Chapter Eight: The things we said with no space between us
I am bundled into a corner of the huge Daimler (ridiculous waste of taxpayer's money) which sweeps majestically (heroically?) from the airfield like a knight on a white charger, its rescue mission complete. I suppose then, that would make me the damsel in distress? No matter. I am high as a kite on a cocktail of selected barbiturates and it seems my past, in the form of a madman, has returned to haunt me. Or save me. Call it what you will.
But at this moment, I am carefree, bright, floating above my own self, and it is glorious.
~x~
'...and I want to tell you everything,
The words I never got to say
The first time around…'
My phone is flooding my brain with music as I slam my adrenalin-fuelled body through Marylebone Park that evening. Thud, thud, thud; feet punctuate the notes and melodies, and I want sensory overload. I want no space for musings or thought.
'...Yesterday I thought I saw your shadow running round
It's funny how things never change in this old town
So far from the stars….'
It is cold. Hardy perennials foolish enough to be showing their leaves through the winter soil are frosted thick with crunchy white edges for their troubles. The park's smooth, wide, runner-friendly pathways glitter treacherously in the weak sunlight of this late December afternoon. A misjudged step or hesitant timing would do little good in such uncertain terrain, and it is always better to be ready for the fall, even before it arrives.
...and I remember everything
From when we were the children playing in this fairground
Wish I was there with you now…
Thud.
Dog walkers, pram pushers, older people, linking arms and smiling; enjoying their time with their people and looking forward to the new year. Smiling children, trying out Christmas favourites, unworried by frosted walkways and crunchy grass, and cycling, scootering, roller-skating about me in energetic bursts of magical childhood energy.
Thud.
Blood pounds hard, fighting through cold, jaw-aching air and the hefty weight of my heart. But my head is a vacuum of thoughts that used to live there and all I see is the frost reflected on the path ahead and the clear, breathless blue of the sheltering sky, covering everyone on this sad little planet. My feet hit the earth in relentless, arrogant rhythm - you can send all the terror messages you like, but I will still be here, not fearing you.
Abruptly, however, a melodic and instantly recognisable refrain cuts through the song, announcing a text message, and my heart lurches, making it hard to breathe back into my pattern. I stupidly think I can ignore it and continue in my shiny new frozen bubble, but of course, I can't, and when, ripping out earbuds, I read it, I am so physically winded I find myself in the ridiculous position of leaning against a tree and dipping down my head.
Coming back. Don't go away. SH
I stand slowly, determined to run off the shock. Determined never to cry over anyone or anything like that ever again. But my legs are useless, jelly-like, flaccid. I cannot make proper purchase with the ground. I stumble, but walk quickly, blindly.
Ping.
Where are you? SH
I stop again, leaning against the bandstand, oblivious to the dogs chasing each other after a ball, right in front of me.
I have to stop running Sherlock. MH
Immediately:
So do I. SH
And sealed back into my vacuum, I straighten, square my shoulders and turn around. I am fearless, I am strong and I am bloody well going home.
~x~
Night falls quickly when you're not looking.
Ebbing violets and indigos of a darkening sky lower speedily over the city outline and tinges of honeycomb coloured cloud cling at the edges of the day as the sun disappears. Since walking resolutely out of the park, I find suddenly that bustling streets encountered on my outward journey have thinned considerably and only the occasional couple or muffled up individual passes me, rushing home through twilight to hearth and home. My pace quickens, both to compensate for the dip in temperature whilst seeming to pander to the tightening ball of anxiety in my stomach. Hostility towards sales shoppers seems aeons, light years away as owners pull down noisy metal shutters, carry in display carts and set alarms as I pass by. Still in semi-holiday mode, London is closing early and (most likely) going off to the pub.
Coincidentally, as I pass The Blue Goose, a group of men jostle each other into sudden, raucous laughter, tumbling from its depths into the street ahead of me. As my heart leaps and adrenaline courses through, I quicken my pace and realise two things:
Bizarrely, the last two men on earth I would expect to see now both reside in my home town.
And I only used to date one of them.
~x~
I don't start running again until I cross on the corner near the derelict Post Office. Down and outs often sleep in its sheltered portico and whilst I always feel pangs for their plight, I could do with avoiding all huddled up shapes and unpredictable dark shadows.
(Did you miss me?)
The sky is now completely dark and street lights have bloomed into full florescence. However, thanks to the economising cost-cutting of my inner London Borough, only the main thoroughfares are adequately lit and most side streets remain on subdued, money-saving illumination, which a person of my acquaintance had previously described as 'Anderson-Wattage` (ie: dim). Looking round for the comforting light of a taxi or bus is of little use as runners have few pockets, and my own are empty of cash or means to get any.
I pick up the pace as I turn into my own street. The bin men are on Bank Holiday hours, therefore evidence of a hundred present wrappings and turkey leftovers line the road, crammed into piled high wheelie bins, their black rubbish bags rising up in darkened hillocks (all the better to scare you with my dear…) as I jog by. A sudden scuffling under a bin (a rat?) evokes beads of sweat prickling out from hot cheeks and burning forehead, and a yammering, racing heartbeat. I am full on running now on high alert, but as I see my doorway, I know the most dangerous time is upon me. A slowing of my resolve whilst I fumble for my key, hot sweaty hands attempting to gain purchase with a rattling lock barrel ("I've seen better security on a Wendy House, Molly Hooper") could be the moment arms reach out from shadows, a gloved hand over my face, my eyes covered and darkness descending…
(Well, did you?)
It is then that I feel the weight of my phone in my jacket pocket - dense, cold metal; a wormhole to sanctuary as all around me is silent, bristling with a palpable and burgeoning threat. Ramming in my hand I pull it free, finding a lit up screen and blinking message (I had silenced it after that text - of course I had to) which I sweep open as I near my stoop.
Molly, don't fear the shadows. I am the shadows. SH
And my face, blue and illuminated looks up as a shadow steps out of the darkness of the street, its silhouette more familiar to me than my own - a breadth of shoulder and a billowing coat and arms that reach out in protection, shutting out cold, shutting out fear. I feel cool wool against the heat of my face but his body heat leaches through a thin shirt as I am enveloped inside the wings of his Belstaff; a moth to the flame.
"Hello, Lazarus," I say, all cognition given up to sensation. "Are you on your way home?"
I feel the rumble in his chest, vibrations from his larynx, as he speaks to me; a voice I thought I would never hear again.
"I am home," says Sherlock Holmes, and I smile.
~x~
