developments?’
‘If there’s been any.’
‘Perhaps it was random after all – a mugging gone wrong,’ Thomas says.
‘Someone lay in wait for her, someone who knew what time she’d get home, someone who waited for their chance and…’ My voice breaks and Thomas looks at me with concern. I swallow, take a sip of water. ‘You know what…’
Thomas looks at me.
‘Sometimes I get the feeling.’ I fall silent, but after a while I go on, choosing my words with care. ‘Every now and again I get the feeling that Lydia is here. Like she’s standing behind me and looking over my shoulder.’
Thomas involuntarily looks at the spot behind me.
‘When my grandfather died, I didn’t really feel like he was gone for good and I was just a child then. I had intense dreams about him and sometimes I got the feeling that he was in my bedroom.’
‘Really?’
I know what he’s thinking. Thomas is a down-to-earth person, he’s not that into mystical experiences.
‘You don’t believe in all that, do you?’
‘No,’ Thomas says, and I laugh. That’s why I like him so much. He’ll never agree just because he’s afraid of upsetting me, he always stays true to himself. It’s good. I don’t need my friends to be acting differently right now.
Thomas sips his beer. ‘There are so many of those stories. People have regression therapy and think they once lived in the time of the Pharaohs, people say they see spirits and communicate with them.’
‘Have you ever seen that program with Char?’ I ask.
Char is an American medium who claims to be able to contact the dead. I always watch her, but Thomas is clearly less impressed with her paranormal gifts. He pulls a face and does a good impression of Char, bending towards me, taking my hand and reciting all the letters of the alphabet in a serious tone. Then he imitates the client bursting into tears after a session with Char and sobbing, ‘Yes, M! My mother’s name is Johanna but her fourth middle name is Maria!’
I can’t help but laugh.
‘It’s all guesswork,’ Thomas says in his normal voice.
‘Yep.’ I survey the last piece of steak on my plate. After a long pause, I look up and say, ‘But I still believe in it.’
Thomas looks at me, his expression troubled again. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘it might be good for you to believe in that.’
14.
Raoul is the only person I feel comfortable with at the moment. He’s the only one who knows how it feels. And my parents, of course, but their grief is too large to leave room for me.
We go for a walk in the Bergse woods and end up having coffee on the outdoor terrace of a restaurant. Valerie’s spending the day with Raoul’s parents.
‘How are you getting on now?’ I say. ‘Are you coping?’
I’m asked that question so often myself that it makes me feel ill. How do people expect you to be getting on? And of course you’re coping, you have to, you can hardly give up breathing. But my own grief gives me the right to ask such a clichéd question and I have to because Raoul looks dreadful. So dreadful my stomach bunches up.
Raoul stares at the black liquid in his mug as if he’s wondering why he would have any need for it now. Why carry on eating, drinking, and all those other trivial acts when so much emotion and pain is racing through your body?
‘Do you know what kills me?’ he says. ‘All those people who say “time heals” or that I should be “grateful” for all the lovely memories I have of Lydia. That she’s gone to a “better place”. She’s lying under the cold ground!’
I remain silent, not at all taken aback by his outburst.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I constantly get the feeling that Lydia is close by.’
The very second I say that there’s a gust of wind. We should be sheltered by the restaurant building.
‘I keep dreaming about her,’ I continue. ‘About earlier, when we were little, and our childhood. We had so many rows.’
Raoul looks up from his
‘If there’s been any.’
‘Perhaps it was random after all – a mugging gone wrong,’ Thomas says.
‘Someone lay in wait for her, someone who knew what time she’d get home, someone who waited for their chance and…’ My voice breaks and Thomas looks at me with concern. I swallow, take a sip of water. ‘You know what…’
Thomas looks at me.
‘Sometimes I get the feeling.’ I fall silent, but after a while I go on, choosing my words with care. ‘Every now and again I get the feeling that Lydia is here. Like she’s standing behind me and looking over my shoulder.’
Thomas involuntarily looks at the spot behind me.
‘When my grandfather died, I didn’t really feel like he was gone for good and I was just a child then. I had intense dreams about him and sometimes I got the feeling that he was in my bedroom.’
‘Really?’
I know what he’s thinking. Thomas is a down-to-earth person, he’s not that into mystical experiences.
‘You don’t believe in all that, do you?’
‘No,’ Thomas says, and I laugh. That’s why I like him so much. He’ll never agree just because he’s afraid of upsetting me, he always stays true to himself. It’s good. I don’t need my friends to be acting differently right now.
Thomas sips his beer. ‘There are so many of those stories. People have regression therapy and think they once lived in the time of the Pharaohs, people say they see spirits and communicate with them.’
‘Have you ever seen that program with Char?’ I ask.
Char is an American medium who claims to be able to contact the dead. I always watch her, but Thomas is clearly less impressed with her paranormal gifts. He pulls a face and does a good impression of Char, bending towards me, taking my hand and reciting all the letters of the alphabet in a serious tone. Then he imitates the client bursting into tears after a session with Char and sobbing, ‘Yes, M! My mother’s name is Johanna but her fourth middle name is Maria!’
I can’t help but laugh.
‘It’s all guesswork,’ Thomas says in his normal voice.
‘Yep.’ I survey the last piece of steak on my plate. After a long pause, I look up and say, ‘But I still believe in it.’
Thomas looks at me, his expression troubled again. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘it might be good for you to believe in that.’
14.
Raoul is the only person I feel comfortable with at the moment. He’s the only one who knows how it feels. And my parents, of course, but their grief is too large to leave room for me.
We go for a walk in the Bergse woods and end up having coffee on the outdoor terrace of a restaurant. Valerie’s spending the day with Raoul’s parents.
‘How are you getting on now?’ I say. ‘Are you coping?’
I’m asked that question so often myself that it makes me feel ill. How do people expect you to be getting on? And of course you’re coping, you have to, you can hardly give up breathing. But my own grief gives me the right to ask such a clichéd question and I have to because Raoul looks dreadful. So dreadful my stomach bunches up.
Raoul stares at the black liquid in his mug as if he’s wondering why he would have any need for it now. Why carry on eating, drinking, and all those other trivial acts when so much emotion and pain is racing through your body?
‘Do you know what kills me?’ he says. ‘All those people who say “time heals” or that I should be “grateful” for all the lovely memories I have of Lydia. That she’s gone to a “better place”. She’s lying under the cold ground!’
I remain silent, not at all taken aback by his outburst.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I constantly get the feeling that Lydia is close by.’
The very second I say that there’s a gust of wind. We should be sheltered by the restaurant building.
‘I keep dreaming about her,’ I continue. ‘About earlier, when we were little, and our childhood. We had so many rows.’
Raoul looks up from his
Similar Books
