1 Everleigh Ghosts That We Knew—Mumford & Sons
Everleigh
Ghosts That We Knew—Mumford & Sons
I married a monster.
And by now, he knows I’m gone.
The first time I met Christopher Banks, one year into running his private psychiatry practice on Harley Street in London’s upper echelon, I swooned. Polite, shy, twenty-four-year-old Everleigh upped and left as I considered how much I wanted to wrap my legs around his head.
Those perceptive midnight blue eyes, brimming with intimidating intelligence that would make any insecure man uncomfortable, cut deep into my soul and cracked open a hidden part of me. A part full of desperation to be seen, wanted, and loved.
It wasn’t a meet-cute.
It felt more like a vivisection.
The silver-tongued devil was a walking, talking parental dream, newly minted with a sizeable inheritance, fiercely intelligent, successful, and to top it all off, unbelievably handsome.
My mother particularly loved his wealthy, upper-class family tree. She didn’t want to marry her only daughter off to any old Joe. For my entire life, she controlled my choices and decisions. My marriage was no different.
I wanted to hate Christopher for that reason.
But then he spoke.
God, that voice.
His soul-stripping, feather-light timbre—a perfect rendition of the therapist’s voice I’d soon come to despise—crawled inside my ear canals, burrowed into my misfiring brain, and lit up every last nerve ending until I was drunk on pure oxytocin.
“Everleigh?”
He spoke with such authority and confidence it was like he was addressing an assembly of dignitaries instead of charming a naive socialite forced into vintage Chanel. His attention made me feel that significant to him.
“Do I know you?”
“Christopher Banks. It’s a pleasure.”
“Ah, the doctor. Lovely to finally meet you.”
“So you have heard of me. I’m flattered.”
I wanted to crawl on my knees and kiss his shining leather shoes just to beg for him to speak to me again.
Christopher made me feel seen. He shone a light on something that had long since adapted to the darkness, ever since my father died of a heart attack when I was a teenager and left me in the care of a woman obsessed with augmenting her social status.
“Did you know that your name is loosely translated as ‘from heaven’s meadow’?”
“Oh . . . well, no. I didn’t know that.”
“Your mother chose it well. She also did not oversell your beauty.”
Fuck, his presence was blinding. I was an anxious person even then, but nothing could dull the mesmerising intensity that Christopher wielded like a battle-axe. Caught in his stare, I felt beautiful. Wanton. Desirable.
And I fell straight into his trap.
Hook, line, and sinker.
The blaring of a horn rips me from my musings, throwing me back into a different reality. Far from high-society parties and flirtatious monsters laying compliments like crumbs to lure a hungry child.
My eyes are two cracked lake-beds nestled in my throbbing skull, swollen from crying behind the ridiculous, oversized sunglasses I’m still wearing. I look insane, but I can’t answer another rendition of Are you okay? without losing it.
I’m not.
But I haven’t been for a long time.
“Would you give me the honour of this dance, Meadow?”
Fist balled, I smash it into my forehead.
“Get out of my head,” I whimper quietly. “Get out, get out, get out.”
The movement causes the purple, handprint-shaped bruise that marks my forearm to ignite. I wince at the sharp sting. My skin still prickles from his furious grip cinched around my arm.
“How dare you interrogate me? I’m your husband! I’ve given you everything!”
His voice dredges up harrowing fragments of a puzzle I’ve tried my best to dismantle. The pieces lie scattered all around me now, jagged and razor sharp, slashing me open with each breath I take away from him.
Sighing, I fist my backpack’s strap, pulling it over my shoulder in preparation to stand. One foot in front of the other. One breath. Another day. If I break survival down into individual seconds, perhaps I can do this.
“Next stop coming up.”
My thumb jabs into the bus’s “Stop” button, legs trembling beneath me with each stumble towards the front of the ancient rust bucket on wheels.
I’m almost too exhausted to function, but adrenaline does wonders for fleeing across the country on next to no sleep. I no longer have the energy to feel my sweaty skin or aching bones after countless harrowing nights spent on the run.
“This your stop, love?”
With a glance, I assess the ageing bus driver for any signs of threat. “Yes.”
“Alrighty then. Coming up.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re out awful late. This is the last service.”
“I finished work late.” I lie far too easily.
“Mm. I hear that.”
Pulling into the bus shelter, illuminated by the orange glow of a wrought iron street lamp cutting through the fog, he casts me a not-so-subtle look. His grey brows are drawn together, forming a concerned caterpillar.
“Travelling alone tonight?”
My lips stitch themselves shut. Yes. For the rest of my life, hopefully.
“No need to look like that, I’m just being friendly,” he chitters on. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
I tighten my grip on the bag. “What makes you say that?”
His eyes graze over me. “Haven’t seen you around. This is a small town, not a lot of footfall in the winter. I know most of the folks who get off here.”
Fidgeting, I feel even dirtier beneath his gaze. I ditched my expensive pea coat, five-inch heels, and oversized Prada travel bag in the last hotel. One of several I’ve bounced between of late, only paying in cash.
As time has worn on, my cash stash dwindled to mere pennies. It’s been two days since my last real meal besides gulping water in public bathrooms, and just as long since I showered.
“No,” I answer neutrally. “I’m not from here.”
“I thought as much. We don’t get new faces that often around here in the off season.”
“I’m just passing through.”
“Visiting family?”
A white-hot flush of panic washes through me. My skin tightens and prickles as alarm bells fill my ringing ears. The walls have eyes. Bought-and-paid-for eyes, accessible to this world’s elite. My husband’s eyes.
“Something like that.” I almost swallow my tongue as I attempt to moisten my bone-dry mouth.
“Well, be careful out there. The fog’s low tonight.”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Travel safe, ma’am.”
Nodding, the driver watches me exit the empty bus, my shoulders slumped and chin tucked down. He thankfully departs before a full, crippling panic attack can capture my lungs.
My wrung-out body hasn’t recovered from the last one that engulfed me in Sheffield’s bus station several hours earlier. I accidentally looked into the CCTV camera, then convinced myself that someone was following me.
It took half an hour in the bathroom, collapsed on stained linoleum with the heels of my palms digging into my streaming eyes, to wait the panic attack out. Then I took the first bus out of there, uncaring of the destination.
“Breathe,” I scold myself, yanking the stupid sunglasses off and pocketing them. “He isn’t here. You’re safe.”
But no matter how many times I whisper the same comfort to myself, through countless crappy budget hotels and late nights dozing on public transport, the debilitating fear remains.
Looking around, velvety darkness reveals nothing. I’m far enough north for the temperature to have dropped several degrees. The fog is so dense, it licks my cold face and sinks deep into my open pores.
Clenching the second-hand hoodie I hurriedly purchased tighter to my body, I fend off a shiver. The road inclines sharply ahead, but there are no more street lights. Nothing but fog, drizzling rain, and darkness.
“Shit.”
Condensation clouds the air with my whispered curse.
Where the hell am I?
My white-knuckled grasp on my backpack is the only thing holding me steady. If I try hard enough, I can convince myself that I have someone’s hand to hold. That I’m not utterly alone in this nightmare. In this life.
Then reality sets back in, and I remember it’s a fabric strap clutched in my palm and not the warm hand of a loved one. I don’t have any of those. In fact, I doubt anyone cares that I’m gone. Not even the housekeeper.
Move, Ever.
You can’t afford to rest.
I have no idea why the British countryside is so street light averse, but I only manage two stunted steps before turning back. The road ahead is pitch black. I’m not looking to break an ankle in the dead of night.
Huddling in the corner of the metal bus shelter, I sink to my haunches, the backpack spooned tight against my chest. It has all my remaining worldly possessions—some dirty clothing, a handful of crumpled cash, and an energy bar.
The rising panic intensifies, filling me with furious hornets that blur my vision. I’ve been running blindly with no plan or destination. How much longer can I keep going? No food. Dwindling money. Zero energy.
A pang of self-loathing makes me slap my own cheek. Pathetic. I can’t stop yet. I’ll run until I can’t go any farther, and it still won’t be safe. He’s breathing down my neck, inching ever closer to his escaped pet.
“Oh, darling wife. You’ve been very, very bad. What am I going to do with you?”
Fingernails sink into my lungs, scratching the fragile organs. The same bruising grip that clenched around my wrist and marked my skin. Just thinking about that final confrontation causes determination to bloom.
No.
I have to keep going.
When dawn breaks, I’ll locate the town centre and catch the next ride onwards, farther still from London. Even if I have to beg for shelter or food, it’ll be a better life than the prison I’ve left behind. I’ll take it.
My limbs freeze and lock up, bent at unnatural angles to fit into the dimly lit corner as tightly as possible. Nothing but thin metal walls and my cheap, scratchy hoodie protect me from the elements.
To think I once slept in a California king bed with silk sheets laundered by a housekeeper paid more than most surgeons. I turned my nose up at food if it wasn’t organic. Spent upwards of four hours washing my hair and layering skin products on my face.