Words in Deep Blue

  Henry finishes reading and closes the book. He doesn’t say what’s bothering him, but there’s something that is. He says he needs to sleep, but he watches the ceiling. Every now and then he turns his head to the side, and looks around the bookshop. ‘You’re thinking about what happens after you give this place away.’

  He nods, but he doesn’t want to talk. He thinks I’m sleeping when he stands and walks around the store, running his hands along the spines as he moves.

  After a while, he comes back with a book, starts to read, and falls asleep. He’s woken me, now, and I’m restless. I move quietly out of the store, towards the car.

  I take the box out of the boot before I drive away. I put it on the seat next to me. I started thinking about the box while Frederick was speaking about Elena. He’s searching desperately for the Walcott. He’d give anything to have a box of Elena’s things and I’ve locked Cal’s away. If I’m my memory, then Cal is his too. I can’t look in the box tonight, but I like the feel of it being close to me.

  I keep my eyes ahead, but I have this feeling if I looked across, Cal might actually be there. I could tell him that he was right and I’ve forgiven Henry. I could tell him about Mum and how his death has changed us forever. That’s the way it should be, I think. A death should change us forever. No two deaths should be the same.

  I find myself in front of Lola’s house. It’s late, so I text her. She texts back to say she’s in the garage. I walk quietly through the garden towards the door.

  She’s on the couch, legs folded beneath her. I sit beside her.

  ‘Have you finished recording the last song?’ I ask, and she says the plan was to tape it at their last gig on Valentine’s Day. ‘Only Hiroko hasn’t forgiven me for telling her I think she should stay. In her defence, I haven’t said sorry.’ She gives a sad grin. ‘Every time I start to text or call her, I think that maybe she’s considering staying, and if I keep my mouth shut, I’ll get what I want.’

  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.’

  ‘Everything is fine, Henry,’ she says.

  Before I can set her straight, there’s a knock on the door, and it’s Martin. ‘Your dad sent me to get George. He has to leave and he needs you to take over.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ George says, and turns to me. ‘What’s wrong, Hen?’

  She hasn’t called me Hen since we were kids.

  ‘I got back with Amy,’ I say.

  ‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘That’s brilliant. You can go overseas.’

  ‘You don’t care that we’re selling the shop? You don’t want me to stay and run the place so you can hide out here and be happy?’

  ‘I love this place,’ she says. ‘I do want to keep it, but, if we can’t, then, it’ll belong to someone else and we’ll visit. Don’t feel guilty,’ she says, and walk
s out of the bathroom.

  I look at myself in the mirror. I should be the happiest guy in the world, and all I can think about is how shitness is again gathering momentum.

  Rachel’s standing out the front when I arrive at the warehouse. She’s wearing a lemon cotton dress, and I find myself wondering if she’s got bathers on underneath. It’s brave of her to come with me to the beach, and it’d be even braver of her to swim. But Rachel is brave. Please don’t ever go away again, I’m thinking as she opens the van door and steps in.

  The Lucksmiths are playing on the radio. I need to tell Rachel that Cal is the mystery writer, but I decide to leave that until after the end of the world, along with the news of Amy. I decide to let both of us enjoy this day. Rachel looks happy. I’m happy with her. She wants a do-over and I don’t want to ruin it.

  ‘You’re sure you’re okay with where we’re going?’ I ask.

  ‘Stop worrying, Henry. It’s going to be fine, or it won’t be. But I’ll be okay.’

  I look over at her for a second. She’s a hybrid now. The old Rachel and the new Rachel and possibly some other Rachels from the future all tucked into one body. She rolls down the window and the day pours in – sunshine and dust. I turn up the music so it fills the car. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I don’t feel unhappy.’

  ‘I’m glad I could inspire such emotion.’

  We reach the outskirts of the city. The concrete drops away and the trees start up and the sky gets bigger, stretched to a pale blue. The road vibrates softly through the car and hums Rachel to sleep.

  When she wakes we’re in a small town. She looks around and smiles, smelling the loose blue air of the ocean. Wrapping her arms around herself, she follows me into the second-hand bookshop.

  The owner isn’t here, the girl serving says. And he hasn’t left a note about the Walcott. ‘We emailed,’ I tell her, and she says he hardly ever checks his emails. ‘I keep the database up to date, though, so if it’s online that we have one, it’ll be in the poetry section.’

  I walk towards it, and start looking through. ‘I don’t think it’s here,’ I say, searching in the Ws. Rachel’s kneeling at my feet, pulling out books, checking the titles, reading the backs. She looks inside them too, flicking through to check for notes, for history. She looks up and catches me staring, so I quickly pull out some books and act like I’m searching. She goes back to her searching too.

  She stands after a while. I take out books, showing her the titles I love, and she looks through them, carefully. ‘You’re a word convert,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe,’ she says, and I notice a blue bathing suit strap showing next to the neck of her dress. I touch it without thinking.

  ‘Will you swim with me?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m unprepared,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve seen you in your underwear before,’ she says.

  ‘You’ve seen me naked,’ I point out.

  She stares at me, right at me, in a way that nearly knocks me over. ‘You have very large eyes,’ I tell her. I’ve always known it, but never known it before.

  ‘All the better to blink at you,’ she says.

  We’re standing very close, and if I hadn’t kissed Amy, if I were single now, I know I would ask Rachel if I could kiss her again. I don’t believe she did kiss me to make Amy jealous. I don’t know why I believed it then. I know Rachel. As much as she’s changed. I still know her. And if she didn’t want to kiss me, she wouldn’t have.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘What what?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re smiling.’

  ‘Am I? I don’t know. I guess I just worked something out.’

  Before I can speak, she points and says with wonder in her voice, ‘You’re holding a Walcott.’

  I hadn’t even noticed it was in my hands.

  We eat at a café in town. We order and stare at the Walcott. ‘I feel like it’s a sign,’ I say.

  ‘I do, too,’ Rachel says, but neither of us says what we think it’s a sign of. We keep smiling at each other and smiling at the book and I can’t stop thinking about kissing her.

  ‘We should ask questions we always wanted to ask,’ I say while we’re eating.

  ‘About?’ she asks.

  ‘About each other.’

  ‘I know everything about you,’ she says.

  ‘Impossible. There are always more things to be known. I’ll prove it. I will ask questions of myself, and you will answer them, and we’ll see if you get them right.’

  ‘And shall we call the game Narcissism?’

  ‘We shall call the game Henry. Question one: Who was my first kiss?’

  ‘Amy,’ she says.

  ‘Incorrect.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You. I kissed you on the mouth in Year 4.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Kiss-chasey. You don’t remember?’

  ‘I have no recollection,’ she says. ‘But trauma will do that to a person.’

  ‘Question two: What is my favourite colour?’

  ‘Red. The colour of Amy’s hair.’

  ‘Incorrect. It was red, and now it’s blue,’ I say, looking at her eyes. Closely followed by lemon. She looks right back at me. It doesn’t get weird. It doesn’t get awkward. This is Rachel. She throws a piece of bread at me when it’s time to stop staring.

  ‘Should we play the game of Rachel?’ I ask.

  She looks out of the window, in the direction of the ocean. She says, yes. But the game of Rachel really needs to be played on a beach.

  Rachel

  holding the dead here with their stories

  I keep telling myself that there’s some other way to interpret the game that Henry’s playing with me, some other way to read the way he looked at me in the bookstore. But it’s my eyes that are blue. My dress that is lemon. Me who was his first kiss. It’s the last night of the world and Amy is far, far away. The Walcott, both of us are thinking, is some kind of sign.

  ‘Should we play the game of Rachel?’ he says, and when I think about that game, I know that it really needs to be played on a beach.

  We’re on the peninsula, less than two hours out of the city, the opposite direction from Sea Ridge. The ocean will look different and smell different. It will be called by a different name. But it will be the same unpredictable thing.

  ‘Are you sure you want to go?’ Henry asks, and I’m sure and not sure.

  I’ve been thinking about it since we got out of the car. I’ve been away from it for too long. I thought about it in the bookshop before lunch as I watched Henry run his hands over the spines of books, hovering over the ones he loved. I thought about him living a life without the bookstore, and at the same time I thought about me, living a life without the ocean. A dry, bookless world. It’s too bleak even to imagine.

  I hear the water as we get closer, the hush of it, circling and flattening out. When it appears, I’m ready. It’s long and achingly flat, not like the rough waves that heap over themselves continually back home.

  Henry and I sit on the beach and stare at it for a long time. This is the water of my dreams and nightmares. Sometimes it’s the thing that takes Cal away, dragging him out in currents, and sometimes it’s the thing that brings him back, bleached like that beaked whale. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, he’s alive, and grabbing at those silver fish.

  I tell Henry about the three layers to the ocean: the sunlight layer, the twilight zone, and the midnight zone, each named for the amount of sun in them. In the midnight zone, creatures have to make their own light. Before Cal died, the midnight zone was my favourite. The idea of no light fascinated me.

  ‘I wanted to dive, do you remember?’ I ask, and Henry says he couldn’t understand how I could be that brave.

  Bravery had nothing to do with it. I hadn’t imagined that anything terrible would ever happen. To me, or to the people I loved. I assumed we’d always be safe.

  I think about the things I wanted to see – killer whales, hatchet fish, and vampire squid. I think
about how I pored over books: fascinated by dragon fish, metal and frill, teeth and eye; fascinated by beautiful creatures, too, in colours that I’ve never seen in the surface world, both electric and pale, creatures glowing like fresh snow in the darkness.

  ‘It scares me, but I want it again,’ I tell Henry.

  ‘You shouldn’t feel guilty about that,’ he says, and I wonder if that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, that I’m allowed to love it again.

  ‘You want to swim?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not ready yet.’

  We sit for another hour. I watch the ocean and Henry. He makes a sandcastle and puts a ring of shells around the battlements. Before we leave, he walks to the edge to wash his hands. I think he does it deliberately, so that he can come back and splash me, and I can feel the water on my skin.

  There’s a soft pink glow in the sky by the time Henry drops me at the warehouse so that I can get ready for tonight. I remember something that Gus said to me once. ‘It’ll just arrive. A feeling of being okay. If you do all the things we’ve talked about, it’ll arrive.’ He spoke as though it was a physical thing, something as real as a package that would come to me in the mail.

  As I step out of the van, I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. I’m not the old me or the me I’ve been for the last eleven months. I’m another me. I still don’t quite recognise her. She looks, if I had to describe her, expectant.

  By the time I get back to the bookstore the sky has clouded over. ‘It’ll rain by the end of the night,’ I tell Henry.