Penult (Book Four of The Liminality)

  “This is not about me, stupid! I am not doing this for me. There are a million souls that need your help, not just now but in the future. Why can I not get this into your head?”

  She grabbed a heap of clean clothes plus one of the towels that Fiona had left for us on a card table and stomped off downstairs.

  ***

  We fetched Renfrew from the hospital about an hour before the wake. Fresh bandages covered his arm. An oxygen tube was taped to his beard. He insisted that we swing by the farm for a look-see. Helen tried to talk him out of it, but he could not be swayed. The fire had struck after midnight and he had been one of the first to be evacuated, so he had yet to see the full scale of the damage.

  I watched him out the corner of my eye as we passed through the gate. His face, ruddy in the calmest moments, went pale at the sight of the blackened timbers poking into to the sky.

  A smattering of goats stood arrayed atop some of the old slag heaps, watching us, almost with an air of bemusement.

  “Damned goats. Look at them. They’re scattered all over the place! It’s like we never had any fences.”

  “One of the fire trucks backed into the gate, Ren,” said Jessica.

  “But look at them! Munching away like nothing’s happened. Nothing at all.

  “They’re goats, Ren. Only goats.”

  “I know, but….”

  “I was crunching the numbers,” said Helen. “And you know, there might be enough from the insurance and maybe a small loan to rebuild something modest, something manageable. We can still make cheese.”

  “Make cheese! And why would I want to be doing that ever again?”

  “Because that’s what you do, Ren,” said Jessica. “That’s who you are.”

  “Count your blessings,” said Helen. “You were damn lucky to have come out as intact as you did.” She turned to me. “He was in the barn when it collapsed.”

  “Lucky, she says,” said the old man.

  ***

  At the funeral parlor, Renfrew was cordial most who came by to express their condolences to the family, but he avoided the father of the deceased, his own brother Ralph, who evaded Ren just as diligently. The sat at opposite ends of the first row of chairs facing the open coffin.

  Ren and Ralph weren’t the only ones having communication issues. Karla had withdrawn deep inside herself. She kept her arms clasped tight. As the night went on, she grew less and less responsive to my futile attempts at conversation. I half expected her to drift off to Root, but as far as I could tell, she stayed with us.

  Ren also grew more and more taciturn as the flow of visitors slowed to a trickle. Eventually, he sat slumped in his wheelchair, alert, but unable to conjure much more than a smile and a nod. As calling hours drew to a close, Jessica leaned over.

  “You don’t suppose Ren is a candidate for this Root place?” she asked. “I have never seen him so down.”

  “Ren?” said Helen, overhearing. “Don’t you have to be suicidal? Him? Never. He’s much too stubborn. The kind of man who would live to be a hundred just to spite the world.”

  Karla said nothing. She wouldn’t even look at me. When we filed out of the funeral room, she refused to take my hand.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  With Jessica pushing Ren’s wheelchair, we walked a few blocks to the sprawling house of Ren and Ralph’s cousin. Jamie Boyle was a banker and by far the most successful of his clan.

  The tables were piled with dishes people brought to share. Shepherd’s pie. Homemade lamb sausage with mint. Leek soup. Casseroles and cake. Bitters and spirits flowed freely. Karla ate sparingly. She mostly sat in the corner and sulked.

  Apart from occasional forays for food I sat beside her like a loyal dog. Spirits flowed freely and the chatter was vigorous. No one else seemed to notice that anything was wrong between us. This was a pot luck dinner after a wake. People grieved differently. A wide variety of reactions were expected and tolerated.

  But Karla’s quietude left me feeling extremely uneasy. This was more than grieving for her friend. She was mad at me for not going to Root like I had promised. We had never had a real spat before, so I didn’t know how to think or act. So I just sat there awkwardly, wondering if it would make things better or worse if I tried to take her hand.

  About an hour into the reception, she abruptly rose from her chair.

  “I’m going back to the house.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  This time, she let me take her hand, which I took as a major victory, and we made the rounds together, saying goodbye, passing on yet another round of condolences to Sturgie’s family and friends.

  Out on the street, an unusually sultry wind swirled through the gutters. The air was dank and heavy and smelled like rain. We walked several blocks in silence.

  “So tonight? You will go?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  The wind captured some candy wrappers and set them dancing around the base of a waste bin.

  “You think you can cross?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Good.” The tension in her hand relaxed and her fingers slipped more naturally into mine. “Maybe … we should sleep apart tonight.”

  “Why?”

  ”So you have space … to surf.”

  “I’ll be fine. No, stay with me. Please?”

  She gave me a sidelong, expressionless glance. “It is better you be alone.”

  The way she said it hit me hard in the gut.

  “Things are bad over there, huh?”

  “Yes. Bad.”

  The light was on in the townhouse. Britt had apparently snuck home before us. She had some paperwork spread out on the kitchen table. Paying bills, it looked like.

  “Things finally breaking up over there?” peering up over her reading glasses.

  “Yeah. Starting to,” I said.

  “Ren talk to Ralph at all?”

  “Not really. They just sort of grunted at each other.”

  Karla released my hand before I reached the attic stairs.

  “Aren’t you … coming up?”

  “I will sleep on the sofa.

  “Karla. That’s not necessary.”

  “But it is.” She went up on her toes and kissed me gently on the lips. “Be careful.”

  ***

  I found an old easy chair in the attic, turned it to face the window and stared out into the streetlights like I used to do at the farm when I wanted to visit Karla in Root.

  I brought my mood down as low as I could bring it, thinking only bad thoughts, filling my heart with all of the accumulated darkness I had deflected for months. I reached deep, bringing up stuff I didn’t like to think about: childhood regrets, my parents death’s, living in that storage unit, failed attempts at meeting girls, Karla’s first death at the hands of that wicked Fellstraw, everything ghastly or embarrassing and uncomfortable that I could ram into my head.

  The problem was, all that bad stuff came from the past. Its power over me had faded. The kernel of love and hope that now blazed in my heart was way too hot and bright to let the darkness prevail. All of the horrors and disappointments that had for so long haunted me just went up in smoke, incinerated.

  The roots again kept their distance. At least I could tell Karla in the morning that I had tried. I really had.

  Chapter 13: Gone

  The other gals had returned a little after midnight. I could hear Britt hush them as they stormed in all drunk and raucous, warning them not to wake Karla. Someone took a shower. Someone else brewed some tea. And now the house was still.

  I was still in that easy chair, curled up with a blanket, as a sultry wind swooped in though the open window. I considered lying, pretending I had crossed, but Karla had share so little of what had happened on the other side. If she pressed for any details whatsoever she would sniff out my lie. I had no choice but to admit defeat to her in the morning. Hopefully, she would understand. Some thin
gs were just not meant to be.

  I couldn’t bring myself to lay down on the futon alone, so I stayed in the easy chair, drifting in, drifting out. This way, at least I looked like I was making an effort. My tactic paid off when I heard Karla come creaking up the attic stairs sometime in the wee hours. She found me awash in moonlight.

  “So did you do it?” Excitement tinged her voice. “Did you go?”

  That face, so eager. She would be so pleased with if I said yes. I was so tempted to lie. “I … uh … no. I didn’t get there. But I tried … really hard.”

  Every last shred of love and empathy drained instantly from her face. She looked incredulous. “What is your problem?”

  “I don’t know. I tried! I’m a different person now. I mean, I might never go back. I’m sorry. It’s just how things are.”

  “I can’t believe you. I just ask you to go and see. Is that really so difficult?”

  “Yeah. It kind of is.”

  She huffed and went over to the futon, collapsing heavily, dragging the covers over herself.

  “I can give it another shot … tomorrow … after the funeral … or whenever.”

  “Good night.”

  “But … I have to tell you. I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

  “I said good night!”

  I settled down next to her on the futon. I tried putting my arm over her, she didn’t resist but she didn’t exactly respond. It took me the longest time to fall asleep.

  ***

  My dreams had a different quality this time, with the intensity, crispness of detail and sense of drifting omniscience I had last experienced in London before we went up north to find Sturgie. I saw that man again, not Wendell, but just as nicely dressed. One of his gang perhaps, or one of the Friends of Penult? Was he even a real person? Who’s to say?

  I could tell he was in Wales from the unpronounceable names on some signs. He wasn’t doing anything suspicious or threatening, just walking through a parking lot, but he carried an odd, bulging briefcase, like an old-fashioned doctor’s kit like you see in old movies from the times when docs still made house calls. My conscious hovered around him like a gnat, before it was swept away by the flow and went flitting through a hundred random minds.

  I woke up alone. Karla was an early riser. I figured she was just downstairs washing up or helping the ladies with their morning chores, the way she was wont to do wherever she went.

  I went downstairs to find breakfast preparations well underway. Helen and Jessica were setting a table for six. Britt was frying sausage and eggs. Fiona was mixing Bloody Marys.

  The funeral was scheduled for eleven. There was to be only a short ceremony at the cemetery because the Boyles were not the most religious family. They were pretty much agnostic.

  “You guys seen Karla?”

  “No,” said Britt.

  “She’s not with you?” said Fiona.

  “Perhaps she’s in the toilet, love,” said Helen.

  I stood there and twiddled my thumbs, feeling useless.

  “Anything … I can do.”

  “No worries love, we have things under control,” said Britt.

  “Why don’t you go and fetch some parsley from the garden?” said Fiona.

  I went out back and picked a fistful of parsley sprigs. Karla loved sitting out in the garden. I hoped to find her here, but the garden was empty.

  Layers of cloud shuttled fast overhead like they were in a hurry to get somewhere. A change in the weather was in the offing.

  I went back in and found the ladies already settling in at the table with their Bloody Marys. Britt went around and cracked fresh pepper into each glass.

  “No Karla?”

  Helen looked at me, got up quickly and checked the bathroom. The door was open, the room vacant.

  “How odd. You’re certain she’s not in the attic?”

  Could I have missed her somehow? Was she slumbering in the easy chair? I flew off the chair and ran back upstairs.

  The easy chair was vacant as was the rest of the attic. I found the sheets rumpled where she had slept beside me. But her little, battered suitcase sat open right where she had left it. Her dirty clothes lay wadded in the corner. I looked around hoping to find a note, but there was nothing.

  My heartbeat accelerated. A flush of panic brought heat to my face. I thudded back down the stairs.

  “She’s not here.”

  The ladies looked at me, their faces blank. Jess got up from the table and went to the mud room.

  “Her shoes are still here, right by the door,” she said.

  “Her purse is gone,” said Britt, checking the counter.

  “Oh, settle down you all,” said Helen. “The girl just went for a walk. It’s a beautiful, breezy morning. Give her a chance to breathe.”

  “She went for a walk without her shoes?” said Jess.

  “Why not?” said Helen. “It’s spring. Maybe she likes the feel of grass in her toes.”

  Jess pushed open the door and peered out into the garden. “The marble vase … on the stoop … was it broken before?”

  “Oh no!” said Fiona. “We bought that in Thailand. My fault. I shouldn’t have left it on the steps.”

  Jess came back in and sat back down with us. We passed around a pan of French toast and bacon. I wasn’t that hungry to begin with, and my appetite faded even more with every minute that passed and Karla did not walk through the door. I kept staring at the empty dish beside me.

  Afterwards, I helped clean up. I bused the table and washed the dishes, but before I was done drying them, Jess took my wrist and pulled me towards the door.

  “Come on you,” she said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  ***

  We climbed into the same lorry that Jess had once driven me to the train station in Cardiff back when Sergei had a bounty on my head and every criminal in Europe was on the lookout for me.

  “Let’s just drive around,” she said. “Maybe she got carried away and went for a longer walk than she planned. Maybe she’s lost her way.”

  So we cruised the streets of Brynmawr, up and down its avenues and alleys, car parks and vacant lots. There was a brown-haired girl sitting on a bench on the riverfront. I got excited for a moment, but it wasn’t her. She wasn’t anywhere on the streets of Brynmawr. Jess made sure of that, covering every stretch of pavement that could be accessed by vehicle.

  “Could it be … she went off to that place?” said Jess.

  “What place?”

  “You know. The place you told me about. Root?”

  “Well maybe, but you do realize that we … our bodies … don’t physically go there. Just our souls. Our bodies remain behind.”

  Jess sighed. “I did not know that. So you’re like … ghosts … over there?”

  “No. Just … different bodies.”

  “How odd. Two bodies. One soul.”

  We drove past a row of restaurants and pubs.

  “Maybe she’s in some café?”

  “But why?” I said. “She knew you guys would be making breakfast.”

  “Ah, let’s not worry ourselves unnecessarily. I’m sure she’ll be back in time for the funeral.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Did you two have a disagreement or something?”

  “Not really. I mean she wanted a favor from me. And I couldn’t deliver. But not because I didn’t try.”

  “She wanted you to cross.”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “You told us. Over Spades. Remember?”

  “Sorry. I’m not thinking straight.”

  “Give her a chance. She’ll come back. She’s probably just making a show of her displeasure. Maybe she’s back at the house already.”

  ***

  She wasn’t at the house. And she didn’t come back in time for the funeral either. That deep sense of dread I knew so well from my teenage days descended back over me with a vengeance, smothering, suffocating me with fear. It was the fee
ling that something unspecified but most definitely bad had gone down and being powerless to reverse it.

  Helen took me aside as we were headed back to the cars at the cemetery.

  “Don’t you think, at this point we should call the constables? File a missing person report?”

  “What do we tell them?”

  “That a young woman disappeared without a word and without her shoes, breaking a vase in the process.”

  “I suppose we could.”

  “What do you suppose happened?”

  “I don’t know. She either ran or way, or got taken. Or both.”

  “Both?”

  “Maybe she took off to be alone, and someone found her. Maybe it’s the same thing that happened to Isobel.”

  “Oh my. You mean—“

  “Edmund and his nut cases might have grabbed her. It’s one possibility.”

  “There are others?”

  I hadn’t told Jessica about Wendell and wasn’t sure I wanted to get into all that.

  “Yeah. There’s other possibilities related to Root.”

  That was about as far as I wanted to explain, and Jessica didn’t pry. To tell you the truth, after what happened to Sturgie and the farm, I didn’t want to think about what they might have done to Karla.

  My best hope was that she had simply run off to teach me a lesson. At least she took her purse which held most of my remaining cash.

  “Should we go straight to the Gwent police station then?”

  “You can go. I shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m traveling under a false identity.”

  “Alright. I’ll take Helen and we’ll file the report. They already have one for Izzie, so maybe they have some leads already. If not, maybe this will stir them into action. Two sisters, both gone missing in the same year.”

  ***

  The rain that threatened never came. The clouds split and gave way to a perfect sunny day, but this world had rarely looked so bleak and dark to me. It had nothing to do with the funeral. Sturgie was an afterthought, I’m ashamed to say. I barely knew him. But Karla was everything to me. And as hard as I tried to think positive thoughts about what had happened to her, the worst case scenarios came to dominate. I sat there at the funeral and brooded, blaming myself for being so stubborn in avoiding the Liminality. I certainly could have done better than my half-hearted attempts to cross.

  During the service, various people got up and said nice words about Sturgie, most recounting stories from before college and before Karla and I knew him. He wasn’t originally intending to go to college right away. I was his virtual replacement at the farm, at least in terms of the fence repairing and menial tasks that used to be his responsibility. To think if he had stayed another year tending goats, none of this would have ever happened to him. And Karla and I would be in a different place right now. Maybe together. Maybe not. I couldn’t help thinking of what might have been. These alternative scenarios were always better, of course, than what really happened.