C. Williams - Flowers for the Dead

I stand up, dust off my nightgown, draw the curtains and return to the hallway to take out fresh sheets. On the way, I fetch my begonias as well, and once I’m back inside the bedroom I put them on the nightstand next to the shortbread. Then I take the nightshade from the pocket of my dressing gown and stow it in the drawer of the nightstand. Making up the bed with the fresh sheets, I realise that I do not recognise them: black flowers climbing across dark blue fabric, a silken touch to them. They must be new. They feel soft on my skin.

Taking up a piece of shortbread, I sink into the bed. Gently, I stroke the purple petals of the begonias sitting on my nightstand as the warm dough fills my mouth. They have raised their heads a little. I feel the earth in their pot, just to make sure they have had enough to drink. Then I smile at them, swallowing the shortbread. ‘Goodnight, my darlings.’

Snuggling down into the covers, I breathe in their familiar smell. Still the same detergent. It feels as if I’d never left. As if Mum and Dad were merely away on a holiday, a hiking weekend in the Highlands. And the dried flowers, too, spreading their scent all through the house. Mum had such a passion for them. People brought dried flowers to her funeral, hers and Dad’s. Heaps of them. There were piles of dried roses, of rosemary and thyme and laurel, even some bell heather and globeflowers. The Kenzies sent me pictures. They were dropped onto the coffins, they surrounded the funeral wreaths gifted by those who didn’t really know my parents.

One of those wreaths was mine.

I know what you must be thinking. I wish I could make you understand what it’s like to hear that the two people who’ve always been there, as long as you can remember, are gone, and not feel anything. Your mum, who used to be your idol, with her white hair and incredible bravery, and your dad, who would hug you like it meant everything just to hold you. To look at your husband as he takes you into his arms, trying to give you comfort, and swallowing down the truth, which is that you’re feeling nothing. That he might as well have told you about the death of a badger he had hit on the way home, or a wasp he had squished outside the pub with his beermat.

Maybe that was when it became unbearable, actually. When I decided something needed to change. That I needed the truth. Maybe it wasn’t the Kenzies’ parcel and the deadly nightshade. Maybe that was just the last straw.

We had a ceremony in London, of course, Sweet-O and me. That’s how I said goodbye to my parents.

I turn on my back, staring at the white ceiling. And here I am. Lying in their bed. Finally back in their house. Our house.

The deadly nightshade is back too, sitting inside the nightstand drawer, on top of one of Mum’s old Chilcott catalogues: one of those mail-order companies where you could get homely pillows and handmade blankets and scent diffusers. Every single one of their products came with a pouch of British lavender. I wonder if they still exist.

Above the bed hangs a spray of lavender. When my parents still lived here, it always smelled so much like lavender in this room, like there wasn’t any other smell in the world. Only once or twice a year would my mother go for rosemary and thyme instead, usually in winter and spring. She would never have both out at the same time; it was either lavender or rosemary and thyme. Now the scent is so subtle it barely registers with the shortbread right next to me. It’s comforting. The pillow feels soft beneath my head. I feel like I am floating. It may be a little frightening, but it’s also exhilarating. To be so light. I did the right thing.

I will have the truth.

Before I turn off the light, I have another piece of shortbread. I feel like I can have as much shortbread as I like now. Don’t know what to call this feeling. Maybe it’s the shortbread feeling. The-world-is-your-shortbread.

Involuntarily, I giggle again as I close my eyes. The pillows smell like home and the crumbs taste delicious and the night is deep and dark.

It is still dark when I wake up.

The room smells like lavender. Just like that night. The odour of the old, dry flowers feels heavy in the air. Like it is pushing down on the blanket. Like it is wrapping itself around me.

My legs are sweaty. So are my armpits. It smells.

Slowly, I breathe in and out. It’s cold. Why do I feel trails of perspiration on my body when it is so cold? Like light cuts on my skin.

I turn onto my other side, keeping my eyes closed. Go back to sleep, I tell myself.

Why is it cold?

Why does sweat run across my skin like clammy fingers?

I open my eyes. The curtains are too thick. It is dark.

I close my eyes again. Maybe I’m running a fever. That’s why I might feel cold and hot at the same time. That’s it.

Wrapping the blankets more tightly around my body, I tell myself to go back to sleep and close my eyes again.

I am already dozing off when I think:

Why did I wake up?

The doorbell rings.

I turn onto my other side, mumbling into the pillow. The drunks from the pub. They’ll go away eventually. It smells like lavender.

It takes me a moment to realise.

I am not in Leyton. I am not in my flat with Oliver.

I open my eyes. It is dark.

That is what has woken me.

Someone is standing in the hollow. Someone is standing in front of my door.

Someone is ringing the doorbell.

Her house is dark in the night.

The one case I couldn’t close.

I am not obsessed.

I cannot breathe.

Those aren’t the drunks from the pub.

I lie as still as I can. There is no pub. There are no neighbours, nothing but the Kenzies’ old place. This is a back road, a dead end, dwindling down to a path through the woods. Dead trees on all sides, rising like thin fingers through the thick fog.

The sheets rustle beneath my shaking hands. I ball them into fists. It might be nothing. They might need help. Maybe their car broke down.

On a dead-end country road.

I feel the sweat collect beneath my armpits. Between my thighs. There is no sound. Only the stale smell of dead flowers and perspiration. There is someone standing down on the porch. In front of a large, dark house. The door isn’t sturdy. They could come in if they put their mind to it.

Maybe they already have.

Maybe they are already inside, walking through the hallway, towards the stairs leading up to my bedroom. The carpets, grey and silent, swallowing the sound of their steps. More than one person. Or just one man. One man and his silent steps on the stairs to my bedroom. The closed door coming into view. His hands are gloved. His breath is going quickly. His pupils dilated. His heart beating with excitement.

I almost choke on my own breath.

Stop. A car’s broken down, that’s it.

Should I check? What if they need help?

They would ring again then, wouldn’t they?

Wouldn’t you ring again?

I pull the blanket up to my nose. There are no sounds at all. I didn’t hear a car. You hear cars from miles off on this road.

As the minutes pass by, I start wondering. Did I only imagine it?

My teachers always said I had an overactive imagination.

Slowly, I sit up. Rise, carefully. Tiptoe across the carpet. To the window. I don’t dare draw back the curtain. Only lift it, not even by an inch. Through the narrow gap, I peek out.

It takes my eyes a while to get used to the darkness. When they have, I look out across the hollow.

There isn’t a single soul. Not a car, not a bike, nothing. Only the long shadows of the bare birches, a little darker even than the night, like fingers stretched out towards the house.