The Mariner

But time slipped past, and although the snarls rose and fell in volume and energy, they did not cease. Eventually, just as the fuel dial begun to sneak into the red, McConnell saw a sign beside the road.

Sighisoara 7

He pulled over, and as slowly and delicately as he could, turned around.

Gregory McConnell’s face was bloody. How he’d managed to hurt himself so viciously, McConnell couldn’t tell, but his guess was that in his attempts to escape from bondage he’d ended up clawing at his own skin. The buckle, with its big red release button, remained at his side, ignored and forgotten.

A slight tap and he’d have been free, a part of him morbidly imagined, though another part cruelly added, it could still happen.

“Dad,” he began carefully, meeting the creature’s furious glare. “We’re almost there. You wanted to go to Sighisoara and I’ve taken you there. Do you remember? Sighisoara?”

The zombie-like monster that wore the mangled disguise of his father snarled back and threw itself forward. McConnell was drained of tears, instead his eyes just throbbed.

“Last time, Sighisoara brought you back. Can you try that now? Sighisoara? You grew up there. Sighisoara.”

But what had worked before now failed, and the creature continued to thrash about in the back-seat. Trembling, McConnell started the car and began the final stretch to the town his father had once remembered so fondly.

And as he drove he kept whispering over and over like a prayer, “Sighisoara. Try to remember Sighisoara.”

The car ran out of petrol just as the vehicle rolled into town. McConnell looked at it in wonder, a hill surrounded by medieval turrets, a mighty clock-tower, and a beautiful decaying church at the highest peak.

It was just as he’d imagined.

39. EVERY MAN HAS A HOME

SIGHISOARA. TRY TO REMEMBER SIGHISOARA.

McConnell sat beside the body of Grace, a bedding sheet gently laid over her body. It seemed wrong to wrap her in such claustrophobic surroundings, but the ruin that remained was something he simply couldn’t look at. He didn’t know how to proceed; should he notify someone? Was there law in this small town? He doubted it. Leaning over, he caressed the bump in the shroud that was her head, delicate tears wetting his lashes.

Amidst him, the rest of the inn was in uproar. The landlady held Harris and Heidi responsible for the murder, though the gravitas of the situation seemed to be limited to concern for stains. A greater source of fury was the raided cellar, significantly drained by the Mariner before his heinous crime. The captains were busy buying her off whilst simultaneously arguing about Harris’ decision to allow the Mariner to leave.

How had he not seen this coming? The Mariner, Arthur–fucking-Philip (or whatever he called himself now) had appeared like a lunatic since day one, so why had he trusted him?

Because you were mistaken, that’s why. Because of that bullshit you allowed yourself to believe. That bullshit that made you think he was special. That she was special.

But he’d been proven wrong. Grace wasn’t special, she was dead. And the Mariner her rapist.

Perhaps he’d been wrong from the start? If he was wrong about the Mariner, perhaps he was wrong about the whole thing? Perhaps his Dad’s final thought had been nothing but nonsense, the confused babbling of a mind slowly taking wing of its fleshy nest?

What do you know? What do you know for certain?

He knew that somehow Grace and the Mariner had brought the zoo back, and they did so by remembering. Later, the Mariner had pretended he’d played no part, but he’d heard him say ‘I remember’, he’d heard it. And just after, the island drew itself upon the horizon like a stripper from a cake. If they weren’t special, perhaps what they had done was?

“I should not have let you leave Sighisoara,” he said, still stroking her hidden hair. “It was just a zoo, not a home. And we were fools, not fathers.”

After another few minutes, long enough for dawn to properly break and cast its glow directly through the window, McConnell had decided what needed to be done. He knelt, drawing away the cloth to once more look upon the child’s face. In death, he’d hoped she’d look serene, but there was no glimmer of comfort to have in that poor beaten face. Only misery and regret. He leaned down and planted a single solitary kiss upon her forehead.

“Goodbye, Grace O’Hara,” he whispered.

And that was that.

Downstairs, Harris and Heidi were still arguing, having placated the landlady with more supplies as payment for the plundered booze. McConnell approached them, unnoticed whilst they yelled.

“They’re probably not far ahead, we can still catch him!” Heidi was saying.