She can’t recall the day it came to her, the idea for what should come next. Maybe it had always been there, a seed planted many years ago in her mind that has taken root and sprouted shoots. There is a life outside these four walls, the four walls that have held her prisoner day after day for so long now, and she wants to be a part of it. She’s seventeen, ready to be independent, be her own person, not be constantly chaperoned by a woman who has begun to see behind her disguise, the mask she wears every day to the watching world. It’s become tiresome being under constant scrutiny. She wants more. Deserves more.
After a recent altercation, college has decided she is better suited elsewhere. They didn’t say where but she definitely isn’t wanted on their premises any more. Not after the last debacle. It was a simple misunderstanding. It has also been the ruin of her, putting an end to any hopes she had of making it to university. Still, it was worth it, that flare-up. That deep scratch. Ruby Winter suited her scar. It reminded her of that time all those years ago, the one where her mother was overwrought thinking that the facial scar that was inflicted would be permanent. It wasn’t. She made sure of it, had practised it many, many times until she had perfected the art of snagging skin to make it look worse than it actually was. There is a knack to drawing blood without leaving any lasting long-term damage.
There were no bystanders or onlookers at college when this latest quarrel took place. Nobody to verify her story, to check the veracity of both of their stories. But the college principal didn’t want the bad publicity or the hassle and chose to believe Ruby. Ruby whose parents threatened to go to the local papers if something wasn’t done. So it was. It was all done and dusted without consulting her. She was removed. Thrown out on her ear. A small scuffle, that’s all it was. A couple of teenagers falling out and, all of a sudden, everyone thinks her unhinged. Incapable of continuing with her education.
‘A brisk outing is what we need.’ The voice penetrates her musings, shaking her back to the present. Reminding her of what needs to be done.
Without any preamble or complaint, she gets herself ready, mind sharp and fixated on the task that lies ahead. What she must do to free herself and get her life back. For so long now, she has capitulated to other people, allowed them to bend and shape her, turn her into somebody she doesn’t want to be. But not any more. Today it comes to an end. Today she takes back control of her life. The control she felt sure she would gain after the fire. It didn’t happen, everything turning to ash, her life controlled by a matriarch, somebody far sharper and more rigid than her parents ever were.
The drive up there is strained, the atmosphere tense.
‘You know, you really need to lighten up a little, let people get close to you. You can be wonderful company when the mood takes you, but after the carry-on at college, I do feel that things have taken a downward turn. You can’t let what happened to you as a child define who you are or who you might become. It’s time to move on.’
The young woman checks her phone. It is indeed time to move on. That much is correct. She’s got something right. Four bars – a decent enough signal considering their remoteness. Here’s hoping it stays that way.
She slips it into her pocket and sits silently as they park up at Clay Bank. She is blind to the sweeping vista of Teesside and North Yorkshire, the rolling hills and vast pale blue sky. Today is the day everything changes. No room for romantic notions of breathtaking views. No room for anything except meticulous planning of her long-overdue task.
‘Right. Good to see you’ve got your proper walking boots on. I’ll grab the rucksack. Let’s see if we can shake off those cobwebs, eh?’
Deirdre opens the door and both women step out into the bracing breeze, their hair tousled by the strength of the wind, their faces cold and reddened within minutes.
It doesn’t take long for them to reach the point that has filled her head of late. The sheer height of it, the jagged rocks beneath. The opportunity.
‘Come on, Deirdre. I’ll take a photo of you. Strike a pose.’
The older lady leans forward over the precipice, face raised to the sky, chin jutting out, arms outstretched as she takes in the spectacular views. The younger woman watches as her aunt breathes deeply, sucking in the cold, her face the picture of contentment as a sharp gust of wind washes over her, a small sigh springing from her throat, barely audible above the sound of the gathering breeze.
She moves closer, knows that her aunt can feel the movement of air behind her, is able to hear the crunch of small stones underfoot, a distinctive sound that cannot be deadened. Her approach is sensed. It’s obvious in her body language: a slight stiffening of her backbone, the rucking of skin on her forearms. The younger woman knows that she will move aside for her, insist that they take in the view together, re-establish their relationship that has faltered in the past few months, bond once more as family members thrown together in the most terrible of circumstances. Her aunt may have lost a brother but she at least gained a substitute daughter. She has heard it all before, the old tropes about family bonds and blood being thicker than water and every other facile, glib cliché she can think of about love and relationships and how they should stick together. Blah, blah, blah. She is bored of it all, exhausted by the adages that are constantly thrown her way in a bid to change her.
She places her arm over her aunt’s shoulder, steps forward, her hand suddenly sliding down the ridges of the older woman’s spine until it comes to rest in the small of her back.
The older woman turns, tries to say something but is stopped by a gust of wind so strong it takes the words from her, carries them away into the ether. She looks into her niece’s face, sees that all too familiar darkness there and shudders, trying to move back away from the pressure of her carefully placed fingers. She feels the push, and knows with a sickening sense of realisation what is happening but by then it’s too late. The pressure is too heavy, the weight behind her too great to stop the fall. Everything rushes past, all the things she loves – nature in all its raw and rugged beauty spins around her, the sky, the grass, the soft white clouds kaleidoscoping and rotating until at last she reaches the bottom, feels solidity, her head crashing into a large boulder. Then nothing.
The scream sounds natural. She’s practised it in her head many times over but is still pleasantly surprised at how rich and powerful it is, way beyond anything she expected or hoped for. She’s a better actress than she ever knew. She thought perhaps that Deirdre’s austere ways had ironed out all her quirky creases, robbed her of who she used to be, how she used to be, but apparently not. She’s still there, that devious, wayward child, still itching to be free. Still capable of so many things.
Nobody hears her or comes running. She supposes that’s a good thing. No reaction means no witnesses. She has the picture as proof as well. Proof that her aunt leaned too far towards the edge. Always the risk-taker. Each week pushing herself further and further, walking higher and higher for longer and longer. She was an accident waiting to happen.
She slumps down onto the ground, her heart remarkably still and rhythmic, and stares at her phone before pressing the button for emergency services, her voice ready to shriek down the handset that she needs help and she needs it now.
Quickly! she will scream as the tears begin to fall. Come quickly and help me. I think she might be dead. She leaned too far over the edge and fell. I tried to help her but couldn’t hold on. Oh God, please send somebody straight away. I think she might be dead! Then a smile, her mouth trembling as she stares out over the sprawling landscape, wondering what comes next.