Free The Grave by Diane M Dickson Page A

from
before was something he had managed to avoid for the past three years, but it
was his best option now.  He had really hoped it was over, though in honesty acknowledged
it might never be. This favour would have to be paid for with one in return and
he would be swept back into the maelstrom he had struggled to escape. He
shrugged and focused, there was no point grieving, this had to be done.
     
    He should have a passport for Sylvie in a day or two and
then they could carry on.
     
    He struggled with the concept of them as a couple.  For many
years he had been alone, through choice and necessity and he was sorely afraid it
was best to keep it so.  It wasn’t fair to form a relationship with this young
woman.  It was too much risk letting the attraction grow into something
stronger, letting down his guard and starting to believe.  It had all gone so
horribly wrong before and the dangers in his life now were even greater.
     
    For a moment the memory of his other love overwhelmed him, a
painful twist in his gut.  He knew it of old, faced it and rode it out, the
desolation that had gripped him for so long, was always but a small beat away. He
would never again feel complete, his heart had been ripped out and the void was
a part of him real and permanent forever.  
     
    Yes, these last two days with Sylvie had been good, really
good. Last night had shown him he could still find pleasure and gentleness and
passion but he wasn’t ready to try to heal, he didn’t want to.  The person he
had once been was a stranger, lost in the murk behind all the things he had
done since then, unreachable.  This entity that he had become was broken and
ruined, undeserving of happiness.
     
    He would take her with him to Holland and then when they
were sure it was safe he would send her back.  He would give her money and advice
and make her accept her freedom.  It was the right thing to do and for once he
was going to do the right thing.
     
    He made his calls, organised things, emailed the digital
images. He bought milk and bread from a tiny shop attached to a filling station.
Then he turned to the winding road that would take him back to the place which
had once formed the whole of his world…
     
    In the south the river continued to swell with the
torrential rain, the wind was building now and great branches whipped and
groaned before the force. It was many years since the level had reached so high
on the ancient banks.  Small rocks and boulders began to break away and tumble
into the creaming force.  The smaller shrubs and bushes held out until the soil
beneath their roots was eroded and then they in turn joined the detritus
flowing seaward.  At times debris from the banks would catch and wedge against
a barrier of mud and green stuff until the bulk of it formed a whole which was
too big to hold and then, jolted by a greater clump, it flushed downstream
     
    The branches of the willow flicked and whipped in the gusts,
the trunk bent and groaned with the strain and the great roots pulled and
dragged at the mud of the new formed river bank.  Holes were fashioned beneath
the old tree, the water crept further into the darkness, flowing around the
rocks and boulders and creeping between the decaying limbs of the soaking
corpse…
     
    In the cottage Sylvie curled into a ball on the couch in the
living room, she had cried a little and then acknowledged she had no right to
tears.  What Samuel was, what he had done was no concern of hers and his past
was his alone.
     
    She had chosen, for poor and squalid reasons, to approach
him and through that she had drawn him into this nightmare.  The money, the sorry
little nursery and this place were not hers and the proper, honest thing for
her to do would be to leave.  He had a right to his life no matter what misery
or joy it may hold and there was no reason to believe there was space for her
within it.
     
    She could take some of the money, she didn’t want to but saw
no other