Chapter 29
ALICE
The call of seagulls is dampened by the grey clouds overhead. I take a deep breath as I look out towards the horizon.
Spence’s words still echo in a flash of rhythm: I’m done. I’m done… like the lap of waves against the shoreline. I try to ignore the pull at the pit of my stomach.
I shouldn’t have come.
A fishing boat makes slow progress in the distance.
Despite the sea breeze whipping my hair around my head, sweat is running beneath my blue halter neck.
Behind me, a dog barks loudly. I step back from the seaweed and pebbles, sinking deep into the sand.
I turn to see a golden retriever straining against its lead.
The owner is wearing a denim jacket: same dark hair, same build.
My heart quickens, but reality slams against my ribcage.
This is a man who looks like Mike as he did in 1985, not someone in their seventies.
He smiles easily as he walks past, his stride relaxed.
Dipping down onto his knees, he unleashes the dog and throws a ball.
I drain the takeaway coffee and glance at my watch.
It’s 9 a.m. An hour has already slipped by.
I shade my eyes, looking towards the cliff, the broken bones of the abbey stretching their cracked joints towards the sky.
I can see why Bram Stoker was inspired; there is something haunting about the skeleton of the building filled with ghosts and history.
You’d rather chase a ghost than see what’s right in front of you. My skin pricks despite the warmth.
I make my way through the cobbled streets, past small souvenir shops, the buildings a mismatch of old and new, white and brown stonework.
The steps are wide and stretch on and on.
Christ. I haven’t been to the gym since I left London; this is going to kill me.
No wonder there are handrails either side.
I take a deep breath and begin to make my way up.
Doubt creeps in – unless Michael’s really fit, he might struggle to climb this.
I cast my eyes around, looking for another way towards the abbey, but it’s set on a cliffside.
I blot my inner voice telling me to go home, to go back to Spence, to find another way out of the mess of my life, but my feet continue to climb.
Halfway up, I rest my palm on the rails.
The town, the traffic, and the waves crashing melts away.
The air stirs, time slipping away with each step, my calves aching, my breath coming in sharp bursts.
I pay for my ticket and make my way through the visitor centre.
The abbey broods above but then the clouds clear and buttery light forces its way through the empty window frames, warming the carcass, bringing it to life.
I let myself take in the height of the remaining walls.
For a split second I see him, sitting with his back against one of the walls, head thrown back laughing, a can of beer in his hand, jostling and laughing with his friends. I blink and the image fades.
I stare up at the arches and stone walls that have been here for centuries.
It’s quiet, just a few people walking slowly around the neat grass carpeted beneath the Gothic structure.
I scan the surroundings, looking for the best place to see new arrivals.
My eyes land on a vibrant stretch of green leaning towards the edge of the cliff; an open space, the abbey rearing up behind.
From there I should be able to see every visitor coming and going.
The slope is gentle, the breeze from the North Sea behind takes the edge off the warmth of the sun that has pushed the clouds away. The ground is still damp, but I know by midday it will be warm. This is the perfect spot. I can see everything: the town, the sea, the steps.
Time stretches ahead. All I can do is wait.
I drink in every new person, every family, every face. After a few hours they all muddle together: families with picnics; tourists with cameras looped around their necks; a school trip with clipboards and packed lunches.
But none of them are him.
Time drags its heels. I eat. I drink. I watch.
The sun starts to take lazy steps towards the horizon, the colours and shadows changing.
And despite everything in my body telling me to leave, that this is stupid. I wait.