The Reading List(2)

Then he spots one lonely folded scrap of paper sitting on the desk beside him – the crossword puzzle.

He turns his head to the left, to the right, and slowly over his shoulder. No one is watching him. His arm reaches forward, pulling it towards him, and he unwraps it – one fold at a time. His fingers treat it delicately, it is barely thicker than a cigarette paper. He doesn’t want to break it. He thinks of the person, his anonymous neighbour, writing, scrawling, intent.

As he unfolds the final corner, the mystery is suddenly revealed. The lettering is neat, looping, warm, inviting.

Just in case you need it:

To Kill a Mockingbird

Rebecca

The Kite Runner

Life of Pi

Pride and Prejudice

Little Women

Beloved

A Suitable Boy

To Kill a Mockingbird – the first book in the massive pile. He runs his eye down the list. It doesn’t mean anything to him – just scribbled words on scraps of paper. But, for a moment, he thinks about taking the list with him, popping it in his pocket. He stops himself. This small scrap of paper, so neatly folded, is nothing more than a stranger’s reading list. What does he need with something like this?

Instead, he lays it back on the table, and packs up his book, sending Attica Locke a secret thank you, and tucks it back on the crime shelf, for someone else to enjoy. He heads out of the library, the doors closing automatically behind him. He turns once more, and he can see the note sitting exactly where he left it. The shadows of the library close in behind him; the books read and unread forming a barrier between him and the list. As he steps away from the library, he feels the peace, the silence, slide away from him, as he heads towards the lights and sounds of the city he calls home.





PART I


THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE


by Audrey Niffenegger





Chapter 1


MUKESH


2019


BEEP. ‘HI PAPA, IT’S Rohini. Sorry sorry to be calling you again but you know how I worry when you don’t pick up or return my calls. We’re going to come and visit you on Friday, me and Priya, so let me know if you need me to bring anything, food or drink. I’m not convinced the food you make yourself is nutritionally balanced, Papa – you need to eat more than just mung. And remember it’s bin day today, black bins only today, ha. Green bins next week. Call Param at number eighty-seven if you can’t do it, okay? I know your back has been playing up.’

BEEP. ‘Dad, it’s Deepali. Rohini told me to give you a ring because she hasn’t heard from you. She said to tell you it’s your bin day today so remember, okay? Not like last time when you had to run out in your dressing gown in the morning! Call me later, okay? I am going to work now, okay? Bye. The twins say bye too! Bye, Dada.’

BEEP. ‘Hi Papa, it’s Vritti. You doing all right? Wanted to check how you are. Let me know if you need anything. I can come round soon, just let me know when you’re free. I’ve got a busy few weeks, but can sort something out, yeah?’

And just like that, Mukesh’s day started like almost any other Wednesday: with three identical voicemails from his daughters – Rohini, Deepali and Vritti – at the unsociable hour of 8 a.m., before they started work – often Mukesh wasn’t even awake by then.

On another day of the week, he might have called each of them in turn, to let them know he was on top of his bins, even if he wasn’t, and that he had no clue who Param at number 87 was, even though he did – he liked to keep them on their toes. But he had no time for that today.

Today was his shopping day. Naina had always done the shopping on Wednesdays. To deviate from that routine now would be wrong. First things first, he checked the fridge and the cupboards, organized just the way Naina had liked them to be, by which he meant not at all. Just as he suspected: he needed okra and mung beans. He loved mung beans, regardless of what Rohini said. He had never cooked much when Naina was alive, except in the last few months of her life, but he knew a few recipes off by heart. They kept him going. What did he need with ‘nutritionally balanced’ at his age, anyway?

As he stepped out of his house, slamming the door behind him, the midsummer heat bowled him over. He had worn too many layers again. And he always felt the heat. Some of the other ‘elderly’ people at the mandir laughed at him – when they were too cold, Mukesh was too hot. He worried about underarm sweat patches, though they would often say, ‘Mukeshbhai, why do you worry about such things? We are old now. We don’t mind.’

But Mukesh did not want to be old, and if he stopped worrying about sweat patches, belching in public, that sort of thing, he might stop caring about other more important things too.

He adjusted his flat cap, which he wore whatever the weather, to make sure the sun was out of his eyes. He’d had this cap for fifty years. It was wearing away and wearing out, but he loved it. It had outlasted his marriage and, while he didn’t want to be a pessimist, if he lost it, it would be like losing another fundamental part of himself.

Every week, the walk up the slight hill from his house to the high road got a little bit harder, his breathing a little bit shallower, and one day he would need to order a Dial-a-Ride for the five-minute stroll. When he eventually reached the top of the hill and turned left, he took a deep breath, steadied himself against a bollard, readjusted his mandir-branded canvas bag, which was slipping off his shoulder, and carried on towards his usual grocery shop on Ealing Road.