The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 79

Perhaps nothing.

A three-hundred-word article, thrown in as trivia, less important than what celebrity did what to whom, or which prime minister’s wife was snubbed at what event, or whether immigrants were causing a strain on the bus services of Tyneside.

But it caught my eye, and I looked a little closer, and it was Byron.

A report from a book launch in Nîmes, a swanky affair, celebrities and the unsung wealthy elite gathered to hear their spiritual guru, Marie Lefevre, spirit-healer and mystic, launching her latest title: Soul of Love, Spirit of Truth, a book demonstrating that the path to great business and romantic success was through knowing your past lives.

I looked at a picture of Lefevre, and she was beautiful, stunning, perfect. The perfect man on her arm, the perfect smile, the perfect life. And I looked at pictures of the people gathered at the event, and they too were beautiful, rich and full of big ideas about time and space and their own position within, and I envied them, and wanted to be that beautiful and confident and memorable too, but then I saw the after-pictures, and even the beautiful bled, it seemed, and even the beautiful needed seventeen stitches to their faces and necks before the doctors would let them go.

Their attacker was Louise Dundas, an exceptionally beautiful, exceptionally lovely member of the gathering, who, listening to Marie Lefevre read one of her favourite bits of poetry, had suddenly, inexplicably and without warning attacked her fellow guests.

No — not just attacked, whispered the social media, hastily censured. The girl went insane.

In a statement issued by a somewhat shell-shocked Marie Lefevre after:

“We deeply regret the actions of one member of the gathering at today’s launch. Sometimes people who do not know themselves do extraordinary and violent things; the path to truth can be frightening and we are very sad to hear of how many of our loyal readers were injured in this event. We will of course co-operate fully with the investigation and wish peace, love and the eternal light to everyone caught up in these tragic happenings.”

Flicking through the photos from that night, the blood and the chaos, the out-of-focus shots as people fled for their lives, one man bleeding out as the insane girl bit deep enough to puncture the veins in his wrist, I saw terror and horror and chaos and

Byron.

Right at the very, very back, Byron, her face half turned away, moving like the crowd for the exit

there she was

Byron.

A copy of Marie Lefevre’s book under her arm, her head down, a pearl necklace at her throat, a few mere pixels against the chaos of the screen but it was her, it was

Byron.

A question for the survivors of the event.

What was happening before Louise Dundas went insane?

An answer, unanimously rendered: Marie Lefevre was reading a poem.

Question: what poem?

The answer, less unanimous through poetical ignorance. Eventually enough came together to pick the answer from the chaos, and it was this:

“SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY” BY LORD BYRON, 1813

I found Louise Dundas’ Facebook profile, trawled through its contents — photos of her on a yacht, with friends at a club, hugging her dog, trying new shoes, grinning hugely to camera as she stands beneath the departures board of Heathrow airport, a straw hat with corks on set at a rakish angle over her head. A catalogue of a life lived high, full of acronyms, OMG, LOL, WTF!

And there, of course, there, three months ago, the post I was looking for.

OMG so excited starting treatments today!!!

From that post onwards, the acronyms declined, as did the photos of her being silly. More and more she became what the treatments wanted her to be — beautiful, confident, unobtainable, untouchable, perfect.

Going to Marie Lefevre’s exclusive party tonight, she wrote, the day of the attack. Very excited to hear her speak — so inspiring, so truthful and giving.

That evening, I went to my sister’s room — you’re new here, aren’t you? — said the receptionist as I signed my name, and I kissed Gracie on the forehead and said I had to go, I’d be back soon, and she tutted and replied,

“You must keep your promises.”

“I promise,” I murmured. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I sat in silence on the train to Manchester.