Cornwall 2016
He negotiates the stairs; ensuring he doesn’t step on the bottom one. Treading through the small tiled inner hall; he raises an elbow to switch on the light. At the front door, he knocks once, twice, before opening it onto the unfamiliar street to check no one has parked too closely to his beloved car. The cones he placed at either end are still in position. Personal space is so important. He closes the door, sighing. Yet another transitory rental property, it will have to suffice. It certainly isn’t the worst he’s endured, and it won’t need to be for too long.
He turns on his heel in pursuit of coffee, regarding each foot treading the way to the kitchen. His heart rate ups at the sight of a loose lace dragging along the contaminated floor. Sweat threatens his brow, flaunting thoughts of germs, hammering at the sole, creeping up the leather, seeking weakness in the stitching. Resist, bloody resist, come on, he urges. He can’t. And diverts to the cleaning box, still stacked with the others in the dining area. Eight boxes in total. His whole life in eight boxes; it was ten, a few months ago. It would have been seven this time, had he not spread the contents to ensure the even number. With hands now in rubber he removes the soiled lace, from shoe to the bin. This had better not be an omen for today. He unravels a new untainted lace; he has an unlimited supply. A practised hand feeds it through holes without the need to touch.
He looks around his unfamiliar surroundings. It was dark and he was tired when he arrived last night. There is a small but adequate kitchen, reasonably clean to the naked eye. Picking up his kettle – it always travels separately with his suitcase – he removes the lid, peers in, replaces the lid. Yep, still empty. He obeys his orders from above, tipping the spout over the sink regardless. No old water. Measuring sufficient water for two cups, no more. He replaces the lid, returns the kettle to its base, spout facing at forty-five degrees from the switch.
Breathe. Relax. Something about alien dwellings. Dirty buggers everywhere. I am doing the right thing in coming here, aren’t I? He considers. I’ve waited years, but still? No, don’t bottle it now.
The moment he passed the Cornwall border last night, hurtling down the A30, he thought he might be sick. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, with it being so many years since his last visit. Time builds barriers. In another life, he’d have loved it here. But Cornwall’s too diseased now. He quickly spins, nearly missing his moment. Successfully lifting the kettle just before it hits the point of rapid boil. Close. One, two, and a pinch of strong instant coffee hits the base of his mug. No milk unfortunately, it rolled out of the box into the rear footwell last night, where it still lies. A job for gloves later on. He stirs the black liquid four times in a clockwise direction.
Seasoned hands rub his sore head. Whisky seemed like a good idea at the time. A hangover in the morning, he considered, no big deal. Live for the moment, I’ll be fine in the morning, he justified.
I never am, though, so why did I do it? Today of all days, he needs his head. Have a word with yourself next time, will you? he reprimands. A glance at the kitchen clock informs him he has precisely thirty-two minutes before he has to leave. Needing to be at the appointment, waiting ten minutes before he’s to be seen. Otherwise, he won’t be able to go ahead with it. The scorching coffee sears its way down his throat onto an edgy stomach. It will be the shorter bathroom sequence this morning. Being late is not an option.
Fifty-three minutes later, he counts his way up the few steps to the front door of the small building, apologetically standing between the grander Edwardian neighbours. This is it, the beginning of some form of closure, finally.
With a deep breath in, he absorbs the air of the tired reception area; musty and old but kind of comforting.
‘Mr Austin?’ a middle-aged lady with a nose piercing and numerous jangly bangles enquires.
‘Yep, that’s me.’ He squints at the insufficient ticking clock. ‘I’m a little early.’
‘That’s fine, love, no problem. Please take a seat. Susie will come and get you in a minute.’ She indicates to the hard, school-resembling chairs positioned along the wall.
He shakes his legs out as if to indicate a problem with them; if only it were that simple. ‘Thanks. If you don’t mind, I prefer to stand.’ He isn’t allowed to sit in the waiting room is the truth, another order from above. Not before an appointment anyway. Today is not the day to break rules. He casually regards Susie’s details on the ‘Who Are We?’ board: a person-centred counsellor, whatever this means. So long as it doesn’t involve the maniac Freudian-type shit, he thinks, who knows? Maybe she’ll be able to help him. Despite the monumental gap in time.
A few minutes later, Susie and he sit in the small angled room, rescued from the direct sunlight beaming through. Susie is, much to his amusement, all he’d envisaged. She rests upright but relaxed into her low-level chair without arms, a calm hand with a pen hovering over a lined notebook. She has a soft yet commanding voice; he feels himself drawn into her monotonous tone. It was suggested he saw someone so many times before; he could never see the point. But now, everything has built to a crescendo and his emotions overwhelm his ability to think straight. If he is to finally put everything to bed, maybe now is the time. He taps his right, then left foot on the floor alternately, twice.
‘Where would you like to start, Gregg? How do you think I may be able to help you?’
‘Now, there’s a question. To be fair, sitting here now, I haven’t got a clue. I’m not even sure why I’m here. I hope I’m not wasting your time.’
She nods at him, allowing him space to continue, reassuring him subliminally he can take his time. When he doesn’t respond, she prompts, ‘You’re not wasting my time, Gregg; I can assure you. You begin whenever you feel ready.’
‘I guess it’s because I’ve things in my past, stuff I’ve never come to terms with, and I’ve now reached a point in my life when I really need to be able to… draw a line, I think they say. The thing is, it’s been a stupid amount of time. Since when this all started, I mean.’
She nods at him. ‘So, there’ve been issues in your past that you’ve not been able to talk to anyone about, and now you feel the time is right for you to talk?’
He takes a few moments, a little perplexed. Didn’t I just say that? Resounded through his mind. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it,’ he adds, a little unsure about her reaction hanging in the air.
‘Good, Gregg, go on. You’re doing so well.’
He waits for her to offer more but clearly the onus is on him alone. Again. He thinks how strange it is to be sitting in the unfamiliar room with a complete stranger about to discuss things he has never been able to talk about, even with those he loved the most. He has left it all too late.
‘Where do you want me to start?’ he asks, hoping for a prompt.
‘Wherever you wish to start, Gregg; take your time and begin once you’re ready.’
He looks down at his tightly clasped hands on his lap. Counting, then begins to unravel at ten. He breathes in deeply, then exhales. ‘I can still smell the air. It was the end of summer, you know, when you can feel autumn poking its head around the door.’ She nods at him to continue, pen poised.
‘The ground was firm underfoot, start of the school autumn term, end of the summer holidays. I remember feeling really miffed because we’d had such abysmal weather during the holidays, with it raining for most of it. It seemed that way anyway. But that day, there was a brilliant blue sky.’ He laughs through his nose. ‘I was so self-conscious about the regulation long grey socks I was forced to wear, being fourteen, it wasn’t at all cool.’ She smiles at him, without articulating. ‘It’s not that I wasn’t looking forward to school, I was kind of… if it wasn’t for him, school was okay.’
‘Him?’ she urges.
‘I’ll get to it. The thing is, I enjoyed school. We lived in the middle of the Cotswolds, in the sticks, as my grandmother called it. Most of my friends lived a distance away, so I’d get fed up, lonely even at times.’
‘It was not a local school, then, where you attended?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘A grammar school, Walesby Grammar, about fifteen miles from where we lived. I used to walk a mile or so to the bus stop each morning, then pick up the yellow school bus.’
‘You must have been clever, to get into the grammar school,’ she encourages him.
‘I guess, just not clever enough. I can remember the morning clearly, you know, when the letter came, advising me I’d been offered a place.’ He lifts his head to glance out of the window, discouraging his wretched eyes from filling with tears. Where have they come from? Not now, he warns. He turns back to address her. ‘Sorry, it’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever allowed myself to think about those times, not without pushing the thoughts away again, never mind talk about them.’
‘You’re fine, Gregg, take your time. You were saying, you remember the morning clearly…’
‘Yes, you know, waiting for the letter, am I in? Am I out? The look on my grandmother’s face – it meant so much to her, I knew it, that’s the problem. My grandfather too, it meant so much to him. He didn’t always say how he felt, but I knew anyway. Over the summer, we spent a lot of time together, me and my grandfather, I helped him dig over his allotment, in the rain mostly. That’s when he’d talk to me, explain things; whilst he dug away, I’d learn how he felt about things. He, and my grandmother, hoped the opportunity of going to the renowned grammar school would change my life prospects, open doors, allow me to fulfil my true potential.’ He smiles, then abruptly removes it. ‘Huh, it certainly changed my life!’
‘I can understand how proud they must have been. It isn’t easy getting a place in a grammar school, especially as they’re so few and far between.’
‘Especially as they’re abused by those they were not intended for, you mean.’
‘Sorry; what do you mean by that?’
‘No matter, ignore me. It’s a personal issue I have with the system.’ He shrugs. ‘Obviously some students are there by their own merits. Some are only there because the family have enough money to tutor them to death before they sit the entrance exams. It defeats the whole point of grammar schools, doesn’t it?’
‘I understand what you’re saying.’ Susie appropriately sits on the fence.
He gazes around the room, whilst counting to six in his head. He didn’t mean to go off on that point; it was a pointless track. That was life after all. Unjust.
‘The point is, I knew how important it was to my grandparents. I understood it was an opportunity for me, one not many had. And I did intend to make the most of it, but life had other ideas.’ He shakes his head. ‘Or I just wasn’t strong enough in the end. I failed, big time.’ He regards his feet; he’d always believed this, but he’d never voiced it before. He didn’t get the chance. He was told his parents would be so proud of him. Not that this mattered; he couldn’t remember them anyway. His grandparents were his parents. That was more than enough for him, despite the cruel remarks. Cruel annotations made by a leader with many followers. The school coward, the bully.
‘So you feel like you failed, Gregg?’
Didn’t I just say that? Brings him back to the moment. ‘As I said, one of the downsides of not attending the more local state school is separation, distance from your friends. I had a good group of friends, but I was especially close to Tom. He was an only child too; to be honest, we were more like brothers. Were, being the word here. Tom stayed with us for the first two weeks of the holidays whilst his parents were away. Which was great.’ His eyes smile. ‘We built a makeshift gym using various bits and pieces we found in one of the outhouses. Spent hours doing it, then worked out to music, sneaking some of my grandfather’s ale in to help us along.’ After Tom left for home, he spent many more hours pummelling his makeshift sandbag swinging from the log-store beam, with that bastard’s face in mind. It helped. It was what bullies needed, he and Tom agreed.
‘But the rest of the holidays dragged. There’s only so many times you can play football against the wall. It was good enough reason to look forward to returning to school again.’
‘So, you and your friend Tom were as close as brothers; but you were quite a lonely lad otherwise. And school helped with this loneliness?’
‘That about sums it up, yes.’ He regards Susie, waiting to see if she offers any more insight. Nothing, so he feels compelled to continue.
‘But had I known then what I did by the end of the term, I’d never have got on the bus that morning.’
‘It wasn’t a good term for you, then?’
He sighs heavily, filling the air with regret. ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t, no.’
‘Okay.’ Susie nods once. That’s it, no questions? he ponders. Not that he’s ready for questions.
‘If you don’t mind, Susie, before you ask, I’m not ready to go over that stuff, not yet. As I said, I haven’t ever spoken about it before.’
Susie’s nude upturned lips reassure him. ‘No, of course. I understand, it’s going to take some time, Gregg. That’s fine with me, of course it is. You’re not ready to take the step yet so just continue with what you feel comfortable with.’ She makes a note on her pad as he looks on, jotting down his first revelations. He wonders if she dines out on this book of secrets.
‘Thank you. I’m not sure I’d be so patient with me. I really couldn’t do your job. I’d want to tell people to just get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’ He notices her slight frown; she seems a little bemused by his comment. A quiet awkward moment for him but not for her ensues, occupying the room; urging him to fill it.
‘The thing is, I mean, the reason why I find it so difficult is because it changed my life forever. It ruined everything. Or, more accurately and honestly, I ruined everything. If I tell you it was over twenty-five years ago, all this, and I still haven’t recovered. It still keeps me awake in the middle of the night. It also completely changed the direction of my life, all of my ambitions gone.’ He taps his feet on the silent floor. ‘I think, worst of all, I lost all and everything I’ve ever loved. I betrayed them, you see. I’ve never been able to forgive myself.’ He averts his eyes back to the window, feeling his jaw harden, biting down on his teeth. ‘I. Have. So. Much. Burning. Hate and. Resentment.’ He stabs at his chest. ‘Inside me. I can’t ever forgive myself.’ He looks back at Susie. ‘I just can’t let it go. The injustice of it all, knowing he got away with it. I know he’s still out there somewhere, with no remorse at all. Some days, Susie, some days, it feels as if I’m being eaten alive.’
Susie nods, looks to her pad and scribbles away. It is easier than he imagined to blurt this stuff out. But he is so conscious of opening wide the doors in his mind he expends so much effort trying to keep shut.
No going back now.
He looks down at the oversized watch hanging heavy from his tanned wrist; his father’s. A well-built man who spent his life in the forces. A cruel irony. A life devoted to the firing line, then killed in a car accident on his honeymoon. At the time, he was just a baby. He lost them both, his mother too, before having the chance to know them. His grandparents took over the realm. The two people he treasured most in the world. Them and Tom. He takes a moment to himself, conscious his time is running out for his appointment. His suddenly eager mouth has to wait, at least until the next time.
He pictures the moment again, waiting for his school bus, seeing himself throw his worn grey bag to the tarmac, plonk himself down on top; wriggling around to manoeuvre the contents into a more cushion-like, comfy position. With sight of his bus approaching, he dragged himself up from his squashed rucksack, brushed off the gathered dust.
‘With a bit of luck that little shit might have left,’ he muttered before beginning his routine banter with the driver.
He looks up, but Susie is still scribbling.
So much unnecessary loss. Pathways built to a never-ending road. September, 1986, the annual school trip, marked the twisting of destiny. Everything changed in Cornwall. The gravity of the consequences could never have been foreseen. He innocently found himself indebted to a cause searching for accountability and retribution. Fuelled by a potent measure of guilt, injustice and hatred.
He’s suddenly aware of Susie’s eyes studying him, rescuing him from his thoughts. ‘So, Gregg, this is about all we have time for today. Do you want to make another appointment?’ He really doesn’t have any choice, it has strangely enough provided a strange form of relief, hearing the dreaded words rather than the constant mind-battering.
‘Yes, I think I will, thank you.’
‘Lovely. You have done excellently. I realise it hasn’t been easy for you today.’
You have no idea, he thinks. But the end is in sight now. He doesn’t care what anyone says, revenge is going to be sweet.
Back outside, he descends the steps, avoiding the last. Perhaps a wander through Truro will help clear the mind, he decides. He only makes it as far as the old market square, where local produce exhibits, the aroma of pasties from a local bakery, antagonise his hollow stomach. He stops to share a bench with an eagle-eyed seagull, allowing his mind to reopen the door now already ajar. After the school trip to Cornwall, everything turned horribly wrong. September 1986 – he closes his eyes, to revisit the oozing scars.
He rushed through the archway to his grandparents’ cottage, throwing his tattered heavy rucksack to the floor. Thumped his way up the old staircase, before slamming the bedroom door. The piece of wood that separated him from everything he loved most. With no idea how to engage with it. He clouted his wardrobe before lobbing himself on the bed. Stoking the burning fire of hatred deep down in his gut. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow it to go out. Please talk to us, his grandparents pleaded. Tell you I killed him. That I wish it were me who died. How can I? he thought.
Alone in his darkness; blind to any route out. Drowning as his grandparents desperately stretched out soothing arms he couldn’t quite reach. He scrubbed at the blood on his hands, but nothing ever worked. Nothing ever would. Night times were the worst. Banging a turbulent head against his pillow; desperate to eradicate the words, the faces, the images. Trembling, dripping cold sweat on flaming skin. His heart trouncing against cotton. As if he were still there, at the scene. The truth stuck inside him, while the lies consumed the air.
Cornwall. His first and last taste of freedom.
His friend, brother. Was dead. The setting was a lads’ paradise. A youth hostel perched high on the cliff side. Turquoise sea views. A Cornish flag billowing above surf waves, miles of pale honeyed sand. Rocks. A boy’s hallucination, twisted into his nightmare.
Because he quarreled with Tom. Sending him into the path of the school persecutor.
Who then led Tom to a spot on the map of pure majestic beauty. Skyscraper rocks; blue sky high, with crystal lagoon pools. But Tom couldn’t swim. The bastard knew Tom couldn’t swim. Then as the daylight began to fade the bastard swaggered back with his gang. The low sun just about holding on. A test of loyalty, the bastard bragged.
Red-hot anger. Quickly followed by guilt.
He sprinted acres over the headland to reach the spot. A helicopter flew over. Minutes later, from his viewpoint on the towering rock, he watched as a small limp body was laid on cold stone. A man pumping up and down on Tom’s chest as his lifeless head lay in a backwards tilt. The man paused to blow air into his mouth. Over and over. Pumping, pumping. Until a soft hand appeared on the man’s shoulder. It was over. Tom had gone.
He’d never be able to say the words, I killed you, Tom. I did it.