The grave is beautifully kept, as unaltered by time as the grief of those who tend it.
I crouch down, my eyes scanning the chiselled lettering on the headstone.
Barclay James Macintyre
Beloved son of Carole and Peter
Forever in our thoughts
I shake my head slowly. “If I’d done things differently that night…” I whisper.
I close my eyes and there we are again, for the millionth time, trapped in an eternal loop, stumbling over clods of mud in the darkness, laughing. The sweet taste of candyfloss in my mouth. The distant thud of music. The soft fur of a polar bear beneath my fingertips.
… wearing gay shorts…
… gonna give it to her tonight…?
… so immature…
… what was that noise…?
… just a fox…
… are you scared…
… Tom…!
… Shit! He’s bleeding…
… let’s go…!
He looks straight at me, firelight reflected in his swollen eyes. Blood running down his bruised face, a strand of hair plastered to his forehead.
I know him.
I know who he is.
With a sharp intake of breath, my eyelids spring open. I put the tip of my thumb between my teeth, bite down hard, gaze at the headstone there in front of me.
Beloved son
Forever in our thoughts
I close my eyes again.
We need to get help!
I am racing, my trainers pounding the towpath, my breath jagged and painful.
Then turning in circles, the inky star-studded sky spinning above me.
Which way? Which way?
The lockhouse or the Kingfisher?
The Kingfisher or the lockhouse?
Turning, turning…
And then I’m flying, the blackness of the canal rushing by at my side.
I burst through the door of the pub, music spilling out into the night, faces turning towards me.
Slow down there, son.
Hey, isn’t that Richard’s boy?
My knees hit the floor and I’m on all fours, a nauseating swirl of faded blue carpet filling my vision, the stench of stale beer, flecks of crisp trodden into the pile. And blood. My own blood.
Steady on, young man.
Nine nine nine, I gasp, you’ve gotta call nine nine nine.
And then I vomit sweet, sickly pink liquid onto the swirling pattern beneath me.
I open my eyes again and drop onto my knees, feeling the dampness of the grass seeping through the denim of my jeans. I count in a whisper.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…”
How much can be accomplished in sixty seconds?
You can ignite the fire that will burn down a forest. You can give the final push that will bring life into the world. You can give the order to start a war. You can press the button that will send a rocket to the moon.
But you can’t save a life once you’ve made a wrong decision.
Regret weighs heavily on my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. I can feel it starting. The band around my ribcage, the tightening in my throat. I try to count, breathing slowly, deeply. I open my mouth, my lips and tongue uncomfortably dry, as I try to drag in some air.
Zzzzzzzzz.
The vibration in my back pocket startles me.
I stand up quickly, digging frantically for my phone, blood rushing to my head. The world tips sideways slightly before righting itself.
I know it’s going to be about Josh, I just know it. A rival group of lads from another school, an addict with a knife, a drunk driver…
But by the time I have my phone in my hand the buzzing has already stopped. It was just a text message coming through. No emergency then.
Hi. Hope you don’t mind me texting like this. Found your number on internet. You took me by surprise Monday. I would like to talk. Can we meet? Libby.
The breath that’s been trapped inside me rushes out with a sigh. I reread the message six times. Relief floods through me that I didn’t do the wrong thing in finding her, that I haven’t just made things worse.
My thumb fumbles across the keys.
Yes, that would be great.
I pause, unsure what else to write. Thanks? When? Where? Why?
And then I just press send, because what else is there to say? It would be great, that’s all.
I push my phone back into my pocket and stare at the headstone, my sense of despair subsided.
For the first time in ages I feel like I might be able to start my journey towards some kind of peace, some kind of resolution to everything that started that night.
For the first time in ages I feel hope again.
Chapter 8
Hope
I remember that when I left Hellie in drizzly Manchester – trudging out of her halls of residence with a holdall, a hangover and a sense of regret – she’d promised to call me over the Christmas holidays. She’d be coming home for three weeks and we’d have to get together, she’d said, kissing me goodbye on the cheek. Yeah, sure, I’d smiled, feeling nauseous and disorientated.
So when it reached January and she hadn’t called, I welcomed in the new year with a sense of relief. My life was once again on track. I was overwhelmingly happy to be back with Libby, grateful my school suspension was over, and I was moving on from the trauma of last year. I was no longer anxious or angry all the time. I was no longer having nightmares. I just wanted to leave what had happened in the past – all of it, including Hellie. I imagined that’s what she wanted, too.
So when she phoned me one Saturday afternoon at the end of January, I was disappointed.
“The thing is,” I told her quietly, not wanting to be overheard by my parents, “me and Libby are back together. We have been for a few weeks now.”
“So?”
“So I’m really sorry, Hellie, I just don’t think I should see you. Not after, you know…” my voice dropped to a whisper, “what happened between us.”
“Chill
