End of Graves

PROLOGUE: OLIVER Rain fell in torrents onto colourless streets cleansing the gutters of gathered filth. Menacing grey clouds filled the sky to all points on the horizon. Thunder boomed like a call from angered Gods, its echo rattling through concrete canyons before dissipating into infinity. Down in the streets people busied like ants in their nest paying little heed to the tortured sky. Perhaps they’d seen this mood all too often before. A lone figure shuffled through the rain clutching a package under his left arm. He pushed open the double doors to enter a world of beer and noise, punctuated only by the forest of animated patrons. Dust motes hung delicately in light shafts emanating from the mezzanine floor, suspended on invisible hairs. Layers of people moved about the room, their parallel universes converging and separating. Do you believe in fairies? a voice queried from within as shapes floated through his vision. He stood quietly surveying the scene, rain-water pooled at his feet. Friday was always busy time at ‘The POCOCK Inn’. It was after ten now and the place was heaving. Just inside the main door he could see a large window that had recently been replaced during renovations. Through the large frame the world was still, eternal darkness fell like a cloak. Somewhere through the bleak evening, thunder boomed and black streams began to run mournfully down the window. Interestingly the entire room was reflected in the glass like he was looking into an adjacent room. Weaving his way carefully through several conversations, Oliver suddenly found himself face to face with himself, through the veil of black tears. I do, replied the voice in his head, echoing a painful past, when She was still alive, still his, the girl that had become the other half of himself. A figure rose in the mirrored image and carved its way through the crowd leaving a ‘petite blonde’ shaped silhouette in the crowd. All girls reminded him of Her now, all of them were shaped the same, looked the same, laughed the same. But they weren’t the same. The all pervading solitude now followed him like an unwanted curse, too fast becoming his only reality. He was not going to spend his days in grim acceptance. Ambition had become a new word in his vocabulary. Just climb right up there off the flat line of ordinary life and hang on. Gripping the parcel under his arm tighter, the young man slowly turned from the reflection, walked to the door and disappeared into the night. Tossing his rain-spattered jacket onto the back of his comfy chair, the front door banged shut echoing twice about the room. Strolling to the kitchen, a feeble warmth crept around him protectively as he threw on the light switch and a flourescent strip flickered into action. A kitchen cupboard produced a tube of Pringles so he rolled a line onto the counter. Even though it was three in the morning, he had no inclination for bed so poured a generous scotch, returned to the sofa via the stereo, choosing soft music. Collapsing back into his chair he stared blankly at the package against the wall as if looking through it. His mind tumbled over many things as he sipped at the drink. This solitary life he embraced right now was fun at times, but it was the creeping emptiness that returned to accompany him on nights such as this. Whisky had become the crutch that had helped dispel the loneliness he felt about himself and the life he had built since a terrible accident now almost two years adrift. The image of silhouettes walking through the reflection at the pub came to him again and he shivered. That was what all his miseries really were, ghosts that whisper to you when you’re alone, ghosts that return to taunt you when you least want them to. Ghosts that remind you what you should have done, could have done, perhaps in a another universe. His was a cerebral haunting. Music faded and the flat remained silent. He drained his scotch so went to pour another and steal more Pringles. “Full speed ahead.” he muttered as he returned to the parcel and ripped the paper searching for the contents. Left, right. Oliver had to get on with life, he had told himself as much so many times. Left. Game commenced, journey resumed. Right. But there was still a missing cog in the machine, something that ate him up, something that nagged at him, feeling like a tangible presence. He didn’t like exhuming the old family skeletons, it was morbid and utterly useless going over something that could not be changed. ‘Never cross old bridges’ was the maxim he had used for years, but sometimes you had to admit that burning bridges gave off enough light in which to see the way forward. Oliver had always thought that sounded rather wise, and he liked pocket wisdoms. Simple philosophies that gave meaning and direction to the fast yet mediocre world he lived in. The package revealed itself; it was an old convex mirror he’d found at the Rochester market that very day. “Aye, from a Lord’s house it was, all legal mind. It was one of the family ‘hair-looms’ that went with all the rest of the stuff when he passed on, aye.” “How much?” Oliver asked tentatively. “Forty quid to a gentleman.” “Hey! I want to buy your mirror, not your business.” “Its Victorian y’know, very old. Older than my wife’s mother I’ll wager, and with many a prettier line on its face an’ all.” “Give you twenty five.” They settled for thirty and now it was in Oliver’s house and staring up at him. He looked at his own face as if looking through a puddle, he wiped it with his sleeve and cleared some of the grime. He looked back up at himself and smiled briefly. Chill night air brought him back to the present. Walking to the windows he confirmed they were shut, but still there was a slight sense of breeze; the chill was clear but cloudy, all in one. Feeling that a pullover was needed, he went across to an open doorway, finding one hanging over the kitchen chair in the only adjacent room. Upon his return he stopped on the stairs, pulling the favourite sweatshirt over his ears. The mirror looked up at him from the floor, a distorted Oliver looked back at himself. Streetlight pierced the old drapes and cast its faint rays all about the room, bouncing gleefully off all the mirrors in the room; all twenty-three of them. Oliver had begun collecting mirrors some years ago as a hobby, not realizing it at the time that it had been as a response to grief. Grief caused when Alison, his sister, had disappeared so many years ago. Isn’t life strange, here one day, gone tomorrow without so much as a letter. She had been old enough, at fifteen, to take care of herself he supposed, But why never make contact? Why not even a single goodbye? Why so suddenly? It was another of those impossible conversations he had with himself occasionally.