‘So... my name is Fen and I’m an addict. I’mas bewildered as you will be when you hear about this. But these days, I...well, I just can’t stop sniffing washing powder.’
Lottie
CHAPTER NINE
It’s two-thirty in the morning and even with thewindow open, it’s stiflingly hot in my tiny single room in the B&B. I’veturned my pillow over several times to find a cool place, and I’ve even resortedto counting sheep, but it’s no use.
I just can’t sleep.
Probably because, try as I might, I can’t stop thinkingabout those letters addressed to us over at the house. Two for Dylan. And twofor me.
I want to open mine. But then again, I really don’t. Lyinghere, hot and despairing, I’m feeling quite sick at the thought of tearing thefirst envelope open and reading the contents of the letter.
*****
Driving through the night to Sycamore House, with a milky fullmoon gleaming overhead, feels strangely spooky.
But I need to read those letters. I’ll never be able torelax properly until I do.
Turning into the drive, though, I have second thoughts. Thehouse lies ahead of me, dark and menacing, and I feel like turning around andheading straight back to the B&B.
But I remind myself why I’m here. All I need to do is slipinside, grab the letters and take them away with me. It’s daft to be spooked bya building, however many dark memories may be hidden in its walls.
The past has gone. I’m looking forwards now and I refuse toallowanyoneto get in the way of my future.
Especially not her.
Opening the letters will hopefully neutralise the horrible trepidationI’ve been feeling ever since I realised who they were from. Reading them willbanish the fear... the gut-wrenching fear of the effect herwords might have on me.
My key grates in the lock, the sound magnified ahundred-fold in the still of the night. Quickly, I make my way through themoonlit hall to the kitchen, wrench open the cutlery drawer and snatch up thefour letters. Then I pause and return the two addressed to Dylan to the drawer.He’ll be back one day to read them himself.
But will he?
The thought zips into my head as I flee from the house, diveback into the car and reverse back up the driveway, revving it loudly in myeagerness to escape.
Thinking of Dylan makes me feel panicky and hollow inside. Eventhough I hate him for abandoning me, at the same time, I long to see him...to know that he’s all right. But as the months and now the years are passingwithout a word, I know I have to stop wishing and hoping. If I want to move onwith my life, I need to somehow make peace with the fact that I may never see mywonderful, kind, sensitive brother again...
*****
Back in my stifling room, I place the two letters on thebed beside me and cross my arms tightly over my stomach, psyching myself up toread them.
With trembling hands, I pick up the earliest dated letter, slidemy thumb under the lip of the envelope and tear it open.
It contains a single sheet of notepaper, folded once, andthe wording is sparse. I read it quickly and drop the letter back on the bed.An aching lump lodges in my throat as I stare, unseeing, at the wall opposite.
My eyes are dry as I reach for the second envelope, tear itopen and scan the words. It’s slightly longer but not much. Emotion swellsinside me... a huge surge of bitter anger, pain and sorrowassaulting my senses in a bewildering barrage of feeling. But I refuse to givein to it.
Biting hard on my lower lip to keep the tears at bay, I tearthe letters into bits, leap off the bed and drop them in the wastepaper bin.
CHAPTER TEN
Next morning, I wake early after a restless night.After a quick breakfast of toast and marmalade and coffee, I decide to driveover to Sycamore House and have a look at the damage I did to the wall the daybefore.
I haven’t heard from Eddie since our dispiriting phone calland I need to decide what I’m going to do. But when I get over there and seethe mess I’ve made, I honestly feel like crying, which isn’t like me at all.Being back here is really taking its toll on my emotions.
Feeling a sudden urge to get away, I grab my bag and marchout of the kitchen and through the hall, slamming the door behind me. Then Istart walking fast, not really knowing where I’m going, turning left into thelane at the bottom of the driveway.
As I walk, I recall my shock at seeing Mum’s teapot on theworktop the day before. How could I have forgotten about it? I saw it everysingle day, growing up. It was part of the fabric of my youth, just like thepictures on the walls and the old bench in the garden. But somehow, I’d managedto wipe them all from my mind.
