His black Vauxhall Corsa just about started up. With a huff, he looked at the petrol gauge pointing below the ‘E’ (as it always seemed to), estimating that he could squeeze a few more drives to work and back out of it before visiting a petrol station.
On the drive home, all he thought about was that disturbing daydream. The sound of the woman hitting the ground was embedded in his mind and seemed to be on replay.
No dreams had ever matched up to how vivid that was. Even the few lucid ones he’d had were covered in a sense of ‘Is this really real?’ But when he was in this daydream, he was
really there
… until he wasn’t, until he snapped back to reality. Or was that reality and this the fantasy?
Uh, headache
. He needed a hot chocolate, a warm blanket, and a decent film to watch. No gory films though.
Driving up Maw Street, he compared his house to the others. The fact he couldn’t see it didn’t help much. The evening had begun to darken already, and the bungalow he lived in was hidden, shrouded by trees in the front garden. The other houses on the street were very presentable: well-kept and freshly landscaped front gardens, showy features, and neatly gravelled driveways. Many were no longer bungalows but had been extended upwards and outwards. No doubts who the money-makers were.
Most Maw Street residents were proud of their homes, and although it wasn’t the wealthiest area to live in, it certainly wasn’t slummy either. Unfortunately for Nick, his dwelling was the lowest valued on the street.
You just
have to
do something about those
awful
trees, Aimee Price from number 42 once passed by to tell him. The American lady lived alone and was a practicing Wiccan. She had frowned at the prevalent weeds in the driveway and stated that his house put Maw Street to shame. Miss Price didn’t hesitate to add that she couldn’t
stand
the thought of her relatives from Los Angeles visiting and being subjected to passing his home on the way to hers.
Nick had defended himself, stating that the enormous sycamore trees in his front garden were practically impossible to do anything with, most of the evergreen conifers were too tall to maintain, he couldn’t be asked to trim the shrubbery or to de-weed the drive, and it was the Council’s job to cut the grass on the front. But most importantly it wasn’t any of her business.
In his head he’d also thought,
For a Wiccan, you don’t seem to like trees much!
His retaliation must have been unexpected. She’d stalked off after mumbling, ‘I’m not the only one on this street who thinks you need to sort it out.’
Signalling, Nick pulled into his drive. An overhanging branch rattled and scratched against the roof of his car.
Okay, maybe I should cut that branch at least.
The front garden was carpeted with fallen leaves. At this time of day they were simply shadowy mounds, but in the daylight the red and orange foliage would be luscious and vibrant.
When he stepped out of the car, he grumbled because there was nowhere to leave his vehicle without it gathering twigs and dirt. He loved and hated the sycamore trees, but right now, he detested their sticky sap.
He locked the car, then headed inside number 16 Maw Street. The neighbours might not have liked the trees, but Nick sure liked the privacy they offered. He was glad to be home. It was safe here.
After having a ready-made microwave meal, he flopped onto his bed, drained of energy. Before he knew it, he woke up three hours later.
Urgh!
Now he’d struggle sleeping tonight. To tire himself, he read a get-rich-quick book until his eyes were strained and his mind took him.
Wednesday morning. Nothing could tempt him to leave his house, except that it was probably warmer outside than it was inside. The cold was almost unbearable, but he couldn’t afford to put the heating on whenever he liked.
Finding a comfortable position in his room, he decided to meditate. He quickly cleared his mind and began rhythmically breathing. Lately he’d become agitated by the smallest things and had boxed them off to the corner of his mind, but now these things seemed determined to claim recognition.
When he noticed how
not
peaceful he felt, the irritation bugged him. The more he tried to find peace, the worse his state became.
He fidgeted.
Whatever position he sat in, it created uncomfortable tight areas from his clothes, or he became itchy, had to scratch.
Ignore it, it will go, clear your mind.
A noise interrupted him; the wild beeping of a car horn outside.
Idiots. Drive sensibly!
He found it again, a clear mind. But then he was annoyed at himself for thinking ‘My mind is clear.’ Surely his mind wasn’t clear of thought if he was
thinking
it was clear of thought?
Why don’t I feel peaceful?
A pounding began in his head, and he came over hot and flustered. Then his frustration steeped. He picked up a smiling Buddha ornament and smashed it against the wall, tore down posters of tranquil landscapes, then pushed over his open storage cabinet. DVDs clattered on the floor. Self-help books clunked alongside them. About to thump the wall, he stopped, not brave enough, then stomped a heavy foot instead.
Fed up, completely and utterly. He could have seen this coming, he knew that all these spiritual, religious, and self-help ideas weren’t working for him, but he’d kept on deceiving himself.
Maybe the Law of Attraction can help me, what about CBT, what about Affirmations, how about Witchcraft, EFT, Buddhism, Wicca, Yoga, Laughter-Yoga, Meditation, Visualisation, Divination, and every self-help book under the sun?!
Yeah, sure, they all seemed to work for a while, but they never kept him happy for long. Bringing together the fingertips and thumb tip of his right hand, he used them to repeatedly tap the centre of his left palm. As he continued this he mentally repeated,
I’m calm, I’m focused, I’m calm, I’m focused.
It was something he’d been taught in therapy to calm down, and although it took a while, he eventually composed himself. He looked to his room. Ornaments he’d had for years were broken beyond repair. Visceral regret made a sudden appearance in his body; he hated rash outbursts of anger like this. It was like consequences were illusions, and all that mattered was his rage getting its cup full of destruction. And in this case, its room full.
His morose mood occupied the evening, but at least there was something to look forward to the next day. Kind of.
‘Hello, Nicolas.’ Thursday at the local surgery, his therapist greeted him. ‘Come on in, have a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ He sat in his usual place, a bog-standard chair turned at a slight angle to his therapist’s seat. She closed the door and sat down. Nick envied how she never rushed about or huffed and puffed.
‘How have you been this week?’
‘Err, okay mostly.’ It was true, he’d felt good for a few days after he saw her last week.
‘Okay.’ She nodded gently, making it apparent she expected him to expand on his answer. If anyone else had done that, he would have been annoyed.
‘Well, I got a bit angry last night,’ he said. ‘I feel like I’m trying so hard to succeed at something but I don’t know what I even want to succeed at. I’ve tried out so many self-help books and other new things that surely I deserve to be happy about
something
. I see other people who don’t even seem to try, yet they have everything they want and they are happier than me.’
There was no judgement here in the safe-bubble the therapist had created, which helped Nick understand himself.
‘You’re feeling lost?’
‘Yeah … I am.’ Trying to hold it in, he quietly cried. His therapist waited patiently and placed a box of tissues on the nearby desk.
The room was too clinical; a spare office in the surgery, full of doctors’ tools and posters. It was cold and unwelcoming, but, seeing as Nick received therapy free on the NHS, he couldn’t exactly complain.
When he’d originally been referred, he told the doctor, ‘I’ve been crying frequently, at least once a week for a long time now.’ He was glad it never led to being officially diagnosed as depressed, but he was
more
pleased that he was taken seriously and sent on for therapy.
He stopped crying, realising he’d become accustomed to shedding tears in front of his counsellor. Overall, though, he became upset less frequently nowadays. It was a steady climb.
‘I feel a bit better now. I don’t really know what else to say about it. I’m going to see how this week goes really.’ He grabbed a tissue, dabbed his eyes.
Having cleared some emotional baggage, his mind went on a tangent. If his therapist was closer to his age, he’d probably find her be attractive, and the session
so
wouldn’t work. She was nearing fifty, looked fit as a fiddle, good teeth, excellent figure, and Nick doubted her blonde hair had even thought of greying. There was a genuine aura about her; each facial expression was puppeted by real emotions, not by a need for approval. Her name was Caroline.
Nicolas and Caroline Crystan … hmm …
‘How are things with your father?’ she asked without preamble. Nick shook away the odd thoughts.
‘Same as always, really; he’s not changed much for the past eight years, and it’s still awkward around him.’
‘Do you think he knows how awkward you feel?’
‘I doubt it. It’s like he’s on pause or something. It’s been so long now that I can’t imagine opening up to him.’
‘What if you did talk to him about it?’
‘I just don’t know. I don’t want to lay out my feelings if he’s never going to come out of his own little bubble. It would be even
more
awkward if I did.’
She nodded and asked, ‘But is it a risk worth taking?’
He thought about it, remembering when his dad was different: when he was chatty, smiled more, laughed more. But that was all before Nick’s mother disappeared eight years ago.
Nick was sixteen when it happened, and his brothers only ten. Their mother simply wasn’t home when they got back from school. They waited and waited for her to return, but found out that she’d withdrawn a few thousand pounds the same day she vanished. Her car was missing too.
As far as anyone could tell, she’d gone off and started a new life. With Lansin Island in the Celtic Sea, fifteen miles off the coast of Bude, Cornwall, it would have been easy for her to get a ferry across from Amiton, same as the tourists did. And if she had caught a ferry to Cornwall, then who knows where she went from there?
Nick sure as hell didn’t know.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore. All he knew was that she left with the worst possible timing. It was hard enough being a teenager as it was, but with his dad’s birthday only a couple of weeks after she vanished, it was just too cruel.
‘Maybe it’s worth the risk … I’ll have to think some more.’ Once the session was over, he headed home lighter and more able to think clearly.
He spent the evening wrapped under a warm blanket, watching the film
Big Fish
that his brother Tom had lent him. Tom had let him borrow it knowing he was fond of Tim Burton’s work but hadn’t got around to this one yet.
Nick had two brothers: Tom and Tommy. They were twins and both eighteen years old. Their names could be confusing to other people, but Nick had always been able to tell them apart. Their parents weren’t expecting twins, and had decided that if the baby was a girl her name would be Sarah, and if a boy, it would be Thomas. So with the surprise of two baby boys, they settled on Tom and Tommy Crystan.
Like a lot of twins, their relationship with each other was strong. They seemed to have the same hobbies, interests, taste in clothes, and even the same taste in women. But Tommy, the more confident of the two, had always been the centre of attention; he picked the trends, Tom followed.
Nick had been surprised when he discovered Tom liked this kind of film. He’d always thought of his brothers as ‘mainstreamers’, jumping on every bandwagon. He loved them both, but until now he’d assumed they were not just physically twins, but also
mind
-twins with personalities that reached as far as the local pub.
The blanket wasn’t so warm after all. It was old, tatty, and had lost its body, but Nick enjoyed the film and was moved by the emotional ending.
Thinking of how he was a twenty-four year old guy snuggled up to himself and watching a film alone, made him feel like a right loser. And so on that thought, he called it a night.
The next morning, he quickly checked his appearance in the mirror before leaving for work. He was one of those lucky guys with naturally rough and styled hair, so, apart from washing it and getting it cut when it grew too long, little attention was needed. People had told him he was good looking before, but because he felt uncomfortable accepting compliments, it wasn’t something he liked to think about; although, he wasn’t particularly self-conscious. Most clothes suited him, weight wasn’t an issue, and acne had never come knocking.
Feeling
mostly
satisfied with his reflection, he left for work.
The weather was pleasant for late October, cool and damp in a way that was refreshing. Cold and drizzly rain was the default on Lansin Island, but today was looking up.
He parked his car outside of town and began walking toward Creaky Crystals. Weather permitting, he wore a thin jacket over an olive green T-shirt, and he had on dark jeans below. Black winklepickers were his usual choice of footwear.
In the lower grounds, a red-headed girl spun circles in the nearby fountain and fell into his path. He stopped, his stomach tightening, and came over queasy. His sudden stop caused the girl to bump into him.
He had to rationalise for a second. The girl ran over to her mother who was setting up a stall. He’d probably seen them both here loads of times; it was only a coincidence.
Scanning the stores around him, he searched for one in particular. As he found it, he caught the eyes of a lady re-arranging her shop display. She gave a friendly nod, which Nick awkwardly reciprocated. He turned dizzy but forced himself to focus.