Page 27 of Taunting Tarran
I gently pull the covers back over her, tucking them around her to keep her warm. My gaze lingers for a moment before I turn away, slipping silently from the room. There’s no time for hesitation. The flight looms ahead, and with it, the trip I’ve been dreading for far too long, because this weekend it’s the 50thAnniversary.
CHAPTER 15
THE BUTCHERBIRD
‘Don’t forget your lucky charm, Ms Pinegrove,’ Holly, Emma’s daughter had said, the seven-year-old’s voice a mix of seriousness and innocence. ‘Without it…,’ she continues, ‘you could plunge to your death.’
I laugh, nervously, ruffling her hair. ‘Plunge to my death, huh? That’s a big word and quite the prediction, my little wise oracle.’
Her eyes remain steady. ‘It’s not a prediction, Ms Pinegrove…’ she hands me her bracelet, ‘you will be safe as long as you wear it.’
My hand stretches forward reaching for her bracelet, but I was unsure if I should be afraid orentertained by the girl’s declaration. She was an unusual child, always had been, and despite her morbid send-off, I’m sure she means no harm.
I sit in the airport departure lounge recalling the memory, buzzing with anticipation and trepidation of our impending flight while fumbling the bracelet. There’s a microcosm of chatter, stories and meetings briefly before passengers scatter across the globe. The TV screen flickers, revealing the updated flight numbers and destinations like cryptic messages with each digit holding promise to an adventure, a reunion, an escape, or in my case facing my fears.
“Flight RA6243 to Valencia boards in 2 minutes”
Valencia – that’s us. I sigh softly as the announcement for another destination rings through the terminal.
Of all the places, why couldn’t it be Paris?
Paris, the city of love, where cobblestone streets whisper secrets of history to anyone who dares listen. There, Hemingway wrote his novels in dimly lit cafes, and lovers etch their initials into the stones of ancient bridges. I imagine boarding the flight to Paris instead, imagining the aroma of fresh croissants and macaroons with couples passing by, hands intertwined, their moonlit kisses glimmering along the Seine. Stealing moments beneath the Arc de Triomphe. That’s a world that exists only in films – not in my reality.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ a voice interrupts, and there’s that word again “ma’am.” The woman hovers above me, pulling me out ofmy thoughts. ‘Are you boarding flight RA6243 to Valencia?’
I blink as she sharpens her focus, her face partially obscured by the bright glare from the window beside me. ‘Erm, yes?’ I manage to reply. ‘I’m just waiting on a few friends.’
‘Then you’d better hurry,’ she says. ‘They’ve been boarding for quite some time.’
I freeze, hesitating, my heart pounding. It’s Valencia for Christ sake – time to face the past I swore I’d leave behind.
The announcement echoes in my ears, but my body feels frozen. ‘Oh, shit. I’m coming!’
I stand on the precipice of decision – board the plane or wait for Emma, Sarah, Anna and Rachel to finish their endless bathroom rituals.
I’m sure they’ll be there – the flight wouldn’t leave without them.
‘My friends are just behind me,’ I say as I step onto the aircraft. The narrow corridor stretches before me like a tunnel into the past, its walls lined with safety instructions and the restless energy of passengers. Eyes follow me as I move, dissecting my hesitation, my every step. Is it the way I falter, the way my fingers graze the headrests of each row as if seeking stability in this metal cocoon?
The businessman in 5A doesn’t look up from his laptop, his face illuminated by the cold glow of an urgent email. A couple in 10B and C whispers secrets, their hands intertwined, their love a stark contrast to the void inside me. A child in 12F clutches a stuffed bear, wide-eyed with wonder, untouchedby the darkness that clings to me like a shadow.
Valencia. The name alone like a dagger to my chest is a city of futuristic architecture and sprawling gardens, of beauty and light. But for me, it’s a labyrinth of memories I’ve tried to escape. The City of Arts and Sciences, the Turia Gardens, the Bioparc – they’re all just facades, hiding the truth I left behind.
I shuffle down the aisle, my footsteps swallowed by the hum of the cabin, there’s no turning back now.
The air-stewardess snaps the yawning, overhead compartments shut. I glance around, my eyes darting to 14B, 15C, and finally, there it is: 14D. My prison for the next few hours.
I shove my suitcase into my overheard, the wheels screeching against the plastic like nails down a chalkboard, the sound grating on my nerves, but I smile at my flight companion.
‘Excuse me,’ I murmur, forcing the smile as I squeeze past his knees and elbows. He shifts just enough to let me through, and I slump into my seat, the leather cold against my back.
‘It’s a bit tight,’ I say as I see the girls. They wave frantically at me, shrugging that they’re all sat together, and I’m sat with this guy.
‘That’s the privilege of travelling in cattle,’ he answers, his voice rough like he’s gargled on gravel.
‘Pardon me?’ I smile.
‘Cattle,’ he repeats, leaning towards me. ‘Not like the posh folk up in Business Class. We’re just herded back here, treated like livestock. Be lucky if we’re offered anything to drink. It’sbeen a while since anyone frisked me like they did back there in security.’
