Trapped Between

“Beth, are you okay? You don’t look so good.” Laura said, looking up from the cinema ticket book. “Has your coke gone down the wrong way?”

“I…..err….” I couldn’t even get it together to offer my sister a simple lie about extra fizzy coke, or a made up tale about an off tasting prawn sandwich from the dinner hall at school. I slammed my can down on the table and fled to the bathroom. I’d let Laura come her own conclusion.

I looked at my reflection in the mirrored cabinet that hung over the sink. She was right, I did look awful. Even in my meltdown the irony wasn’t lost on me, I had turned grey, as grey as him. I rested my forehead on the mirror, letting the cold glass press hard into my sweaty, pallid skin. My eyes stared back at me, wide and full of panic. The glass began to steam up from the short, sharp breaths I was sucking in and blowing out, like someone about to have a heart attack. I reached up with a shaky hand to wipe away the condensation.

“Beth?” Laura’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Are you puking in there?”

“Just give me a minute, will you?” My voice was an octave higher than usual and the words came out in a strained squeak. I pressed the toilet flush, letting Laura assume she was right about the vomit, and took a couple of deep breaths. I squeezed my eyelids together, counted to ten, and then opened the bathroom door.

“Better?” Laura’s face was full of worried concern.

“I think I might be coming down with something. I’ve felt a bit off it the last couple of days.” Well, at least that wasn’t really a lie.

“Maybe you should go and lie down for a bit, you look dreadful.”

I gave her a weak smile, more thankful than she could ever know for the excuse to escape upstairs, and headed up to my room. I banged my door shut behind me and sank onto the bed, pulling my pillow over my face. I had to get a grip of myself so I could think this through logically. Finally, after some more deep breathing, I was able to get my exhausted mind focus on the facts.

Fact one: the photograph, that accompanied the article about the incident in Laura’s scrapbook, would be the real Andrew Clayton. His parents, or whoever sanctioned the write-up, must have given it to the press. I blew out a long, shaky breath and gave myself a business like nod. This meant that the boy in the news clipping was the Andrew Clayton who committed suicide fifteen years ago. That was the rational bit, the bit that could be verified, dealt with.

Fact two: I had spent an hour or so yesterday, and the day before, and on Saturday, talking to a boy called Drew. A boy called Drew who claimed to be that Andrew Clayton. I suspended any verdict on that one for the time being and moved straight on to the next.

Fact three: when I had reached out to touch him, brush the grey leather of his jacket with my fingertips, I had felt absolutely nothing. He had been right in front of me, I had been talking to him, yet he hadn’t been there at all, not physically anyway.

Fact four: this final fact was the one that made the whole situation far more confusing and distressing than it needed to be. When I was with him it felt like time was standing still and every one of my senses had sharpened in some way. I felt like anything, and everything, was possible when I was next to him. When he smiled at me with that heart stopping smile, it seemed that even this, the impossible, was plausible.

Those were the facts.

Four facts that when stated so simply, when laid out in front of me so clearly, suggested only one logical conclusion. And impossible as it seemed I had to face the facts. Drew was Andrew Clayton, an eighteen year old boy, who fifteen years ago flung himself off the railway bridge in Newlington and killed himself. He was real and he wasn’t real. I had somehow seen him, and he me, and I had vowed to meet him again at the memorial.

I checked the clock. In one hour I would be there, there was no other option for me. I would be there; it was that simple.

I was disturbed by the sound of my mum trying to close my bedroom door; I had been so lost in the task of trying to align the facts that I hadn’t heard her open the door in the first place.

“Mum?” I croaked, genuinely sounding like someone who had just been sick. “I’m awake.”

“Sorry, love,” my mum’s concerned face poked back through the gap, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Laura said you weren’t feeling too well.”

I nodded weakly and pushed myself up onto my elbows.

“I’m going to do tea early so Laura can eat with us before she heads back home, though I’m not sure she’ll have room after all the biscuits.” My mum raised her eyebrows at me and smiled a knowing smile.

It worked. I smiled back and shook my head, mystified. “How do you always know when we’ve been in the good biscuits, Mum?

“Mothers always know,” she said as she closed my bedroom door behind her.

I swung my legs off the bed, relieved that her mother’s intuition hadn’t turned its radar on me. I’d have to get going if I was going to make it on time. My stomach tightened with a squeeze of anxiety, but I felt something else stirring alongside it. Something that felt a lot like excitement.

I grabbed my iPod and, even though I felt an eagerness about getting to the memorial, I walked slowly down the stairs, trying to act like a girl who had just thrown up. My mum looked surprised to see me when I stepped into the kitchen. My dad and sister smiled warmly as they sat together, flicking through Laura’s scrapbooks that were still piled up on the table.

“I don’t fancy any tea yet. Is it okay if a go out for a walk? I think some fresh air will do me good.” Yet another lie.

“Of course, love.” My mum’s concerned smile was back on her face. “I’m sure Laura won’t mind staying on a bit longer if I do tea later on, let’s say six?” She looked inquiringly at Laura who nodded in response. “Do you think you’ll be able to manage something then, Beth?”

“Yes, I think so,” I was shrugging my coat on. “I’ll be back for then.”

Outside, the dark was already starting to pull in. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but it had left fingers of burnt orange and red staining the sky as the clouds, rain clouds again, rolled in. The breeze had picked up too, and brown squelchy leaves blew around my feet as I set off up the road.

The facts hadn’t changed, but they had somehow all lined up in order, straightforward and tidy. Drew was Andrew Clayton who had committed suicide fifteen years ago, he was beautiful, he was probably not real, and he made me feel like the sun could fight its way through the dark cloak of evening and set the whole world on fire.

I was resolute; I had promised to help him and I would. I was a girl who needed all the details, so I vowed to myself that I would keep some self-control this time, I would not be the one doing all of the talking. My heart sped up the closer I got to the park and my tongue seemed to have swollen to twice its usual size. I swallowed hard around it as I pushed through the gates.

He was there.

He was sat against the stone monument, grey jean cladded knees drawn up to his chest. A wary smile fluttered on his flawless lips and his pale, grey eyes looked anxious.

“Hi… Drew,” I stammered, struggling to say his name around my fat, dry tongue.

His smile stretched, all the wariness smoothing away, and the look of anxiety melted from his eyes, leaving them clear and bright.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, unfolding his long legs and pushing himself up onto his feet.

“I promised you I would, didn’t I?” I frowned. Regardless of what I’d found out, and what I knew we would have to broach tonight, I was never not going to come. I had told him I would help him, and I wasn’t going to back out on that promise. I wasn’t like that.

“You did, but I wasn’t sure it would be a promise you could keep, you know, in light of…” he trailed off; angst tightening into feathery creases around his eyes. I had the sudden urge to push my finger along each crease, to smooth them away. I shook my head, trying to clear it, I had to keep focussed.

“I’m here,” I stated, simply.

My heart was hammering in my ribs, like it was trying to break free of my body. It wasn’t fear this time, that made me feel like passing out; it was the way his eyes scorched into mine, as if he could look into the very depths of my soul. I wasn’t just here because I had a promise to keep, I wanted to be here, I wanted to be with him.

“So…” I wasn’t sure how to begin. I looked down at my hands in embarrassment and decided honesty was the best policy. “I know about you…I mean… I know about what happened to you.” A sheen of sweat began to glisten on each of my fingertips, I hastily wiped them down my jeans. “After what you said to me yesterday…I did some research, made some inquiries…so you can go ahead and tell me why you need my help. Like I said, I already know.”

I blew out a much needed breath. That had been the hardest, most important thing I’d ever had to say, and I’d stumbled and stammered all the way through it like some kind of buffoon.

I risked a peek up at his face, still twisting at my hot, damp fingers. His eyebrows had pulled down over his eyes and his forehead was furrowed into lines of tension and worry. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then shut it again. I guessed he was struggling with what to say as much as me. He looked into the darkness for what felt like a really long time. Finally, he turned back, stared deep into my eyes, and opened his mouth again.

“So, you already know I’m dead,” he said. He tried to make light of it, make it seem like the most normal thing in the world, but under the joviality his voice was quiet and tinged with desperation.

I nodded, not daring to speak, patiently waiting for him to go on.

“I guess your research,” he cocked an eyebrow, “told you what happened?” I nodded. “Did it tell you that I died on the railway tracks, after throwing myself off the bridge?”

As simple as that, he’d said it. He had mentioned an incident on the bridge yesterday, but had left me to work out what he had meant. Today was different; he had just come out and said it.

I waited for the panic to hit me again, he’d said the horrendous truth about what had happened, but my mind stayed still, like the calm before a storm. Desperation was back in his grey eyes, as he waited, imploring me to say something. I realised I was being unfair, I couldn’t let him say something like that and then stay silent, I had to let him know that I was somehow okay with it.

“Actually, I already knew that.” I couldn’t believe how calm and conversational my voice was.

“Oh?” he questioned, trying to copy my casual tone.

“Yes, I boy at my school died this week.” My voice faltered at that and I struggled to bring the casualness back. “He…he killed himself, too.”

His eyes glazed over and he looked like he was miles away, or years away, fifteen at a likely guess. Minutes passed, long drawn out minutes, with me fidgeting with my sweaty fingers and him staring off into the distance.

“So,” he finally said, looking back at me with grey, beseeching eyes. “I’m going to need your help with what happens next.”

“What?” I breathed, more confused than ever before. “What does happen next?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. He looked sad and desperate again. “All I know is that I don’t feel like I should be here.”

My stomach dropped.

“Do you mean with me?” I gasped. A horrible feeling of rejection punched me in the gut. I couldn’t breathe, like I was doubled over, gasping for air.

“No, no,” he shook his head. “I am supposed to be here with you, that bit I am sure about.”

Relief flooded through me, filling my lungs with luxurious air.

“But,” he carried on. “I think you are supposed to help me get to where I need to go.”

“Which is…?” I left my question hanging, hoping he’d tell me what he was talking about, because I was clueless.

Suddenly, my last philosophy lesson popped into my head, like a light being switched on. Words like purgatory, limbo and heaven flittered around in front of my eyes, like moths drawn to the flame.

Is that what he meant?

“What are you? A ghost? An angel?”

For a moment silence engulfed us, and I wasn’t really sure if I’d asked my questions out loud.

“Huh!” he scoffed, a harsh, bitter sound that ripped into the soft, darkness, shattering the silence. “They don’t let suicide victims in.”

I stared at him, shocked; I felt my mouth drop open. They don’t let suicide victims in, his bitter tirade stabbed into my brain like a knife; I winced, slamming my mouth shut.

My mind started working frantically, trying to get a grasp on what he’d said. I guess he meant Heaven. We had learnt about it in class, suicide is a sin. Pretty much every religion condemned it, and you either went to Hell or some kind of limbo, if you took your own life.

Is that what he meant?

My face felt numb.

He opened his arms and gestured to the park, cold and dark around us. “I’ve been here, literally here, or at the market for the last fifteen years and nothing ever changes. It’s like I’m stuck.”

I walked through the market pretty much every day on my way home from school, and I went every Saturday to get our family’s fruit and veg. I couldn’t believe I would have missed him if he’d been there, or ever forgotten his face if I’d caught even the slightest glimpse. I almost laughed out loud at the thought. Since seeing him on Saturday it was like his image had been branded on the inside of my eyelids, I knew I could never have forgotten him if I had seen him before. His was all I seen since Saturday, even when I was asleep.

“I wonder why I’ve never seen you before,” I whispered.

“I guess you weren’t ready to see me.”

“I see you now.”

And I did. My eyes roved over him, greedily, absorbing every inch. I wanted to commit him to memory, before he upped and vanished again. Everything about him was the same as the first time I’d seen him, everything down to the way his leather jacket hung off his shoulders and the hems of his jeans were ripped and caught under his trainers. Actually, not everything was exactly the same as the first day I’d seen him in the market, he’d laced his trainers with the bright silver laces again.

He twitched his feet and let out a soft chuckle, clearly aware that I had been soaking up as much of him as I could. I was mortified; he had obviously been watching me devour him, so I kept my eyes on his shoes, waiting for the blood in my cheeks to disperse.

I couldn’t keep my eyes away from his face for long though; the desire to look at him was like the pull of a magnet. When I looked back up, his head was bowed; he looked thoughtful, his chuckle forgotten, as he stared at his trainers, twitching his feet again.

“Actually, I’m wrong to say nothing ever changes,” he said, perplexed. “Those have changed.”

He kept his face down, but I could see his eyes flick to the side, sneaking a quick glance at me. I stared at his laces wondering how to respond, wondering why he seemed so surprised and puzzled about them.

“I noticed that you’d changed them, yesterday,” I finally said.

“I didn’t change them, they did it themselves!” He sounded almost indignant.

“You can’t be serious,” I blurted out.

“I am. I think they changed because of you.”

“What?” I squeaked.

“This is good,” he said, upbeat, optimistic. “Change is good, fifteen years of nothing, is not. I told you that I feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere else, that I don’t think I’m supposed to be stuck here like this, trapped between this and whatever comes next. I think that when you said you’d help me yesterday; you did something, something important.”

I didn’t know what to say.

What he was saying was crazy, insane. I realised that I had to be a little bit insane, to accept that he was who he was, a boy who was dead, but believing that I had somehow changed him, after all this time? That really was madness.

His face was lit up, excited, like a child who thought something really good was coming. I didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to say anything that might burst his bubble.

He lifted his hand, and for a crazy moment I thought he was going to reach out and touch my face. I closed my eyes, more out of embarrassment than expectation, embarrassed that I knew he couldn’t touch me, even though I desperately wanted him to. The knowledge that no touch would ever come made me feel deflated and slack inside.

An intense heat, a white hot flame, touched my chin, with the lightness of a burning feather. With my eyes still closed, and the knowledge that I was insane, I allowed myself to pretend it was his hand cupping my face. The searing heat burned my chin, flicking out tongues of fire that licked along my jaw, searing a path towards my left cheek bone.

The whole world vanished, dissolved, slid away, until all I was aware of was the heat on my skin and the thrumming of what felt like a thousand birds taking flight in my ribcage.

The fire continued its slow trail and I found myself tipping my face up towards it, like I needed its heat against my skin. It travelled across my mouth and I felt my lips part open beneath it; I was lost completely to the sensation of fire and feathers.

The force of the birds beating their wings in my chest was becoming painful; it was as if they were fighting amongst each, trying to rip their way out of my chest so that they could fly away into the darkness. The beating of the birds and the fire on my face became overwhelming, and I hear myself cry out.

My eyelids snapped open and I sat up. Instantly the burning feather fell away from my face, leaving my skin exposed and raw. His glorious grey eyes, which were only inches away from mine, shone with a light that was both forceful and tender at the same time.

Had he touched me?

“I don’t think you realise, Beth,” he whispered. “How pleased I am that it is you who saw me.”

My head swam. My skin felt tingly where the heat had moved across it and my tongue had swollen again, thick and spongy, so when I tried to swallow, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. I sat frozen, aware that confusion and disbelief were colouring my cheeks. As if I had lost all control of my body, I felt myself leaning toward him, craving, yearning for the feathery burn that had disappeared so suddenly.

I was trapped in his eyes, unable to look away. I could feel myself sinking, but this time I wasn’t looking for a safe harbour to cling to. I wanted to be lost in them forever. I wanted to drown in them.

I pulled in a ragged breath, as the grey waves washed over me, and it pulled me from my trance. I cleared my throat, mortified, and pulled away from him.

The final fact that I had faced when I was laid in my room, after seeing his photograph in Laura’s scrapbook, was outstretched in my mind, filling ever brain cell. As insane as it was, considering he was dead and that he had been for the last fifteen years, I could feel myself falling, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I was falling hard.

I looked into his tender, grey eyes and saw both warmth and sincerity. Was I wrong to think he was feeling the same way? Was I a fool to think that he felt this strange surging, mass of emotions that I felt inside?

I shook my head, trying to shake out the madness. Of course he didn’t feel the same. He had just told me that he was stuck here and needed my help to free him. He’d said that he felt like he was supposed to be somewhere else, somewhere I couldn’t go. Regardless of how much I wanted to be here with him, he wanted to be somewhere else.

“Okay,” I swallowed against the irrational, soul destroying feeling that I was losing something, and blinked back the hot tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks. “How do we get you unstuck?” I said, with only the slightest tremor in my voice.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice was thick, choked up with unspoken emotion.

He sat back and cleared his throat. The sound of his cough broke the spell, shattered whatever had been hanging in the air between us and when he spoke again, his voice sounded firm and determined. “What I do know is that I can’t do this on my own; I can’t do this without you.”

“I’m in.” I said, trying to match his tone. “But I still don’t get what you need me to do.”

“I need you to help me with the facts,” he said, searching my face, pinning me to the spot with his grey scrutiny. “I need you to help me get the facts straight.”

“What facts?” I asked.

“Facts like, what happened on the railway bridge that night. Facts like, I don’t think I jumped.”

The stones that had started to crumble were back up to their full weight, pressing down on my insides, like granite. An untimely, and inappropriate, laugh threatened to surge up from amongst them and break out of my mouth. “Oh, come on, Drew,” I laughed, feeling my mind heading towards a snap. “How else did you end up in front of an express train?” I knew I sounded insensitive, but I was concentrating too hard on keeping my head from breaking into pieces.

I looked into face, and his grey eyes were grim and flat, like hard stones. He was deadly serious, and I had to make a conscious effort not to throw up as the pieces of my mind snap away from each other.

My throat felt tight and scratchy, like the inappropriate laugh had scraped it raw and my head felt like it had been ripped away from my body. I kept up the battle against the bile so that it wouldn’t erupt out of my torn and ragged neck like a fountain.

“You didn’t jump, did you? I whispered in horror. My face felt warm, which was odd considering it was no longer attached to my body, no longer had any blood flowing to it.

“No,” he whispered back, “I don’t think I jumped. I think I was pushed.”