The Camden Tales

65 - An Unexpected Visitor

-=₪ July 1933 ₪=-

The Mansion / Margate / 6.29am

The sun's early light stretched across the vast ocean, heralded by the cries of seagulls. A gentle sea breeze carried morning dew, which sparkled on the grass like countless diamonds, drawing a shimmering path to Malka's feet as she sat by the monkey puzzle tree.

On a wooden bench, Malka leaned forward, her white nightdress and chiffon shawl swaying in the light wind. As she took in the dawn of a new day, the cigarette trembled near her lips from the chill seeping into her bones.

"Alfred's asking for you," Ishmael's voice broke the silence, emerging from the house.

"I will be in shortly," she responded, eyes unwavering from the sun's ascent.

As Ishmael turned to leave, her untouched cigarette with its long-growing ash caught his attention. "How long have you been here?" he asked, deciding to sit beside her.

"Since four."

"Do you get any sleep these days?"

"A few hours, perhaps. Mostly, I just rest."

He studied her unmoving profile, "Maybe it would be better if you stopped writing the book."

She shot him a sharp look. "Never dictate what is good for me," she snapped, flicking her unsmoked cigarette towards a drain.

"I just mean that you were much better, but since you returned to that book, you're going south again."

"I have faced, accepted, and released so much. This... this is the last thing..." Malka's voice broke, "I miss him more than I can bear, Ish."

His hand found her back in an attempt to soothe.

"It was me. He is where he is because of me." Her face contorted, and her tears erupted freely.

"That ain't true."

"It is."

"You did as you've always done, what he asked of you. This ain't punishment, Mal. This is supposed to be peace."

Her tears intensified, nearly choking her as she gasped for air. Offering his handkerchief, Ishmael watched as she tried to regain her composure. "This is not peace, Ishy. This is torment."

"Only because you're choosing torment. You said as much to Tommy last year, I heard. You can give the advice, but you can't take it for yerself."

"I do not know how. How do I let go? I need him to survive."

"No. Ya don't."

Her tearful eyes met his cold ones, searching for understanding. "How can you say that? Everyone needs love, and I do not have mine anymore."

"Your life is full of love; it's just not the kind ya want. And that, Mal, is not a problem with the world; that is a you problem and, frankly, one that is very painful to me and to everyone inside that house, but none feel that pain more than Alfred. Why is his love not enough for you?"

Ignoring his words, Malka focused on the ticking pocket watch in Ishmael's hand. "I despise the sound of a ticking clock. Every second taking me further away from-- I want the ticking to stop. I cannot get myself out of this pit, not this time. I have no strength left. I want to lay down and let all the clocks stop."

"You're tired. You aren't thinking straight, alright? You need sleep."

"I cannot sleep! His parting gift to me was nothing but horror. When I close my eyes, all I see is--" her tears renewed.