Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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      Voice: I am Jesus.

      I expected to see, something, someone. I felt a chill sweep through me then the smell of stale alcohol covered me, enveloped me. I carried on walking, slowly. The smell travelled with me. I heard the voice, again, my name, his name.

      Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

      The voice was gravel filled, harsh, guttural. I turned, I spun. He was not there. I was standing, alone, my Lord’s tears falling onto me.

      

      I began to descend the steps, again. The same chill swept through me, quickly, the same smell of stale alcohol covered me, stilted me. I was stunned. I stopped. The rasping voice had a familiarity, it connected, it stuck into me.

      Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

      The voice existed, without a body, there was no physical presence.

      

      I did not move.

      

      He spoke, again, with the same gravel-filled harshness.

      Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus.

      ‘Stop it. Stop it,’ I shouted the words.

      

      I held my hands to cover my ears. His voice, inside of my head, stayed at the same volume, constant, continuous, on a loop. We were talking through tin cans, connected by nothing.

      Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. You blame your Lord.

      ‘Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.’

      Jesus: Nina, I am Jesus. I sent him back to help you. I thought he could help you.

      ‘Shut up!’

      

      My knees crumbled, I fell to the steps. With my palms clutching my ears, I bowed, forwards, backwards, rocking, sobbing.

      

      The voice was silent, minutes passed by, silence, more silence.

      

      I waited, I lowered my hands to the step; I steadied myself as I stood.

      Jesus: Go to Malta, my Nina. I am Jesus. Bring Cadbury’s chocolate with you.

      Matt,

      I dreamed of you last night, the ‘of you’ was in a feeling, in the sensation that it evoked.

      In my dream, I was sitting at Manchester airport. I was sitting on the floor, next to that backpack of yours that you loved so much, when we were students. A shabbily dressed lady staggered over to me. She was carrying a basket of handmade lace.

      She spoke to me, ‘X’temp hazin! X’temp hazin!’

      I couldn’t understand her words. She spoke in my tongue. She thought that I would understand. She thought that something within me would make me understand. I tried. I tried to pick out the words, but I could not.

      She spoke again, in English. ‘What awful weather! What awful weather!’ I smiled at her. She laid her sunblessed finger onto my head. She spoke in whispered tones, ‘Gara in.cident. There’s been an accident. Gara in.cident.’

      I woke from my dream sobbing. You do not come to me in the night, instead you send me old women with tongues that, with darkness, I can no longer understand. They speak words that I have, that I know, that I knew, once. And all the time I am longing. I am aching. I feel that I am dying inside to out. There is no life. There is no breath. There is nothing without you in my life.

      I wish that I could tell you, that I could send this, leave this, that you would begin to understand. My love for you grows, it is deep rooted within me and even if I try to deny it, if I ignore or block it, it still grows. My love matures, stronger with each neglectful day. I am truly lovesick.

      But Matt, I am leaving you; tomorrow I am flying home to Malta.

      Nina x

       êamsa

      ~five

      Christopher Robinson, born 20 December 1991.

      Christopher Robinson, killed 5 February 2002.

      Ten years old.

      The plane is taxiing, gradually, searching to meet the metal stairs.

      

      ‘You look sad, Mama.’

      

      Christopher breaks my thoughts.

      

      ‘I’m just thinking, Cic

io,’ I say.

      ‘About when I passed over?’

      

      ‘Yes, about when you died.’ I whisper the words.

      

      ‘I can hear you, even when you don’t speak.’

      

      He tells me.

      Speaking to my dead son helps me, to remember.

      The fifth of February. It was an insignificant day, the date meant nothing. I dwell on this, sometimes. I think about how life can change, can fall, crumble with ease.

      

      I made the wrong decision, a mistake, a split second error in judgement.

      

      The weight of consequence is beyond measure.

      I do not work, I never have. I like it that way. I love to be at home, making a home. I cook, I clean, I wait for the end of the school day.

      

      It was the same then.

      

      I would wait for the end of the school day, for my Cic

io. It was how I wanted it to be. I was happy, deeply happy, pretending to be happy. We had enough money; Matt was working his way up the company. He was clever, a genius.

      He still is.

      

      Christopher was ten; he was keen to be independent, to help. He loved food, the combining of ingredients. He would watch me cook, СКАЧАТЬ