,
fleshless ribs. I swallowed it whole. I was home.
Though the
cottage was so close — so close I could feel it pulling me, as if magnetised —
but there was somewhere I needed to go first. I turned and headed in the other
direction, towards the footpath to the cliffs. Scaling it was difficult on my
knee, with the ground being so crumbly and uneasy underfoot. I gripped tufts of
grass jutting out of the rocks to keep balance, and as the wind swept up from
the sea it felt as though I was tipping, and I had to cling on to ensure I
didn’t fall.
I imagined
Peter with me, his arm around me, guiding me. When I made it to the very top I
walked right to the edge and peered over, my chest tightening in fear. Just one
gust of wind could knock me forward, and if it did then I would meet the sea
once more, just like old times.
Only this
time, someone would be waiting for me.
I thought
about it. Dusk was creeping in, and it was getting colder. I stood there,
rocking back and forth, waiting for the wind to take me up like a feather, but
it never did. Instead I was left waiting, waiting, waiting — just watching the
sea, waiting for my turn to come, as always.
When my legs
got tired I sat down, pulled up a clump of grass, and chewed it. My stomach was
growling, but I’d been ignoring it for weeks. Soon I would be lighter than air,
invisible, a ghost of my very own making. I chewed the grass up to a paste and
swallowed, before wiping my chapped lips. I shuffled away from the edge and
helped myself up.
I put a hand
to my brow and peered out over Mevagissey. Lights were coming on now, and it
was almost dark. My cottage remained in shadow, a square, dark smudge on the
chocolate box picture. Soon I’d have no light at all to see by. I turned and
left.
By the time I
got back down to the harbour and made my way up the hill, a sickness overcame
me. I couldn’t tell if it was the grass, or my swelling knee, or the anxiety of
returning home again, but it came upon me so fast I had to vomit over the sea
wall. Green slush came out and pattered against the algae atop the water, and
for a few minutes I spat and dry–heaved, before wiping my mouth and resting my
hand against the cold stone wall.
I felt old
again. The town aged me, withered me; it always had. This place had eaten away
at me since the first day we’d arrived years ago, and it was swallowing me up
now. Well, I thought: it could finish me off for all I cared — by all means,
swallow me; but I was staying.
‘Do you hear
me?’ I whispered to the air. ‘So cut it out.’
I staggered
the last few meters to my cottage and wept to see its remains. The roof was
black and burned out, with shards of wood jutting out like spikes. The front
was blackened too, the white stone clouded in soot. The door and windows were
boarded up with sheets of metal.
It felt as if
the house was me, with sheets of metal pinned against my eyes and mouth,
shutting me out of the world forever. I supposed I was the house, and always
had been — a vessel, visited, intruded upon, used, filled, adjusted, and then
sealed shut like an old relic.
I went upon
the doorstep and ran my hand over the cool metal. There was a creaking sound
which made me flinch. I caught my breath, stopped, and listened very closely.
Another sound. What was it?
I glanced up
and down the street and found nothing stirring. I pressed my ear to the metal,
holding my breath. The wind tickled my hair, the nape of my neck. I held up a
finger and silenced it. There it was, just delicately...a sound. Something.
Not a creaking
sound anymore.
A hissing. A
whispering.
I followed it,
pressing both hands to the sheet of metal as I slid myself all around the door,
searching for the source of that whispering sound. There were little holes in
the metal, letting the house vent. I kept very still and very close and, as I
waited, the whispering grew louder.
Louder? No,
sharper, more frantic. It was like the hissing of a kettle, only there were
words uttered, I was sure of it. I listened, and listened, and listened hard.
No sooner did
I let out a long breath than the whispering became a long, sharp whistling
noise, so high pitched I had to cup my ears. Still the sound penetrated my
hands, my skull, making me curl up against the door.
‘Stop it!’ I
hissed.
My pitiful
weight fell against the sheet of metal and made a grunting sound, followed by a
long, whining creak. I opened my eyes, un–cupped my ears and shivered as the
metal sheet door swung open, revealing the blackened hallway beyond.
Without
hesitation, I let myself in and was consumed by the darkness.
The stench was
awful. The smell of smoke embedded in the charred remains of the building’s
structure engulfed me, making me wretch. I pulled up the sleeve of my coat and
covered my nose and mouth, letting the fabric filter the air. The fire had long
gone out, but nothing had been replaced. I picked my way through the debris and
the darkness, the floor piled high with bricks, wood and burnt paper.
Looking up, I
could see through part of the roof; the part where the fire had begun, I
guessed, in the loft. I remembered plummeting out of the attic and onto the
landing, but I could only imagine what had happened once we’d been evacuated.
It looked like fire had collapsed the attic floor, leading to where we’d fell,
and had burned right through there too.
Most of the
banister had collapsed and yet, skeletal and awaiting me in its usual place,
was something I hadn’t thought I’d ever see again.
My stair lift.
The light
coming through the gaps in the ceiling and roof allowed just enough light to
see by, from the streetlamp outside and the moon. A shiver rippled all over me,
making me huddle up in my coat as I approached the chair, curiosity taking
over. It had been my chair, after all — a gift from my father. I’d hated it
then, and I hated it now. At the time, it was a chair that denied me even the
privilege of steering myself; forced me to sit, to wait, and to comply.
The old thing
was still attached to the rail, and still lead to the upstairs landing. I took
a chance and, very carefully, seated myself on the blackened chair. It creaked
but supported me, as if it had saved its strength for this moment. I laughed,
then, and with my breath I sent up flakes of dust and charred wallpaper,
dancing about my head, as if I were made of the stuff and was shedding it.
Perhaps I
hadn’t made it at all. Perhaps I was dead, and had been a wandering spirit
until, in answering an ethereal call, I came back to the place I belonged — my
own death place.
The chair
shuddered, and I squealed, drawing my legs up. It didn’t fall, but rose and
kept going, groaning loudly like the pipes. The stair lift was
moving
,
taking me upstairs, over the soot and rubble and debris. I gripped the cold
metal skeleton of the chair’s arms and braced myself, shutting my eyes tight,
until it grunted to a halt.
I dared open
one eyelid, and then the other. I breathed deeply, in and out. The moon
illuminated the remains of the top floor, or what was left of it. Parts of the
floor had collapsed in other places; a great hole in the centre of my room, the
bathroom, and of course the landing.
The old tub
was still there, though, having missed the fall, and stood proudly on the
remaining section. The walls had burned away, leaving skeletons of beams and
structures, or piles of bricks in others.
The old
cottage had put up a good fight, but it had lost. Now we were two skeletons
together, standing, though hunched and crumbling, despite the little we had
left.
I dismounted
the stair lift and got down on all fours so I could crawl around amongst the
rubble, praying that the little weight I had wouldn’t send me crashing through
the floorboards. All at once I felt a distant, familiar coldness enveloping me.
I welcomed it as I straddled a beam and shimmied — not with confidence, but
more of a numb complacency — to my father’s old bedroom.
The attic had
all but disappeared, but I didn’t feel the chill. I was wrapped in ice;
transfixed, now, as I moved through the remnants of the house. I crawled
through my father’s wall into my old bedroom, where my favourite window seat
survived before the metal shutter. My bed sagged in the centre where the
mattress had melted, but my old armoire remained proud.
I pried it
open and found some ragged clothes still hanging there, blackened by smoke. I
fingered the hem of my old party dress, the netting beneath the skirt still
stiff, and smiled.
All of a
sudden, a close, adamant weariness came over me, and my eyelids became almost
too heavy to keep open. I crawled, on my belly, around the gaping hole looking
down into the kitchen below, and slithered beneath my bed. I laid my head down
on the remains of the mattress, the springs bent and warped. I dry coughed as
the stench of burned wood filled my senses once more, and huddled up close
inside the bed.
From here I
could see right down into the kitchen, small and concealed as a worm in the
crevice of a wall, writhing out of site.
Something
glinted in the moonlight; something on the only remaining wall of my bedroom,
next to the old armoire. It was the oval mirror of my dressing table, almost
entirely blackened, barring one section right at the bottom.
I could see
myself peering out in the only piece of reflective glass left undamaged. My
eyes were hollow, dark, my face a shard of white. I tucked myself back under
the bed and shot odd glances up at myself, then down at the kitchen, and back
again.
I wondered
what time it was, and then forgot about it. I thought of roaming my father’s
room, and then I forgot about that too. Instead I rested my head and fingered
one of the old springs until my hand stopped moving, while the waves hit the
harbour down below, keeping up the battle. At least one of us was.
Soon
everything quietened, and my body was consumed by the tiredness, the cold
numbness, whatever it was. I forgot everything, almost everything, as quickly
as it came to me. My body stiffened, and no longer cooperated with my mind. It
became impossible, even, to lay a different way, or reposition my head.
I laid there,
silently, for a long, long time. As far as I could tell, I never left.
And nor did I
want to.
A man came.
Someone I recognised. He came frequently, or regularly, or several times. I
couldn’t tell. I hadn’t moved for a long, long time.
He was a tall,
dark skinned man with curly black hair and stubble all over his chin. He was
incredibly familiar to me, though I couldn’t remember his name; he was more
familiar to me than myself. Sometimes he would crouch down low in the kitchen
and cry for hours, and sometimes he would break up bits of wood and shout.
Sometimes my
skin erupted in prickles, and I shivered, watching him below, keeping my mouth
shut. Seeing him gave me strange images of futures that would never happen.
Once, he came
wearing a dark green coat zipped up to his chin, and he stood in the kitchen
and looked right up into my bedroom, his eyes glistening in the darkness, just
staring and shaking his head.
He had his
hands in his pockets, and every now and then he would take out his mobile phone
and stare at that for a long time, crying. I didn’t need to see it to know he
had a picture of a particular boy on there, one who was even
more
familiar to me than the man downstairs. I remembered
his
name. My Peter
Denton.
I watched him
for a while, holding my breath and keeping very, very silent. Then I had an
image, or a dream, or a vision; I was never sure what it was.
I dreamed that
we bumped into each other one day in this very house, and we got talking about
Peter, and we both cried and held each other, and he said he understood and
forgave me for everything, because he understood even if nobody else could.
‘I’ve done
some bad things in my life,’ he said. ‘And I’m not proud of myself.’
Once we were
done crying and talking about Peter, he took my hand and kissed it. Then he
said, ‘I could look after you. We could go away together. We could be together,
and you’d never ever be lonely again.’
And right
before I accepted, with tears streaming down my face, the dream died.
The man was
still standing down below, looking up through the ceiling at the stars above
us. Then, like he always did, he went away.
I wished I
could remember why Peter Denton was so important to me, or what happened all
that time ago, or why I loved him so much that it hurt, even now, though my
body was stiff and old, and my flesh withering away. But I just couldn’t
remember. I couldn’t remember anything anymore.
Even so, I
wished I could meet him, just once, because we belonged together. Don’t ask me
how, but I just knew. Sometimes I would look up at the mirror, and instead of
seeing my own hollow face, I would see Peter there — a bright, shining young
boy who seemed so far away from me now.
Everything
seemed far away. I couldn’t even hear the waves anymore. I hadn’t heard them in
a long time. But I would watch him, and think of him, and long for him, and
then he’d fade away.
The man
stopped coming. I didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last come, though
his hair was grey and he’d gotten shorter, more hunched over, and his face had
become almost as hollow as mine, and his hands were wrinkled.
Since he
stopped coming, I did nothing but dream of the boy.
I imagined
myself walking up a long, steep grassy hill, with the wind whipping at my face,
until the town and the harbour below got smaller and I could see for miles
around. The sky was a stormy grey, and the clouds swirled about and bellowed
like plumes of smoke, and ashes fell from the sky like snowflakes.
On top of the
hill were graves. There was one named ‘Father’, and one named ‘Mother’, and one
with a name that I forgot as soon as I read it, though I knew it began with D. Then,
right at the edge of the cliff, was a grave with a huge headstone and one, big,
burial plot.
In the dream I
walked towards it, but the wind was so strong that my legs couldn’t take me
further, and it seemed to take forever just to get a step ahead, though I
fought on with all my strength. The wind flowed into my mouth and howled
through my body, through my lungs, delighting in the absence of my breath.
Eventually, I
made it to the grave, and saw that one side of the stone was inscribed with a
name: Peter Denton. The other side was blank. Suddenly I panicked, though I
couldn’t feel my heart thumping, and I felt that if I didn’t open up the grave,
something terrible would happen.
I was in the
wrong place, and I didn’t belong there — I had to get down, beneath the soil,
where it was cold and safe and mine.
I started
digging, clawing the ground up with my hands, the soil sinking beneath my
fingernails. Every inch I dug spurred me on further, while the wind picked up
around me and whirled around my head, roaring in my ears. Soon I was elbow–deep
in it, and I was smeared with mud and so, so tired, but I kept going because
the panic wasn’t ceasing.
I seemed to
dig forever, but the end just never came. I dug and dug until the earth was all
around me, suffocating me, and soon it would cave in around me and bury me
itself.
But I kept on
going, and knew — if it was the only thing left that I knew for sure — that I
would never stop digging, and I would never stop looking, until I found what
was lying beneath. Until I found the boy I’d been searching and searching for,
for such a long time.
I wouldn’t
stop until I slipped into that quiet earth beside him, our heads inclined to
one another, witnessing us in this time, this place, this forever.
And for
always, even when our eyes stopped seeing:
I would be
looking at Peter, and Peter, would be looking at me.
The
End