Twist Of Fate

Epilogue

Three years later

HARRY

I am silent the entire journey here. I expected the route to feel familiar; I expected to recognise the bends in the road, the fields either side, the signposts along the way. It therefore comes as a surprise to me that the first stab of recognition is the narrowing of the village high street ahead of me, the quaint stone cottages adorned with pink climbing roses, and the church looming into view, its soft grey walls lit up in the summer sunlight. I take the first turning to my left and manage to find a parking space just outside the community hall, opposite the entrance to a small local supermarket that also looks vaguely familiar from the last time I was here. Stepping out onto the pavement I feel a flutter of nerves in my stomach not for the first time. I have thought about this day for so long and envisioned it with a mixture of anticipation and dread; above all, I want today to be right. 

A couple of slow, deep breaths give me the courage I need to open the boot of the car and retrieve a small bunch of flowers - a bouquet of delicate pink, white and yellow blooms wrapped in clear cellophane - and a pair of identical small yellow teddy bears, which I carry slowly and purposefully round the corner to the entrance of St Peters churchyard. 

The midday sun is hot on the back of my neck. There is a gentle breeze rippling through the trees lining the perimeter of the cemetery, and once I am on the concrete path and in the shade of the tall sycamores I feel calm and instantly peaceful. I make my way slowly towards the rear of the churchyard, following the path and the directions given to me over the phone by the parish vicar earlier in the week. The frozen statues of angels and cherubs stand guard over their tombs, their stone eyes blank and expressionless as I pass. 

I turn left at a cross in the paths, reaching the perimeter wall before turning right and making my way towards the rear, counting the lines of graves in my head and pausing at the end of the seventh row. This is the one, and now that I am so close I feel another stab of nerves. I am afraid of my own feelings; afraid of the emotion this might bring up. I wander slowly along the row, reading the names on the headstones as I pass, looking for the one that is already bringing a lump to my throat, as I had known all along it would.

I see the gravestone in the shape of the open book ahead of me and my heart misses a beat. I know in my gut this is the one. I take a deep breath, my eyes burning already, and pick my way carefully forward, my feet trampling the long grass flat. I come to a stop in front of the grave, skim read the names on either page of the open book - Chloe's parents - before my eyes fall on a new piece of granite that wasn't here last time. 

Chloe Elizabeth Lewis. 20th September 1999 - 4th July 2019. There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends. 

The words blur before me and I sink to my knees at her graveside, the ground soft and yielding thanks to the length of the grass. I set the flowers and the teddy bears down to the side of me and reach forward to run one finger softly over the cool granite, relishing the sharp edges of the inscription. So strong is the memory of holding her in my arms on this very spot three years ago, I imagine for a moment that I feel her now, warm and soft, clinging to me as though I am her saviour when in fact it was she who was mine. I give in to the emotion rising inside me and let the tears flow freely. The tombstone is unsympathetic, cold and immobile, yet still indistinctly beautiful in its own way. The trees rustle in the breeze, the birds sing their chorus above my head. The world carries on, oblivious to its loss. 

Eventually I lift my head as the rush of emotion begins to subside. A couple of tears have dropped onto the smooth surface of the headstone and I am happy to be leaving a piece of me here with her, albeit tiny and insignificant.