Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: WEDDINGS & FUNERALS
■ ■ ■ ■ ■
THE CITY OF BIRMINGHAM HAUNTED Helen Mavis' dreams. The root of her worst fears, it followed her to London, a looming threat in the back of her mind that Helen could never escape. Birmingham was like purgatory; that hopeless state between life and death where there was no end or beginning in sight. Just an eerie... nothingness, a numbing of the soul. The calm before the almighty storm. Returning to it felt like a fever dream, a hazy delirium where sinners became saints. Cathartic in every sense of the word.
Helen Mavis, now Godfrey by name, was a stranger in her old skin, operating foreign bones that over time had become unfamiliar to her, breathing through battered lungs. No end to her beginning. Birmingham — more specifically, Small Heath — was as gloomy and smoky as ever. The whole city seemed to hold its breath on the morning of her arrival. A thousand eyes peered through blinds and around street corners, caught ablaze by her distinct blonde hair, pale-faced as if she was a ghost in the flesh. They lingered curiously on the toddler that clung to his mother's hand, narrowed at her slowly growing stomach beneath her fitted dress only to widen upon noticing the man on her arm.
The whispers... they were nothing new. Helen didn't think to pay them much attention. She should've. Godfreys did not like to play the fool. She should've known better. Old bones be damned.
The corner house on Watery Lane was as she left it. The windows were shut tight, a fine layer of dust gathered on the furniture. When she moved to London, Helen had every intention of selling her place of memories. But when she found Patrick and he promised her a life of comfort in exchange for a marriage vow, she couldn't help but hold onto one final piece of her past. Patrick hadn't minded, thinking nothing of it, and it worked out well for them now.
Helen ushered James over to the carpet in the living room, the faintest of smiles touching her lips as he ran around on unsteady feet. James Godfrey was a boy who was eager to explore. He thirsted to learn everything there was to know, refused to settle until he had what he wanted. It was a pain at times, but Helen adored her smart boy. He was much like his mum — or as Patrick liked to joke, their bright-eyed boy was four going on forty.
"He'll be alright here?" Patrick murmured as he surveyed the room with thinly-veiled wariness. He seemed out of place beside the plain beige settee, dressed in pressed black slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Helen rolled her eyes at him; once fond, now merely indulgent. "Yes, Patrick. It's not like I kept knives in the upholstery."
Patrick grinned, affectionately tapping the base of her chin with his finger in the hopes of seeing her own lips twitch. "I never know with you, my love. You had a knife strapped to your thigh beneath your wedding dress."
"Alfie was in attendance," Helen said, as if this was enough of an explanation. "But oh how you flatter me."
Patrick chuckled, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before retreating to their new bedroom with one of Helen's many suitcases. They'd taken the car with them to Small Heath, and every so often, Helen would peer through the curtains to make sure the vehicle still had its wheels and doors intact. No one dared to come near it, though she caught a few onlookers ogling the sleek black hood.
