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01 May 2008

56. Kidman’s Gift – Part Three

The ‘battle’ started with, of all things, a handshake.

Now, on the surface, this would seem so formal as to be irritating to any woman who was encountering the man who sends her pretty wild, as James does to me. But, under the circumstances – remembering my stupidity when he’d visited Mordan House, and remembering how offended he’d been – a handshake was almost a romantic gesture. Certainly, to the outside viewer, it would definitely have appeared peacemaking, even if they couldn’t buy into all the romance malarkey!

The image of James was swimming slightly in my vision, floating on a gentle sea, so much so that I couldn’t quite focus on him. Alcohol was deadening every nerve ending, making them all jarred and unsure of themselves. I could imagine them squabbling for ‘first rights’ on what reality actually meant and what it looked like. And there was me, in the middle of it all, just wanting some little thing that I could be sure of and my senses and intellect were giving me nothing!

There were words spoken between us, yet I can’t remember any of them. The words didn’t seem important – it seemed more important that words were being exchanged and how they were being exchanged: kindly, sensitively, and in a conciliatory fashion. James was a blur of darkness and light: darkly tumbling hair and white skin gently rocking in my vision as he spoke. Yet one thing that I couldn’t deny was the sense that was beyond what my corrupted body was able to detect, and that was that I felt something warm from him. There was something right up against me, close and familiar, in his words and presence.

I recall little droplets of words. Something about getting home. Something about my car. Something about alcohol. Then a look in his eye – a split-second of look, and one of the few that my mind was able to capture, process and hold onto. I’m not sure what it said, but it was focused and complete like a ball. There was something in it that I liked, but, at the same time, made me shiver slightly.

Then I was walking and I think there was a flutter of hand on my arm as we walked towards his car. James was going to give me a lift back to Mordan House. I’d be in his car. I’d be in his company. He’d be in my house.

I’m sure that I glanced behind me at some point to see if I could see Kidman. Was there a hint of her dress somewhere in the distance, in the dark, ghosting our steps? I can’t be sure that this was the case.

Did I feel her presence though? That unmistakeable essence of Kidman, that fire, that bravura, that steeliness, that gentleness? Yes. Completely. All the time.

Want to read more? Read the whole story by clicking on the first blog called Prelude and start clicking forwards using the tabs above the title.

11:22 Posted in Part Two: Getting Some Answers | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this | Tags: haunted house, ghost story, horror story, astronaut, space, nicole kidman, journal