Chapter 2
Dream Journal (April 24th, 2012)
THE AXE HEAD glinted fiercely in the dim orange light, ablaze with righteous fury. Sodium vapour streetlights streamed in through the window, warring with the twisting boughs and branches of an overgrown tree outside.
Where am I?
The smell of mould; thin, tattered curtains; plain white Ikea desk and chair; crumbling paint on the walls revealing black spots of neglect underneath—a house share rental in London.
Sobbing. A girl in the corner, wreathed in shadow. The darkness curled around her, like living smoke, binding her to the walls. Her pale hand rose towards me.
The axe raised above my head. It fell, and met... wood? Splinters showered my face as I pulled it away. Black blood coated the axe head; no longer glinting, no longer smiling. The false promise of rescue now stained with the nectar of regret.
Laughing. A girl behind me. The same voice as the sobbing, but different. Tinged with mania. I tried to turn to face her, but I was locked in place.
Roots. The floor was a carpet of roots. They stretched out and coiled around my feet. Then down, down I went, into the floor, into the earth, into the house.
Prologue
April 24th, 2012
On winter mornings such as this I often muse as to where I've been. When I was a younger man, I would've mused as to where I am going. Now I am firmly set, rooted in the world. I am the tree in the garden.
A rowan tree, to be particular. The first time I saw this fine specimen of a tree was during a quiet evening walk before a house viewing with my partner, Jiselle. The frost hardened the ground below us, and misted the air around us, plunging the wider scene into a veil of unknown delight. So thick it was, that even sound trudged through it, and arrived at one's ears either muffled or mute entirely. It reminded me of my home town in the home counties, southways from London. Quiet. The kind of place you would nod and mumble Good morning to anyone that might cross your path. As Jiselle and I strolled down Lower Morden Lane—looking for our future house—an old memory was stirred. A deep memory, buried deep, deep, deeper still. What was it? An apple tree. Dead? Yes, but alive all the same. It appeared in my mind's eye as a silhouette, glowing softly at the edges in a powdery orange light. A towering block stood behind it, as dark as pitch.
'It's stunning,' Jiselle said. She tightened her grip on my hand and pulled me down an alleyway that snaked between the houses. Her voice cut through the heavy mist, piercing the taut balloon of my waning memories.
'I can't see anything,' I said. 'What is it? Not one of those mock Tudor jobs, is it?'
'Shut up, Adam,' she said. 'Look there, at the tree!' She waved her hand vertically, from the ground to the Heavens. Over the fence sat a flowering rowan tree, proud and full of life. The smell was quite unique. These trees typically smell musky—an untamed odour that most people would screw their face up at. This tree, however, exuded sweetness. It was almost delicious. There was something familiar about it. My skin prickled, and my mouth erupted with salivation. A concealed memory unearthed itself. I contained it quickly, wrapping it up into a tight little ball, and swallowed it whole. It passed down my oesophagus, into my chest, and weighed heavily in my stomach. There I left it to rest.
For now.
Things moved quickly after that. When we spotted a For Sale sign in the front garden, it was divine providence. Several viewings, two surveys (there was a Japanese knotweed scare which was swiftly dispelled), and a month of back and forth with the owner. It was ours. Something that we could call our own. A child, but still. Cold. Dead. It would have to do. One day, we will have a child of our own—a real one, moving. Warm. Alive. Until then, a private study would sleep in the spare room. The very thought warmed my bones.
Then came today. It is 21:07, and I am awake. A forbidden flower has formed in the pit of my stomach. That little ball of memory in my stomach has borne fruit; I can no longer escape it. It grew inside me just as the tree in the garden had begun to flower. The smell cascaded in through the window on a fair breeze as I sat in my study, reading. It wasn't the present smell that aroused me, but the memory of a smell—a different one entirely. The sharp aroma of rotting apples; a mix of nail varnish, fermented fruit, and decay. The little ball unravelled. My mind is now awash with traumatic recollection. I am not mad. I simply encountered a madness a long time ago.
I was not alone in my suffering. Jiselle suffered beside me. In my arms, even. I remember carrying her, pulling her—she was stuck. Yes, even now, it's still coming back to me. I can hardly put pen to paper; such is the shaking of my hand.
Seeking comfort, I found Jiselle and told her everything. I feared what it might do to her if I told her; I could bury it deep inside me again, I thought. That way she might not suffer the reminder of the trauma we had suffered. Oh, how I was wrong. She had no little ball of suppressed memory inside of her. She wears it on her sleeve. She remembers it all, has never forgotten, nor has she buried the tragedies of the past. I envy her in a way. All along, she had never let go of Grey House. She even seemed to recall it fondly.
She took my hand and walked me to the back door leading to the garden. Her touch steadied me, my blood cooled. We strolled to the rowan tree, standing beneath the rustling canopy, and looked at each other lovingly. Neither of us said a word, but her eyes glazed over. Her grip tightened, her lip trembled. Did she weep for me, and my afflicted memories? Or was it something deeper? Deep inside her, her own little ball of agony?
The tree's leaves and flowers fluttered in the steady breeze. Such peace is there in nature, and living things.
We settled down for bed. I tossed around for an hour, unable to sleep. Jiselle snored softly beside me. I crept out of bed and headed to the study.
Inside a drawer, tucked away at the back, were the diaries I kept during our dreaded days house sharing at Grey House, on Dartmouth Park Hill in north London. I have the insatiable urge to recount this story—perhaps to torture myself further—hoping to provide some closure to the memories that have suddenly been wrested to the forefront of my mind.
The following are a series of excerpts and adaptations that I deem necessary to tell this story.
