THE STORM WALKER

 

 

I was out driving the first time I saw her. Sunlight was breaking through the clouds; there had been a terrible storm and parts of the road were flooded.

She was soaked through to the skin, water dripping off her. I’d never picked up a hitch-hiker in my life, but I found myself thinking that I should stop and see if I could give her a lift into the village. It was as if the city thinking was already leaving me and I was starting to think like a human being again. Or maybe I just wanted the company. She was dragging an umbrella turned inside-out; she looked so tragic.

She accepted with a nod, a slight smile and a mumble of thanks. She really was absolutely drenched. The second she sat down I started to worry about the state of the seat and mud getting all over the mat.

She was heading back to _______, same as me. I asked her if the rain had taken her by surprise, and she said:

“I always take my walk in the afternoon; I don’t let the weather stop me.” She meant it too. There was a look of aged formidability in her face; the type that people of a certain age get when they go militant against the weaknesses of getting older and aren’t going to let anyone tell them that they can’t do this or that anymore. But when she took off her hoods and glasses she was younger than she first appeared. Early-to-mid 50s rather than late 60s – she was overweight, not tall, and pale, sallow, tired-looking.

“Have you lived around here long?” I asked, hoping to build a conversation.

She was polite, but brusque: “All my life,” she answered. After a pause, she followed with “You must be new; haven’t seen your face before.”

“Yes, I moved here about two weeks ago.”

“Not from Scotland?”

“No,” I smirked, everyone kept saying that.

“From London I suppose?”

“Sort of, not originally, but that’s where I was living.”

“We get a lot of your sort around here now.” She said this in a mildly disapproving way, but less so than some folk I’d spoken to. It was true, the village was isolated but well-off, a haven for middle-class families wishing to “get away from it all”. Although only a few seemed to be English.

“Not a bit quiet for you?”

“That’s sort of what I wanted.”

“Never saw the point of cities. Too cramped and cooped up. You get proper air out here.”

The conversation continued this way for a few miles – stops and starts and awkward silences.

“You married?”

I thought for a second, and just answered “no”. Later I thought I saw her looking down at my hands; if she caught sight of my ring, she must have chosen not to pry about it.

“Most folk move out here now to raise kids. Not so many years ago all the kids seemed to leave. Now the parents seem keen to drag them back again.” I thought I could see a hint of a smile; I thought maybe she was starting to ease up a little, but then I asked:

“Do you work around here?”

“No,” she said, becoming more hard-faced. “Can’t work because of my back.” She used an end-of-subject tone.

I chose not to pry either. But she’d been a good five or six miles out of the village; she obviously couldn’t be that unhealthy. Although she could well have given herself pneumonia in this weather. I’d been foolish taking the car out in that downpour. As I thought about it I realised she must’ve been crazy to go out at all. It must’ve been at least a 10-mile round journey for her. What on earth was she thinking?

“You take a long walk every day?” I just had to ask.

“Not always, sometimes.” She corrected herself and said “Most days. You must have a job in _____.”

“Oh no. Well, not yet.” I answered. “I really just wanted to get away from it for a while; I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.”

“And what did you do before?”

“I was a psychiatric nurse.”

“Oh well, you should have no trouble finding work. Plenty of fools around here.” There wasn’t even the tiniest hint of a smile; she wasn’t making a joke.

As I approached the village she gave me directions to where to drop her off, rather presumptuously assuming I was happy to take her home. It was a pleasant terraced house, well looked-after, small garden at the front, just like mine.

“I appreciate your help,” she said, getting out. “Safe journey now.” I watched as she walked slowly up to her front door and let herself in. Most folk around here barely bothered to lock their doors, but she spent several moments unlocking bolts and letting herself in.

I realised suddenly that I hadn’t caught her name. And she hadn’t asked for mine either. I looked over at the passenger seat and scowled; I’d have to spend time cleaning it. Muddy footprints were all over the mat.

I drove home, which was about a mile or so on the other side of the village. Well, more probably it was a town; it just felt like a village, and everyone called it one.

There were no answerphone messages when I got back, which was a relief. The phone was my only point of contact now; I’d decided to give up my mobile. Not that it would probably work out in ______ anyway. I’d probably get the internet put in eventually, but I had no idea how long I was going to stay.

The old lady who owned the place seemed to know nothing about letting. I’d paid her for two months’ rent and she said we’d ‘see how it goes’. I think she let it normally for holidays, so she probably rarely had tenants off-season. Not that I could think why there’d be much demand for it as a holiday home, although I suppose for hikers, climbers, and outdoor types it would have quite a bit of appeal. Hills, mountains, woodlands and streams could be found in almost all directions.

It was a good job it was a holiday home, otherwise it would’ve been empty. I only had two suitcases, everything else I had was in storage. I was putting my past-life to one side and just thinking about me and what I wanted to do next. And there’d be no rush; there was no need for a rush. I’d just go on and see how I felt and how things unfolded.

I didn’t have much to do at first. I enjoyed reading, I took a little to hiking, but the weather was generally too miserable and it was starting to turn cold. I went to the cinema, the first time in years. They had this quaint little town hall cinema; they pulled down a little screen and had their own projector. They played Casablanca and To Have and Have Not on a double-bill. All the pensioners were there; they looked at me like I was from another planet. Clearly they didn’t get newcomers often.

I thought about painting, but I wasn’t very good at it and gave up a bit too easily. I thought I needed to meet some people and make some friends. I volunteered at the local pet rescue charity shop. It hadn’t been open long and Joyce, the manager, was pretty much doing everything herself.

They had strange ways, some of the folk around there. They wouldn’t volunteer to help, but they’d sort of ask about it and if you just happened to ask them if they’d like to, then maybe they could probably just about find some time to come in once or twice a week, or more.

They used to look at Joyce like she was an alien too. She was Jamaican – she used to joke she was the only black woman for 50 miles. Although it could’ve been her size too. She was a good 6 foot tall and big-bodied. She used to tower over the little old folk. They were nice people really, just used to things being always the same.

We did have a laugh. She was irrepressible – you could hear her laugh in the pharmacy next door. And things were starting to get busy after a few slow months. ______ is a strange place, there was no high-street as such. Just odd little pockets of shops here and there, as if people kept trying to set one up, but kept giving up.

We talked a lot; she didn’t know many people either, but was much better at making friends. She was just one of those people: big, open and bubbly; everyone felt like she was their friend.

I confided in her a little. Told her about my husband’s death without giving away too many of the details. I just told her about the cancer and left it at that. She didn’t ask too many questions. She understood that I was trying to move on with my life and we concentrated more on happy things. She kept telling me she was going to set me up with someone. I laughed and joked about it, but that was really the last thing I wanted and did my best to let her know without being nasty about it. Difficult to know who she could set me up with anyway; the only single types they seemed to have around _____ were little old men.

I’d been working there a week or two when the lady I’d picked up appeared at the shop counter. I hadn’t seen her come in; I’d been talking to Horace, a sweet old man from up the road who liked to talk, and talk, and talk…

“Hello,” I said with familiarity. She returned the greeting with only a hint of fondness. She placed a red umbrella on the counter.

“For your walks?” I said, attempting conversation again.

She didn’t answer. “How much is that?”

“Three pounds for umbrellas”.

“And those as well?” She moved the umbrella; there were two gloves on the counter, children’s woolly gloves. They were pink with little yellow flowers on.

“Oh, they’re a pound. Four in total.”

She held out a fiver and I took it. Just when I thought she’d forgotten who I was, she said “Are you settling in all right?” She said it almost like an obligation, a chore.

“Yes, I’m settling in fine, thank you,” I answered, while passing her her change.

“Good,” she said, giving the smallest of smiles and a nod.

“Would you like a bag?”

“No thank you.” She picked up the umbrella and stuffed the gloves into her coat pocket. “Good afternoon”.

I smiled and she started to amble towards the door. Just as she was passing the women’s jacket stand, the clouds seemed to burst outside and it started to rain. She stopped and stood watching it.

“Good job you bought the umbrella,” I said. She didn’t say anything. After a moment she just carried on. She went out the door and walked away in the rain. She didn’t even open the umbrella.

She was strange, but in my profession, I’d seen a lot worse. She probably just had trouble talking to people; it doesn’t necessarily get any easier when you get older. It was probably quite hard for her to even try. I felt quite touched that she was trying; it was so easy for folk getting older to just give up.

The rain killed custom for the afternoon; the street was dead after three o’clock. We closed at four. Joyce had spent the afternoon going through a large donation and not a good one. Unfortunately, the pet rescue store was much closer than the dump. There was so much rubbish it would take two rubbish collections to get it all taken away.

While she cashed up, I started to take the sacks out. They were heavy; I managed two at a time, but only just. The rain was still falling hard. I dragged them out through the side door and towards the metal skip bin. There was a girl playing in the alley, jumping joyously in the puddles. It made me smile.

I put the rubbish bags down and unlocked the bin lid. After I threw it open, I got one bag in fine. But I caught the other on the bin’s side and it tore. Some items fell out – a broken bead necklace slipped out and scattered beads in all directions when it hit the ground. I swore.

“You’re not throwing away toys are you?”

I looked up, slightly embarrassed, at the young girl. She was maybe six or seven, not very old. And she was dressed in a faded blue duffle coat; vintage, but worn and old. Some of the buttons were missing. She was looking at a wooden toy train that had also dropped through the tear.

I put the bag down. “It’s broken dear,” I said. “The wheels have all come off.” She stared at me, saying nothing. I smiled at her; she didn’t move. Her face was frozen in a sulking expression, eyes downcast, lips curling downward. She was white, frighteningly pale; she looked almost albino, like she was freezing.

Feeling a bit spooked, I picked up the second rubbish sack and got it in the bin. As I bent down to pick up the train, I noticed she was gone. Vanished, without a sound.

It was very strange. I tried to pick up some of the scattered beads but gave up quickly and went back inside. I didn’t think much about the pale girl until later, when I started to wonder what on earth she was doing behind a charity shop in an alley leading to a row of garages? There didn’t seem to be anyone else there. Who was she with? And where did she go?

One of the first things Joyce had found out from me when I started was where I lived. This was so she could find out whether I would be able to give her a lift home after work. Joyce didn’t drive; she could probably walk it, but she had an amazing ability of avoiding any kind of hard work. When I was there she always managed to find some reason why it was better for me to do any lifting. I brought in the donation bags, she just did the sorting. And that way she could grab anything she liked first.

Her house, which was only supposed to be just around the corner from mine, was actually a good mile and a half away. Just past the outskirts of ______, nestled amongst some trees. She called it Grandma’s House, because it looked like it had come right out of a fairy tale. It had a long winding path and a tiny rock wall fence, and a little red gate. It was a single storey bungalow, with a thatched roof; you could just imagine a big bad wolf hiding behind the door.

Anyway, we were a short distance away from there, stuck waiting to cross the bridge over the river because of a tractor, when I saw that woman again. The rain was starting to clear now, but she had her umbrella, the one she bought from me, still open. Her head was hung down, she looked positively miserable. It had been over two hours since I’d served her. Had she really been out all that time?

“It’s that woman again,” I said, thinking out loud.

“What’s that?” said Joyce.

“That woman, I gave her a lift the other day. She was out in the middle of nowhere soaked to the skin, walking. Now she’s doing it again.”

“You gave her a lift? Crazy Rose?”

“You what?”

“Crazy Rose – her there with the umbrella. You gave her a lift?”

“What’s crazy about her? She seemed ok.” But pretty odd.

“Don’t ask me. That’s just what they call her. I’ve heard the ladies talk about her. They stay well clear.”

“She didn’t seem that crazy.”

“Well you’d be the expert. But the women around here, they don’t like to go near her.”

I dropped Joyce off at her mysterious cottage. Apparently she shared it with another lady called Francesca, oft mentioned but as yet unseen by any of the volunteers. Tongues were starting to wag. Gossip spreads like wild fire in isolated places like ______. But frankly, who cares?

Yes, village life could be pretty insular. I wondered whether I could ever really get used to it. I was enjoying the slower pace, but could I ever get used to a life where the biggest news story was whether a Jamaican woman was a lesbian or whether a woman who liked to walk in the rain was a nutcase?

Honestly, if they thought she was crazy… they’d never seen crazy – real crazy. I wondered whether I could really go back to that life. So few ever seemed to get better; you knew which ones you’d see again. I felt like I’d done enough for the betterment of mankind. And that’s if they’d have me back anyway.

There were still no answerphone messages. I wondered if that was a good thing, but I certainly felt that no news was better.

Nothing much happened for a few days. In between my shifts at the shop, I read some so-so chick-lit, did a bit of driving, took a long walk when the weather wasn’t so bad. I think I may have even done a jigsaw; the days were so empty. So meaningless.

Then one evening – it wasn’t very late – I was driving to the Co-op for my weekly shop when I saw “Crazy Rose” walking along the street, weighed down by heavy shopping bags. It was a crowded residential street. I passed her, on the opposite side of the road, and then pulled in between parked cars to let another car go by in the opposite direction.

It took a few moments for me to realise something was wrong. The car was full of kids, teenagers – they didn’t look old enough to be driving. I saw them all turn towards Rose as they approached her very slowly. One was opening the sun roof.

The car passed me, but I didn’t move – I watched. I saw one boy rise from the sun roof and the others lean out of the car windows. They threw eggs at Rose. They threw the eggs, then screamed, shouted and laughed at her.

After the first hit, she rose her arm to cover her face – dropping one of her shopping bags. She was hit a couple of times. With the car moving on, she screamed at them: “You bastards! You fucking bastards!” Then she stepped on the shopping bag she had dropped – tripping and falling over it. The kids cheered once more, then revved up and sped away.

I had to get involved – I couldn’t just leave her. I stopped the engine and ran across the road to her.

“Are you all right?” I shouted.

“Those little bastards!” She cried. “Fucking bastards!” There were tears in her eyes. There was egg yolk on her coat – front and back – and on her neck and hair. And to add to the misery, she’d crushed her own eggs – a squashed carton lay on the street surrounded by spilled, bruising fruit and a still-intact loaf.

I tried to help her repack her bags, but one was torn. “The people around here. Bastards all of them.”

“Let me help you.”

“It’s all right, it’s all…” She broke into tears and slumped against a garden wall.

I tried to put part of my arm around her but she shook it off. She reached into her pocket for a tissue while I stood over her, awkwardly.

“I’ve got spare bags in the car,” I said after a moment. “Let’s get you home.”

I remembered that she lived only around the corner. I left the car barely parked and went with her. As I walked with her there was a nagging feeling of doubt that I was walking into something bad. But this was basic human kindness – I wasn’t being a Florence Nightingale again. And yet I knew I was heading towards trouble. Catch 22 – but I was doing the right thing.

I understood why she had so many locks on her door. She’d become the crazy old person in the neighbourhood the kids talked about and tormented. And with a place with so few things for young people to do… well, no wonder she felt vulnerable.

It was a tired looking place and was long overdue for redecorating. The wallpaper was a nightmarish display of faded chintz; once garish, now just dowdy. It was starting to peel towards the top and at some places near the skirting. The carpet was a dulling purple, darker around the furniture and towards the walls where the sun nor feet could land upon it.

She led me into the living room with few words. It too looked unchanged from a past era, when what seemed cheap and tacky now had once borne all the hallmarks of fashionable suburban living. A television the size of a tea chest lay on top of a chipboard cabinet wrapped in a plasticky wood finish. A fold out table with a doyley and fake flowers (dusty) lay in the window concave; the crowning touch was a hideous beige sofa, the seats long since sunk in and pock-marked with cigarette burns.

She was composed again now, hard-faced once more. “I’ll stick my coat in the wash and clean myself up. Then I’ll make us some tea,” she said. Tea – the currency of British gratitude in the north as well as the south.

The sofa didn’t look very inviting. There were marks in the carpet where an armchair had once been; four deep indents and a brighter square of carpet – no other seating options. There was a coffee table in the middle with a honeycomb of cup rings making its way from the wood surface onto a pile of assorted letters, a mixture of junk mail and bills. I could see the words ‘Final Demand’ several times.

I’d seen worse. It was grim but mostly clean, if a bit dusty and a bit smelly. She went upstairs, presumably to the bathroom. I paced around a little – all I wanted to do was leave. I’d probably just leave as soon as she came downstairs.

The walls were largely bare. A mirror with rusted edges hung at a slight angle. There had once been a picture behind the sofa, but that was long gone. There was a small sideboard, probably bought at a later date than the other furniture – it was darker and in better condition. There was a series of four mismatched picture frames on its top. One was larger than the others – it was silver; the real deal. It was tarnished, but attempts had been made to clean it. It was a posed photograph, a school photo.

It was that girl: the one I’d seen in the alley by the shop. She looked positively luminous; a big happy grin, perfect smile, adorable blonde pigtails. Hardly at all like the sickly girl I’d seen before – but it was unmistakeably her.

I heard the door move behind me. Rose came back into the room, surprising me a little. On seeing me looking at the photograph I saw her back stiffen.

“Is this your grand-daughter?” I asked her.

“No,” she said very sternly. “That’s my daughter.” Her nostrils flared, her lips curled in, her eyes opened wide.

How was that possible? Rose was pretty old to have a six or seven year old child. I know they can do amazing things with IVF these days, but nothing about Rose’s situation made me think that any of that was likely.

“She’s very beautiful,” I said. All the pictures on the sideboard were of her. But the others were all faded, old photographs. I wondered if she was delusional, but I’d seen the girl, walking around hardly much older than in the pictures. Something was very wrong here…

There was a moment of silence.

“I’ll get you that tea,” Rose said.

I could’ve left it at that, I should’ve left it at that. But then I said – why did I say it? – I said: “I think I saw her the other day.”

Rose stopped dead. She spun around; with a desperate look on her face, she said: “You seen her?”

“About a week ago, I think.”

Rose launched herself at me. She grabbed me by the sides of my cardigan; “Where did you see her?” She started to shake me; “Where did you see her!”

“She was by the charity shop, in the alley – Rose, calm down!” I pushed her arms off me, but she just grabbed me higher up.

“What was she doing coming to you!” She was shaking me again. “Why’d she come to you!” She pushed me away sharply. I tumbled over the arm of the sofa, landing on the sunken seats before rolling off onto the floor. I was lucky not to smack my head on the coffee table as I landed on the carpet.

“I’m her mum, she should be coming to me. I’m her bloody mother!” She clumsily tried to kick me, but I moved my legs in time. I’d been in situations like this before, but never on my own. I was terrified.

“Rose, you need to calm down. Stop shouting, Rose.”

She didn’t know what to say for a moment; she backed away a little, as if she wasn’t sure what had come over her. I think she knew she’d crossed a line.

“You get out,” she breathed. “Get out of this house!”

She turned around and went fast into the kitchen. Petrified she might come out with a knife, I pulled myself up and made a dash for the door. Thank God she hadn’t done up all the locks – I undid the latch myself as I heard her footsteps coming after me. As I ran out into the road I heard her cry out to me:

“If you see her, you come get me. You hear me! You bloody come and find me if you see her!”

I ran back to my car and locked myself in and burst into tears. I don’t know how long I spent there, slumped against the steering wheel, crying. I thought I was passed all this, but obviously not. Just a prod and I was in pieces again.

I’m being too hard on myself. I was feeling pretty shaken up; that woman really was crazy. She couldn’t possibly have a seven-year-old daughter. Perhaps she’d died a long time ago and she never got over it. But then how could I have seen the child in the alleyway? Maybe she was a different child? Yet she looked so much like the child in the picture, those old pictures…

My head was hurting. I wiped away the tears with a tissue. I ought to be angry at her, but losing your child was probably even more painful than losing your husband. And that hurt badly enough. And then prophetically, as if to make things worse, I got home and found a message on my answerphone. The lawyers…

It was bad news. They weren’t going to say much over the phone, but they implied that it might go to court after all. That they had enough grounds to contest the will.

I felt drained and slumped against the wall. Bastards. Christ, I didn’t even really want the money – I just didn’t want them to have it. They’d turned their backs on him when he needed them and now they thought they had a right to what he left behind? How low could people go?

They were going to make out I’d taken advantage of him. Seduced him when he was at his most vulnerable. We didn’t even start seeing each other until after he was discharged. I was careful, damn careful about it. But they weren’t going to see it that way, were they? My bosses didn’t see it that way. Practically forced me to leave. I risked everything because of him, and then he goes off and he bloody well kills himself.

What did he think? He was saving me heartache? Saving me pain? He could’ve fought it; it didn’t have to end like that. And look what a mess he left. What a state he’d left me in.

I opened a bottle of wine and drank most of it in silence. I spent the evening lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. That mad bitch had hurt my shoulder. It ached every time I lifted the glass or bottle to my lips. Christ, Adrian, couldn’t you have held on that bit longer?

If only I’d been there. I never thought that he could just give up like that. They can fight these things; a prognosis is only an educated guess. He didn’t even leave a note. He couldn’t face me in the end. He didn’t just want to save me pain – he didn’t want to face me. Tell me he was throwing in the towel. It was one tragedy too many. As if being schizophrenic wasn’t enough for a man to take.

I stayed indoors for two days. Cancelled an afternoon shift at the shop. Lied and said I had a migraine. I just didn’t want to move. I wanted to find somewhere to hide. I spent most of one day under the bed. Hiding in the darkness. I didn’t eat. I drank very little.

I ran a bath on the second day. Spent most of the day in it. Kept putting my head under the water to see how long I could hold my breath. I don’t even know what I was thinking. I just felt heavy. Simple tasks were too difficult. Simple choices were too hard. Bubble bath or no bubble bath? Radio on or radio off? I chose no in both cases, but only because I never made a decision in the first place. Too much time just passed by.

Strangely enough, it was a call again from the lawyers that brought me out of my stupor. It was a reminder that I couldn’t hide. And that there was still a vestige of anger in me that wanted to take on those bastards. There was still some fight left in me.

I called them back just before they closed for the day. They were going to send me some papers, which I would need to read and then go over with them point-by-point to challenge which parts I felt were incorrect, false, unfair, unjustified, etc.

Something to look forward to…

I was back in the charity shop on Wednesday. I didn’t mention anything about my relapse to Joyce, but I had to tell her about Crazy Rose. I’d been outside to throw some rubbish away, just after I’d got there in the morning, and I knew someone was there in the alley. I just caught them shuffle back around the corner when they saw me. I knew it was Rose; she was searching where I said I’d seen the girl.

“I told you she was crazy”.

“She needs help,” I said. We don’t use words like crazy in the mental health profession. “You should’ve seen the place; it was like it hadn’t changed for twenty years. She bought kids’ gloves here the other day.”

“It’s so sad, losing your child. But didn’t you say you’d seen her outside?”

“Only thought I’d seen her. I must’ve been wrong, those were old photos, and you’ve seen how old she is.” Something didn’t add up. I could’ve been wrong, but I didn’t think I was.

“Alice will know,” said Joyce. “She’s the librarian. And the local historian. She’s got the dirt on everyone. Biggest gossip in town, and you know how they love to gossip around here. She runs the book group; I’ve been telling you you should go.”

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow night. Still time for you to go over the material.” She got up and scoured the book shelves. After a few moments of searching she plucked out a copy of Life of Pi. “Not a bad choice this time.”

“That’s handy; I’ve read it.”

As I’d guessed, the book group consisted of only ten minutes of book talk followed by a free-roaming discussion on everything from Brangelina to local teen pregnancies and who the fathers were. Alice was a woman with glasses much wider than her head. She was long-necked with a penetrating stare. She was like a woodland creature scanning its environment, in this case looking for little gossipy titbits to feast on. Her eyes roamed around the group; she dipped in and out of the conversations, entering when they got juicy, exiting when the scandals died down.

We were going to discuss Rose when all the other women had left. She gave me a wink to suggest that this was something big, beyond mere book group chitter-chatter. As soon as everyone else had left, she practically skipped past the bookshelves to get her records.

After a few moments Alice returned with a large red ring binder, A3 size, which she placed down on the table with a sense of relish.

“Nowadays I don’t usually bother keeping the newspapers, not with the internet. But we used to cut out all the local stories.”

The binder was a giant scrap book; thousands of stories had been diligently cut out and stuck inside. She had bookmarked the page she wanted to show me. She picked up a large clutch of papers, lifted them over and dropped them down on the desk with a thud.

What she revealed made my eyes open wide:

 

LIGHTNING STRIKES SCHOOLGIRL DEAD

 

Me and Joyce were speechless. It was one of several headlines – the story was unusual enough to have reached the nationals: Scottish girl killed by lightning; Child killed by playground lightning; Lightning strikes girl dead in playground. Only the local paper carried it as a front page story. In a rather tasteless image they had the girl’s picture superimposed next to a picture of fork lightning badly pasted over a picture of a school playground. I recognised the school; it was on the other side of town; I passed it occasionally.

“______ was in mourning yesterday after a six-year-old was struck by lightning and killed in the playground in front of her classmates. Chloe Rutter was leaving school when she was inexplicably killed as she waited for her mother to take her home.”

It was her: the girl I’d seen in the alley. How was that possible? Her name was Chloe; I hadn’t even known her name.

“My sister-in-law was there,” said Alice. “They’d just let the wee ones go for the day. And they were just heading across the playground. Little Chloe, she sees her mum, Rose, and she goes to run to her. And Rose opens her arms open wide, ready to catch her and pick her up.” Alice did the motions. “And just as she was running to her, barely a few yards away, bang!”

She struck the fist of her right hand into her left palm. “Lightning struck – it came right down from the sky. There was a big flash, and poor little Chloe, she fell dead just feet from her mum, all burnt-up. Smoke were coming off her. Dead, instantly. Old Nora, she said she’d never seen anything like it. No one had; it wasn’t even barely raining.”

I looked at the paper’s date. Christ, that was 26 years ago. That meant that Chloe was older than I was! Would’ve been older than I was. God, I’d seen a ghost. I couldn’t believe it. I’d seen a ghost. And talked to a ghost!

“That’s horrible,” said Joyce, scanning her way through the press cuttings.

“It’s a terrible thing to lose a child,” said Alice. “But to lose one like that. Right in front of your eyes. And it must be, what? A million-to-one chance, getting struck by lightning?”

“It’s unbelievable,” I said. But it was well documented. It was the end of the school day; all the mums and dads were there. And the other children.

“It happened in a flash,” a parent was quoted as saying. “One moment she was there, running to her mam, and then she was gone. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What happened to her? Rose, I mean.”

“She went mad with grief, didn’t she? Imagine it, losing you own daughter in front of you, killed no closer to you than you are to me now.

“She disappeared for quite a while. Institutionalised I mean. No one saw her for months. Her husband looked after the house; he started drinking. They didn’t even have the funeral until she got back. And then things settled down for a bit. But they’d have these rows, these terrible rows. Then one day, he left. Never seen around these parts again. Just vanished.

Rose, she never came to terms with it. Some people reckon she still thinks she’s alive. She used to talk like she was still alive, and when you tried to tell her Chloe was gone, she’d get furious. People stopped talking to her altogether, they got afraid of her. She’s mad, completely barmy.”

I looked at Joyce and Joyce looked back at me. I’d seen her. I’d seen a dead girl.

“She bought kids’ gloves off me the other day,” I said.

“Sad really. But what can you do? She won’t let you help her. Even after all this time she can’t come to terms with it. Can’t get over the shock.”

It was tensely quiet in the car as I drove Joyce back home.

“It couldn’t have been her,” I said, not believing myself. I wondered if somehow, I’d seen the newspaper story before, somehow dug that picture from deep within my memory and imagined the girl behind the shop. But of course I hadn’t; I was five when that happened and would hardly have been big into newspapers.

“I’ve heard some strange stuff in my time,” said Joyce. “But I haven’t heard anything like this.”

“That’s why she goes out in the storms,” I said. “That’s why she goes out walking. She’s trying to find her. She thinks she’s going to find Chloe out in the storm.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.”

“None of this makes sense! But when I saw the girl, it was raining. And she, I mean Rose, she’d just bought that umbrella…”

“Look, I don’t know what crazy stuff you’re getting into your head, but you need to leave this woman alone. She already attacked you once. And you heard what Alice said about her husband. Never seen again. He could be under the patio for all you know.”

She was right. I had to put aside my Florence Nightingale tendencies and stay well away from this. 26 years Rose had been searching for Chloe. No wonder she was angry with me. She goes rambling across hills and fields and I stumble across her in a back-alley by accident.

Why had she appeared to me? Because of my loss? No, I scattered what was left of Adrian across Richmond Park where we used to walk together. More than likely she appeared to people all the time. Who was going to remember a little girl from 26 years ago except her mother?

I dropped Joyce off and continued on back home. It had a certain gothic poetry to it. The woman who chased storms… trudged through the mud every time the rain fell. And for what? A glimpse of her child, a chance to spend time with her? Or in the vain hope that somehow, someday, the storm might return her to her, having once so cruelly taken her away?

I laughed at myself for getting so melodramatic. As I drove back to my house it started to rain, only very slightly. But as I stepped out of the car and felt the cold rain land on my face, drip slowly down my back, I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of horror. 26 years… walking alone through the cold… the rain… the mud… chasing a dream, a fantasy. Praying for rain, despairing when the sun shone. A life in darkness, grey and cold. Never ending, never changing. A life of loss and futile hope.

I went in and poured myself a large glass of wine. Christ, and I thought I had problems. I thought I could take my mind off it by watching the telly. Even the latest tensions between Israel and Palestine were starting to seem like a pleasant alternative.

But just as I thought I might be taking my mind off it, the weather came on and the girl warned that more bad weather was coming. And not just any bad weather: the tail-end of a South-American hurricane. We should expect bad storms come the weekend. And gale-force winds.

My blood ran cold. Would that make her happy? A weekend of heavy stormy weather? Would she prepare? Get her best Wellington boots ready? Her rain-mac, umbrella?

Then another unpleasant idea came into my head: what if she wanted to die too? What if she wanted the storm to take her like it had taken her child? What if every time she went into the storm, she hoped that she might die too?

I didn’t sleep well. In fact, I even dreamt about it. That day in the playground…

The sky was grey, a hint of drizzle falling. The children were leaving the school building – it was small, only large enough for two classrooms. The children were all dressed in their raincoats, with scarves, wellies, gloves, bobble hats or hoods. They carried lunch boxes, rucksacks, some had little umbrellas – all small, tiny and adorable.

The parents were waiting on the periphery. Some of the children ran to them, others walked, some skipped. Friends waved each other goodbye, brothers and sisters squabbled. Teachers oversaw from the double-doored entrance, trading a few words while they did the last of their daily duties.

Chloe was still by the school doors. She scanned the hedges, then the front fence, furtively looking for her mother. There was a rumble in the sky.

I was Rose. I waved enthusiastically to her. She jumped a little off the ground and waved happily to me. She wore an expression of undiluted, untainted pure affection. Sheer joy just at seeing me. I walked a little into the playground, across a faded hopscotch game. She ran towards me, arms outstretched. I leant down to catch her and hoist her up. She giggled and laughed as she sped towards me.

A stream of white fell from the sky. There was no warning, not even a second, a moment to see or comprehend the impending terror. She crashed into the crack of light and the world was torn in two.

I gave up on sleeping after that. I washed off a layer of sweat in the shower and then took to the sofa in my duvet and watched whatever dross the television had to offer.

At some point I drifted over to the 24-hour news channel. The weather report told once more of the impending storm. Gale-force winds expected. I changed the channel; there would be no more Florence Nightingale. I had had my fill of getting involved in other people’s problems. That’s why I moved up here – to get away from everything.

But I hadn’t, had I? The postman would be here with letters from the solicitors this morning. What a joke. The only reason I’d come out here, decided to hole myself up in this obscure nowhere in the highlands was that Adrian used to tell me about it. He’d come to _____ once with his grandparents and found the place so peaceful, so… absent, of anything. He said it was the vaguest place in the world. Towns, cities, had personality, character – ______ had nothing. It was just houses together, people walking in and out of dream. A human purgatory.

And he was right, wasn’t he? I was here running away from my problems, Rose was chasing her past. Even Joyce, bright bubbly Joyce, she was living in her Grandma’s cottage with her mystery woman, living their life of secrets away from prying eyes. That day in the 80s when Chloe died, that was probably the last time the world even noticed _____. One brief mention in the paper and it vanished once again.

Adrian came here to reset – to really get away from it all. To try and derail his episodes. And now I had come here too, to get away from it all. I’d come to my dead husband’s purgatory, where his presence lingered around every corner.

I laughed at myself. What a stupid fool I was.

Tired and unwell, but at least avoiding a full-on depressive stupor, I pulled myself away from the house. I wasn’t due in the charity shop that day, but I went anyway. Stephanie, a stick-thin, easily flustered woman was looking after things; it was Joyce’s day off. I lied about Joyce asking me to come in. No it wasn’t because Joyce didn’t think she was up to it; it was because there was always supposed to be two people working there and now that we had enough people we should follow the rules to avoid trouble.

I just didn’t want to be alone. I knew the lawyer’s papers were just going to upset me. And I didn’t want to get involved in that other thing either. The radio in the shop kept reminding me of the impending storm expected this weekend. I wanted to turn it off.

When I drove home, I deliberately avoided driving by Rose’s house, which would’ve been on my usual route. My days of martyrdom were over. When I got home, I couldn’t look at those papers, which were waiting ominously on the doormat. Even looking at that first page made me start to cry. I was in such a mess. How long could I carry on like this? Trapped in purgatory with nowhere to turn except the past.

Thursday turned to Friday. The weather warnings escalated in their severity. Flood warnings had now been issued, people shouldn’t travel unless absolutely necessary. Joyce said she’d play it by ear, but would probably keep the shop shut.

The clouds darkened. The wind grew strong – the whole landscape felt on the brink of a full on tempest. Streets emptied; children left school early. The local news stoked the fire – “This could be the worst storm for more than a decade”. I saw sandbags in driveways; surely we were too high up here to be put at risk from the river flooding? Perhaps the rain water could run down the streets as it came down through the hills?

What the hell did I know? My landlady had not thought to give me any instruction. Let the rain waters come. They were the least of my problems. Maybe I’d even enjoy some new problems.

But my new found taste for alcoholism was my first concern. If I was going to get through those papers I was going to need a stiff drink or two. And as the heavens had yet to open, there was still time to visit the Co-op for some booze.

The shelves were half empty; people had been preparing for the worst. I took the best of what was still there and started back for home.

It was on the way back that I saw her; climbing clumsily over a stile onto a public footpath. Yes, she was on her way. She had to be, didn’t she?

I almost said no. I almost convinced myself that I didn’t care. That I could just say “To hell with her” and just drive away. But I couldn’t, could I?

And even as I got out of the car I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince her. That she would just throw abuse at me and carry on, despite the risks. But not try? That’s not that kind of person I could be.

“Rose, for God’s sake!” I cried. “You can’t go out there, you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” she said, barely even turning to look at me.

The wind was already strong; I could barely hear her as it roared past my ears. I didn’t know what I was saying; how do you get someone chasing a ghost to see sense?

I improvised as best I could: “You can’t bring her back Rose,” I yelled. “She’s gone.”

“She’s not gone,” Rose turned to me in anger. “She’s always with me. She’s all I’ve got!”

“But it’s not safe; she doesn’t want you to get yourself killed.”

“It’s the only time I’m with her,” tears were running down her cheeks. “It’s the only time I see my little girl, the only time I can find her. I need her and she needs me. She’s my baby!” She turned back to the hills, staring out into the grey wild.

There was a rumble of thunder from far away. Rose turned her head, scanning the landscape slowly. “I’m coming my love,” she shouted. “Don’t run; I’m coming.”

“Rose!” I yelled. She didn’t hear me, or didn’t want to. I climbed over the stile to go after her, but I just wasn’t dressed for it. My heel sunk straight into the mud and I almost fell over backwards. I just managed to grab hold of the fence to stop myself.

My hair was blowing in front of my face. Rose marched determinedly into the distance. I couldn’t stop her; probably nothing could.

I pulled myself out of the mud and climbed back over the fence. I’d done my part, done my best. You can only do so much. If they’re that fixated on the abyss, you can’t keep them out of it. Some people are just too determined to tie their own rope.

I stumbled back to my car, my ankle twisted and aching, and drove back home. The gale blew all afternoon and into the evening. The rain came down around 6 o’clock; it came down heavy but for not as long as they’d predicted. It was running in streams down the gutters and down the sides of the street.

It fell harder further north. _____ was not so badly flooded; the banks of the river held.

But many of the roads into town were flooded; that’s why the shop shelves were so empty. This wasn’t a hurricane, but the country roads flooded so easily. The town could so easily be cut off.

I watched things progress on the news between soaps, sitcom repeats and predictable detective shows. Of course, if this had been the Home Counties there would be hours of coverage. But as this was the highlands, bad weather wasn’t big news. The local news was of course more keyed-in. There were road accidents, real flooding in other areas; some rural communities stranded. All train services had been cancelled past Edinburgh and Glasgow. A caravan had blown down a hillside at a campsite 50 miles away, killing a man and his two children.

From my window I watched wheelie bins get blown down the street. The rain wasn’t coming down heavily by night time, but a fierce drizzle spat against the windows.

I drank heavily; my mind was on Rose – that stupid woman. Would she have the good sense to go home? Would she stay out all night in the cold and wet? If she didn’t get herself killed, she’d probably die from the cold.

I tried my best to put my mind on other things, but the only other things I had to focus on were legal matters. I’d barely looked at the legal papers; a mixture of accusations, insinuations and gossip – they made me sick to my stomach.

I couldn’t sleep. The roaring sound of the wind created an uneasy atmosphere. I tossed and turned beneath the sheets. When I closed my eyes I felt like I could see the storm in my mind – the wind rushing through trees, the rain hitting the puddles in the street, the people on the street struggling to get to shelter.

Then I imagined myself chasing Rose through the fields, arguing with her, pleading with her to come back home.

And little Chloe. She was with me, mocking me. “She’s not listening to you,” she would say with glee and a jolly little skip. “She doesn’t have to do a thing you say. She’s my mum. She doesn’t have to do what she’s told by you.”

She laughed at me. I told her to go away. I told her she was dead; she kicked mud at me: “No – you’re dead!”

I woke up with a start. There was a large crash outside. I listened cautiously for a time, hearing sounds of panic in the street. I went to the window and pulled aside the curtain.

Just up the street, a few houses away – the wind had blown down a chimney. Bricks were lying across the garden. The family were in a panic, the neighbours were out in the street with them.I couldn’t see much from my window and after a short while I pulled the curtains closed. A bit cold of me, but there wasn’t much I could do for them. The arrival of the fire brigade a short while later made sure that I didn’t get back to sleep that night.

I had breakfast early – the legal papers sitting on the end of the table, taunting me as I ate. I had no plans for the day. I took to staring at the wall in silence. I thought about doing many different things, reading, writing, listening to music, watching the television – but all of them seemed like too much hard work.

I got a call after nine from Joyce. Stick-thin Stephanie was in trouble. Part of her garage roof had caved in, and she needed help shifting everything out of there before it soaked with water.

It wasn’t far for me to go, so I walked there. By the time I arrived, quite a band had formed. Various people’s nephews, sons, brothers, cousins… all Stephanie’s friends were old, so they had sent a variety of relatives to help. Her children were abroad, which is how all their furniture had come to be stacked up in her garage. A neighbour had kindly offered some garage space to store some of it for the time being, and Joyce said we could fit some in the back of the shop. I took the keys and supervised things at that end, making room amongst the assorted bric-a-brac in the stock room.

I had to wait quite some time while it was decided what should go in the back of the shop. No one had a large van, so things came in the backs of cars or in a mini-bus in one case. It was heartening to see so many people banding together to help out.

The shop got a dining room set and several boxes of plates and assorted bits and pieces. One of the guys – a nephew or cousin or friend’s son – quite young, did his best to flirt with me and got me to make him a cup of tea. It was kind of nice, and he was good-looking. But I just couldn’t imagine myself spending that kind of time with anyone.

Things were finished by just after lunchtime. I locked up and took the car the long way around to get back home. Deliberately I drove past Rose’s, just looking for some sign that she had returned.

I don’t know what I was expecting to see. Her house looked like any other house when you drove past. Unless there’s anyone standing right by the window, you can’t really see anything.

The legal papers went untouched for another night. I just couldn’t face them. They’d be chasing me for them soon – nothing on the answerphone yet.

Another night of television and drinking followed. I was determined to go out on the Sunday – not just wallow indoors and drive myself crazy. The roads had mostly cleared and I drove out to a remote inn for Sunday lunch and ate it in near silence as everyone else seemed to be keeping away. And I so wanted distractions; any conversation, any overheard morsel.

There was no escaping my troubles. The only thing keeping my mind off Adrian’s venomous relatives was Rose, and I feared for her safety. I should’ve done more to stop her, she could be dead already.

I cursed myself for driving away and enjoying lunch. Someone’s life could be hanging in the balance and I was here stuffing my face. What was wrong with me? I fretted myself into a sweat and panic and rapidly paid for my meal and drove back to ______. I ran up to her doorway and knocked loudly. I knocked three, four times. No answer.

I peered into the windows, searched to see if there was a back alley to her back garden – there wasn’t.

I waited outside, keeping vigil in my car. I sat there for four, maybe five hours. I fell asleep at one point, against my steering wheel – I had to explain to a concerned neighbour that I was fine and was just waiting for someone.

The sun started to set and Rose was nowhere to be seen. I thought about calling the police – but what was I to tell them? Some crazy woman who chased ghosts wasn’t at home when I called?

I had no way of knowing where she was. I only thought – I only knew – that she had been out on the hills, chasing God knows what. But she could be somewhere else now; I didn’t know what else she did during the day. I knew nothing about her. It was only a morbid instinct that told me something was wrong.

I drove home after it went dark. I got my senses back; she wasn’t my responsibility and she wasn’t my problem. I’d tried after all; what was I supposed to do?

Joyce was ill the next day, so I looked after the shop alone. It was quiet, the rain stayed away but the sky stayed grey. I thought about putting the radio on, or putting on some music – but nothing seemed to fit my glum, foreboding mood.

The hours passed slowly. I made less than £50 for the whole day. I tried to read a book, but I couldn’t get into it. It was some detective novel. I went around the shop looking for old stock to reduce as time slouched into the afternoon. Around about two o’clock, I was reducing some glasses that had been over-priced (they were chipped), when I caught a glimpse, the barest of glimpses, of a blue coat – a small girl – skipping past the shop window. Putting a glass down so carelessly that it fell off the shelf and broke, I raced towards the door, pulled it open, and found the street outside completely deserted.

Now I was seeing things.

I closed early. There was no point in staying around, although I couldn’t summon up the confidence to tell Joyce. I locked up and went over to the Co-op to do my shopping. The shelves were still looking pretty bare; evidently supplies were still struggling to get there.

I filled up on what essentials I could buy, along with several bottles of cheap wine. I went to the checkout, paid, and carried the bags out to my car. I opened up the boot and lifted both bags into the back.

“Mum needs help”.

I froze.

Slowly, fearfully, I turned my head. She was stood there on the edge of the car park, dressed in the same tatty blue coat. Her face was pale; her milky blue, washed out eyes stared at me with concern.

“She needs help, she’s fallen down and I can’t get her to wake up.”

I was almost too frightened to speak. I swallowed and said: “What’s happened?”

“We were playing and she fell over and now she can’t move. You’ve got to come quick”.

A cold sweat was gathering on my forehead.

“Come on,” she said, pushing her way through the bushes that bordered the car park. I couldn’t help myself; I couldn’t possibly turn away. I closed the boot, locked the car and went after her.

Behind the bushes was a tall wire fence. There was a small hole in it, large enough to crawl through. She was on the other side already, skipping into a dense gathering of trees. I was dressed in no condition for this kind of thing: I wasn’t wearing heels, thankfully, but my Ugg boots were hardly fit for purpose.

I bent down and squeezed through the hole in the fence, my coat’s collar and hood getting stuck on the torn steel wires as I passed through as best I could.

I was in a dense gathering of tall, but young fir trees. Pushing through the branches I realised I had walked into an enclosed area surrounding an electricity substation, or whatever these stone power buildings were called. It was a small brick shed with a tall pylon next to it, flowing wires down inside.

I heard Chloe call to me; I saw her peer out from behind the building. I jogged after her. The other side of the small enclosure had a wooden fence, and she was squeezing through a gap between missing fence panels.

The ground at least was fairly firm here, but it was still hard to run on. I pushed through the sharp young branches and managed to squeeze between the fence panels.

When I was through I found myself in the forecourt of an abandoned petrol station. Closed for many years, the old looking pumps were rusted and smashed up; the shop was boarded over with steel panels. I’d never been out here before. Strange how you can so easily lose your bearings; I didn’t know quite where I was.

I was on the edge of town somewhere. After the petrol station there were no other buildings, just open ground, field after field. Chloe was already on the other side of the forecourt, supernaturally quickly ahead. She climbed over a dry stone wall and disappeared into the adjoining field.

On solid ground I was able to move quicker. By the time I reached the wall there was no sign of her. But as I lifted my head, I could see her again, in the far corner of the field, jumping, waving her arms from side to side.

I wondered what on earth I was doing, but I couldn’t give up the chase. I climbed the wall and I trudged through the long grass to the far corner, slowly and with difficulty. I didn’t like the look of the sky: it was dark grey, the clouds thick, jagged and dangerously ominous.

I crossed from field to field, uphill, one into the next, each one more overgrown and more of a challenge. Eventually, the dry-stone walls faded; neglect had let them crumble. I was in rough, untamed landscape. I found myself struggling through thick heather, my trousers scratched and scraped by thorns. My boots, long-since soaked through, kept getting caught on branches and under roots. I was lucky not to rip my feet out of them.

Chloe appeared and disappeared like a phantom, unseen for short periods, but always making herself known to keep me on track.

I was sweating; the weather was cold, but I was sweating profusely. I was unfit and unprepared. I looked back towards ______. She had led me quite a way; over half-a-mile uphill, probably further – I’m not much of a judge of these things.

Finally, she led me to a footpath, although I had to pass through a muddy ditch to get there. I tried to jump it, but missed and ended up tripping and falling, my feet sinking into the mud and me striking down against a sloping bank of stones and wet soil. I swore loudly – but she was nowhere near to hear me. Whenever I shouted for her or cursed her she wasn’t there.

The path was a mixed blessing. It was easier to walk on but it ran mercilessly straight up the hill, a tough ungradual ascent. It headed towards a patch of forest between two high hill peaks. Breathing heavily, I struggled on, the face of Chloe ever appearing at any moment when I was tempted to turn back and give up.

At one point, I stopped for rest on a tree stump. I was allowed less them a few moments of respite before she shouted for me: “Hurry, she needs help!” I almost screamed at her. I groaned out aloud. This was insane.

I followed the path finally to the wooded valley inbetween the hills. I yelled, “How much further?” to her as she led the way through the trees. As ever, she refused to answer. As I continued deep into the woods, I heard the sound of water, the rush of the river flowing from the peaks – had I come so far? I continued on for several minutes, keeping just ahead of sheer exhaustion and wondering when or where this might end.

I arrived at the river, here running wide across a slope of rocks. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and scanned, full of frustration, for Chloe. As my eyes searched through the trees, I suddenly found her – Rose.

She was lying face-down flat on the other side of the river, her dark red coat standing out against the dull browns and greens. I shouted to her, but got not reply.

The frustration and anger melted away; I had to get across. Fortunately, the river was quite shallow, I was more afraid of slipping than I was of getting wet – every inch of my body seemed already to be soaked and soggy. I tried to step my away across some of the large stones, and was forced several times to simply go straight into the water – the shock of the cold went straight to my head, and now that hurt too.

Finally, I was across and stumbled down the slope to Rose. I shouted her name again. I pulled at her coat and shook her slightly, hoping for some sign of life. Jesus, she must have been out here for days, just slumped against the ground.

There was mud all over her clothes, and she was damp all over. She didn’t speak, her eyes were closed. I was about to conclude the worst, when suddenly her mouth opened and let out a slight moan. She was alive, but maybe not for long.

“Is she alright?” Chloe was suddenly stood over us.

“I don’t know,” I said. “We need to get help.” I felt my pockets. Damn it, I still didn’t have a phone! I didn’t know what to do. I had to find someone else. I couldn’t lift her down the hillside myself. She might have broken bones; I could be making things worse.

“I’ve got to get help.”

“Don’t leave her,” Chloe shrieked at me.

“You stay with her. I need to find someone who can get her down the hill.”

I went back into the woods. If I followed the river down, I was bound to bump into somebody, arrive at one of the roads at least. I found myself gradually moving out of the woods, still keeping the river in sight. I couldn’t really see anything from amongst the trees; I needed to be able to get a look at the landscape, see where I might be able to find help.

Finally, I came to the edge of the woods and found myself looking back across fields and hills. There was a footpath, I could see it. It led down towards an abandoned ruin of a barn and a farmhouse. And, yes! There were people there: two hikers. They were a long way from me though. I had to try, so I screamed. Screamed so hard my throat burned.

They didn’t hear me at first. But there was a faint echo, and after some time I saw them look my way. I waved to them, jumped up and down, throwing my arms from side to side. They waved back at first – I had to convince them this was more than just an over-enthusiastic greeting. I threw my arms over towards the woods. Hoping they would respond to the summons.

They looked at each other, confused. Desperate, I screamed “Help me” with every bit of strength I could. That seemed to do it; they started moving in my direction and I started off in theirs. I careened down the hillside towards them, ecstatic with relief. At one point, I tripped and fell dramatically, both arms up in the air and down flat onto my chest. Fortunately, it was wet, soggy ground, but it still knocked the wind out of me. They ran quicker to help me, and eventually we met.

I explained that I’d found a woman, barely conscious and probably dying. They came with me up the hillside. I lied to them and told them that I’d been out walking. They didn’t say anything, but they could tell something was wrong; I clearly wasn’t dressed for it.

I tracked our way back to the spot quite well. Of the couple, he was a vet, which was sort of helpful. He examined her, said he didn’t think she’d broken anything, but she was frighteningly cold. She’d been up here for quite some time.

They were proper hikers. They had an ordinance survey map with them; to get help out here they’d need a helicopter and they could tell them the right grid reference – I was so relieved.

Typically, however, there was no signal for a mobile phone. The vet’s wife went off out of the woods to get a signal. He wrapped Rose in his jacket and took out his own mobile – on a different network – and started to spread out trying to get a signal himself.

When he’d moved away a little, Chloe re-appeared, walking out from behind a tree like she’d been hiding.

“Is she alright?” she said.

“She’s very sick.” I answered.

“But she’s going to be ok?”

I suddenly felt myself getting very angry. “Why don’t you leave her alone?” I cried. “This is your fault. Can’t you see what you’re doing to her?”

Her face hardened suddenly, just like her mother’s.

“She’s my mum!” she hissed, through gritted teeth.

“And you’re destroying her! Just leave her alone. You’re dead, you don’t even exist!”

“She’s my mum!” she screeched, stamping her feet. “You can’t tell me what to do, you can’t!” She jumped up and down in a fury and started to scream. The sound went right through my body; it made me shiver and tremble. The pitch could’ve shattered glass.

“You can’t take my mum!” She reached down to pick up a stone and threw it at me. If flew towards my face with uncanny force and accuracy – I barely had time to dodge it. It flew over my shoulder and smacked into a tree, making a deep dent in the bark.

I looked back at her; she was gone again. She’d been so benign before, but now I was frightened. I looked suddenly at Rose and a horrible thought occurred to me: what if she’d done that to her? If she’d have hit me with that rock, she’d have knocked me out cold; little girls just couldn’t throw like that…

There was a sound behind me. Taken off-guard, I turned and screamed.

It was the vet. I felt faint suddenly; this was all taking its toll. He could see I’d been through it; he took hold of me and propped me up against a tree. He gave me some water from a travel bottle. I told him I was fine even though I clearly wasn’t.

It was almost an hour before a helicopter came; we made awkward conversation until it arrived. By that time his wife had returned and the three of us watched as they hoisted Rose inside. I pretended not to know her; I just couldn’t explain all this, all that had had happened. Because I didn’t know her, I didn’t go in the helicopter with her. I wish I had, but I just wanted to get home, somewhere safe as soon as possible.

They took her away and the vet and his wife helped me down the hillside. They took me to their Land Rover and kindly took me back home. It was almost dark by the time we started back on the roads.

I broke down and cried. It was just as we passed over the bridge to town; I don’t know why then. They looked into the backseat as I was pouring with tears. They tried to comfort me, tried to offer me their help. They knew something about all this wasn’t right.

I just wanted to get home. They took me back, I composed myself enough to say thank you. They were such nice people, but I don’t even remember their names.

I cried for hours on the sofa, and passed out at some point, I’m not sure when. I awoke, my body aching and tired, in the early morning. I was starving, I’d not eaten since the day before.

After some toast and coffee, I noticed there was a new message on the answerphone. It was the lawyers; it had to be didn’t it? I called them back straight away, just for someone to talk to.

I received a polite telling-off and a stern warning about putting things off this long. I tried to tell them it was hard, and to their credit they were very understanding; they could tell I was almost crying. I could sense the discomfort on the end of the phone. The woman seemed to want to offer advice beyond her legal remit to me; I could sense her concern, but she probably knew better than to get too involved.

I promised I would get the papers back to her tomorrow. There could be no more hiding. I looked at the phone after I put it down. What about Rose? I needed to find out what had happened to her. But I dreaded what I might find out. She might be dead. Just because she’d been rescued didn’t mean she’d survive.

I thought long and hard about it but decided to put it off. I didn’t think I could take it if she’d died. To go through all that and not make it through. I washed and dressed myself in clean clothes. I took a long walk, something to get some fresh air in my lungs and some of the depressive weight off my shoulders. It was a bad idea; my body ached and groaned from the ordeal the day before. I went to a café not far away for some breakfast, bought some nice pastries – and then went back to face my past.

I sat over the papers with a glass of wine for company. Things didn’t look good, but then again, it was the case against. Lots of gossip, lots of hearsay, lots of mud-raking... they’d dug up an old case of sexual harassment; an oily doctor who didn’t want to take no for an answer. All the bitter old hags who worked there had always held that against me; thought I’d asked for it, done it all for attention.

Unexpectedly it strengthened me. The anger, the outrage. The wrongness of it all. It awakened some fighting spirit. Weak spirit all the same, still fragile. But it was a revelation to me nonetheless. I wasn’t ready to give in to despair.

But the depth of the situation I was in was still a heavy burden. I put the papers quickly to one side as soon as I was done. Things could still get so much worse.

I looked over to the phone. I thought of Rose and of her body slumped down on the hillside. Suddenly, in some strange way, that became the crux of the argument. If she could survive, pull through in spite of it all. Then maybe I could too. But then again, if she hadn’t…

I got the hospital number from the Yellow Pages. I phoned up and spent a long time on hold before being passed from one receptionist to another.

I breathed slowly and carefully as I waited for the news. It didn’t help that I didn’t remember her last name. But not so many people get brought in by helicopter, so that narrowed it down.

She was alive. In a critical condition, but alive. She had pneumonia and a broken leg, but she was alive. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders; such relief, I can barely describe it.

I felt compelled to see her. The hospital was miles away, but I could make it before visiting hours were over. I had go back to the Co-op to get my car. Then I drove like a demon, smashing through deep puddles on still water-logged streets. I wanted to bring her something, but not really knowing what she’d like, I bought her grapes – a pleasant, well-meaning cliché.

It was even further than I thought. The nights were drawing in now; the clocks would be going back soon. I arrived with only twenty minutes of visiting time left and on the wrong side of the hospital. I had quite a way to go to get to Rose’s ward; I had to stop and ask directions more than once.

I introduced myself to the ward nurses and they led me to her. She was fast asleep; they said she was coming in and out of consciousness and wasn’t making much sense. Perhaps that was best, I thought. I didn’t really want to know what had happened to her on that hillside. She had most probably fallen, but there was still that unsettling possibility…

A doctor checking on another patient in the quiet, half-full ward came over to ask me some questions. I couldn’t help it; I kept up the pretence that I had seen her on the hillside for the first time ever. They were hoping I knew somebody that could help to take care of her. She didn’t seem to have any relatives that they could find. There was her husband, but they couldn’t seem to track him down.

They were hopeful that she would pull through. I sat with her a while; I wondered if she could hear me if I spoke to her. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. I thought about saying something trite like “Chloe would want you to pull through”. But I didn’t want to mention her name.

She looked so sad lying there. Blankets tucked up to her neck, her tired face, wrinkled and wrought before its time. Christ, maybe it would’ve been better if she had died. What kind of life was she living here in purgatory? Even if she pulled through, would she ever move on? Could there really ever be more for her than her already miserable existence?

I thought about saying that too, something like: “It’s time to move on Rose; time to live in the present.” But what good would that do?

Perhaps whoever they got to look after her could help her. Finally get her to get over her loss. Anything was possible, even if it probably wasn’t. I left the grapes on the side; the one futile gesture I was willing to make.

As I exited the ward, I saw through the windows that it was raining outside. A talkative nurse, one I hadn’t seen on the way in, commented, in a typically British way, that that was all we needed, more rain. I stood for a moment watching the droplets break against the glass and then I asked her whether anyone else had been in to see Rose. She said no; it was like the doctor had said, she seemed to have no relatives, no friends.

I watched the rain for a few seconds longer. Perhaps ghost girls didn’t like hospitals any more than the rest of us.

The drive back was much slower, the dark and the pouring rain making for a much tenser journey. I’d foolishly thought seeing Rose would bring me hope, some joy. But how stupid I was; how was seeing her in there, in that condition, going to make me feel better? Her life was a living death anyway; it was just going to continue instead of ending.

I had to get out. That was the only thing to do. I would call my landlady in the morning. Time to get out and never look back. Whatever happened to me now, it couldn’t be worse than a lonely mourning life like this.

The rain was starting to get heavy and progress through traffic was slow. I let a couple of cars pass me on a quiet but crowded residential street, lined with parked cars. It was going to be a long, slow drive home.

As I reached the end of the street, a shape appeared in the road. Leaping from behind a parked van, a child appeared in front of me.

I had no time to react; before I could even put my foot on the brake, they’d thumped against my bonnet and disappeared under the wheels.

I screamed; my head snapped forward as the car came to a sudden stop. I took both hands off the steering wheel and clamped them over my mouth. I was still for just a moment before I howled through my fingertips.

I ripped off my seatbelt and threw myself out the door. I tripped as I got out and had to grab hold of the window to stop myself from falling over. Back on my feet quickly, I swung the door back and got down on my knees to see under my car.

The road was wet and cold and the street-lighting poor – I could see nothing.

Frightened and desperate, I laid down, in the road, looking as far and clear under my car as possible.

There was nothing.

But I hadn’t imagined it. I’d seen a child, felt them thump against the bonnet.

And then I realised, my memory coming into focus, that my victim had been a girl. A blonde girl, pale-faced, dressed darkly, probably in blue.

I got up and on my feet again – she was here. It had to be her. Normal children don’t disappear. I didn’t know why or what had just happened, but I had to get away.

I got back inside and slammed the door shut. My keys were still in the ignition – I twisted them and started the engine.

I took a second to breathe, trying to calm myself.

The passenger-side window smashed. I screamed; a shower of shattered glass sprayed across the seat; I turned my head instinctively away as fragments hit my cheek.

I put my foot down. The wheels spun against the wet tarmac – I had to get away. I drove stupidly fast; I didn’t know what I was running from, but I had to get away. The falling rain was a threat – she only came out when it rained. And while I was outdoors, I was in danger. She was dangerous. Rose wasn’t just trying to chase and love her lost daughter; she must’ve been terrified of her. Frightened of what she’d do if she didn’t go after her. Tormented not just by loss but by fear. For all these years…

A car pulled out in front of me unexpectedly. I almost didn’t stop in time; I skidded dangerously across the road.

I shrieked to a halt. They stopped, seeing just how close I’d come to hitting them they hit their horn loudly. I saw an angry face snarl at me in the glare of my headlights.

I couldn’t take the cramped space any longer. I opened the door and got out, walked out into the road and onto the pavement. My heart was pounding; I had to get a grip. I paced around a little, trying to get my breath back.

After a few moments, I noticed something lying in the road, just by the open door of my car. I walked up to it and leant down.

It was a broken wooden toy train. I recognised it quickly; it was the one I’d dropped that first time I’d ever seen her. That’s what had shattered the window; I hadn’t even seen it. It must’ve gone through the window and hit the door on the other side, slipped down the side of the seat and fallen out when I’d got out of the car.

I picked it up. Two of its wheels were still missing – it had to be the same one.

There was the sound of a car horn. Another car had pulled up behind mine, wanting to get through. The driver side window was wound-down: “Are you all right love?”

I dropped the train and got back in the car.

I drove a little more carefully, but still with speed. I was glad to be back on the country roads, feeling that somehow the wide open space offered fewer surprises than the over-crowded town streets.

When I got home I ran for the front door and locked it quickly behind me. I didn’t even bother to cover up the broken window. The next morning the passenger side seat was soaked. At least the car hadn’t been stolen; but it had been visited in the night.

A message had been written on the back window.

STAY AWAY FROM MY MUM - the condensation was gone, but the words were still visible. It was written big enough to fill the whole back window.

 

Let it never be said of me that I can’t take a hint.

My mind had already been made up. I phoned my landlady and told her that I would be moving out at the end of the month. I’d paid the whole month so I’d stay till the end, I didn’t want to leave Joyce in the lurch anyhow.

I thought carefully about what to do. I didn’t want to call one of my close friends or family, they’d only berate me for falling off the map and not keeping in touch. I called Kieran, someone I’d been friends with for a while, but had never been so close to for them to have been upset by my long stretch of absence. He was settled with a new boyfriend but happy to put me up and seemed very relieved to hear from me. I didn’t give him too many details, but promised to fill him in when I got back.

I made an appointment with the lawyers. They wanted to see me sooner, but I insisted this was the best I could do.

Those last two weeks passed very slowly. With my life moving towards something, it really put into perspective just how lonely and empty and pointless those months had been. Just empty, devoid of anything. Better to live or die than live in purgatory. Whatever happened from this point on, I decided I’d never go back to ______. I felt truly sorry saying to Joyce that I’d be back to visit her, when I knew I wouldn’t. I had made one friend, but I’d probably never see her again. I had her number, swore I’d friend her on Facebook where we could exchange empty pleasantries.

I still had pathetically little in the way of possessions. Packing my belongings took less than half an hour. Before I left, I sat alone in the house silently. Though I’d brought with me so little, with it gone, the house seemed empty, foreboding, dark. I sat uncomfortably on a low stool in the living room. Clouds were gathering once again in the sky. It would be raining again soon.

I walked slowly into the hall. I was supposed to return the keys to Mrs McMurray that afternoon. I undid the door latch and let the door hang open. The clouds lingered ominously; in my mind they rolled like smoke rumbling from a fire burning out of control. The rain would fall soon; I might not have much time.

It felt like now or never; if the rain came down again, I might never escape. What did it matter, Mrs McMurray could get the keys back by post; send the deposit back by bank transfer, if she knew what that was.

I closed my eyes tight, gripped hold of my suitcases and pulled myself out of the door. With purpose I marched towards the car and threw them on the back seat. There was no time to apply more tape to the cardboard patch that covered the broken passenger-side window. There was no time to go back inside and check whether I’d left anything behind.

I locked the front door, sat in my car and I drove away. For once and for all, I sat in my car and I drove away.

But before I left, before I abandoned purgatory, I had one last thing to see. One last silly gesture I had to make.

I took a detour via Rose’s house, hoping, though I knew it unlikely, to glimpse her at home through her window. Maybe she was still in hospital. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she was making a cup of tea. I probably would never know; the chances of me spotting her, catching her in just that moment, in her front window, were so ridiculously remote.

But I’d run over a ghost girl only a few weeks ago, so anything was possible.

And despite the odds, she was there. To my disbelief, I saw her as I panned past in my car. She was sat by her window, right up against the glass.

She was in a wheelchair, her leg broken and supported, held up horizontally in its cast. She was looking out; not at me in my car, but up into the sky, the clouds, the threatening tumultuous grey.

I wondered what she must be thinking as I passed. Was she in agony, forlorn because she was trapped there and unable to see her little girl? Perhaps she was terrified, frightened of what her angry, destructive child might do without her to stop her, to calm her.

Perhaps all this was nothing new. Perhaps she’d tripped and fallen a dozen times, got sick and been forced into bed time after time with new colds and viruses brought on by the freezing temperatures. Perhaps each time she hoped that she wouldn’t make it; that her and her baby would finally be reunited in death, to walk the storms forever, together. Maybe that was just her rotten luck, the same odds-defying misfortune that had taken her daughter from her in the first place.

Perhaps she feared death, because they might never be together again. Perhaps she thought none of those things. Perhaps sodden and ruddy, she just carried on because that’s the only thing she knew how to do.

I reached the bridge over the river – I crossed it with surprising ease, as if I never quite believed I’d ever make it. The clouds kept themselves restrained, the rain did not fall. My way out was assured; you could leave purgatory if you still had the strength to do it.

One day I’ll have the guts to find out; see what happened to old Rose. Find out if she died out on the hills or tucked up in bed somewhere. Maybe warm and cared for, probably just alone. This will sound cruel, but I think I’ll do it one day when I feel at my lowest, to remind myself just how lucky I am. That whatever lies ahead of me, I can take comfort that at that moment I was able to escape.

I remember keeping my eyes firmly on the road as I drove, never allowing them to drift away to the sides. If she was there watching me as I went, I never saw her. Thank God, I never saw her again.