Chapter 1 - The Girl with The Blue Tongue

John Grimshaw stood within the St. Christopher’s church on an early Tuesday morning. The last of the summer heat was in full retreat giving way to autumn, yet the church remained uncomfortably hot for the eighty-four members in attendance.

A set of tall stain-glassed windows rose high behind the altar, bathing John and the rest of the people in the front row in a mirage of red and orange. John lowered his head and closed his eyes, listening to the Vicar’s warm words. Words designed to soothe a troubled heart and give hope to those coping with the blunt finality of death.

John felt so acquainted with these words that their potency felt strangely diluted, like a shot of beer among a pint of lemonade. While other attendants sobbed and sniffled, John felt the words trail over him like water on a duck’s back. He looked over at his good friend Richard Pratt, preparing to make his speech, and pitied him.

“And now, some words from Richard, father to our beloved Michael.” The vicar announced.

John watched his friend climb the shallow carpeted steps to the podium, his head hanging low and sullen. The Vicar gave Richard one of his deepest smiles, gently rubbing the sleeve on his obsidian jacket. Richard turned to face the sea of onlookers, his face red and his eyes puffy from active use. In his hand, he clutched a wrinkled piece of paper and began to spread the parchment out on the wooden podium.

John was suddenly conscious of the fingers in his pockets and removed them, deciding instead to interlock them at his waist. Richard seldom looked up from his sheet of paper as he clutched it like a safety raft. The paper looked watermarked despite the fact it hadn't rained in weeks. Richard cleared his throat, then began his readings.

The church listened, some clearing their noses while others stared absently at the ground. At times, Richard paused to gather his resolve before continuing. Burying your son was a task John had undergone himself back in the summer of 2001.

Most recently, however, was the burial of his wife: Lucy Grimshaw, and the pain after his son’s death, had once again sunk its teeth into him with the passing of his wife. John’s eyes wandered unconsciously to the Vicar and with great animosity, he cursed him, as if he was the omen to all his pain.

When it was over, the Vicar moved to rescue Richard, gently touching his arm again in solidarity. John gave his friend a nod as he descended, allowing him the knowledge at least that ‘he did good’.

The service continued with some more attendants—mostly close friends or family showing their support and making their own speeches. Most notably was the auntie of Michael, who spoke distressed words until they evidentially melted away into nothing more than sobs. She was quickly saved and escorted off the podium by loving arms. By twelve o’clock noon it was over, and the attendants began spilling out into the much cooler summer air outside.

John felt the many eyes weighing him down as he left the church, many of whom were acutely aware of John’s past. Time was a healer John was led to believe, but wounds as deep as his would never heal he knew, regardless of how much time you poured into them.

When the coffin was being carried out of the open doors of the church, John remembered his wife being carried out in one similar, with its bouquet of brightly coloured flowers trimming its hem.

John returned to his car; an old 1990 BMW. He hungrily reached into his glove box to retrieve his pack of Richmond’s. The cigarette pack would have been treated with the same contempt as a spider if found by his wife Lucy a year earlier. A thing to be snatched up and hurriedly tossed away with clean efficiency.

John pinched at one of the ‘cancer sticks’ Lucy used to call them and lit up. He watched as the coffin was gingerly lifted into the back of the hearse and driven out of the car park.

The St. Christopher’s church rested on a dizzying height that overlooked the entire Runcorn area. Most predominantly of all in this scenic view, was the 1899 Transporter Bridge that stretched out over the narrow vein of the River Mersey. John finished his cigarette and allowed the car park to filter out a bit more before hopping in his car and beginning his solo journey to the cemetery.

The drive was short and John journeyed it in silence. John followed the ribbon of cars ahead while absently looking over at his passenger side. He thought of his daughter, and the thought of inviting Angelina to this event seemed unimaginable given her allergic propensity around death. The last five years of Angelina’s life had been difficult, more so than John perhaps. John sometimes had to remind himself that Lucy’s death had not just been hard on him, but also her. Especially after all the business with her marriage.

The thought of so much tragedy swirling around John’s head brought attention to the shining silver cross hanging from his rear-view mirror. At the next red light, John untangled the cross his wife had so intricately tied and tossed it in the glove box out of sight. The cross had remained on the mirror every since, but John had hardly noticed it until now; as if it had been there so long it had molded into the car itself.

“Bye-bye Jesus.” He whispered under his breath with a sort of self-righteous reverence and lit another cigarette.

The burial was comprised mostly of everyone just waiting around for the coffin to be brought through. Once at the site, each man and woman bowed their head in dutiful silence, then watched as the expensive wood was lowered inch by inch into its final resting place. Richard tossed dirt on his son’s coffin while his mother tossed a single rose, gently kissing it beforehand. Others had brought flowers too John now realised and was grateful when the Vicar offered him some dirt from an offering box. John scooped up a handful of dirt keenly, said a few words in his head which he felt appropriate, then walked over to peer into the six-foot drop.

‘We’ll all end up down there with you one day.’ He thought. ‘And pity should not be onto you, but the people throwing flowers on you. For those still pushing through the tragedy of life, it is truly them that should be mourned. Be at peace Michael.’

A shiver ran up John’s back and in an underarm motion, John tossed the handful of dirt, hearing it hit the coffin with a sprinkled thud. Tears were now popular among the onlookers as many wept into their hankies or husbands’ arms. It was over. Nothing left now but for the workers to fully bury Michael and move on to the next one.

John wondered whether the people in charge of fully burying the coffins at a cemetery ever grew numb to it. Whether on their first day the shovel felt twenty pounds heavier than it really was. After some time, John concluded they probably saw nothing more than a hole needing to be filled.

“John?”

John turned to see an old, short plump woman. It was Rosey Pratt, Richard’s mother, Michael’s grandmother.

“Hi, Rose,” John said, quickly pulling his fifth Richmond out of his mouth. Rosey gave the cigarette a contemptuous look as if to say: ‘What would Lucy think?’

“Thanks for coming,” Her lips said instead. She took a glance over at Richard who was being taken into the arms of his wife. “I know Richard appreciates it. And I know it must be hard on you. Coming back here so soon after--.” Rosey vaguely cast a look over her shoulder to where John’s wife lay.

“It’s just—” she tried.

“It’s fine Rose. Seriously.” John said, keeping his voice cooled. “Just glad to be here for Richard.”

There was a moment of silence, neither one speaking.

“How’s Angelina? Is she doing better?” Rosey asked.

“Fine.” he said, “Just—fine Rosey thanks. I think I’ll say bye to Richard before I leave.”

John walked briskly past Rosey, trying to create as much space between him and her as possible. John felt his blood run hot. Her grandson lays in the ground yet she still insists on poking her nose in other people’s business.

‘Control your temper.’ John heard his wife’s voice say to him from some dark corridor in his mind. He took a calming drag on his cigarette, passing a glance at his wife’s tombstone that lay across the neatly tendered lawns, then made his way to Richard.

He knew it was about time to be saying goodbye anyway. He would be expecting a phone call in the next hour or two from Dr. Sternal, Angelina’s clinical therapist. John wanted to believe his daughter was just temporarily sick, depressed, going through a tough time; hoping against hope she would get better, as did his bank account which slowly depleted from the sessions.

Walking along the well-groomed grass lined with headstones, John noticed a girl sitting alone. He wasn’t sure what drew his eye to her, perhaps it was the fact she was sitting alone on a bench which wasn’t that odd given where they were, or maybe it was the enormous blue slush-puppy the girl held in one hand that caught him. The girl looked no older than twenty and wore a tobacco brown beanie that covered shoulder-length auburn hair.

John watched her over the patch of tombstones that sprouted from the earth like broken teeth. When their eyes met, John was about to break away until he caught a tongue slither from the girl’s mouth, it was stained blue from the slush puppy. The girl retracted her tongue and went back to sipping her blue beverage. John's face contorts from the obscene gesture. The kids nowadays seemed as alien to John as the new ‘vegan’ foods they all ate.

After saying his goodbyes and briefly visiting his wife’s resting place. John received a slew of sympathetic stares from the people who had last year attended his own wife’s funeral. John Grimshaw crawled into his car and left. On his journey home, while he thought about the girl with the blue tongue, his phone began to ring in his pocket, vibrating its distress. John swerved slightly on the road but steadied himself with one hand on the wheel.

Dr. Sternal was digitally printed on the phone’s face.

“Good evening Doctor,” John answered.

“Good evening Mr. Grimshaw,” Came the soft female voice of Sophia Sternal. “I’m just calling to give you an update on your daughter's progress as we agreed. Are you available to talk?”

John pressed the phone against his right shoulder and dropped into second gear, maintaining a safe fifteen miles per hour. He knew he should hang up and call Dr. Sternal back when he got home, but the diagnostic on his daughter’s health bullied away any reason to forestall.

“Yes, I’m available.” He said, quickly winding up his window to mute the wind. “How is she?”

“Angelina has made some progress today,” Dr. Sternal said, “showing much less irritableness comparatively speaking. Forgive me for being blunt Mr. Grimshaw, but as a Clinical Physician I can’t help but notice the same criterion that sometimes resembles borderline Schizophrenia.”

John felt his neck suddenly grow hot.

“Has anyone in your family Mr. Grimshaw ever been previously diagnosed with Schizophrenia?”

‘Yes," he thought. “No, I don’t believe so.” He lied instead.

“This might just be in partisan with the recent Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder Angelina has experienced. However, Mr. Grimshaw, I am obliged to tell you that she may need more psychiatric help if she continues to show behaviour associated with this.”

John listened with the intensity of someone being told whether they have stage-four colon cancer. Angelina was his last living relative and although they had fallen out many years ago, Lucy’s death had built a silverly lined bridge between them. That, and the money John was fronting for her therapy.

“Mr. Grimshaw? Are you still there?” the voice said in his ear.

“Hmm, yes. I’m still here Doctor.”

“Has your daughter disclosed to you any notable changes lately? Experiencing any hallucinations or delusions?”

John felt his head grow feint. He Imagined his daughter being tied to a stretcher and hoisted into the back of a white van, her black hair thrashing about as she tried to bite anyone within reach.

“N-no,” John said. “If I’m honest doctor, I haven’t talked to my daughter in two weeks.”

There was a frightening pause.

“Is your daughter answering your phone calls?” Dr. Sternal asked flatly.

‘No’ John thought.

“I haven’t called.” He lied again, “I’ve been busy preparing for a funeral and it’s coming up to the first year since my wife’s passing, so—.”

Another frightening pause. John could almost feel Dr. Sternal’s eyes penetrating him across the phone line, trying to determine whether he was lying, undoubtedly like one of her clinical patients. John closed his eyes as if to hide from her telepathic gaze when…

“Very well Mr. Grimshaw. Please remain in close contact with your daughter and inform me immediately if she experiences anything unusual.”

‘So, you can ship her off into a looney bin, got it.’

“Understood doctor.” He said, and in the rear-view mirror, unshackled by the silver cross now, flashing blue lights signalled the arrival of a police car behind him.

“I have to go, Doctor.” John managed before hanging up. The police car chirped an ear-piercing siren with one rapid ‘blurp’ signaling him to pull over.

John pulled over, feeling his heart rate slightly uptick. The hands gripping the wheel began to sweat. When he pulled his car to a stop and quickly hid his mobile phone in the glove compartment like a man stashing drugs; watching, he saw the officer parked behind him through his rear-view mirror and step out.

The officer’s high-vis chest armour shined vividly in the mirror and John’s eyes were attracted to the two-way radio, black baton, and silver handcuffs strapped to the officer’s chest. The officer exposed well-defined forearms and a short blonde buzz of hair, the type of hair that reminded John of every grunt in the war movies he watched. John wound down his window halfway, then waited anxiously for the officer to arrive.

John put on his most earnest smile which was repaid with an expression of deep seriousness. An expression often wore by the jobsworth and court judges alike.

“Can you wind down the window fully please?” The officer said when he got close. John complied, maintaining his fondest smile.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“I’m the lucky winner of a pull-over pool?” John heard himself say. The officer watched him intently through unamused eyes. John put on his best ‘just a dad’s joke’ face, immediately regretting it. The officer pulled what looked like a notepad from a breast pocket on his vest and leaned in as if to get a better look at the car’s interior...or to smell John’s breath. When he was content, he said:

“You been drinking today sir?”

“Nope.” Answered John.

“Would you be willing to do a Breathalyzer test?” The officer asked in a tone that resembled more of a demand than a question.

“Sure.”

"Alright." Said the officer leaning in close and pocketing his notepad. He slid the pen over one ear. "Keep the window down for us and I'll be right back. Okay?"

And with that, the officer returned to his car. John watched him through the rear-view mirror as he retrieved the breathalyser and paced back. When the nozzle was offered to John, he followed the instructions given and blew knowing full well the device wouldn’t pick up the required level of alcohol to fail.

The officer waited a moment and John read the eyes of someone sceptical to the results being given to him by the mechanical tool. John smirked at the officer’s disappointment, stroking his short beard that needed shaving while tracing the cars that passed him on the road; all of which faithfully following the speed limit now.

“I pulled you over because you were on your phone.” The officer said, pulling free the pen from his ear.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” John pleaded, “I got an important phone call and well—I kept the car below fifteen and kept her in…” but he knew it was no good. John could see his words were falling on deaf ears and after a: “Uh-huh” the officer made a trip back to his car to print him up a ticket. John exhaled and accepted the ticket with another one of his smiles then rolled up his window aggressively. John pulled off the curb and drove home.

When John returned home later that evening, he stared blankly at the ticket handed to him. Although no points had been taken from his licence, he received a seventy-pound fine which needed to be paid in full before October tenth. John reminded himself of the police officer, with his blonde buzz-cut hairdo, and crinkled the ticket in a closed fist. He remembered the girl sitting in the cemetery, the one with the blue slush puppy and matching blue tongue. He remembered his wife’s tombstone where the name Lucy Grimshaw was engraved into fresh black marble above as an inscription of ‘A loving wife' as well as Michael’s coffin being gently lowered into the ground.