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The Isle of Harris – Jack – July of the same year.

For the first few days he had constantly roamed the beaches, the dunes, the cliffs, only returning to the rented croft as the light faltered at the end of each day. Then rain had set in and he had stayed indoors, reading, painting, sketching and listening to music on cassette tapes he had brought with him, the tinny jingle of the sound system almost meagre enough to be annoying. He ate diminutive amounts, preparing cuisine almost as a habit, a chore to be performed only in a regimented mode. He would then sit on his own at the pine kitchen table and eat his fare in small bites, each carefully considered, but quickly consumed. For untold hours he would sit with a book on his lap staring out of the small lounge window towards the tops of the dunes which led to the long shell covered beach where Jocelyn and he had walked in their first love. Whilst staring from the window on one such day, he felt the need for subsistence, the need to fill his whining belly, his heart may feel bereft, but his body kept operational in an almost bothersome fashion.

He searched the cupboards of the kitchen, peering into each in the hope of finding a can of sausage and beans, but quickly realising he also needed a trip to a local shop, the nearest of which was two miles away. A quick glance to the kitchen window showed him windblown rain spattered glass, he didn’t really want to put on a jacket and venture out, looking back to the cupboards the back of one offered up a small can of white crabmeat. He pulled the cutlery draw open and shuffling through stainless knives, forks and spoons found the cheap tin opener. He grabbed a plate from the draining board, a fork and then sat down at the kitchen table, fully intending to open the can and eat the contents straight. As usual the tin opener performed inadequately and he had to tug at the jagged top edge of the tin. His deliberation with other matters caused his mind to meander from this simple task, his fingers slipped and the can lid ripped a gash the length of one of his fingers. He looked down at his hand, the bright pain; the spectacle of his blood flooding the contents of the tin closed his meandering thoughts instantly and unbidden fury filled his head.

The table tipped, the can contents landing chaotically on the tiled floor, he twisted and swept through the orderly, but spare kitchen, kicking and hammering whatever thing that blocked his way into the small croft lounge. The coffee table in the heart of the room lifted as he lashed out absurdly with his right foot, tumbling to end in the stone edged fireplace, books and cassettes flying through the air to land in mishmash. He strode to where his sketching was laid out on a small table by the window, knocking his chair sidelong he proceeded to tear his drawings and watercolours, flinging the shredded paper into the air, and then concluding this instantaneous task he turned, wedged his right foot in the sprawling legs of the chair and fell heavily to the wood boarded floor striking his head hard.

When he awoke, he found himself lying amongst his tattered paintings, books and tapes, and then gradually became conscious of tenderness in his side, and then upon investigation he found that he was lying on a hardback copy of Steven Kings book ‘The Shining’. Levering himself to his feet, he stumbled to a nearby couch and sat with his head in his hands. The outburst of rage past, but he knew it was lurking nearby just beneath the surface of his mind, and could rise at anytime unbidden. This was not the first time he had descended into turmoil and he also knew that he needed to control this urge to destruction, needed something to take his mind from his loss, something which would allow his mind to heal. In a moment of clarity he realised he need to go back to university, to immerse and numb his emotions in learning. He also knew a return to Edinburgh was out of the question with all that had previously, with so many memories of Jocelyn tied to that city, so he must consider where he should apply himself, and if he could gain entrance.

Cornwall – Jack – September of the same year.

He found himself on the train to London, he had returned from the Isle of Harris immediately and spent time with his ever patient Dachshund, whom had welcomed him rapturously home to his parents home. He had spent time writing to the University of his Choice after much deliberation, the Imperial university of London. He had spent time walking and talking with his parents, ever mindful of keeping a grip on his temper. Outwardly he appeared normal, even joyful, returning from surfing with a smile, eating healthily and lying in the evening sun with books. Inside though the embers of his love for Jocelyn still glowed and on enquiring of the Police as to if there had been any developments into the quest for her murderer, he drew a blank. No further evidence had surfaced was the best they could offer.

So sitting on the train watching fields, hamlets and towns passing by the window, allowed him time to reflect on what exactly he would gain from his studies. He had decided he needed an education first, and then in the back of his mind was the germ of a plan, investigating Jocelyn’s death himself. He would need money, he would need time, and the only way to achieve these requirements was to find service in a career would pay him for his undertakings with both. He had previously concluded most of his chemistry qualification and now the Imperial had offered him the chance to complete his degree, maybe even go on to masters and ultimately a PhD. He had been astonished how simple access to the Imperial had been; it was almost as if someone was looking over his shoulder, helping him in an indirect way. It had been the same finding housing, a flat which was not only affordable but also in a good suburban part of the city, had only just now become offered as he started his enquires, and even though London prices were exceptionally excessive, he found he could without doubt meet the expense of this particular one.

Enrolling in the university had brought a sense of belonging back into his life; he had applied himself to his task diligently, keeping to himself as much as possible, returning home each day to a simple supper, each of his housekeeping chores undertaken in an almost dutiful way. On Saturdays he would travel to Woodgreen by tube to shop for Asian ingredients, he had found affection for cuisine which was inherently different to the British food he had grown up with, each new recipe stored away methodically, and each new ingredient savoured. The other students found him almost amusing at breaks and continually poked fun at him as he ate his noodles in the refectory, until he allowed a small portion of his well hidden rage to be expended on one unlucky individual. There had been a broken nose and a need to report to the Dean, luckily the student was appeased by an apology, but he was left in no doubt that should there be a reoccurrence of his ire, it would be his last day at the Imperial. The fact of the matter was that after this instance he gained a certain respect from the other students whom decided the best direction for them was to leave him strictly alone to his studies and eating. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the best course, he had always had plenty of friends and in essence was gregarious, he knew if he wished any relationships they would come easily, but now they would only stand in the way of his development. The only obsession he had out of the ordinary was taking shooting lessons on the Sunday of each week; handgun and rifle were practiced with an almost religious fervour.

It was at one of his practice sessions that he first met a man, a man who introduced himself as working for the British government, at the time he did not dwell much on this new development, but did admire the man’s ability to place his own shots in the targets precisely and quickly.

Edinburgh – Jack – March of the following year.

Numb, Pain, Darkness, the stale smell of cheap tobacco, a glimpse of light through the crack of his eyes, his lashes shielding him from some of the glare from the bright white naked overhead lighting, his eyes focussed slowly on the two plain clothed men on the other side of the desk. Everything seemed too far away, too absurd, a book ending with no sense, he had been here hours, talked for hours, and gotten nowhere. He felt he was going around and around in circles, explaining what he had seen, heard and felt. They, the men offering no reason or justification as to the past hours events, he looked at his watch, 3:30AM.

Reaching forward with his left hand he pulled the Styrofoam cup towards him and examined the cold contents of what they had assured him was coffee. The ‘good guy’ policeman had informed him an hour ago that his Father was on his way having been contacted by them and that Jocelyn’s body was being held for forensic examination. Later in the very early cold grey light of day he left the police station in a squad car, not returning home, that would be difficult as the Police had cordoned the whole of the house off, but going to a local hotel which had been recommended by the ‘good guy’ to await his Father’s arrival.

Cornwall – Jack – June of the same year.

Sitting on the very edge of the cliff, looking out over the Atlantic, watching the Fulmars skimming the top of the jagged rim of the Cornish coast, he felt nothing, cared nothing. The throb of his heart wound left him detached from the real world, he wondered just for the merest moment, about just slipping away over this chasm, and then returned to the real world with a jolt as his Father called his name. Rising from his preferred afternoon seat he turned away from the temptation and calling to his loyal Dachshund who was snuffling patiently at the entrance to a rabbit hole, he strolled back towards where his Father stood watching him. His Father and Mother worried about him, worried that he would be having the exact thoughts that he was fighting even now. He had to pay regular visits to the local hospital to sit and pay attention to the shrink he had been allocated, within though it was as if his worship for Jocelyn had been a intense fire which had buckled into darkening embers. In the last week he had established within his own mind, that even thinking of her was incredibly difficult, so now he had allowed a tiny partition to form in his mind where the memories of her existed. 

Jocelyn’s funeral had been a bizarre event, none of her family had attended and there had only been a woman in a grey suit on Jocelyn’s side of the church. Afterwards she had approached him and just momentarily squeezed his arm gently before leaving in a large dark car, his Mother had asked after her and he had replied he had no idea who she was. He had not known what Jocelyn would have wanted for her funeral, they had never discussed anything like death, and as none of her family was involved he had taken his Father’s advice and allowed her body to be brought to Cornwall and buried in the local church yard where he had played as a boy. There had been wild primroses in the churchyard, Jocelyn had loved wildflowers,  and so he had stood by the graveside examining his shoes, unable to look directly at the coffin of his wife. His Father joined by a best friend, had flanked him, ready to hold him up if necessary. Most of his own family had attended with a lot of his childhood friends and neighbours. He had managed to get through the ceremony, but when back sitting in the undertaker’s car he had finally allowed his grief to surface in huge sobs.

His Fathers talking as they walked, brought him back from his painful reminiscences and he listened more intently as his Father prodded him once more vocally about University, would he be returning after the summer, he shook his head, he was not sure what exactly he would be doing with the rest of his life.

A few days later, once more sitting on the Cliffside, he made a decision, one his parents were not happy with, but a decision nonetheless  he would go back to the Isle of Harris, take some photographs, maybe draw or paint the scenery, but also get away from everyone and everything, think about his life going forward.

Edinburgh – Jack – March of the following year.

He reflected on the past few month’s events, marriage to Jocelyn had been and gone, his Mothers prediction had come true as far as his Fathers attendance, and also in the fact his Father was very interested in a grandchild. The marriage ceremony had been low key with none of Jocelyn’s family making an appearance, when he had questioned this, she had told him they were out of the country or far too busy in business. He had been so elated to be marrying her that he inquired no more and his own family made little appearance due to the distance from home.

The church had been cold; Jocelyn had worn a plain pants suit, her condition by then quite noticeable. He had squeezed his wide shoulders into a dark blue suit bought especially for the occasion; he had never owned a suit before and felt quite out of place, longing to be back in his jeans. Jocelyn had assured him that he looked very handsome and should wear a suit more often, at the time he had laughed little knowing what the future held. There had been no honeymoon and getting ready for the birth and carrying on studying took all of his time up.

Here he was painting the new nursery even now, the evening light had died away a couple of hours ago, and he was finding the electric light tiring on his eyes. So he was sat presently on a small stool having what he called a little rest, the stool was the only furniture presently in the room, he was a messy painter at the best of times and Jocelyn had insisted all other furniture be moved out whilst he splashed and daubed at the walls and woodwork. He had plans to paint scenes on the walls once he had finished the base coat of white, he was if nothing else artistic and knew he would enjoy this part of the redecoration. Only an hour ago Jocelyn had brought him a cup of coffee and they had made frantic love on the linen covered carpet, he smiled at the memory before reaching forward to grip the wide brush he was using to fill in the main part of the wall he was tackling. Through the open nursery door he heard the front door bell chime, and then Jocelyn’s voice floated up from the ground floor, telling him that she would answer the door. He slapped another strip of paint on the wall in front of him, heard the door open creakily on its large brass hinges, thought about the need to grease them, then wondered who was calling this late in the evening. He and Jocelyn very rarely had visitors, neither of them knew many people in Edinburgh, he mostly acquaintances from the university. He slapped more paint on the wall, then stood back to admire his work, and then bent to fill his brush once again. As he leaned forward, he heard a muffled thud, in his crouched position he listened more intently, nothing. Standing with his brush dripping slightly, he crossed to the large casement window and looked down at the front entranceway below him. It was raining and the glow from the street light was orange on the rain splattered pavement which ran alongside the front facade of their large terraced house. The only person he could see on the street being a woman in a long raincoat walking away down the street with a purposeful gait, he didn’t recognise her, but that didn’t  surprise him. He strolled back to the door of the nursery and called out to Jocelyn, waited, no reply, walked back to the solitary paint pot and carefully balanced his brush over the open top. Walking back to the door he entered the hallway and walked to the top of the stairway where he could see the front door from, as the scene of the doorway came into view he was startled to see what could only be the top of Jocelyn’s head, then her red hair spread out around her face as she rested on her side in the foetal position. He called out to her, but she made neither motion nor noise, he ran down the stairs taking three steps at a time to arrive on the polished linoleum flooring skidding to halt by her side, kneeling he grasped her shoulders and looked into her face fully for the first time, then noticed something strange, she appeared to have a black mark on her forehead. He hugged her to his chest, she made no noise, no intake of breath, he cried her name and it came to him in a flash that she was dead, Jocelyn had left him forever.