I’m on the train, the start of the journey. It’s the first time I’ve been back to the island since Joe’s accident, last summer. It’s just me, this time. Mum won’t come back ever, she says, as if seeing again the place where he died will make things worse. How, exactly? The worst has already happened. The ache of it runs through my body like a seam of coal in rock, black and cold and terrible.
Miranda’s mum says you’d never get over the death of your child. Miranda told me that yesterday, when we were in my old bedroom in the attic, putting the last of my things into boxes. Downstairs, Mum was packing up pictures and ornaments, ready for the move. We went past her on the landing, on our way down to get drinks in the kitchen. She was lifting down the big gold-framed mirror from its place on the wall. She held the mirror in both hands, staring at her own reflection in the spotted glass. I looked at her face, framed in the mirror like a painting: Grieving Woman: self-portrait. She’d tied her hair back with a bit of old string. She was wearing the same sleeveless grey linen dress she’s worn all week, so now it was all creased and limp. Ghost-mother. She didn’t speak. Didn’t notice us, even.
‘She still cries at night,’ I said to Miranda. ‘Even a year on.’
Miranda’s mum’s words echo in my head. Never. That’s the worst one. I don’t want to believe that it’s always going to be like this: Mum silent and sad and distracted; Dad out, or working all the time. There are lots of different ways grown-ups disappear. It’s lonely, being the one left behind.
Now Miranda’s in Spain somewhere, with her family, and I’m on my way to the islands, to my favourite place on earth, except that . . . well, it’s just me. By myself.
‘Are you sure you should go?’ Miranda said. ‘I know you love it, and everything, but won’t it just be too sad? Bring back all the memories?’
But I want to remember. That’s the whole point. I want to remember everything, all the tiny details, and I want to work something out. There’s this big horrible question mark hanging over it all, about Joe. Gradually, the question’s got stronger. I reckon it’s what’s eating away at Mum, nibbling her from the inside, turning her into a hollow shell.
The question is this. Was it an accident, really?
The train wheels rattle as we go into the first of a series of tunnels through the red cliff. The track goes right next to the sea. As we come out into daylight again, I press my face against the glass. Silvery-blue light reflects off the sea. I want to drink it in, all the light and the colour. For the first time in ages, a little quiver of excitement runs down my spine. Or is it fear?
I’ve done this journey so many times with Joe, I still can’t quite believe he’s not here now. Lately, I’ve had these . . . well, strange things have been happening. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a shadow, a shape. Or the door opens, but no one’s there. Sometimes there’s a smell, like river water. I haven’t told anyone, not even Miranda. I want to see him so much, and I’m terrified, too. Like, he’s going to speak. Tell me something. And I know that it sounds ridiculous, and it’s impossible, and everything, but I’m scared of what he might tell me.
The train’s slowed right down to go over the old iron bridge that spans the wide river in a beautiful curve, so high above the river that when you go across it’s almost like flying. If Joe was here, he’d have his head out of the window even though you aren’t allowed, and his hair would be wilder than ever, full of tangles that would stay the entire summer and no one would mind. Evie couldn’t care less what we look like. She’s not your average sort of gran.
I squeeze past the woman in the seat next to mine, out into the swaying carriage and down to the doors. It’s one of those long-distance trains where the inside doors are automatic, but you can still pull down the windows on the exit doors. That’s what I do. The window sticks, and I have to work it loose, till there’s space for me to stick my head right out, like Joe would’ve done. The wind rushes at my face and makes my eyes water. So much air and space! It’s exhilarating after hours stuck inside the stuffy train.
The wind tugs and pulls, as if it wants me to come out further: out, out and then down, down, down – gravity, I suppose, pulling me down to earth. Or down to water, rather, because the river’s directly below. For a second I go dizzy. I imagine opening the door, stepping out into air and space and light. I smell estuary mud, salt. Sounds crash back in: creaking train wheels and seagulls screaming, a boat horn; it’s like a picture suddenly coming to life. Everything’s coming sharply into focus.
That’s when it happens.
Joe’s voice, in my ear. ‘Careful, Freya!’
He’s standing right behind me. His hand’s on my arm, holding me back from the too-far-open window. For a brief second, relief floods through me. Everything’s OK. Nothing has happened after all. He’s here. And then a different voice is shouting, and rough hands are pushing past me, yanking up the window.
‘Stupid girl! Can’t you read? IT IS DANGEROUS TO LEAN OUT OF THE WINDOW.’
Dazed, I shove past the ticket collector, back into the carriage and my seat. My eyes are blurry with tears. I’m shaking all over.