CHAPTER 1
SAYING GOODBYE
Saying goodbye is the defining moment between ending an old life and starting anew. Without that terminal farewell, shadows and regrets of the past hang around like a bunch of distant relatives who have learned of your lottery win. They tended to haunt Rhian no matter how far she ran so she wanted to say goodbye.
She had never moved into the flat properly, just kept a spare washbag and a change of clothes there. So it would always be James’ flat in her head, not their flat.
Somehow the door looked shabbier than she remembered, the paint peeling from around the wooden panels. She turned her key in the Yale lock noting the scratches where tired and drunken tenants had marked the paint. One gouge looked new suggesting that James himself must have caused it—James or her.
She pushed the door and walked in, dropping her heavy shoulder bag to the floor. The tiny flat was exactly the same even though everything was different. James had gone and the life of the flat had departed with him. It had always been a warm place, a welcoming place, but now it smelled cold and stale. It had not taken long for the damp to get a grip. Like her life, she thought. The decay mirrored her life.
The front door opened straight into a living room with a kitchenette in the corner. She slipped her rucksack off and sat on the arm of the old, stained sofa to catch her breath. An unwashed plate encrusted with the dried remains of a meal was discarded carelessly on the floor by a knocked-over coffee mug. She picked them up, putting them on the side for washing. The mug had a picture of a superhero on the side. James had been into comics. She had often scolded him about his untidiness. How could she have wasted her time with him on such trivia?
James’ computer was still where he always kept it, on a cheap self-assembly office table against the wall. She used to sit just where she sat now, watching while he worked. He was completely unaware of her presence when he concentrated with that terrible male focus. Then she felt that she saw into the real James and she liked what she observed.
Rhian unzipped her coat, allowing the silver Celtic brooch hung around her neck to swing free on its chain. The stylised wolf head on the brooch glinted in the light from the window, catching her eye. Worn letters picked out the word Morgana.
James had looked up the British goddess on the internet and read off her list of attributes. To the English she was Morgan le Fay, Goddess of fate and sister and sworn enemy to King Arthur. In the Welsh tradition she was the goddess of death, the Moon, lakes and rivers. James had been puzzled why the brooch was shaped like a wolf’s head when Morgana’s symbol was the raven, until he discovered she was the queen of shape shifters.
Rhian could still hear James’ voice in the empty flat, could picture him standing over her.
“Shapeshifters, you know, weres.” He growled and clawed his hand at her. “Werewolves, Rhian. Haven’t you ever met a wolf?”
He had jumped on her theatrically and she had fallen over with a shriek, his heavy body pinning her down.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “I had better walk you back to your bed-sit.”
“I’ve some things in my bag. I could stay here tonight,” she replied.
“It’s a small flat. I only have one bed.”
“I know,” Rhian said, raising her lips to his.
She smiled, recalling what a bad girl she had been, and regretting not a moment. Then the numbness came down like the curtain falling for the last time on a cancelled play and Rhian went back into robotic mode. She couldn’t bear to feel, to let herself hurt.
She slipped into the bathroom, retrieving her washbag from under the sink. The area was surprisingly spacious with room for a full-sized bath. It had probably served a much bigger living area before the building had been subdivided into the largest possible number of flats.
The bedroom, in contrast, was minute. Nevertheless, the landlord had squeezed in a single bed, side table, and wardrobe. Rhian opened the wardrobe, removing the few things that she kept there. All James’ clothes were still hung on hangers or crammed into carrier bags, waiting to be washed. She pulled a shirt out of a bag and lifted it to her face, smelling his scent.
She almost broke down then but she held it together. She had promised herself she would not cry. She froze her feelings until she felt hollow. Inside her head was a vacuum, a cold emptiness like the center of a bronze-cast statue.
Rhian put the garment down and was businesslike again. She gathered up everything—her clothes, her washbag—what else was there? She wanted to leave no sign of her presence in the flat. She opened the drawer under the side table. Inside was a bad photograph of a girl sitting on James’ knee. She remembered the picture being taken in the passport booth at Victoria Station. They were waiting for a train to the coast for a day trip. It rained the whole day and she had a wonderful time. She put the photo in her pocket.
Rhian looked into the bedroom mirror. The face that looked back at her was near identical to the girl in the photo. Both girls had the same short-cut dark hair, the same petite bone structure but the eyes were different. The girl in the mirror had eyes that were a thousand years older.
She put the photo carefully in her coat pocket and turned away. She was about to leave when a thought struck her, so she reopened the drawer and pulled it completely out. Feeling under the lid, she found an envelope taped out of sight. She slipped open the flap to reveal a slim stack of ten- and twenty-pound notes. She placed the envelope in her coat pocket next to the photo.
She put her rucksack back on, loaded her bag upon her shoulder and placed her key firmly down on the computer table. She would not be coming back, ever. The door closed with a click of the Yale lock when she let herself out. She went down the stairs and out of the front door onto the street. Rhian walked along the pavement for a few meters then stopped.
“I wonder,” she said, “where I should go?”