The Getaway: Part II

'The Open Door' by William Henry Fox Talbot ca.1844

---

My day started at 5.35am. Although that's when I decided to admit defeat and get up, after having spent the night being woken either by Samantha's Olympic level snoring next door, or the dog's incessant bed-hogging.

Technically, my day started about 4am.

I drop my hand out of the side of the covers, fumbling for yesterday’s hoodie on the floor. Half-standing, half-sliding, I get out of bed and stand on something hard that buckles under my weight. I remember the packet of chocolate digestives I’d commandeered from the kitchen in the night.

“Bollax!” I chide quietly, and pray I at least closed the packet and that a mound of chocolatey biscuit bits aren’t now ground into the cream carpet. Unwilling to turn on the light to confirm.

In the hallway I am thankful that there's a nightlight on, casting shadows down the dark hall. I creep to the top of the stairs and bear my weight down on the first step. Silence. I try the next one. Silence. Feeling more confident, I take the next two consecutively, but both creak like a rickety gate that hasn't seen a can of oil in over 50 years. Fuck. I stand still and wait to see if I can hear anyone stirring.

When I'm satisfied I haven't woken anyone up, I do my best silent spiderman descent down the bannister and am impressed at my own flexibility then instantly disappointed that there's no one to tell. I walk into the kitchen and am again grateful that someone left the hob light on, leaving the room looking peaceful and inviting. I make myself a brew and an accompanying joint, and head outside to the bench just outside the front door on the old train platform, with the dog at my heels.

I sit in the dark, still, with only the sensor light illuminating me every time the dog walks past. A big cloud of smoke swirls above my head and Heidi Talbot soothes my ears. I sit and sob quietly in the dark, afraid that my grief will wake the others.

Too tired to cry any more, I yank my headphones out of my ears, and the movement sets off the sensor. I look down at the dog, who is protectively sat beside me, and stroke her soft fur. As we settle again, we’re submerged in darkness once more.

I suddenly hear what sounds distinctly like a firm-heeled boot walking down the platform, and notice the dog’s head turn in the same direction.

But we remain in darkness.

I assume it's just a spirit passing through, but then my nerves get the better of me, and I think of Samantha's serial killer, so stand up. I reach into my jacket for my pocket knife but find that it's empty. Fuck, I think, as I look down and remember that I'm wearing Samantha's Dry Robe.

I keep moving so the light stays on, but I can’t see anyone in either direction. The light no longer offers comfort but unwelcome exposure and I decide that I don't like my odds unarmed. I turn to go inside but instead I look back and stare challengingly down the platform, into the darkness.

Waiting for someone to appear.

Eventually, I get bored of waiting for death. I flick my joint into the bush, and throw the remainder of my cold tea in the same direction, before slowly going back inside and locking the door behind me.

After spending the rest of the day in front of the fire, reading a book about teenage dragon riders, of which I am most defnitely not the target demographic, Jessica comes in from the kitchen and convinces me to come on 'the walk'.

"I literally couldn't think of anything I would rather do less right now," I say whilst peering above my reading glasses and making no sign of movement.

"I know. We're leaving in five minutes. Get up."

I pull my muddy boots on and we go outside, towards the bridge that we drove over yesterday, and walk through the tunnel underneath, out into the glade. The weather is overcast. There isn't a glimmer of sunlight to be found anywhere. The light is already starting to fade.

Irritated at how casually they are ambling, I walk on ahead, both desperate to be alone but needing to know that they are still there. The grassy glade leads us out onto a huge river with a beautiful chocolate box cottage sitting alone on the other side. I wonder who lives there and imagine him and I inside, living the quiet life that we were supposed to live.

We walk further along the river and I fight back tears thinking about how much the fisherman in him would have loved it here. He was always happiest by a river. I look across the bank and imagine him there, rod in hand, taking in the beauty of it all, as he always did.

Everywhere I look, all I can see is his absence, and I just want to die.

We realised (they realised, I said all along) that we couldn't get further through at the bottom of the path and therefore we turn around, going back on ourselves. After a few minutes we come across a group of teenage boys heading our way. Samantha and Jessica quietly start whispering and I turn around to realise that they are panicking that this group of skinny-jeaned teenagers might murder us. This secretly amuses me as I keep walking on ahead, towards them.

I remember what it was like to feel that way. Afraid of strangers. Men. Of the things you think you should be afraid of.

The things you should actually be afraid of are the things that happen on a normal day, when someone is just on their way home, and fate steps in and fucks it all up.

The things you think will never happen to you.

I march defiantly towards the group of teenagers, ready for one of them to try and murder me, and am disappointed when they just walk on by, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

Happy.

Bastards.

I head on up the 50-odd stone steps first, again leaving the others trailing behind, desperate to be back in front of the warmth of the fire and away from everything that reminds me of him. I call the dog, who is trying to get her head in what looks like a badger set, and put her on the lead before she gets her face bitten off.

I wish he was here.

I long for him to come back.

The ache in me is inescapable.

When will I wake up from this nightmare?

I need to talk to him.

I need him.

I miss him.

So very, very much.

I think it might kill me.

I spend the rest of the evening in front of the fire, watching a documentary about a 60-something lady who is making obscene amounts of money by doing quite obscene things with a jam sandwich, and reading my book. But mostly staring into space.

I'm called to dinner like an obedient child and sit at the head of the table wondering how I'm going to eat even one mouthful. Despite my lack of appetite, it looks and smells delicious, and my senses temporarily betray my grief stricken hunger strike.

No one says very much and I wonder if it is because of me. The mute who has been skulking around the house, a foreboding presence to what would otherwise have been a wholesome scene. Once a people pleaser, who would have worked hard to think of something to say, I sit there in silence, quietly eating my food and staring at my plate.

When I finish I say thank you, and stand, putting my plate in the dishwasher, and leave the room without saying another word.

I go for my second shower of the day, still not washing my hair, and stand in the same position as last night, hands pressed against the glass as if it might cave in on me.

"Where are you?!!!" I shout with no care who hears me. "WHERE ARE YOU?!?" I crumple into a heap, and sit there sobbing, my face between my knees, with the water pummelling my head.

When I finally get out I realise that I have forgotten my towel and a cold burst of air washes over me as I race through Samantha's room naked and into my bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the carpet in my wake. I quickly get dressed and sit on the end of the bed. Staring into space, again.

I go back into the bathroom, to collect my clothes from the floor and I notice the kisses again in the window and am despondent that they are still just a trio.

Why can't he just make one X? Just one? He was so full of magic. Why can't he do this one simple thing for me?

I furiously wipe them away.

"He's gone, you fucking idiot....he's gone."

Deciding all I want right now is to fall into a deep relentless sleep, I throw my things from the bed onto the floor, as if an inconsiderate room-mate had left them there, and put my pyjamas on. Annoyed that Samantha is now using her bathroom, I am forced into the main avocado coloured suite, that reminds me too much of childhood.

I sigh and search for toothpaste, grabbing one left on the side of the bath tub. Brushing my teeth as if I have the energy of a 98 year old, I sit down on the toilet and stare vacantly at the floor.

When the toothpaste starts to burn, I press the off button on my electric toothbrish and stand up, spitting into the sink, placing my toothbrush on the shelf next to a man's deodorant, wondering who it belongs to. As I reach for the towel on the radiator underneath the window sill, I stop mid-motion, as my eyes make contact with the window.

On the jet black glass full of condensation is a large X.

I straighten myself and stare as if it were a cobra ready to bite. My instant thought is that one of the girls had done it but as I take it in I notice the strange form of the lines. They're thin and wriggly, as if not much pressure had been applied but the marks are clear, distinct.

A tear rolls down my cheek and I begin to laugh.

Getting into bed, the dog next to me with her head on the spare pillow, I reach for my rucksack on the floor and drag it over, searching for my diary and pen. I take a diazepam and pick up my phone, searching what happens to the soul after you die. I find myself on a website that talks about astral planes. I read that some believe that it is another dimension, where our souls go to live out the rest of their existence, separate from the physical world. That there are different levels to progress through. Different stages of understanding.

I wonder how he is getting on in the first realm...and I start to cry again, wishing he were still here in this one.

Further down there is a quote from a psychic, who suggests that if you want to make contact with someone who has passed then you need to think of a question that only they would know the answer to, close your eyes...really focus on them...and hold out your hands, imagining that they are holding yours. Then ask the question and if the answer comes into your head before you've finished the question then they're there with you.

Well, that's fucking stupid, I instantly think. If I'm asking the question then surely I already know the answer. However, open to trying anything, I close my eyes and hold out my hands, imagining that he is there with me, holding mine. I sit there for a while and this in itself feels comforting.

As I feel myself start to calm, I think about a question to ask but I just draw a blank. Mainly because he never remembered half of the stuff I told him because his brain worked at a million miles an hour and eventually there was always going to be leakage in the net.

Our anniversary?

No, he might not remember.

Where we went for our first date?

No, what would count as our first date? Because technically it was a wake.

What kind of thing would he remember...

Just when I'm about to give up, I think, hang on, I know the perfect question to ask...

What is our...

And before I can finish the question, the answer comes firing into my head like a bullet.

And at that exact same moment...

the bedside light goes out.