I’ve always been a history nerd, so of course I love being in Britain. To celebrate my 40th birthday I planned a visit to a historical site called Belmay Priory in Scotland.
Belmay is grey stone ruin on a cold, wind-whipped headland overlooking the North Sea. Out on the crag I was shivering hard. The sounds of seagulls and surf were drowned out by wind. Despite the weather, I decided that this place was the most beautiful I had ever seen. The Grand Canyon is impressive, sure, but in a dry, dusty, red kind of way. This place felt blue, green and alive. I watched families walking amongst the graves of monks. I imagined the castle and moat as it would have been in 1600. This, I thought, would be a perfect place to scatter the ashes of my late wife, Moira.
Moira died on the third day of the first Covid-19 lockdown. The pharmacies had shortages of her usual epilepsy medication. The doctor prescribed her an alternative but I guess it didn’t work too well because she had a catastrophic seizure. She couldn’t breathe. There was nothing I could do while her lips turned blue and her brain was starved of oxygen for 2, 5, 7 and 10 minutes. The ambulance turned up at minute 47, when she was still as a waxwork.
I returned for a second visit to Belmay in March, this time prepared with the right kind of outdoor clothing like the locals wear. Trespass, The North Face, Mountain Warehouse. Moira would never have let me spend so much on clothes, but she was gone. As a result I was much more comfortable, able to sit down on a bench and take in the views without risking hypothermia. The blue sea stretched up to the dark gray horizon, throwing up great white waves with intimidating force. I put my hood up when rain started to fall. I waited until no-one else was around and pulled the urn out of my backpack.
It was important to me to say a proper goodbye like this. I never got the chance before. The week of her funeral I had tested positive for Covid-19. The crematorium sent me an url and a password to access the video feed from my quarantine sickbed. On my crappy laptop screen I watched her mom and dad in their black outfits, saying goodbye to their daughter. That had been an awful day, but I planned to put it right with this more fitting send off.
I was nervous about getting caught with the ashes, because this was supposed to be a private moment between me and Moira. I was grateful that was dark. If somebody did come along they wouldn’t be able to discern my shaking hands or my swollen eyes.
I spotted in the distance a staff member walking down from the old-timey gates with the portcullis. She had a torch and seemed to be making sure that everyone had left before she locked up. I wasn’t ready to leave. I quietly crouched down behind a bush. I heard her footsteps come closer and then further away. I heard the metallic sound of a lock clanking and wondered if I had made the right choice. I thought about running after her and shouting, ‘Come back! I’m still here!’ but Moira’s urn was too heavy in my arms.
By this point it was dark as midnight. The half moon gave some little light, reflected sparkling by the sea. I skittered over to the cliff edge as far as I could without falling onto the rocks and freezing water far below. I reached to open the lid of my charge and screamed, because I was not alone. Barely 10 feet away from where I stood there was a hooded man staggering towards me, wrapped in chains, clods of earth falling from his decaying robes. I dropped the urn. It rolled over the rock face, smashing into the cliff, throwing a brief cloud of ash into the wind and into the sea below. What had I just seen? Had I gone mad with grief? I asked myself as I sprinted away in terror. No, I hadn’t imagined it, I knew that because somewhere behind the sound of my feet and heart pounding there was the sound of clanking chains.
I ran to the gates and shook them, screaming for help. There was nobody there to hear me. The spectre wasn’t in my line of sight now but I could hear shuffling footsteps and heavy metal chains dragging. The sickening sound was advancing closer and closer from somewhere around the corner. I picked up a rock and smashed in the window of the gift shop. My hands and wrists were bleeding as I slammed repeatedly at the glass, trying to make a hole big enough to climb through without lacerating myself into shreds. I managed to push myself through, frantic, hyperventilating. I looked around me for something to barricade the broken window with. A security alarm started to sound. I pushed a tall bookcase in front of the window and searched around for other heavy furniture to push against it. I swear I am telling the truth when I say that Something started scratching against the bookcase from the other side. Underneath my torn coat my underclothes were plastered to my clammy, shaking body. My watery mouth filled with the taste of vomit. The sound of the security alarm mixed with distant approaching sirens was drowned out by a rising ringing in my ears. As black mist descended in front my eyes I tried to think of my wife’s brown eyes and porcelain skin instead of the thing behind the creaking bookcase.
When I came to I was in police custody, of course. They put me in some secure hospital with the real sick fucks. My lawyer said I should get out in a few days, so I waited for the doctors to certify that I’m not a danger to myself or others. Which they eventually did. They took their fucking sweet time though. I hated it there because the cells and handcuffs clanked and creaked all day and through the night. I thought he was following me. Now that I’m back home I lie awake at night and listen carefully. I used to lie awake and think about Moira. Now I lie there and listen to creaking pipes, holding my breath. I saw him once in my garden but I don’t think he can get into my house. I will be safe as long as I don’t go outside when it is dark.