Cornwall 2016
Another day over. I pull up alongside the pretty Cornish wall and wait, in need of some thinking space. My eyes wind down the narrowing road where I can steal a glimpse of the frisking Atlantic. Warm memories of childhood holidays creep over. It’s amazing how these feelings are still with me, despite life trying to warp and dissolve them. Memories create personal benchmarks, I explain to people, to measure life’s experiences against. If children have unhappy childhoods, their benchmark is set sadly low. Was my benchmark set too high? Perhaps my happy childhood was not such an advantage after all. As much as I try, I can’t relate the balminess of those memories to my present. I’ve lived three unconnected lives. Right now, I’m utterly detached from all three. I can see them; I can’t feel them. I’m no different from my clients earlier today.
When I’m with people, I feel as if it’s all happening without me being there. I’m not part of any of it. Is this normal? teary eyes enquired.
No, it is not. How can it be normal? I thought.
People talk to me, I answer. But it doesn’t feel real to me. Almost as if I’m watching my words. Do you think I'm going mad? she asked.
No. But it’s a short continuum from stress to anxiety to psychosis. Blurred boundaries can quickly diminish. Where am I on this scale?
Your bucket is too full. We each have a stress bucket. Some with a larger capacity than others. But as it fills over the day, it can be something quite insignificant to tip it over. The rising of cortisol, the depletion of serotonin, the need to ruminate, see to our disturbance of sleep. We wake shattered from too much active REM sleep, insufficient replenishing slow-wave sleep. We begin our day with an already half-full bucket, and so it goes on. A vicious circle. A rolling ball of destruction. If not managed. If not dealt with. If questions remain unanswered, I explained.
The light is lowering around me, casting atypical shadows. I notice a movement from the corner of my right eye. It’s my neighbour, Gloria, bobbing up and down a couple of walls along, attending to her abundant garden. She’s taken such a shine to Jack, his surrogate grandmother. When we first moved here she used to let herself in to greet him from school, staying with him until I was home from clinic. Now, she pops in from time to time to leave home-baked delights and fresh produce. Neither of us have other family close by. I reach for my handbag, just as an unmistakable rumble of an approaching engine grabs my attention. I freeze, my hand hovering. My stomach tightens as a blueish 911 Porsche slides past with centimetres between us. The images from last week voyage through my mind. It’s the sound, the distinguished sound of a 911 engine, gripping my throat.
Last week, driving home late from clinic, that horrible feeling of being followed consumed me. A haunting ambience, in that in-between-light-and-dark condition. The lanes smothered by a dense sea mist. There was a car, far too close for the conditions, behind me. The headlamps burning my eyes through my wing mirror. Circular, amphibian headlamps. We continued for a while, just the two of us, each twist and turn heading back via Callestick from Truro. Was I imagining it, an innocent commuter caught up in my creativity, or did I know who was behind the wheel? I strained to catch a glimpse of the driver. It was hopeless; the frog-like headlamps dazzled my vision into a block white wall. I could smell danger. Should I find somewhere to abandon my car? Attempt to run, but where? Human habitation in the area was sporadic. By the shadow I glimpsed, I was as sure as I could be – the driver was male. Unsteady legs stumbled on and off the accelerator. A little voice whispered not to turn for home, reveal where I live. I loitered along, hunting for a suitable red herring. Eventually, I saw a large farmhouse with obvious lights ahead. At the last minute, I swung sharply onto the stone driveway. Nuggets flying everywhere, quarrying deep tyre grooves. I breathed out as the car passed by.
Now, I fumble for the keys I’ve managed to drop down the side of the seat. I need to follow the car. Swinging out ungracefully in the hope of catching up. How can I not? It’s a dead end. But isn’t this sheer, utter madness? Even so, I have to see for myself. I could be wrong, but I need to know either way. I roll down towards the dead end, passing Enid Blyton cottages and gardens, negotiating the seasonal stray end of tourists wandering in the middle of the road, seemingly without a care in the world.
As I draw closer to the seafront my stomach rolls in harmony with the waves. I spot the car already parked up. It doesn’t make any sense; the car appears to already be unoccupied. Sod it! He couldn’t possibly have gone far. I scan from left to right, then notice, Charlie, the parking attendant, casually propping up his hut. How the hell did the driver get away so quickly? I abandon my car in a truly obnoxious position, blocking anyone else from coming or going, scrambling to reach Charlie before he forgets. Secreting adrenal glands pushing me forward.
Waving like a crazy woman, I scuttle towards his salty lined face. ‘Charlie. Charlie?’
‘You okay, Evie? Not seen you for a while… you’re lookin’ pale, lovely,’ he says. ‘You coming to the pie and ale night, then?’ A deep-rooted Cornish accent washes over me.
I’ve forgotten about the pie thing; I said I would, but I can’t face it now. ‘Oh, I’m not sure I can make it any more, Charlie. Something’s come up.’ I walk closer to him. ‘Did you notice the guy from this car, by any chance?’
Charlie gives the car park a once-over. Come on, Charlie, switch on. He returns uncomprehending eyes. Please, Charlie, not today, think, please.
‘This one, the blue one, Charlie, in front of mine, here,’ I implore him.
‘The blue one? Oh, yeah, that one.’ He nods. ‘The flash one. Proper job, isn’t it?’ he rolls out. ‘Difficult to say whether it’s blue or green, isn’t it? Nice though, yeah, proper nice.’
‘Lovely. But did you see who was driving it? Did you see the man get out?’
‘Yeah, I did, yeah. Seemed in a bit of a hurry, he did. Needs to slow down. Gave me a fiver, then drove off before I could tell him, there’s no charge for night-time functions. Mad.’ He tuts to himself as if we’re talking about hundreds of pounds. ‘Mad. Bloody emits. Need to learn to slow down, they do. Come down ’ere…’
I touch his arm. ‘Where’d he go, Charlie? Did you see where he went?’ No response; a blank look greets me. ‘It’s quite important. Try and think for me, please.’
‘You know him, then, do you, Evie?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ It’s like pulling teeth.
‘Oh, I see. Well, I dunno, think he went up over the footpath. Seemed in a hurry, like, now I think of it.’ He nods to the footpath meandering out of sight towards Trevellas Porth. There’s nothing in that direction, not for the non-rambler or rock jumpers anyway. So it’s odd, to say the least. Why would you be going up there?
As if reading my mind, Charlie continues, ‘Perhaps he’s meeting his lover. You know how mad you girls get when us men are late.’ He giggles. ‘Didn’t notice anyone else, mind.’
I lean back against my car; there’s no way I’m going to follow him. I know the footpath well; I don’t fancy it alone. I’d be out of view from the village and my head is knocking at the door telling me not to do anything foolish.
‘Shit,’ I whisper.
‘You okay, Evie? Was he supposed to be waiting for you, then?’
‘No, no, not at all. I’m fine, thanks.’ He nods. ‘Did you get a look at him, though? Can you describe him? Anything at all?’
‘What? Aww, I dunno, love, all look the same to me. Quite ’andsome, I guess. Not my type, though.’ He chuckles.
I can’t help but smile at him, such a lovable guy. I just wish he could have tried a bit harder. But I’m doing it again, expecting everyone to be privy to my needs without bestowing the details. The bits that make my behaviours understandable. ‘Okay, thanks, Charlie, not to worry. You take care. Catch you soon.’ I squeeze his shoulder.
‘Okay, my lovely. You too. Maybe see you at the quiz night, then?’ I turn and wander back to my car. Charlie’s voice echoes in the distance of my world.
‘Odd, though, isn’t it?’ he calls after me.
I halt, then turn. ‘What? Charlie, what’s odd?’
‘Well, him asking if I knew you, like, then you just turning up like that. I mean, he could’ve waited for you at least, couldn’t he? No manners, you see. Got the car, but no manners.’
I freeze as an overwhelming sickness creeps up from my gut. Then my feet walk back towards Charlie. ‘Go on, what else?’
‘I told him, no, don’t know no Eve Austin. We’ve an Evie, though. Evie Sands we have; proper clever she is. Then he said - that’s what he meant to say, like, Evie Sands.’
I knew it. I catch my breath from running away from me. ‘What else did you say, Charlie?’ I realise from the startled look on his face I’ve worried the poor guy.
‘Nothing, love. Well, just that you live up there, top of that hill there. But he said he knew that anyway, what with him already calling on you earlier. Didn’t say nothing else. He asked if I knew you, like, then drove off, parked up, walked off without his money. A fiver he gave me. Weird.’
I touch Charlie’s arm in reassurance of his worried expression and leave. I could wait to see who comes back but it’s pointless, I know who it is. I feel like a child who’s realised the game’s up; I now need to face the consequences.
It’s always only ever been a matter of time.
With a lack of awareness, I make my way home. Hoping Gloria has abandoned her garden. I really can’t face the thought of conversation. Leaving my car against the wall, I gingerly open my gate, kicking over the silver candle lantern as I and everyone do, to creep to the sanctuary of my cottage. I feel violated. Each time I think I’ve turned a corner, I dare to breathe, something or someone blocks my way. I open the door to darkness, fumbling to locate the light switch. Jack’s out for the night with friends, staying over. I wish he weren’t. For a moment, I fight with myself not to call him, check he’s okay. A paranoid mum. Passing through the front room, I put the TV on, the silence being all too much, then take myself upstairs. A cursory glimpse over all dark spaces.
I replace clinic clothes for lounge pants and patter back downstairs to pour myself a large glass of wine, before slumping into my squidgy sofa. Only to get straight back up – did I lock the doors? I’m sure I did but sure isn’t good enough. Why would you go to Trevellas Porth, or along that pathway anyway? Did you think I would follow you? How do you even know about the path, Trevellas Porth – have you been here before, checked it out? Sitting back down, I pull my legs up under me, I flick absent-mindedly through TV channels, in need of light-hearted distraction. Anything to stop me thinking, listening for each and every alien noise. Why is there so much tosh on? It’s either depressing or gloomy, mostly a combination of the two. For God’s sake. Is it just me? Do people really watch this stuff? I’ve become so damn miserable without noticing. I opt for a film, not appreciating how sadly it is all going to end.
As I sip wine, I taste the familiar tang of blackberries combined with home-grown trickles of salty hurt. I quickly switch over to a documentary on crazy mothers-in-law; how apt. Have these programmes been especially chosen for me tonight? The thought of my mother-in-law crashes through my mind. I couldn’t stand the woman. It still grates on me. I only met her once – why didn’t it resonate more, as so obviously odd? Who only meets the mother-in-law just the once? She was vile. But now I wonder, was she trying to warn me? Help me? Did I get her wrong? Though she’s never attempted to make any contact, even after you disappeared. I remind myself everything always feels worse at night. I tell others this, so it has to be true. But when it doesn’t feel any better in the day, you know you’ve got problems.
I leave the TV running in the background as I begin to skim through my mobile; a craziness of missed calls, voicemails and emails. Go away; leave me alone. Then I notice the text; a withheld number again, but with a voicemail notification attached? I hurriedly dial my voicemail; skipping through to the relevant time. My fingers, not able to work quickly enough. 15.17? This isn’t the usual time. Pressing my mobile hard against my ear, as if it may help me hear more, I strain to listen. Nothing. Silence. A distant breathing; a rising chest, a falling smugness... the foundations of a smirk. An evocative presence. No words; but so much passes between us. So, you’re upping your contact to twice a day. Is this some form of sign you’re getting closer? This isn’t a client not wanting to speak. This is you.
It’s definitely you, isn’t it? I feel you.
The silence breathes a haunted murmur: I’m coming, Eve; not long now.