Words in Deep Blue(59)

I lean my head on her shoulder.

‘I know she can’t stay.’

‘She can’t,’ I say.

‘I don’t know you as well as Henry, but I know something hasn’t been right. You don’t tell me a thing about what happened with Joel. You haven’t spoken once about your science course. You haven’t been to the pool once since you arrived. I’m not stupid. I’ve noticed. I’m just waiting.’

I look at Lola’s posters of all the bands that she loves – The Waifs, Warpaint, Karen O, Magic Dirt. I remember how Henry and I sat here in the afternoon, lying on the couch while Lola and Hiroko played their songs for us.

Lola touches me with her toe, a gentle reminder that she’s here. I tell her about Cal. The words still hurt, but they hurt less than they did when I told Henry and Frederick, maybe they will hurt even less when I tell the next person.

‘I was trying to imagine the worst thing,’ Lola says. ‘What’s the worst thing that could have happened to you? Hiroko and I sat here trying to guess, so I could help you. We didn’t guess that,’ she says, and moves in close and puts both arms around me, and we fall asleep like that.





Henry




spend the last night of the world with me I can’t sleep. The Borges story, Frederick, Rachel lying beside me, knowing exactly what I’m thinking – it all keeps me awake. I walk around for a while, and try to read. When I do finally sleep, I dream of the bookshop, the shelves and the fiction couch, the stairs and the roof, every inch of the place, grown over by a wild garden. The ivy stems are so thick and strong that I can’t pull them from the shelves. They’ve grown into the wood. Frederick helps me in the end, cutting through and breaking off bits, cutting at the ivy with scissors so small they take forever.

I wake knowing that the shop Frederick talked about tonight, the shop that he and Elena owned, was this shop. He owned a florist, and that florist was here, and it’s ours now. ‘He let it go with the Walcott,’ I say, but Rachel’s not here.





The Broken Shore

by Peter Temple Letters left between pages 8 and 9

14 February 2016



Dear George

I was talking to Henry today, and he told me that it’s the end of the world. Did you hear? I know how much you love Bradbury, and I wondered if you’d like to spend the last night with me? We’d ignore the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day. We’d go strictly as friends, keeping each other company while we wait for the end. What do you think?

Martin



Dear Martin

I’d like that a lot.

George





Henry




the day pours in – sunshine and dust The last day of the world dawns bright and sunny but the feeling of the dream is still with me. I had it yesterday, all day.

Yesterday, I kept waiting for Amy to walk into the shop, and I was relieved when she texted around midday to let me know she wouldn’t see me till Valentine’s Day, when she hoped we’d meet at Laundry. Actually, I texted back, I promised Rachel a do-over. We’re having another last night of the world, so I’ll see you on the 15.

Have you told her? Amy texted back.

About?

About us!

No chance yet, too busy, but I will.

I looked across the shop at Rachel, working in the Letter Library. I thought of the dream, I thought of George, and how Cal had missed out on her, I thought of how much she wants us to have a last night, and decided I’d tell her about Amy and me after the world has ended.

Frederick and I had a game of Scrabble to pass the time after I decided, and I told him that I’d always look for the Walcott. ‘Even when this place belongs to someone else, I’ll keep looking.’

It occurred to me that Frederick is one of my closest friends. Age aside, he and Frieda are part of my every day, and I’ll miss them when they’re not.

‘This was your shop,’ I said. ‘Before mine.’

‘It was,’ he says, studying the board.

‘So I’ll come in and visit the next owner, the same way you visit us.’

He made his move, and ended the game. I wasn’t winning after a 70-word score.

‘Henry,’ he said before he left, but he didn’t finish his sentence. The way he spoke, the tone of his voice, made me feel we were in the dream together again, tearing at leaves.

I get in the shower this morning and try to steam yesterday and the bad feeling out of my system. I can’t. It’s there when I get out and it’s there when I get dressed. It’s there all the while I’m shaving.

George knocks, and walks in while I’m finishing up. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ she says, and reaches for her toothbrush.

‘What happened to your reliable pessimism?’ I ask.

‘I have a friend to be with at school for the first time in six years. I actually no longer care what Stacy thinks. I actually no longer care about her calling me a freak. I have someone to spend the last night of the world with, and I almost have a boyfriend. I have no need for pessimism,’ she says. ‘Did you give that letter to Rachel?’

‘Yes.’ No. ‘Shit.’

‘Shit?’

‘Nothing. Forget it. Everything’s fine.’