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I wasn’t having the reoccurring flashbacks or terrible nightmares, but I still dreamt of Avril often. A few weeks ago I read online about an uninhabited island in Fiji that had just beenreclaimed by the people of the country. There was no mention of cages or men or dead bodies. But I knew it was Totini. Where had everyone gone? I hoped that they had buried Ula before they all left. I hoped that Adi was okay and was safe and happy wherever he was. But as I thought of these people, they quickly began to fade in my mind, as though it was a movie I had watched a long time ago and I could no longer remember much of the storyline.
I had not committed a crime, I had not killed anyone, and I was not the one to blame for what happened to James and Clara or anyone else who died on Totini Island.
This I now knew. The terrible images I had drawn had been the memories of something I couldn’t understand, something I had been forced to be a part of. My brain had been trying to make sense of it all and process my time on Totini. The island had held me ransom for a while as I tried to make sense of the horrors I had witnessed so they normalised in my mind. When I fled Totini my mind became a torrent of images and sounds and words that I couldn’t put into any order or make sense of.
Until I met Callum. He was everything that Bruno wasn’t and more. After I had asked him to leave my parents’ house that day I had never heard from him again. Except through a friend who had told me he was engaged. Good luck to whoever he is marrying. I sometimes felt I needed to find her and warn her. I never told my parents about what he had done. The time passed and so did the right moment. I have no need to ever bring him into conversation again.
Callum and I both want to give back for our own reasons. He could understand and nurture my weak spots; he was the real catalyst for my recovery. Once I knew why I had left to go toFiji, I was able to fit everything in place. Trauma had held me captive for months, but love had rescued me.
Callum sits opposite me. The sound of the sea is the soundtrack to our morning, something I had to get used to hearing again without making the connection between the ocean and the nightmare I had lived through. There is a chill in the air, the dire effect of living in the south of England, but I relish it by wrapping up in layers so I can be outside, seated at this table outside the café. Callum and I come here every morning. It is part of my therapy he says, but I joke it is now part of his caffeine habit.
I sip my coffee and watch an elderly couple walk past with their Cavalier King Charles, chuckling with one another. I wonder if Callum and I would still be as happy at that age as we are now.
I am thrust out of my thoughts by a loud clatter as a tray falls from a nearby table and cups and saucers smash across the concrete. The family at the table are on their feet immediately and then I hear the soft voice of a man with a South African accent. I freeze, thinking of him and all the men, and I wonder what they are all doing. Did they get to return to their normal lives after spending so many years away from them?
‘I am so sorry,’ the man mutters, and I strain to see his face past the small crowd that has suddenly appeared around the table as waiters and customers pick up broken pieces of crockery and try to wipe up the mess of several cups of spilt teas and coffees.
‘I’m sorry again,’ the voice says, and this time, it sounds more familiar. Then, amongst the crowd, I momentarily see the flash of faded and worn tattoos. But as soon as I see it, it’s gone. Was it really there at all?
I stand and try to look past the table busy with staff and customers trying to manage the mess. I catch sight of a tall but slim-built man walking away, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a strong tan on his arms and neck from working outdoors. He walks slightly bow-legged as though he is used to crouching a lot. His frame seems familiar, almost as if I had seen it only yesterday.
He reaches the corner of the road where the path turns to meet the sea and there he is joined by a woman, a flash of red hair escaping from a thick woollen hat. She holds the hand of a small child. Someone shouts and they all turn and they are facing me. Of course, they are just a normal family and no one I know.
Callum taps his coffee cup the way he does when he has just finished stirring in his sugar.
I swing my head back at the sound then immediately turn my head back to the end of the road where I had just been watching what seemed to be a very normal little family going for a walk.
‘What’s got your attention?’ Callum says half looking at me, half concentrating on his morning coffee.
I shake my head. ‘Nothing,’ I say and I watch the gulls swooping and landing on the sand and being chased away again by dogs.
Callum finishes his coffee and stands up. ‘Ready to walk?’ he says.
He leaves cash on the table and holds his arm out for me to link mine in with his.
Then we walk in the direction I had held my gaze for the last minute, the wind blowing a gentle breeze behind us, trying to help me clear away those memories but somehow still pushing me towards them.