Temptation [A Young Writer's Prize Submission]

Graveyard

Chapter Twenty Seven

I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.

John 14: 18

The train thundered down the track. The vibrations from the track rocketed up into my body, as I waited expectantly to be saved. I kept watching for the man to come out of the mists and rescue me.

Then, as the train ploughed closer, the mist before me cleared. I saw him, standing tall and strong, at the other side of the track. He wasn’t looking at me, but a blonde girl whose face I couldn’t see. I watched with distress as he leaned down to kiss her. The last thing I heard was her laughter, before the train slammed into me.

I woke up with bitterness roiling in my stomach, firmly rooted. In anger, I sought out my phone, dialling Cain’s new number. I didn’t care that my roommate was still sleeping on the other side of the room – didn’t care that it was too early in the morning for Cain to be up.

As I expected it would, my call went through to answerphone: only a long, irritable beep stood between me and spilling my guts to someone who hadn’t bothered contacting me for the last two days.

No, I wasn’t going to lose my pride. Cain didn’t need to know that I’d had a nightmare.

Placing my phone back on the dressing table, I peeked behind the black-out blinds. There wasn’t a single ray of light to give me any idea of time – though my phone told me 4.49. I could hear the breeze outside; the whistling of the leaves on the trees and the smacking of a single hyacinth branch against the window. It sounded like someone knocking, asking to enter.

I felt a sudden compulsion to gaze out of that window, into the darkness. I wanted to see if I could look beyond it. Quietly as possible, so Anna wouldn’t wake and demand to know what I was doing, I clambered up onto the dressing table – moving her bottles of lotion – and leaned over to the windowsill, tugging on the cord to lift the blind. The window handle felt fresh and slightly damp under my fingers as I twisted it to push the window open.

Being a storey above ground level, the grass that caressed the side of the house looked a long way down from here. Oddly, I didn’t feel the vertigo, though heights normally made me feel nervous. In fact, I felt compelled to move closer to the window, to feel the cool morning air wrap around me like a long-lost friend.

Without clear command to do so, I moved my knees onto the narrow window sill, concealed behind the desk, and leaned out, moving my entire upper body out of the window, still clutching the handle for support. It was so dark out, and I stared so intently it was like moving through the darkness; like when you’ve closed your eyes for too long and shapes suddenly appear in your vision. Little objects and flashes of light danced in front of me – so quickly I couldn’t distinguish them.

Somewhere, from the depths of my memory, a phrase I’d heard somewhere unearthed itself: ‘Often, under the effects of alcohol, you feel invincible, like you could do anything. Some people have jumped out of windows to test whether or not they could fly.’

I couldn’t lie to myself: I did want to jump. Not out of some suicidal move, or because I wanted to prove a point, but because I wanted to fly. The desire was so strong I felt intoxicated by it. Flying soothed the distress of my nightmare: I felt instantly more relaxed, more tempted to take the leap.

Anna stirred as the breeze changed direction, sending a cold draught billowing into the room.

I slammed the window shut and clambered down from the dresser. Irritation consumed me, both with myself and Anna. I couldn’t believe I’d even considered jumping, but what irked me more was that Anna’s stirring had unearthed a huge clump of guilt I couldn’t understand.

Restless, I marched over to the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of jeans and my boots. Then I knelt down to the drawers underneath the hanging space and grabbed the first jumper I could find. It was knitted out of black wool and when I put it on, even over the tank top I wore to bed, it was too big for me. Maybe I’d grabbed it from Anna’s drawer, but I didn’t care enough to change.

As an afterthought, I took Anna’s dark green overcoat, lined with faux fur. I shrugged it on as I left the room.

The morning dew soaked my boots as I headed away from Uniens House and into the fields. Tasha and I had come running along here the other day, and I wanted to walk the route, to clear my thoughts. The air seemed more bitter now, colder and harsher, as I walked through the mist. The sky was becoming slightly lighter; navy blue instead of black. However, that didn’t make it any easier to see when I stepped away from the lit streets and onto the grassy turf.

I didn’t let myself stop as I walked along by the mini-forests to my left, the inanimate road on my right. It was a long walk, but with each step the tension in my chest seemed to decrease.

This was the sort of place, in the stillness, that could have been the home for any kind of story – I could imagine medieval princesses riding their horses along these tracks, I could see barbarian queens hiding in the undergrowth to defend their homes. I could see wolves running together along this path, pursuing a doe running for her life.

Once I’d walked a distance of about half a mile, I noticed the bridge Tasha and I had run past yesterday. I hadn’t seen anything of what was on the other side and, after a moment of indecision, I crossed it.

The bridge led into a cultivated field, where the single path along it was overgrown with weeds and damaged by potholes. I kept along that path, not wanting to lose my way when I didn’t know this area. In the distance, the path was enveloped by two hedges, showing the boundaries of the field. I decided I would walk that far and turn back. However, as I reached those hedges, the view kept me walking. I finally stopped in front of the bedraggled, desolate gate, made of iron and bent in all kinds of interesting shapes, where people had messed with it over the years.

The fog seemed somehow thicker as I slipped through that gate; more ethereal. I could see only a couple of feet in front of me, and it was only after I tripped and grasped a gravestone to stop me from falling, that I realised it was there.

The knowledge that I was in a cemetery suddenly eliminated all echoes of distress: as though the ‘rest in peace’ written or carved into every headstone, had been converted into electrical impulses that soothed my agitation. I felt only peace and serenity; until the mist began to clear and I noticed her gravestone.

Made entirely out of black marble, it stood out because of its simplicity – the others, most of them made of white stone, had extravagantly carved angels or other celestial references in the design. Her gravestone had a bunch of red roses, delicately strewn before it. The gold plaque was the only decoration:

Melissa Delaney-Falle

Devoted Wife and Mother

Much loved, forever missed

RIP

I stood there stunned, as I took in the implications of this headstone. For so many years I had wondered about the state of my parents, and though my rational mind insisted this woman was likely nothing to do with me, it wasn’t my rational mind that looked at this name.

An image nudged and pestered its way to the forefront of my mind: a woman, dressed in a white wool shawl, and pastel grey trousers. She had black hair, as wavy as mine, and eyes the exact same shade as mine. She smiled benevolently at me – no, not benevolently – adoringly.

Such was the strength of the image that I sank to the ground, not taking my eyes off the name, for fear I might lose the image. But even as my mind focussed on that, I couldn’t shake off the niggling thought that this gravestone might mirror my own biological mother’s story. Lorraine had told me she wanted to return for me, but she never had. Could the sight of this grave be the closest I ever got to meeting my own mother?