The bruises around my neck have finally started to fade to a darker green, the shade they go before they disappear, unlike the memories of that night and like the dream I had of my mother last night that lingers, never truly fading away. I just push it to the back of mind but it's still there.

I can hear the kettle whistling away, Dads up having his morning coffee, he can barely function until he's had a cup of caffeine waking up his brain. When I walk through he's nursing a cup in his hands as he's sat at the table and skimming over yesterday's newspaper. I know this is yesterday's paper without even looking at it as there is no way he's been to the shop yet. He mutters a morning and a nod in my direction as I sit beside him. He's put a bowl, spoon, cereal and milk on the table ready for me, typical Dad always thinking about me and to be honest it's the small things that I appreciate the most. He knows I'm more than capable to do it myself but still does it.

Dad's parents are Jamaican, he doesn't mention them a lot and I've never met them, he left when he was a teenager. From the little he has said about them I know his Dad liked a drink, which often enough made him aggressive with him and his mother, he loved a flutter on the horses seldom ever winning and chasing women. Dad mum was the opposite very deeply religious, never missing church. I always thought they sounded like an odd couple, one loving to commit every sin in the book while the other on bended knees praying away the others sins. He said he left after getting in a fight with his father, he had begged his mother to leave but she refused to, she believed it was a sin to be divorced, far better in God's eyes to stay with a womanising, abusive drunk. So he left unable to stand it any longer. I wonder how many times she sat and regretted that moment choosing to stand by the wrong man.

After breakfast I follow Dad downstairs, there are two things you need to know about running a pub you never adapt to the smell of stale beer in the morning, which hits you like a brick wall, and there is always a couple of people waiting for the doors to open for a morning pint. These people are usually very lonely or raging alcoholics, either way they'll be there, at the door at 11:00 rain or shine waiting for that first pint to take the shakes away.

The barmaids chat away to every customer that crosses the threshold as if they are a lifelong friend because here we are selling an illusion. Once you step inside there are no problems, no strife here, real life doesn't exist here. You can drink at 11:00 and flirt with barmaids half your age, who wouldn't give you the time of day outside in the real world. As long as you've got cash to spend you are welcome to hide from life inside here with us in our little bubble.

Most of the regulars seem nice enough and chat away as if we've lived in Whitstable all of our lives, often discussing things or people we don't know but we smile and nod. Dad always tries to steer away from conversations about religion or politics, he said its the quickest way to get into an argument. I think talking about football is I've heard men rather hear their wife sleeping with every man in The United Kingdom than hear their beloved football team is shit.

I've noticed there is no Bell, I pop out to the courtyard to see if I missed her come in but she's not here, I ask Dad but he simply shrugs and replies that she would probably be in later. I catch in the corner of my eye the gossipy barmaid is listening.

When Dad goes to serve a customer she slinks over "As long as I've known her she never comes in on Wednesdays until the afternoon".

I smile sweetly back, Now is my chance to fish for some information on old Bell. "Maybe she spends the morning with her family".

The barmaid scoffs, "What family! Bell did have a daughter but she left years ago".
I think for a minute, I'm sure Bell told me she had died, not left. I try to not let my face give anything away, this woman can smell gossip from a mile off.

"That's sad for Bell being all on her own, at least she's got those lads keeping an eye out for her and walking her home".

She looks at me suspiciously "what lads?"

I panic, have I said too much ? I can feel her eyes piercing into me for more information, I've slipped up. "Just some local lads the other night walked her home, I think they were being nice because she's you know ... Old".

The barmaid eyes me up and down for a second then bursts into laughter. "Don't let her hear you calling her old".

Dads now come over. "Who's old?"

I smile sweetly. "You're old".

He leans into us. "No, I'm mature I'll have you know and this grey hair, is brought on by you young lady".

The barmaid is now howling. "Nothing ages you like bloody kids that's for sure".

As the day trickles on I decide to go for a wander to entertain myself whilst also trying to become accustomed to my new surroundings, as I walk up the high street I notice the church sat in the middle of town. It stands majestically with its large strong wooden doors and beautiful colourful stained glass windows glowing like a beacon to all the lost naive souls. The building looks strong and sturdy, you can tell it's been there for years, some would take comfort in knowing it will be there for many more. At the very top is a clock ticking away - almost catching and releasing the moments it has stood here in Whitstable.  Churches are interesting places, they welcome new life, they acknowledge when life is ended, they see people being united together in marriage, all this in one place.

Dad and me have never been churchgoers it's hard to find time to speak to God when you're sleeping on a bench and feel like God has forgotten about you, but I can appreciate the building, even if I can't relate to what it stands for. I notice the door is open, there is a sign outside saying coffee morning, as I edge closer the door swings open and I jump back startled that I've gone too close to the unknown. A rosy-faced vicar stands there, he's short with receding hair and crazy eyebrows that look like wild caterpillars running across his face. I've met a few vicars in my time, usually at food banks or hostels, they've preached at us as if that will suddenly sort out all of our problems and tell us to pray. If praying worked there would a lot less people in there in the first place. That's probably another reason religion had no appeal to me when you've moved from flats to bedsits, to park benches and cheap hotels when you can afford it you struggle to listen to someone who has no idea how the other half live.

I've never been inside a church and I think that's why I was drawn in; my curiosity will be the death of me. "Are you here for the coffee morning?" he chirps at me.

I smile meekly "I was just looking, I'm new to Whitstable".

He gestures to me with his hand. "Come in, come in". I don't move, I've spent too long living by my wits to be lured in a church by a man I don't know.

But then a little old lady pops up behind the vicar. "The urns out but I can't find the sugar, have you moved it again?"

He turns to her, "It's on the second shelf by the fridge dear, I'm just coming". She huffs and storms off, she must be his wife, the tone was one reserved for someone you love but also drives you nuts.

I speak up, "I'm sorry I don't have any money on me but maybe next time".

He waves his hand. "No need for money, you can bring the biscuits next time". Then chuckles to himself.

This guy won't take no for an answer and a tiny bit of me is intrigued. What can one coffee hurt? So I follow him, behind the door is a wonderful brick floor that clips clots as you walk through, either side are stairs that lead up to a balcony that you can sit in to watch Sunday Service. There are a second lot of doors that lead to the foyer, where there are chairs and tables with people sitting around; chatting, drinking tea and coffee with small children running around. Behind them is stained glass windows with glass doors that lead to the main part of the church. The light streams through the glass on to the people in the foyer, it is breathtaking, with awe I peer through the glass like a child in a sweet shop. The church radiates light from the never-ending pews to the altar, old wood with the brick gives the place a natural flow, the stained glass windows stream rainbow colours down to where people would sit in the pews. Above are wooden beams that look like the backbone holding the church up, strong keeping everyone inside safe.

The vicar comes and stands beside me. "Where was your parish before you came here?"

I feel embarrassed to admit this is the first time I've been inside a church so I stammer. "We moved a lot so we didn't have a church".

He smiles as if understanding what I'm not saying. "Would you like to go in and have a look?" I nod trying not to seem too eager.

As soon as he opens those doors a wave of nausea hits me I can feel it bubbling in my stomach and working its way up to my throat, the feeling you get before the release of vomit. I slowly follow behind him trying to listen to the history behind the church but I'm struggling to concentrate on his words, my mind is becoming clouded and everything is become distorted, shifting slowly as if the building has a heartbeat, a rhythm that is throwing me off. It's enough to make me feel unbalanced, I grab onto a pew to settle myself for fear of falling. As soon as my hand touches the cool wood on my skin I feel a searing, burning pain scorching at my fingers. I scream out and fall to my knees. The burning is working its way up my arm like an invisible fire, burning me inside out.

I can see the vicars scared face speaking to me but I can't make out what he's saying. It is as if his voice has somehow been put on a higher frequency that I can't register. I try to stand but the room is now spinning faster and faster, out of control, my mind is screaming GET OUT! but I can't, the beautiful light that streamed down from angelic faces in the stained glass now burns my skin as I try to move. I can hear my skin sizzle as it bubbles away underneath, the smell of me burning inside out is horrific, it's putrid and I gag as it lingers around me. I scream out "HELP ME!" I can see the terrified faces looking at me from the safe side of the glass, watching me scream for my life because this much pain can only mean one thing, death. Then it all goes black.