Released

6th February 2013

A north wind is whipping up a storm outside and the chill of the freezing air hits my bedroom window pane.  The cold meets the warmth that radiates from within the room, condensation crawls down the glass gathering to form a puddle of water on the window sill.  I use an old T-shirt to mop up the water and then clear the glass to regard the gathering storm.  A blanket of snow has concealed the gardens, the greens, browns and crimson of the leaves on the trees have been turned a ghostly white.

I draw the curtains on the wintery scene and climb cautiously into bed, being careful to avoid the deep hollow in the prehistoric mattress and its exposed springs.  I toss and turn for what seems like hours, the demons of my past come back to haunt my thoughts prolonging consciousness, but eventually I doze off to sleep.

I’m awoken by a tapping on the window, reach out for the alarm clock and press the button to illuminate the time.  It’s 12.00am.  I dismiss the noise and fall back to sleep.

The next rapping on the glass is more incessant and can’t be ignored.  Tumbling out of bed, half-awake, I swish open the curtains.

I jump back when confronted at the window by a menacing goliath of a tree. It looms large at the window, its thorny limbs having been gathered up by the frigid gusts of wind and slung against the pane of glass.

If only I could leave the building and sever the waving arms which continue to hamper my slumber with the persistent thwacking sound of wood on glass.

I’m unsure of the time when Grace comes to bed, but it’s been so long since we last slept together that her touch startles me and I wake.  She’s naked.  I’d forgotten just how soft and yielding her skin and flesh is.  Then she makes love to me, her fervour arousing and stimulating like a drug.  Repeatedly we make love:  her insatiability exhausts and enfeebles me.  Eventually she collapses into my arms and we drift blissfully into slumber.

7th February 2013

I wake up contented, but Grace has already left.  I am desperate that she will return tonight and we can be like we used to be. Was I only dreaming?

Opening the curtains I gaze across the gardens and the bare space where the old birch tree once flourished.  All the trees were cut down and removed a year ago, just after I arrived.  Now all that remains is a grass lawn framed with flower borders.  The grass has grown a little long and waves in the breeze.  Lit up by the early morning summer sun it looks like a luminous, emerald green sea. 

My bedroom door swings open to reveal a prison guard who quips ‘All present and corrupt?’

Now I am allowed to leave the building and join my fellow inmates in the queue for breakfast.

Upon returning to my cell I find the door ajar.  I’ve never left it open before and am annoyed by my carelessness.  Tentatively I nudge the door open, half expecting a prison guard to leap out and inflict some kind of punishment on me.

There is nobody in the cell, but my sheets have been removed revealing a large blood-stained patch dried onto the mattress.  I hadn’t noticed it before and some of my things seem to be missing.

Slightly bewildered I ponder the situation for a moment, but there is no time to investigate.  I need to arrive at the prison’s front gate for 8.30am, in readiness to exit the jail, and catch the bus that will deliver me to temporary freedom… and Grace

In Swindon the train for Cornwall leaves station on time.  There is something romantic about travelling by train; I can escape the harsh realities of my life. I could be travelling on the Orient Express, in an Agatha Christie mystery, where my life is full of nostalgia, excitement and adventure. But I’m not.

 The train rolls into Truro station, late, and maybe this explains why Grace isn’t waiting.  My heart sinks with the disappointment of her absence.

I perch myself on a bench and watch the commuters rushing from platform to platform considering my options.  After twenty minutes and no sign of Grace, I decide that walking is the best way forward.

The sun is shimmering in a cloudless sky making the walk a pleasure; my thoughts roam free in the warm summer breeze.  They revolve around Grace and the next five days we will spend together.

On the way I see my old friend Michael, but, despite my wave he doesn’t see me.  Happily I make my way unnoticed, anxious to get home, not wanting to delay my journey by exchanging pleasantries with old acquaintances.

The old house looks the same.  The camper van still sits on four flat tyres in the driveway and the garden is just as I left it:  the greenness of the lawn hidden by the brown of fallen, dead and shrivelled palm leaves.

The front door is open and I can hear a man’s voice.  Peering through the dining room window I can see that Grace has painted the room vivid pink and purchased a new dining table.  I also spy a tall man standing in the hallway.  He towers over Grace and has to stoop down to kiss her on the lips.

My heart pulsates and pounds, so much blood rushing to my head, my face feels like it’s on fire, a knot so tight in my abdomen I fear my stomach might break.  I feel like vomiting.

For a short while I consider composing myself and confronting them but instead limp off to the nearest hostelry. 

I recognise a couple of the locals but they pretend not to know me and continue their tittle-tattle.  Truro was never a place where I felt that I belonged, and loathed the residents’ small-minded, parochial outlook on life, and  their endless malicious gossiping.  To get away from it all, Grace and I had planned to move to the Jurassic coast of Dorset.  I wondered if she had the same plans with her new man.

By late afternoon I’ve mustered up enough Dutch courage to confront Grace and embark on the slog back to the house.  Climbing up the final hill I observe Grace at the top descending.  Quickly I tuck myself into a side road, wait for her to pass, then, sleuth-like, follow at a safe distance.

Drizzle blankets the air like a spider’s web spun out of rain.  Grace is easy to follow, brightened by her red beret and purple Mary Quant mac.

On the outskirts of town she turns left into a gated churchyard.  The gloomy granite Methodist Church looms large at the height of the hill, keeping watch over the dead.  I follow Grace to the middle of the graveyard and quietly stand beside her. 

I’m close enough to regard my beloved.  Her form is dainty and waifish:   her face angelic with a waxen complexion, eyes black-rimmed, hazel and piercing, lips so perfect and bright, all framed by auburn bobbed hair.  A vision of nostalgia and loveliness from another time, a time when dalliance and intrigue ruled the world.  Her eyes are red from crying, her face soaked with tears and rain.

She is standing by a grave.  I look away from her beauty to regard the writing on the gravestone:

‘They couldn’t keep you a prisoner any longer, My Love, now you’re free,

You took your own life, before I could become your wife.

But I forgive you, and one day we’ll be together forever.’ Grace.

Above these words is written ‘RIP 21.04.62-16.02.11 and my name.’