somehow uglier. The shock was that only a year had passed from the first entry. And yet, the more she read the more uneasy she felt. There were strange references to 'him' and 'he'; it was almost as if Diane didn’t dare to refer to whoever it was by their name.
Then Rebecca found out why. Teardrops formed and fell from the corners of her eyes as she read the impatient scrawl:
‘I know he did things to me. I never wanted to.’
More words followed and Rebecca struggled to digest that the abuse had gone further. Her heart was beating hard and fast in her throat. She read on; sickness rising from her stomach and falling away again. She realised then that she was only scanning the pages looking for a name.
All she found among the horrible details was Diane’s doubt. She’d known what happened but still forced herself to question if it might have only been in her head. Rebecca could finally see why her cousin had been such a mess. More tears fell onto the pages.
She reached the end and immediately went back to the start; desperate to find anything she might have missed. She turned each page until she reached the blank section that separated the neatness from the mess. Going through it much more carefully, she found words she hadn’t seen before. They were still written in neat handwriting and that somehow made them more horrific. The only distortion to the ink came from teardrops that had dried years earlier when Diane had written:
‘I don't know why Dad came into my room. He told me it was a secret and I couldn't ever tell. He told me I was beautiful. He told me I was beautiful.’
The diary slipped from Rebecca's hands and she realised she couldn’t read any more. Knowing the truth was almost unbearable but she knew there was worse that she had to do. She had to tell Lily.
The room seemed to shrink down to the size of only her and the diary on her lap, while the ache in the depth of her stomach grew. She realised she couldn’t make herself find and tell her aunt. She didn’t have the strength or the willpower. If it had to happen, and she knew that it did, she wanted it to be because she couldn’t avoid it.
So, she just sat and cried until the only thing she had left to hope for actually happened. Lily saw the open door and discovered her in tears. There was no choice for Rebecca then. She had to explain.
“I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said, the dryness of her mouth barely allowing the words to escape.
She handed Lily the diary, and showed her the pages that made everything clear. As she did so, the silent, sickening sight of guilt appeared on Lily’s face. Somehow, she remained on her feet but revenge was in her heart; reflected as the purest hatred in her eyes. Angry tears fell from them and she moved towards the door. Rebecca held her back.
“Not like this,” she spluttered to her aunt.
“Then how?” Lily asked, “You read what he did... He should burn in hell...”
Rebecca led her back to Diane’s bed and they both sat down. Lily wept quietly, while the dampness on Rebecca’s cheeks started to dry. The younger woman took a deep breath and spoke again. Each word spilling unexpectedly from somewhere within her:
“It’s all too late but we can destroy him… We are going to destroy him.”
They needed a trial by media. Destroying his public image was the best way Rebecca could see to hit Harry Fitzgerald where it would hurt him most. The danger in just going to the police was that he might find an expensive lawyer to manipulate facts and distort the truth.
Offering Diane’s words from beyond the grave to every newspaper outlet in the country would allow him no escape. He would be hung out to dry and that was the least he deserved.
“It’ll be Diane’s words that nail the bastard,” Rebecca told Lily.
In the days that followed, the two of them set about their task. They photocopied the most damning elements of the diary and Rebecca wrote what was virtually a press release for the story. Then she simply passed on the hastily compiled portfolio to every contact or friend she had in the media. After that, Lily only had to confirm to the assembled hordes that the diary and published content was genuine.
That was when the feeding frenzy truly began. Every lie and fabrication that Harry Fitzgerald had used to create his image was stripped away. The sickness within was laid bare.
He didn’t last long after that, even though he never admitted the truth. He still managed to provide a final headline for himself by retreating to his mansion and putting a bullet in his brain.
The news of his death left Lily rather cold. She couldn’t take any real pleasure in it, although she wasn’t sad to know he was gone.
She felt some relief but it wasn’t enough. She still carried around too much guilt because she blamed herself for everything that had happened to Diane. Months went by and the sadness that stemmed from that remained unmoved, even by the love that was still left in her life. And through it all, the diary that had already shared so much had one final truth left to reveal.
The day that Lily looked at it again was almost a year after Diane's death. It was a deliberate act. Her only reason for going into the room was to make herself feel bad; to pick at the scab because it was all she thought she deserved. She took the diary from Diane’s bedside table and sat down on the bedspread. This time though, the book opened at the last page; on the final entry that Lily hadn’t read before. She read each word slowly and something inside her changed. Her guilt began to disperse, floating up into the atmosphere like cigarette smoke in the open air.
Tears formed in her eyes but this time they did not fall, as she read the final words of her beloved daughter:
‘Mum puts up with so much and she still knows what’s best. I’m proud to be her daughter. She deserves nothing but happiness because she believes. I don’t really know how but she does. In me, in John, in love. And that’s the most important part because if SHE can believe in love then I know I can too.’
Lily closed the diary and read no further. There wasn’t any need. She finally believed and knew that her daughter had loved her and even though she was gone that was all that mattered.
The Ghosts Are Out Tonight
The whisky bottle bell wakes me with its familiar ringing in my head. I sit upright and open my eyes, as if I desperately need to be somewhere. I lay back down.
Leaning over the right-hand side of the bed leads to the discovery of whisky rather than water. The old, familiar impulse pushed aside, I stand on seasick legs and take my empty glass to the bathroom.
I sit on the bed again, still sipping the water and trying to breathe. There’s a burning sting in my eyes and the soft mattress has made the tense ache in my neck even worse. The magnolia and white walls that surround me do a decent job of reflecting the daylight outside but it’s hardly inspiring. The radiator beats out an imperfect rhythm over the faint hum of electrical equipment. The tapping begins fast before slowing down almost to a stop but not quite. It circles the room and circles me, round and round almost endlessly.
I need to leave but drift within the haze of sounds and sleepiness instead, until I wake again with the half empty glass still in my hand. It’s the sound of throbbing, mechanistic bass pounding through wood and plaster and the gaps around the door that wakes me. The deep lines of sound matching the fluidity of the headache I now have. I know sleep won’t find me again today.
I dress myself, still feeling awful, the medicine cabinet’s empty and my hair looks like hell. With sunglasses on, the little luggage I have is sent ahead to where I’ll be in a few days. Before then, there are other places to go; places I shouldn’t have put off visiting for as long as I have. This’ll be the last of my sudden disappearances. The last time I’ll be a summer breeze, gone too soon.
Once I’m out in the diminished seductiveness of the city streets, the distant sound of sirens permeates the air like a moan of despair in the dark. The day brings nothing except lifeless cold to my fingers and the ghosts of frozen breath as I walk. Cigarettes burn themselves out in the pavement cracks that I step between as I follow my feet to the train. On
ce aboard, I sit with music playing through earphones. ‘Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere’ goes from ‘Cinnamon Girl’ to ‘Cowgirl in the Sand’ and I put it back on repeat. It’s the perfect soundtrack to all the miles travelling past the window. It’ll always be the record that makes me think of my dad and of growing up. And each time I hear it, it loses nothing except that simple sense of time and place. It’s music I can rely on to still make me happy.
Rain falls, on and off until just outside Alveston. Then I pull the earphones out and the sun bursts through the cloud to paint the town in Technicolour. I check my wallet for money and find enough to cover what I need. So I approach the taxi rank and catch the eye of the pale, overweight man in a t-shirt, who will take my cash this afternoon.
He takes me to Crediton and waits while I climb the hill up to the church and to my best friend. Visiting Dan again is a strange experience, but one I know is needed. In my right hand I hold the whisky bottle and raise it to his grave. I tell him I miss him, take a single swig and sit awhile in the autumnal grey that’s returned to the world around me. I let my thoughts travel down cul-de-sacs before eventually turning my back again and waving goodbye to them and to my good friend.
I don't go back to Alveston. I've already made my peace with it and there are places more important and pressing I need