"Convergence" or "Splashes in Time"
an excerpt

Seven Gates Park
Haven
12th December, 2008.
6:15 pm

A moss covered sandstone wall surrounded the cemetery nestled in the North West corner of Seven Gates Park. In the older sections, the weed-tangled headstones were roughened by the years, their names worn into obscurity.

Scott Cooper knelt in the damp grass of a newer section, picking rubbish and broken glass from the grave. To think that Angel used to hang out with some of those sad Emo arseholes, the same scum who moped about in the cemetery after dark smashing bottles on her headstone. He tried to mop away the stains on the stone.

Angela Goddard
14 April 1993
To
7 May 2008
Beloved daughter
(Our Angel)

“Bastards!” he shouted.

A large hooded rat cringed away and scurried back into the pocket of Scott’s jacket.

“Sorry rebel.” He coaxed the rat out with soothing words and a sunflower seed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Rebel poked his little brown face over the lip of the pocket, sniffing, whiskers quivering. He reached out with delicate fingers, snatched the seed and dropped back out of sight.

Scott dipped his hand in and tickled Rebels chin. The rat huffed contentedly and snuggled back down in warm dark.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Scott laid a lily down for her and pushed himself to his feet. A shaft of pain lanced through his right leg from knee to hip giving him one more reason to hate Deacan Cainin.

The sun was gone and Scott made his way to the gate. The Angel Gate was a fitting name for the cemetery’s entrance. He had to pass here now if he wanted to visit Angel. He swung the greening wrought iron gate open and looked up at the twin statues.
“Watch over her,” he said.

Scott hunched into the collar of his jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets as he stomped home against the biting wind. The streetlight next to him hummed and flickered to life, cutting a cone of hazy yellow into the gloomy evening. He looked up, straight into the eyes of Angel Goddard.

“Scott, help me!”

“Angela?”

He reached out, trembling hands hovered near her face, afraid to touch her incase she disappeared. Her hair drifted across his fingers. He shivered at the feathery touch. Her hair was red and long like when she first moved to Haven, not the short black goth cut that caused their fight. He looked deeply into her satin green eyes and saw his face reflected back.

The scar was still there, angry and red.

“Oh, Angel,” he groaned. “This isn’t fair.”

He punched his right leg, grimacing at the pain. She was still there. Scott turned and walked back the way he came, muttering as he rubbed savagely at his head.

“Scott.”

“Scott!” Angel grabbed his shoulder and spun him to face her.

“What is wrong with you?” she snapped. “We are supposed to be friends.”

Scott grabbed Angel by the elbow and dragged roughly her into the cemetery.

Angel struggled, tried to pull her arm free but Scott wrenched her arm hard. She yelped and stumbled forward.

When he stopped, Scott grabbed Angel by both shoulders and gazed at her face, brushed his hand down he cheek.

“What the hell’s got into you, Scott.”

He spun her about and forced her to her knees.

Angel Goddard came face to face with her own headstone. Her mouth dropped open moving like she was trying to speak but no sound came out.

“What the fuck is going on?” Scott yelled. “I watched you die.”

“I… I… don’t…it’s a…” she stammered.

“I held you… tried to hold your brains in. I can still hear the bones crackling under my hand.”

“Oh God.” Angel vomited in the grass.

Angel sat, head slumped forward, her hair screening her face from Scott. A twig snapped behind a line of shrubs and Scott helped Angel to her feet.

“We should get out of here,” he said. “It’s not safe in here after dark.” He glanced back several times as they hurried away.

Scott led Angel south along the path toward Fidelity Square.

A man stepped out of the shadows and crept along behind them.

Fat moths flocked the floodlit entrance to the park sending crazy bat-wing shadows dancing across the stone lion statues and bright chalk paintings on the footpath beside the gate. Scott couldn’t help stopping to admire the work. No one who walked past the Lion Gate could. There were four of them today, each a metre square…

(Describe pictures) Broken clock….

The Friday night traffic was thick along the Park Way and thicker still, heading into Fidelity, where the restaurant and nightclub strip of Central was coming to life. Scott and Angel darted through the cars and pushed open the door to Spinners Café.

The café-come-bookshop was almost empty. A young couple sat at a window table, holding hands and leaning in over a flickering candle. Two businessmen with loosened ties and loud laughs bantered at another table. An old man with a jaunty hat stood by the bottomless pot, refilling his mug. He carried an old battered case in quick chalk-stained hands. His bright eyes took in everything. He frowned at Angel as they stepped passed by him.

Spinner, the owner of the café, caught the frown Taber gave them and watched the teens sit at one of the secluded rear tables in the book section. He took a closer look as he went over to take their order. Both were flustered and breathing hard, the boy had a wild, (I just saw a ghost) look in his eyes. There was something familiar about him, possibly the angry red scar that ran down the right side of his face, but he couldn’t quite put his finger of it. The girl’s creamy complexion had a cinnamon smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was just a notch above copper and shone like fire under the tables reading lights. She fidgeted with a napkin the whole time Spinner stood there. The old chalk artist had seen something in these two that disturbed him and that could mean only one thing.

After serving their drinks, Spinner crept into the back room.

“If Taber saw something in them, it has to be here,” he muttered to himself.

Rows of books lined the shelves in the back room. All had Taber’s name and dates meticulously hand labeled on the spine.

“It has to be recent.” Spinner took down the end book and began flicking through the pages, working from the back. Each page had a held a matt, eight by ten colour photograph of Taber’s work. Some had disturbing news clippings attached, all dated after the pictures were drawn. Spinner was one of the few people that new Taber’s secret. He wasn’t entirely sure if Taber knew himself. He had never asked.

Spinner had found prophetic meaning in many of Taber’s chalk paintings. Who knows, maybe all of them predict something. Nearly a quarter of them had corresponding articles attached and he had photographed every one since he opened the Parlour all those years ago.

Several of the more recent paintings had a similar theme, a broken clock face somewhere in the picture. One showed a grandfather clock, split down the middle and a flock of dark red-eyed ravens flocking out of the breach in time.

Then he saw it…

The girl, eyes close, face splashed with blood and hovering behind her, a set of dark eyes with purple irises. There were words scrawled across the painting, repeated over and over…

Sparkling Angel,
You showed me dreams
I wish they would turn into real
But you broke the promise
And made me realise
… It was all just a lie.

Haven Chronicle
May 8th, 2008

Tragic Accident Kills Teen

Fourteen-year-old Angela Goddard was killed in a traffic accident outside the ???? night spot, a popular hangout for the gothic Emo youth of Haven. Angela and Scott Forrester were standing on the footpath outside the venue when an out of control car struck them down. Forrester was conveyed to Haven Memorial hospital where he is reported to be in a serious condition.

The driver of the car, fifteen-year-old Deacan Cainin, a classmate of the deceased has been charged with a number of driving offences, including driving whilst intoxicated and vehicular manslaughter. A court date has yet to be set.

Angela’s family has been too distraught to comment to the media. Floral tributes have been pouring in and a growing shrine to this popular young girl marks the place where she lost her life. Her funeral service, set down for next Tuesday is expected to be standing room only.

The father of the injured boy said to reporters “We are deeply saddened by Angela’s death and our thoughts are with her family.”

The photograph with the article showed a twisted Ford Capri mounted on the footpath and a tall clean cut young man being led away in handcuffs. There were inset pictures of two teens. Angela Goddard’s photograph showed an attractive but serious looking young girl with short night black hair. She had the same face as the girl in Taber’s painting, despite the hair.

It was the same face as the girl now sitting in his café.

The photograph of Scott Forrester was definitely the boy with her.

“No wonder he looks like he saw a ghost.”

When Spinner stepped out of the back room, Scott and Angela were gone.

The coffee helped Scott clear his head. He never used to drink the stuff but if he stopped now, he would sleep. When he slept, the nightmares plagued him. He found once he reached the point of exhaustion the dreams didn’t come, well not as brutally anyway. Each week he lied to his counselor, told her things were getting better. If he told her he saw Angel’s bloody face every time he closed his eyes, she’d be sure to lock him away.

Things were not getting better. Now he’d gone and lost his mind. Not only could he see her, he was walking the streets touching and talking to her. He closed his eyes. If she were gone when he opened them, it would be worse than hell. He couldn’t stand that. When he opened them, she was still there.

She was giving him a strange look. It was obvious, she was just a shaken as him. Seeing your own grave would tend to do that almost as much as seeing your dead girlfriend.