torrential and nothing was clear. Or simple. Dragging my heels for another hour didn't help either. So, even as I let myself back into the house I had no idea what I was going to do.
Inside, there was more darkness. I turned on the light and my eyes went to the sofa. Becky was sitting there.
I was pleased until I saw the tears on her face were still fresh. My heart sank.
“Oh Scott... He’s gone.”
I suppressed my feelings as well as I could:
“No, it’s fine. I just saw him and he’ll be back soon.”
“I didn’t know how to get hold of you,” she told me, and started to cry again.
That was when I knew something was very wrong. I also knew there was no escape from this situation.
“What is it?” I had to ask, even though I could already tell.
There was a pain in my stomach, moving rapidly to my chest. So intense. It made me shake all over. There was no control over this. I had to wait for the words to be unleashed. The wait was brief, what followed was like eternity:
“Dan's dead.”
“No, I just saw him,” I told her, even as tears began to fall.
“I’m sorry.”
“But I just saw him.”
“I’m sorry Scott.”
There was nothing more to say. I sat down on the floor. I couldn’t stand. Rebecca came to me and knelt down. I needed her. I needed to hold her. We hung onto each other. It seemed like the only thing we could do to stop the spinning of the world throwing us out into space. Just holding on for dear life, we were two hearts beating together and then a little less strongly than before. We let go, offering each other nothing more than silence and sadness.
Soon after, there was an obituary printed in The Alveston Chronicle explaining what happened after I'd left the churchyard. The simple words revealed a sickening sort of symmetry:
'Liman sat outside St John’s Church, Crediton, for several hours with his friend, Scott Drake. When Drake left, Liman appears to have remained there for another ten minutes despite the weather taking a severe turn for the worse. He eventually walked towards the road and waited for a car to pass. By then, the weather conditions were so severe that they caused the driver to lose control of the car. The car hit Liman, killing him instantly. The accident occurred less than half a mile from where his father, David Liman, had been killed twenty years earlier'.
My main memories of the days leading up to the funeral was the feeling of pure pain and people coming and going from the house. My problem was that none of those people really knew me. They were mostly there for Rebecca, which was only right although I didn’t appreciate that at the time. I felt like I needed that kind of support too. We all did and, looking back, I can see it was there; offered in gentle and subtle ways. I was just too hurt and blind to see past the terrible truth; the fact I was never going to see my friend again.
The day of the funeral came with rain and I can't forget seeing Rebecca wearing her butterfly earrings that morning. The truth seemed so clear to me then. On the day Dan died, it looked like I'd lost Becky too. And so, I showered and shaved. I looked into the fog of the bathroom mirror to find what was underneath and it appeared to be nothing.
The funeral itself was exactly like everyone expected. Old friends, familiar faces, united in something that should never have been. References to youth, talent and the shortness of life. Eulogies and tears. Earth-to-earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Wildflowers picked from outside were a cacophony of colour in what turned out to be a day too grey for words. I thought it was a pleasant service. It was also understandably sad and so it wasn't really the tribute my friend deserved.
Perhaps typically, Dan gave us something more fitting in the last photos he took. The final roll of film was a series of images showing the burning of a bonfire. They began with the lighting and growth of the fire. A few isolated people enjoying the heat and light as the flames licked at the dark edges of the night. The fire grew brighter, stronger, hotter. The crowd grew with it. Both of them, massive and seemingly uncontrollable, until both diminished and dispersed. Leaving the question open about which had drawn strength from the other. The final photograph showed only the desolate sight of ashes and embers. All that was left of what had once burned so brightly. To me, that was Dan in twenty eight photos.
By the time I got back to the house after the funeral, I already knew I'd be leaving. I waited till the next morning, after I'd seen and heard Rebecca break down in tears over the phone to her mum.
I knew how Rebecca's strength had often been used to mask her mother's weakness; so, as she got older, she'd tried to keep her at a distance. But not then. This time her mum was able to be something like a real mother to her, and I was able to tell myself that Rebecca had all the support she needed.
There was one more thing she had to hear from me though. I wrote it in a note, along with an apology. I told her the last things Dan had said. How he wanted her to be happy and that he loved her. And that was all. At about half six in the morning I left with just a bag and a guitar. Hoping that one day I might be lucky and brave enough to see her again.
I’m not entirely sure what she made of my note. I do know she wrote a book about Dan called ‘Memories of a Ghost’ and then, at least publicly, she never wrote or spoke about him again. It was as if she needed to get him out of her system and then she could move on. Still, whatever else it might mean it is a really good book and I even like the title.
Looking back, I can say now that my memories of that time are like a parade of pleasure and pain. Plenty of regret and plenty of pride. Although rarely at the same time. I’ve lost count of how many nights I’ve confused memories for wishes and dreams of how things could and should've been. And every time I have to wake up, in a hotel room or on a bus. With my boots still on, and a bag and a guitar at my side. All alone with only ghosts and memories.
Learn About The Author
A writer of multiple genres, James Eddy began writing film and television scripts before moving into Short Stories, Novels and Novellas. Bewilder is his first move into self-publishing and will be swiftly followed by many others. For more information, please visit www.jameseddy.co.uk.
ABOUT YOUNGBLOOD BOOKS
Founded in 2012, Youngblood Books is owned and operated by James Eddy. We publish a diverse range of genres, including Comedy, Drama, Children's Stories, Romance, Fantasy, Literary Fiction and Comics. Visit us at www.youngbloodbooks.co.uk to keep up to date with all our new releases.
Bewilder
Heart over Head over Heels
Lily Green
The Devil eats Coleslaw
Fading Polaroids in Reverse
The Graveyard
Hello, Emptiness
Revelations
The Ghosts Are Out Tonight
In Dreams
Diamonds
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