It’s a Wednesday, and he’s at the crematorium. It’s the anniversary of her death. He’s come here alone, but there are other mourners here, and they collect in drifts, like black snow. None of them is here for her. He places the bunch of fresh dahlias in the vase by the plaque and steps back to admire them. He knows they’re what she would have wanted, because her diary told him so. She told him so.
Scattered people fill the streets on the way back from the crematorium, walking in ones and twos and threes. Some of them look at him as he passes in his ash-coloured suit and black tie, a man dressed to meet the dead, and he suspects them of talking about him, quietly plotting condolences and excuses.
He hears someone fall into step with him. High-heeled shoes, clapping along the pavement, a rhythm and timbre that he recognises.Familiar, comforting. The moment feels fragile, so he keeps walking and looks straight ahead, fearful of shattering it.
Just then a silvery car sweeps past, and for a second, just for a second, he wonders if it’s the Facel II. Perhaps Terry’s taken it out for a spin, to get the engine warm, blow out the cobwebs.
He’s aware of these thoughts, but it’s as though he’s outside his body, eavesdropping on himself. He’s dreamed of this moment for years, of releasing the Facel II into the wild, yet this passing confection of metal and glass stirs no emotion in him. It feels as though … he doesn’t know what. Something feels different now.
“Was that the car? The Facel II?”
“I don’t think so,” he says. He keeps looking straight ahead.
“Is it finished now?”
“I thought it was, but it’s not.”
“What do you mean?”
He closes his eyes for a second, shakes his head.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter? I thought you said it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.”
He walks on for a few steps before replying, just to listen to her footsteps.
“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
~~~
SIMON JOHN COX was born in Tunbridge Wells, and has a degree in chemistry, a job in marketing and a black belt in Taekwon-Do. He has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember. He has had short stories published in various places, and is editing his second novel whilst trying to interest agents in his first. Simon is a founder member of the Tunbridge Wells Writers group and is currently starring as the protagonist in his autobiography.
Website: www.simonjohncox.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/SimonJohnCox
When a single mum returns to her island home of Tasmania with her young son Jack in tow, things don’t turn out quite the way she expects. In fact, her efforts to settle back in take a strange twist…
A DARK FOREST
by Jen White
On the way over, a man, who had been muttering and pacing for a good half hour, climbed onto the rail of the ferry and dived into the black water.
“What’s he doing?” Jack asked.
“Jumping in,” I lied. “But don’t you do it. It’s dangerous.”
All around us people shouted and ran to the place where the man had been standing only a moment before. I didn’t move, just stared at the empty rail, at his after-image.
I led Jack inside to the snack bar. I knew he would not forget what he had just seen. It would emerge days, or even weeks, later, rising up from somewhere deep and dark. “Remember that man, Mum?” he would say. “The one who jumped into the water? Remember? I had a dream about him last night.”
I had not set foot in Tasmania for a decade or more, that deep, dark island, as vivid as a fairytale. Ten years ago I moved to the mainland to seek my fortune. I had blamed the total mess my life had become, the damage that I had inflicted on myself and others, on the place rather than on myself. I know now that nothing is that simple. Oh, I was right to leave. I still believe that. The island and I had been a poisonous mixture, producing something airless and angry and desperate. But, with time, the damage in me had healed as much as it ever would, and distance had enabled me to see that there was something pure about the island, as if all that was extraneous had been filtered out and what remained was heady and overpowering, the distilled essence of Australia. Now here I was, returning with a child, and on my way to a new job as an historian with the museum. I no longer had family on the island, but I had memories of family. And I wanted Jack to see the place. It was as much his heritage as mine.
That man jumping, I told myself, it wasn’t a warning. It was merely the kind of thing that was likely to happen when one undertakes a perilous journey.
Soon after we arrived, Jack and I found a cottage on the edge of a forest and we made efforts to settle into our new lives. Several times a week Jack would ring his dad and tell him about everything.
“I saw snow, but it’s hard,” I heard him complain softly into the phone. “It’s cold and grey. In real life it’s dirty.”
I had never really talked to my wild, untethered son about the island. I hadn’t known how to. “Once upon a time,” I should have begun, the story unreeling from there, ending finally in, “And everyone lived happily ever after.” But I had never been able to find the words. I decided to show him instead.
I took
