keep up with the will of her heart, the pull of her soul.
Her eyes scan the surroundings and everything whips past in a blur. A panoramic view of no way out, no place to hide. Her heart slams harder against her ribcage, fear driving her on.
All she can hear now is the sound of her own breathing, a fearful rush through the depths of her body.
A body too tired to run for much longer.
She sees the path ahead.
A path dense with trees, their roots stretching far and wide. She doesn’t see the twisting, dark root, snaking its way above the earth, and crossing her path. It’s too late now to stop herself.
Her foot is hooked. Her legs pull from under her. She is no more than a rag doll, cast aside. She panics as the ground rushes up to meet her. She can hear a voice as she falls.
She knows she can’t fight any more.
Still the ground rushes towards her. She feels like she is endlessly falling in slow motion, the wind pulling through a mass of blonde tangled hair.
7th November
The first November snow started to fall at exactly 5:31 a.m. Claire knew the time, having been up since 3:00 a.m., unable to sleep after yet another night terror. It was her third that week.
This time she was sure the man with no eyes that haunted her, who she ran from, was some twisted version of her father – Peter.
How long had it been now since they’d spoken?
She couldn’t remember and part of her felt guilty for not caring. Everything that had happened last year he’d brought upon himself, Claire knew that.
I did all I could, she reasoned with herself. Then why do I see the two of them – Father and the Other, whose name I can’t bring myself to speak – in every nightmare?
Sweat cooled against her skin, and she felt the shiver travel up her spine.
It was the morning of Nola Grant’s PM. She’d concentrate on that. It was all that mattered right now, not her broken inner self.
After she wiped the sweat from her face and chest, she headed downstairs. She then sat curled up in the window seat of the bay window in the living room, swathed in a blanket, nose buried in a book.
There was a small lamp dimly lit beside her and the curtains were open, despite it still being dark outside. A cup of coffee that rested beside her had long gone cold and she’d pushed it aside. When the first snowflake had settled on the window, she set aside her book in favour of watching the snow cover her garden in a blanket of white.
She could hear her mother, Iris, get up and start down the stairs, then her feet shuffling in her slippers against the hardwood floor as she entered the kitchen. When she heard the coffee machine whir into life, she sighed to herself, her solitude soon to be broken. She snapped her book shut and stood just as Iris entered the room.
Iris had invited herself to stay with Claire, forcing herself away from her home in Spain. Claire had never been to her mother’s house on the Costa Brava, and didn’t intend to if she could help it.
Since Iris had been divorced, she rarely made the effort to see her only child, and even when Claire had gone through her own messy divorce, Iris practically left her to go it alone.
Knowing how her mother felt about England nowadays meant Claire could relax, safe in the knowledge her mother only made an effort to visit once a year, at a time of her own choosing.
She insisted Claire never take days off to spend time with her while she was here, and was quite content to amuse herself. As long as she stayed in Claire’s house, she’d be happy left to her own devices.
Claire’s father, Peter, had moved to Aberdeen in Scotland, into a warden-controlled complex. It saddened Claire immensely but her decision to sever all ties had been for the best.
The last time they’d spoken had ended with cross words after he’d said some rather nasty things about Iris. Despite knowing her mother had been difficult to live with, Claire was having none of it, and had defended her.
‘It’s snowing,’ Iris said, with some irritation, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her small frame.
‘It’s been forecast for over a week now.’
‘You seem to get snow earlier each year. Bloody global warming.’ She raised her finger at her daughter. ‘You should move out to Spain, love, much warmer climate. Not like England’s changeable weather. It’s bloody tedious.’ Claire rolled her eyes and turned on the television.
Iris paused, watching her closely. ‘You’re up early. Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘No. I had a nightmare… Silly really.’
‘Weren’t you supposed to be seeing some doctor about all this?’
Claire shuddered, suddenly feeling very cold. ‘I’m fine.’
Iris’s face softened a little. ‘What happened wasn’t your fault, you know. Everything that went on with that man and that thing, that woman, what she did–’
‘I said I was fine, Mum, really. You talking about it doesn’t help me, it takes me back there, and it’s not somewhere I want to go.’
‘I just think–’
‘Anyway,’ Claire cut in, ‘I’ve got to attend the post mortem of Nola Grant and it’s an early one. I didn’t see much point in staying in bed when I couldn’t sleep.’
She flicked through the channels until she found Sky News. ‘Are you going to be able to amuse yourself today, Mum? I’ll be away until late this evening.’
Iris looked up, frowned but backed down. She sat in a nearby chair and nodded. ‘I’ll be all right. I may pop into town, do some early Christmas shopping.’ She paused to listen to the headlines, then said, ‘Who’s Nola Grant?’
Claire’s eyes narrowed. ‘Since when do you take an interest in my work? Thought it depressed you?’
‘Oh, it does,’ she said, now more animated. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t ask, does it?’ Claire looked at the television screen ahead.
She knew her mother was just making idle small talk, pissed off Claire wouldn’t talk to her about last year. Iris needn’t have felt offended. Claire made it a habit never to discuss it with anyone. It was officially off limits.
The only part of Claire’s life Iris usually showed interest in was either her love life (or lack of) or the house. When her eyes crossed back to her mother’s, she noticed Iris genuinely looked intrigued.
‘Grant was a prostitute. Her body was found dumped in Haverbridge Lon Bonfire Night.’
Iris
