Amelia

AMELIA

“Adam?”

I stand on the landing, holding a candle, and calling his name. But he doesn’t answer.

Bob stares up at me, annoyed that I have disturbed his sleep, then he looks at the door with the DANGER KEEP OUT sign and sighs. Sometimes I think our dog is cleverer than we know. But then I remember all the times I have seen him running in circles chasing his own tail, and realize he’s just as bemused by life as the rest of us.

I’ve never been great at sticking to rules, so I ignore the sign and open the door. It reveals a narrow wooden staircase, leading to another door at the top. I take a few steps, then almost drop the candle when I walk into a spider’s web. I desperately try to brush it away from my face, but it still feels as though something is crawling across my skin in the dark.

“Adam? Are you up there?”

“Yes, the view is amazing. Bring the wine, and a couple of blankets,” he says, and the rush of relief I feel surprises me.

Five minutes later, we are huddled together in the bell tower of the chapel, and he’s right, the view really is quite magical. There isn’t a lot of room, and I’m cold—even with the blanket wrapped around my shoulders—but the wine is helping, and when Adam sees me shiver, he puts his arms around me.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw a full moon,” he whispers.

“Or so many stars,” I reply. “The sky is so clear.”

“No light pollution. Can you see that brightest star, just to the left of the moon?” he asks, pointing up at the sky. I nod, and watch as he moves his finger as though writing the letter W. “These five stars form the constellation Cassiopeia.” Adam is full of random knowledge, sometimes I think it’s the reason why there is no room left inside his head to think about us, or me.

“Which one is Cassiopeia again?”

“Cassiopeia was a queen in Greek mythology whose vanity and arrogance led to her downfall.” My husband knows more than I do about a great many things. He’s well read and a bit of a peacock when it comes to general knowledge. But if there were an IQ test for emotional intelligence, I’d have a higher score every time. There is an edge to his tone as he talks about the stars, and I don’t think I am imagining it.

I was having a bit of a clear out recently, sorting through some old things, and I found a pretty box of wedding keepsakes. It was like a marriage time capsule. One that I had carefully curated, then hidden away for my future self to find. There were some cards from friends and colleagues at the Dogs Home, little LEGO cake toppers of a bride and groom, and a lucky sixpence. Adam’s superstitions insisted I needed that on our big—rather small—day, and we agreed that his mother’s sapphire ring was both my something borrowed and something blue. At the bottom of the box, I found an envelope containing our handwritten vows. All those promise-shaped good intentions made me cry. It reminded me of the us we used to be, and who I thought we’d be forever. But promises lose their value when broken or chipped, like dusty, forgotten antiques. The sad truth about our present always punctuates my happy memories of our past with full stops.

I wonder if all marriages end the same way eventually. Maybe it is only ever a matter of time before life makes the love unravel. But then I think about those old married couples you see on the news every Valentine’s Day, the ones who have been together for sixty years and are still very much in love, grinning false teeth smiles for the cameras like teenage sweethearts. I wonder what their secret is and why nobody ever shared it with us?

My own teeth start to chatter. “Maybe we should head back inside?”

“Whatever you want, my love.” Adam only calls me “my love” when he is drunk and I realize that most of the bottle is empty, even though I’ve only had one glass of wine.

I try to turn back toward the door, but he holds on to me. The view shifts from something spectacular into something sinister; if either of us were to fall from the bell tower, we’d be dead. I don’t have a fear of heights, but I do have a fear of dying, so I pull away. As I do, I bump into the bell. Not hard enough to make it ring, just to sway, and as soon as it does, I hear bizarre clicking sounds, followed by a cacophony of high-pitched screeching. It takes my mind a moment to process what it is seeing and hearing.

Bats, lots of them, fly out of the bell and into our faces. Adam staggers backward, dangerously close to the low wall, flinging his arms in front of his face and trying to swat them away. He stumbles and everything seems to switch to slow motion. His mouth is open and his eyes are wide and wild. He’s falling backward and reaching for me at the same time, but I seem to be frozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear as the bats continue to fly around our heads. It’s as if we are trapped inside our own bespoke horror film. Adam falls hard against the wall, and cries out as part of it crumbles and falls away. I snap out of my trance, grab his arm, and yank him back from the edge. Seconds later there is a loud bang as the ancient bricks crash down onto the ground below. The sound seems to echo around the valley as the bats fly off in the distance.

I saved him, but he doesn’t thank me or display any hint of gratitude. My husband’s expression is one I’ve never seen his face wear before, and it makes me feel afraid.