Chapters (22)
James could feel the back of his neck itching and he badly wanted to scratch at it, but he forced himself to lie still and breathe normally.
‘Yep, she always finds someone to pay the price in the end,’ Gary said softly. ‘All those disappearances. They said in the forum that compared to other national parks in the UK, Rutmoor has one of the highest instances of missing people. That can’t just be a coincidence, can it?’
‘I don’t know,’ James muttered.
‘No, I don’t think so. I think there’s more to it. What I think is we’d best keep our eyes peeled when we’re out on the moor tomorrow, that’s all. Especially when it starts getting dark and that storm rolls in.’
Gary laughed in the darkness of the tent, and James suddenly felt like screaming. He didn’t want to hear any more. For a second he thought he might hit Gary, just leap out of his sleeping bag and jump on the bigger boy before he knew what was happening, but then all at once Gary stopped laughing and rolled over onto his other side.
‘Night night, Trumps,’ he whispered. ‘Sleep well.’
James turned over in his sleeping bag and lay listening to the wind.
2015
Thursday, Part Three
It’s a funny thing, time.
He first noticed it when he started university and then suddenly found himself going into his final year – that strange elastic property that time has. How it can shoot by in a blur, and even though Freshers’ week feels like a century ago when you’re in your third year, the time in between is still one lightning fast streak, the days and memories running together like a film on fast-forward.
It’s like that when he thinks about the moor, too. It’s been almost exactly 13 years since that memorable trip with Mr Stevens – the trip that completely changed them forever – but in some ways it feels much more recent than that.
He can shut his eyes and picture their faces, their teenage faces lit up in the light from the campfire as they sit around and let Mr Stevens’ words wash over them.
He’s done some research into trauma and has heard it can be like that. Memories that won’t fade; images that seem to actually get fresher in the mind as the years pass.
He’s had counselling on and off over the years, and for a while he was on citalopram, but while it helps to talk about his symptoms to someone and the pills take the edge off his anxiety, it’s never quite enough.
Although he can dance around the subject and talk cryptically about what’s going on in his mind, it’ll never be enough.
Because he can’t tell anyone what really happened.