Guilt Trip Read online

  4

  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.

  5

  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.

  6

  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.

  7

  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 whi
ch 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.