Читать книгу A Place Called Here - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 15

9

For almost two days I’d stayed in the same wooded area, jogging back and forth, trying to recreate my movements and somehow reverse my arrival here. I ran up and down the mountainside, testing different speeds as I struggled to remember how fast I’d been running, what song I’d been listening to, what I’d been thinking of and what area I was in when I first noticed the change in my location. As though any of those things had any part in what happened. I walked up and down, down and up, searching for the point of entry and, more importantly, the point of exit. I wanted to keep busy. I didn’t want to settle like the personal possessions scattered around; I didn’t want to end up like the backless earrings that glinted from the long grass.

Thinking you’re missing is a bizarre conclusion to arrive at – I’m well aware of that – but it wasn’t a sudden conclusion, believe me. I was hugely confused and frustrated for those first few hours but I knew that something more extraordinary than taking a wrong turn had occurred because, geographically, a mountain couldn’t just rise from the ground in a matter of seconds, trees that had never grown before in Ireland couldn’t all of a sudden sprout from the ground, and the Shannon Estuary couldn’t dry up and disappear. I knew I was somewhere else.

I did of course contemplate the fact that I was dreaming, that I had fallen and hit my head and was currently in a coma, or that I’d died. I did wonder whether the anomalous nature of the countryside was pointing towards the end of the world and I questioned my knowledge of the geography of West Limerick. I did indeed consider very strongly the fact that I’d lost my mind. This was number one on the list of possibilities.

But when I sat alone for those days and thought rationally, surrounded by the most beautiful scenery I’d ever seen, I realised that I was most certainly alive, the world had not ended, mass panic hadn’t taken over and I was not just another occupant of a dump yard. I realised that my searching for a way out was clouding my view of where exactly I was. I wasn’t going to hide behind the lie that I could find a way out by running up and down a hill. No deliberate distractions to block out the voice of reason for me. I am a logical person and the most logical explanation out of all of the incredible possibilities was that I was alive and well but missing. Things are as they are, no matter how bizarre.

Just as it was beginning to get dark on my second day I decided to explore this curious new place by walking deeper through the pine trees. Sticks cracked beneath my trainers, the ground was soft and bouncy, covered with layers of fallen, now decayed leaves, bark, pine cones and velvet-like moss. Mist hovered like wispy cotton wool above my head and stretched to the tips of the trees. The lofty thin trunks extended up like towering wooden pencils that coloured the sky. During the day they tinted the ceiling a clear blue, shading wispy clouds and orange pigment, and now by night the charcoaled tips, burned from the hot sun, darkened the heavens. The sky twinkled with a million stars, all winking at me, sharing between them a secret of the world I could never know.

I should have been afraid, walking through a mountainside in the dark by myself. Instead I felt safe, surrounded by the songs of birds, engulfed by the scents of sweet moss and pine, and cocooned in a mist that contained a little bit of magic. I had been in many unusual situations before: the dangerous and the plain bizarre. In my line of work I followed all leads, wandered down all paths and never allowed fear to cause me to turn away from a direction that could lead me to finding someone. I wasn’t afraid to upturn every stone that lay in my path or hurl them and my questions around atmospheres with the fragility of glasshouses. When people go missing it’s usually under dark circumstances most people don’t want to know about. Compared to the previous experiences of delving into the underworld, this new project was literally a walk in the park. Yes, my finding my way back into my life had become a project.

The sound of murmuring voices up ahead stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t had human contact for days and wasn’t at all sure if these people would be friendly. The flickering light of a campfire cast shadows around the woods, and as I quietly neared, I could see a clearing. The trees fell away to a large circle where five people sat laughing, joking and singing to music. I stood hidden in the shadows of the giant conifers, but like a hesitant moth being drawn to a flame. Irish accents were audible and I questioned my ludicrous assessment of being outside the country and of being outside my life. In those few seconds I questioned everything.

A branch snapped loudly beneath my foot and it echoed around the forest. The music immediately stopped and the voices quietened.

‘Someone’s there,’ a woman whispered loudly.

All heads turned towards me.

‘Hello, there!’ a jovial man called excitedly. ‘Come! Join us! We’re just about to sing “This Little Light of Mine”.’ There was a groan from the group.

The man jumped up from his seat on a fallen tree trunk and came closer to me with his arms held open in welcome. His head was bald apart from four strands of hair, which hung spaghetti-like in a comb-over style. He had a friendly moon-shaped face and so I stepped into the light and instantly felt the warmth of the fire against my skin.

‘It’s a woman,’ the woman’s voice whispered loudly again.

I wasn’t sure what to say and the man who had approached me looked back to his group now uncertainly.

‘Maybe she doesn’t speak English,’ the woman hissed loudly.

‘Ah.’ The man turned back to me. ‘Doooo yooooou speeeeeaaaaak Eng-a-lish?’

There was a grumble from the group, ‘The Oxford English Dictionary wouldn’t understand that, Bernard.’

I smiled and nodded. The group had quietened and were studying me and I knew what they were all thinking. She’s tall.

‘Ah, great.’ His hands clapped together and remained clasped close to his chest. His face broke into an even more welcoming smile. ‘Where are you from?’

I didn’t know whether to say Earth, Ireland or Leitrim. I went with my gut instincts and, ‘Ireland,’ was all that came out of my mouth, which hadn’t spoken for days.

‘Splendid!’ The cheery fellow’s smile was so bright that I couldn’t help but return it. ‘What a coincidence! Please come and join us.’ He excitedly led me towards the group with a hop, skip and a jump.

‘My name is Bernard,’ he beamed like the Cheshire cat, ‘and heartiest welcome to the Irish contingency. We’re frightfully outnumbered here,’ he frowned, ‘although it seems that the numbers are rising. Excuse me, where are my manners?’ His cheeks flushed.

‘Underneath that sock over there.’

I turned to look at the source of the smart comment to see an attractive woman in her fifties, tight silver hair, with a lilac pashmina draped around her shoulders. She was staring distantly into the centre of the fire, the dancing flames reflecting in her dark eyes, her comments flowing out of her mouth as though she were on autopilot.

‘Who have I the pleasure of being acquainted with?’ Bernard beamed with excitement, his neck craned up to look at me.

‘My name is Sandy,’ I replied, ‘Sandy Shortt.’

‘Splendid.’ His cheeks flushed again and he shook my outstretched hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the gang, as they say.’

‘As who say?’ the woman grumbled irately.

‘That’s Helena. She loves the chat. Always has something to say, don’t you, Helena?’ Bernard looked at her for an answer.

The wrinkles around her mouth deepened as she pursed her lips.

‘Ah.’ He wiped his brow and turned to introduce me to a woman named Joan; Derek, the long-haired hippy playing the guitar; and Marcus, who was sitting quietly on the far side. I took them in quickly: they were all of a similar age and seemed very comfortable with one another. Not even Helena’s sarcastic comments were causing any friction.

‘Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get you a drink of some sort—’

‘Where are we?’ I cut in, unable to take his bumbling pleasantries any longer.

All other conversation around the fire stopped suddenly and even Helena raised her head to stare at me. She took me in, a quick glance up and down, and I felt like my soul had been absorbed. Derek stopped strumming his guitar, Marcus smiled lightly and looked away, Joan and Bernard stared at me with wide frightened Bambi eyes. All that could be heard was the sound of the campfire crackling and popping as sparks sprang out and spiralled their way up to the sky. Owls hooted and there was the distant snap of branches being stepped on by wanderers beyond.

There was a deathly silence around the campfire.

‘Is anyone going to answer the girl?’ Helena looked around with an amused expression. Nobody spoke.

‘Well, if nobody speaks up,’ she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and grasped it at her chest, ‘I’m going to give my opinion.’

Voices of objection rose from the circle and I immediately wanted to hear Helena’s opinion all the more. Her eyes danced, enjoying the choir of disapproval.

‘Tell me, Helena,’ I interrupted.

‘Oh, you don’t want that, trust me,’ Bernard fluffed, his double chin wobbling as he spoke.

Helena lifted her silver-haired head in defiance and her dark eyes glistened as she looked at me directly. Her mouth twitched at the side. ‘We’re dead.’

Two words said coolly, calmly, crisply.

‘Now, now, don’t you mind her,’ Bernard said in what I imagined was his best angry voice.

‘Helena,’ Joan admonished, ‘we’ve been through this before. You shouldn’t scare Sandy like that.’

‘She doesn’t look scared to me,’ Helena said, still with that amused expression, her eyes unmoving.

‘Well,’ Marcus finally spoke after his long silence since I’d joined the group, ‘she may have a point. We may very well be dead.’

Bernard and Joan groaned, and Derek began strumming lightly on his guitar and singing softly, ‘We’re dead, we may very well be dead.’

Bernard tutted, then poured tea from a china pot into a cup and handed it to me on a saucer. In the middle of the woods, I couldn’t help but smile.

‘If we’re dead, then where are my parents, Helena?’ Joan scolded, emptying a packet of biscuits onto a china plate and placing them before me. ‘Where are all the other dead people?’

‘In hell,’ Helena said in a singsong voice.

Marcus smiled and looked away so that Joan wouldn’t see his face.

‘And what makes you think we’re in heaven? What makes you think you’d get into heaven?’ Joan huffed, dunking her biscuit into her tea and pulling it up before the soggy end fell in.

Derek strummed and sang gruffly, ‘Is this heaven or is this hell? I look around and I can’t tell.’

‘Didn’t anybody else notice the golden gates and the choir of angels as they entered or was it just me?’ Helena smirked.

‘You didn’t enter through golden gates.’ Bernard shook his head wildly, his neck wobbling from side to side. He looked at me and his neck continued to shake. ‘She didn’t enter through golden gates.’

Derek strummed, ‘I didn’t pass the golden gate nor felt the burning flames of hate.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ Joan huffed.

‘Stop it,’ he sang.

‘I can’t bear any more.’

‘I can’t bear any more, someone please show me the door …’

‘I’ll show you the door,’ Helena warned, but with less conviction.

He continued strumming and they all fell silent, contemplating his last few lyrics.

‘Little June, Pauline O’Connor’s daughter, was only ten when she died, Helena,’ Bernard continued. ‘Surely a little angel like her would be in heaven and she’s not here, so there goes your theory.’ He held his head high and Joan nodded in agreement. ‘We’re not dead.’

‘Sorry, it’s over-eighteens only,’ Helena said in a bored tone. ‘St Peter’s down at the gate with his arms folded and an earpiece in his ear, taking instructions from God.’

‘You can’t say that, Helena,’ Joan snapped.

‘I can’t get in, I can’t get out, St Peter, what’s it all about?’ Derek sang in a gravelled voice. Suddenly he stopped strumming and finally spoke. ‘It’s definitely not heaven. Elvis isn’t here.’

‘Oh, well then.’ Helena rolled her eyes.

‘We’ve got our own Elvis here, haven’t we?’ Bernard chuckled, changing the subject. ‘Sandy, did you know that Derek used to be in a band?’

‘How would she know that, Bernard?’ Helena said, exasperated. Bernard ignored her again. ‘Derek Cummings,’ he announced, ‘the hottest property in St Kevin’s back in the sixties.’

They all laughed.

My body turned cold.

‘What was it you were called, Derek? I’ve forgotten now,’ Joan laughed.

‘The Wonder Boys, Joan, the Wonder Boys,’ Derek said fondly, reminiscing.

‘Remember the dances on a Friday night?’ Bernard asked excitedly. ‘Derek would be up there on the stage, playing the rock and roll, and Father Martin would be almost having a heart attack at him shaking his pelvis.’ They all laughed again.

‘Now, what was the name of the dance hall?’ Joan thought aloud.

‘Oh, gosh …’ Bernard closed his eyes and tried to remember.

Derek stopped strumming and thought hard.

Helena kept staring at me, watching my reactions. ‘Are you cold, Sandy?’ Her voice sounded far away.

Finbar’s Hall – the name jumped into my head. They had all loved going to Finbar’s Hall every Friday night.

‘Finbar’s Hall,’ Marcus finally remembered.

‘Ah, that was it.’ They all looked relieved and Derek’s strumming continued.

Goose pimples formed on my skin. I shivered.

I looked around at the faces of the group, studied their eyes, their familiar features and I allowed all I had learned as a little girl to come flooding back to me. I could see it now as clearly as I had then, when I came across the story in the computer archives while researching a project for school. I had immediately taken interest, had followed up on the story and was more than familiar with it. I saw the young teenage faces smiling up from the newspaper’s front page and I saw those same faces around me now.

Derek Cummings, Joan Hatchard, Bernard Lynch, Marcus Flynn and Helena Dickens. Five students from St Kevin’s Boarding School. They disappeared during a school camping trip in the sixties and were never found. But here they were now, older, wiser and their innocence lost.

I had found them.