Page 24 of Rock Paper Scissors
Five minutes later, we are huddled together in the bell tower ofthe chapel, and he’s right, the view really is quite magical. There isn’t a lot of room, and I’m cold—even with the blanket wrapped around my shoulders—but the wine is helping, and when Adam sees me shiver, he puts his arms around me.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw a full moon,” he whispers.
“Or so many stars,” I reply. “The sky is so clear.”
“No light pollution. Can you see that brightest star, just to the left of the moon?” he asks, pointing up at the sky. I nod, and watch as he moves his finger as though writing the letter W. “These five stars form the constellation Cassiopeia.” Adam is full of random knowledge, sometimes I think it’s the reason why there is no room left inside his head to think about us, or me.
“Which one is Cassiopeia again?”
“Cassiopeia was a queen in Greek mythology whose vanity and arrogance led to her downfall.” My husband knows more than I do about a great many things. He’s well read and a bit of a peacock when it comes to general knowledge. But if there were an IQ test for emotional intelligence, I’d have a higher score every time. There is an edge to his tone as he talks about the stars, and I don’t think I am imagining it.
I was having a bit of a clear out recently, sorting through some old things, and I found a pretty box of wedding keepsakes. It was like a marriage time capsule. One that I had carefully curated, then hidden away for my future self to find. There were some cards from friends and colleagues at the Dogs Home, little LEGO cake toppers of a bride and groom, and a lucky sixpence. Adam’s superstitions insisted I needed that on our big—rather small—day, and we agreed that his mother’s sapphire ring was both my something borrowed and something blue. At the bottom of the box, I found an envelope containing our handwritten vows. All those promise-shaped good intentions made me cry. It reminded me of the us we used to be, and who I thought we’d be forever. But promises lose their value when broken or chipped, like dusty, forgotten antiques. The sadtruth about our present always punctuates my happy memories of our past with full stops.
I wonder if all marriages end the same way eventually. Maybe it is only ever a matter of time before life makes the love unravel. But then I think about those old married couples you see on the news every Valentine’s Day, the ones who have been together for sixty years and are still very much in love, grinning false teeth smiles for the cameras like teenage sweethearts. I wonder what their secret is and why nobody ever shared it with us?
My own teeth start to chatter. “Maybe we should head back inside?”
“Whatever you want, my love.” Adam only calls me “my love” when he is drunk and I realize that most of the bottle is empty, even though I’ve only had one glass of wine.
I try to turn back toward the door, but he holds on to me. The view shifts from something spectacular into something sinister; if either of us were to fall from the bell tower, we’d be dead. I don’t have a fear of heights, but I do have a fear of dying, so I pull away. As I do, I bump into the bell. Not hard enough to make it ring, just to sway, and as soon as it does, I hear bizarre clicking sounds, followed by a cacophony of high-pitched screeching. It takes my mind a moment to process what it is seeing and hearing.
Bats, lots of them, fly out of the bell and into our faces. Adam staggers backward, dangerously close to the low wall, flinging his arms in front of his face and trying to swat them away. He stumbles and everything seems to switch to slow motion. His mouth is open and his eyes are wide and wild. He’s falling backward and reaching for me at the same time, but I seem to be frozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear as the bats continue to fly around our heads. It’s as if we are trapped inside our own bespoke horror film. Adam falls hard against the wall, and cries out as part of it crumbles and falls away. I snap out of my trance, grab his arm, and yank him back from the edge. Seconds later there is a loud bang as the ancient bricks crashdown onto the ground below. The sound seems to echo around the valley as the bats fly off in the distance.
I saved him, but he doesn’t thank me or display any hint of gratitude. My husband’s expression is one I’ve never seen his face wear before, and it makes me feel afraid.
ADAM
She almost let me fall.
I know Amelia was scared too, but shealmost let me fall. That isn’t something I can just forget. Or forgive.
We’re leaving. I don’t care how late it is, or that there’s snow on the road. I don’t remember us even discussing it. I’m just glad that we are getting out of this place. Even though I don’t want to admit it—to myself or anyone else—I am trapped. In this car, in this marriage, in this life. Ten years ago, I thought I could do anything, be anyone. The world seemed full of endless possibilities, but now it’s nothing but a series of dead ends. Sometimes I just want to… start again.
The road ahead is dark, there are no streetlights, and I know we don’t have much petrol left. Amelia isn’t talking to me—hasn’t spoken for more than an hour—but the silence is a relief. Now that we’ve given up on the weekend away, the only thing I’m still worried about is the weather. The snow has stopped, but there is heavy rain bouncing off the bonnet, performing an unpleasant percussion. We should slow down, but I think better of saying so—nobody likesa passenger-seat driver. It’s eerie how we haven’t seen a single other car or building since we left. I know it’s the middle of the night, but even the roads seem strange. The view rarely changes as though we’re stuck in a loop. The stars have all disappeared and the sky seems a darker shade of black. I notice that I’m colder than before too.
I turn to look at Amelia and she is an unrecognizable blur, the features on her face swirling like an angry sea. It feels like I am sitting next to a stranger, not my wife. The stench of regret diffuses through the car like a cheap air freshener, and it’s impossible not to know how unhappy we both are. When it comes to marriage, you can’t always make-do and mend. I try to speak, but the words get stuck in my throat. I’m not even sure what I was going to say.
Then I spot the shape of a woman walking on the road in the distance.
She’s dressed in red.
I think it’s a coat at first, but as we get nearer, I can see that she is wearing a red kimono.
The rain is falling harder, bouncing off the tarmac, and the woman is soaked to the skin. She shouldn’t be outside. She shouldn’t be in the road. She’s holding something but I can’t see what.
“Slow down,” I say, but Amelia doesn’t hear me, if anything she seems to speed up.
“Slow down!” I say again, louder this time, but she puts her foot on the accelerator.
I look at the speedometer as it rises from seventy miles an hour, to eighty, then ninety, before the dial spins completely out of control. I hold my hands in front of my face, as though trying to protect myself from the scene ahead, and see that my fingers are covered in blood. The pitter-patter of bullet-sized raindrops on the car is deafening, and when I look up, I see that the rain has turned red.
The woman is almost right in front of us now.
She sees our headlights, shields her eyes, but doesn’t move out of the way.
I scream as she hits the bonnet. Then watch in horror as her body bounces off the cracked windscreen and soars into the air. Her red silk kimono billows out behind her like a broken cape.
AMELIA
