The night brought nothing but a bottomless void. The morning, no room for reflections amid the abrasion of gin—a small mercy I was thankful for as I awoke a little before six. The train was not leaving until 7:30, so there was time for a much-needed mug of black coffee.
I should have known better than to drink. It never boded well with my concentration the next day. As a writer, it was a lesson I’d learnt early on. Those years after losing my folks, finding myself alone with all the memories of them in each strip of wallpaper and fish supper, it had been easy to lose myself in the obscurity of alcohol, though it had soon become apparent that to succeed in life, I needed to take control, even if it was in small measures.
Fictional characters once again greeted me with open arms. This time, they were my own. I filled pages with the troubles of others; there was no time to wallow in mine. Success found me, and in turn, I found a way to live another life—many lives. It was easier dealing with the horrors of others. There would be a resolve in closing the book. For better or worse, everything always ended. My life, on the other hand, was not as kind.
Reality does not always give you the key to unlock the answers.
The time to open that box of terror seemed to have found me. There was nothing for it but to switch to autopilot. If I thought about it any longer, I would talk myself out of it. I checked I had my mobile phone and wallet, patting down my tweed jacket pockets three times to make sure. I grabbed my keys and holdall. With the key in the lock, I stood on the stone front step of the cottage they had raised me in as a wisp of morning air brushed my ear. I heard Bob’s voice: Time to sweep away all those cobwebs, Oliver. Go be the man you are, not the boy you were, my lad.
The Yorkshire morning wore a brisk chill along with the early sea salt. The smell was now part of me, and I was as much part of the cliffs, harbour, and sea. The fear that threatened to choke me every time I swallowed grew with each step towards the railway station. I could turn back. I should. If there was a letter or something for me, couldn’t the solicitors deal with it? Send me whatever it was and the papers to sign?
I stopped before I crossed the bridge; I saw the station, didn’t need to get on a train. Why go all the way to Suffolk to sort this out, if there was anything to sort? Doubt still niggled at my throat. Nothing good would come of it.
There’s no memory of getting to the station, the walk over the bridge, coursing the path around the harbour, or buying my ticket. The first realisation was the bitter sting of bile rising in my throat as my stomach lurched with the first motions. We were off. The calmness of Whitby I’d come to know was swiftly being left behind, growing ever smaller in my wake. I was being summoned. I felt it.
The journey would have been a mundane affair to a seasoned traveller. To me, it was close to torture with the fear of missing my next stop or boarding the wrong train. I gripped the timetable in my fist for most of the way, and three stops later, I climbed aboard the last one. This was it: Peterborough, platform six. I would reach Bury St Edmunds in a little over an hour. It was midday, my stomach was angry. I would get something to eat before heading to the solicitors’ office. It would be somewhere in the town centre—I would stop by a coffee shop on the way.
With the promise of a quick lunch, I lifted the collar on my jacket and rested my head against the seat. Sleep took me as swiftly as the train.
Our skinny legs ran in shorts that skimmed scabby knees. We were at the tree. We sprawled on the grass under the limbs of the great oak. My brother lay his head back on clasped hands to rest on a tree root.
‘Come on, I’ll race you up the tree.’
His bony legs dangled from the main branch, which reached out farther than any other—a long, twiggy finger extending towards the house.
My lip trembled as I reached up to the first branch. Before I could get my feet higher than the gnarled root, it began. It was slight at first—a tiny judder.
My brother stood on the colossal bough; his arms stretched to a higher one as the rubber soles of his wellies gripped the bark. ‘Look at me,’ he called down.
My heart pounded, but it wasn’t fear of my brother falling. It was something else, something far worse. Something deadly.
‘No, don’t do it,’ I shouted.
I let go of the low branch and fell back a couple of steps. My brother stood above me, stock still, his eyes locked on something below him… but it wasn’t me.
There was something eerie about his stillness. His mouth began to move in silent words, but he wasn’t talking.
He let go of the branch, and his arms dropped by his side. He was going to fall.
Then it began to tremble. Each coarse vein in the bark, each old knot of the great oak tree shuddered and shook. Acorns sprinkled over my head. Again, I screamed for him to hold on, to come down, to be careful.
His face grew vacant.
I screamed as whispers surrounded me from the leaves, the branches, the acorns: Clever boys. Remember, two are more than one. One be bound, the other lonesome.
Sweat beaded as I buried my face in my hands. The same nightmare. My only memory of my brother amongst the rubble of my past. Was he to haunt me forever, even after all these years? I supposed the answer was yes, especially now. Suffolk would only make the matter worse. It will get harder before it gets better, Bob had said. I had to be stronger than I had been.
The train pulled into the station. The coldness hit me as I descended onto the platform. I hitched my collar a little higher around my neck, cursing the chill. ‘Should have worn a bloody scarf,’ I mumbled.
The station was busy—families, couples, suits on business. I hadn’t expected it to be so crowded.
Whether Bury St Edmunds was as I remembered, there was no saying, as I couldn’t recall it at all, well, not in detail. Mere sparks of memories more like faded, double-exposed photos, each recollection layered over another. Yet, an intense familiarity struck me hard in my chest as I took each step. Young Oliver had left from this station forty years ago; although, it was not the station or a memory that stirred me like a handshake from an old friend. It was the voices in my head. They were growing louder, more urgent, more vital.
I wanted to go home.
You are home.
I refused to listen. They knew I was back; of course, they did. They had been calling me since that phone call. It was their doing.
‘Mr Hardacre?’
I spun to see a gentleman, his hand out in front of him and his face wide with a grin.
‘Oliver? I took the liberty of finding out what time you would arrive, so here I am.’
‘Mr Fisk?’
‘Please, call me Nick,’ he declared, shoving a hand in my direction.
I struggled to cover my shock as I took his proffered hand. From the phone conversation and merely the tone of his voice, I had pictured someone older.
‘Please accept my apology and surprise,’ I said. ‘I was not expecting...’
‘Well, I thought it would be advantageous in the circumstances.’
I thought it was an odd choice of word. It must have shown in my knitted brow.
‘It’s just that I expected you would be keen to… get to it. I took the liberty of booking you a room in the local inn for convenience.’
‘To be honest, I imagined finding the nearest place to the station, a bed and breakfast in town. Because I came by train, you see? Well, obviously… If I’d driven down, maybe that would…’
I was at a complete loss with this Fisk. Such an odd character. I felt somewhat dislodged, floating outside my comforts. My empty stomach leapt.
‘I need to eat,’ I said.
‘They offer a superb lunch—all homecooked, as you would expect. My car is outside. I shall drive you straight to The Old Oak, let you settle in and eat.’
Those words drove a shiver down my spine, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck, which in turn hurled me back to the vision of my brother and that bloody tree.
‘Where is the… inn?’
‘In Raynham. Our office is in the village too, so no need for you to stay in Bury. Too many people. Far too many.’
He whisked my holdall from my hand. It seemed pointless to argue, so I followed his feet as my eyes stared at the ground. There was dread in looking up.
I was being dragged back to the past.