At First Sight by Hannah Sunderland (best inspirational books txt) 📗

help but wholeheartedly agree: the Irish really did know how to do a send-off.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I woke up to the sound of seagulls calling and it instilled me with the excitement of childhood holidays to the seaside. I rolled onto my back and looked up at the ceiling as my swollen eyes adjusted to the light of a new morning. After the spontaneous forming of our new band, the evening had descended into music, drinking and dancing, and even Siobhan had seemed to enjoy herself a little once Kenna had found her and pulled her out of the downstairs loo.

We’d stumbled back to Carrick’s with Bambi-like legs, all propping each other up with untrustworthy arms. Charlie hadn’t been ready to sleep, or rather to be alone, and so he’d stayed up with Carrick, while I collapsed into my bed for the night. I’d fallen asleep almost instantly after hitting the sheets, but I’d been woken a few times, just enough to register the sound of music being played and glasses being clinked.

I dreaded to think what state they were in.

I showered, brushed the whisky-flavoured layer of fuzz from my teeth and dressed in a pair of jeans, a mustard-coloured cable-knit jumper and my trusty pumps. I packed up, pushing my pair of mud-smeared heels, which were the cause of today’s aching feet, into my bag. I put on the bare minimum make-up and braided my hair into a tight French braid. It tugged on my scalp a little, exacerbating the headache already boiling behind my brows, but it was the only acceptable option when there was no hairdryer to hand. I glugged two paracetamols down with some lukewarm water from the bathroom tap and hoped that it would subside.

Down in the kitchen, sitting at a marble-topped, Pringle-scattered kitchen island, was Carrick. The fact that he’d managed to sleep, face down on the marble countertop, propped up by only a stool, was just short of a miracle. I took a clean glass from the dishwasher, which sat open, and filled it with cold water before going over to Carrick and gently shaking him awake.

‘Carrick?’ I whispered. ‘Are you alive?’

He groaned as he came around and became aware of his thumping head. ‘I think so. Unfortunately,’ he replied as he sat up, squinting against the dim light that came through the curtains. ‘What time is it? Don’t want yer to miss yer flight.’

‘We’ve got hours yet,’ I said, chuckling at his fragile state.

‘Is Charlie up yet?’

‘Don’t think so. I wondered if you could do something for me?’

‘Depends on if the thing you want help with requires much brain function.’ He groaned, noticed the water and chugged it down.

‘Careful, don’t want to make yourself sick,’ I cautioned.

‘Sick? Ha!’ He chortled. ‘I haven’t been sick since 1993. Now, what is it that yer want?’

‘Can you just type the name of the graveyard into my phone?’ I said, sliding it across the countertop to him, Maps open on the screen.

‘What are yer goin’ there for?’

‘Just want to … pay my respects,’ I said.

He shrugged and typed in the name. I rubbed his head affectionately, refilled his water and left him dozing on the countertop as I put on my coat and slipped out of the door.

Aughaval graveyard was a field, hemmed in by bushes and trees, with the ever-present spectre of Croagh Patrick hazed in fog in the background. The graveyard was packed to the rafters, filled with stones of different heights, styles and sizes, and it seemed to stretch on forever. It was easily the biggest graveyard I’d been to, not that I’d visited many in my time, but it was still large by graveyard standards. Mum had sent me pictures last year when she’d gone to Père Lachaise in Paris, which I’m sure dwarfed Aughaval in size. I know she was just trying to share her adventures with me, but I couldn’t help but wish that she shared them with me in person and not by proxy. I mean, I wouldn’t have even had to fly there.

Just before Carrick had nodded off again, he’d told me where Abi was, nestled into the back right-hand corner by a conifer tree. A black stone with silver writing.

It was so quiet here, with nothing but birdsong and the occasional hum of a passing car to break the silence. I walked amongst the stones, scanning each one and thinking how I might never find her, until suddenly, there she was.

Up until now, Abigale Murphy had been nothing but a story to me, a well fleshed out, tragically real story. But a story nonetheless. But, as I stood before her tombstone, her name spelled out in silver letters, I finally felt the weight of it hit me.

Bingo. Yer found me. Abi sat with her shoulder and head propped against the stone casually.

‘I thought it’d be rude to come all this way and not pay you a visit.’ I ran my fingers over the carved lines that spelled out the date of when she’d left this world and for a brief moment, wondered what date they might carve on mine. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you. I really am,’ I said. I didn’t check around for eavesdroppers or worry what someone might think about me talking to someone who wasn’t there. This was a graveyard. If there was anywhere you could talk to inanimate objects and not be judged, it was here.

I’m sure you are, she said sarcastically. I’m sure there’s nothin’ you’d like better than to have me still around and in your way.

I looked up at her and stared for a moment as I thought of what to say. ‘You’re right. But if you hadn’t died then there’s no telling that I would have ever met Charlie. We’d have both gone on with our lives, completely ignorant of each other.’ A gust of wind blew in between the headstones, making little air tunnels that caused strands of hair to dance around my face. I watched