Chapter 6
Present day
The truck’s cab remained silent until he reached the city, and then he heard his cellphone ringing from his back pocket.
It was driving him insane. The tune was faint, muffled by his jeans, but it was still too loud.
It might as well have been ringing inside his head, for all that he could ignore it.
He took a deep breath and punched the stereo on—quite literally, because it wouldn’t work otherwise—impatiently waiting a few seconds as the CD moved into place, and the first song came on.
It began with violins. Then melancholic and soft, the sound of Charles Aznavour’s voice began softening the ring of his cellphone. He knew this song so well, having fallen in love with it long before he’d fully grasped its meaning.
Hier encore, j'avais vingt ans, je caressais le temps
J'ai joué de la vie
Comme on joue de l'amour et je vivais la nuit
Sans compter sur mes jours qui fuyaient dans le temps
His mother had cried every time it had played on their old record player. At first, he hadn’t really understood why. It had seemed like such a simple song. It spoke of heartbreak and the passage of time, but it hadn’t warranted tears. Not to him. Not back then.
The phone rang again. He felt it in his back pocket, vibrating, jumping, demanding that Aberlour accept the call. He couldn’t. Not here, not yet.
Hier encore, j'avais vingt ans, je gaspillais le temps
En croyant l'arrêter
He could have cried then. Just like his mother, or perhaps because of her, or even for her. The ache was so sudden, so real. His mother. How he missed his mother. How he craved her support and understanding.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to speak to her right then. He wondered what she would have told him. Wondered how she’d have settled the pain in his chest.
Car mes amours sont mortes avant que d'exister
Mes amis sont partis et ne reviendront pas
Par ma faute j'ai fait le vide autour de moi
He rarely thought of her these days. He had too many ghosts sitting behind his eyelids. Too many worries occupying his thoughts. Years ago, he’d had none. Before he’d understood the lyrics and was still in his 20s—feeling unstoppable and eternally optimistic.
Du meilleur et du pire en jetant le meilleur
J'ai figé mes sourires et j'ai glacé mes pleurs
Où sont-ils à présent?
à présent
Mes vingt ans
The song ended just as he shifted into park and cut the engine.
Aberlour sat back as the song finished and his phone began ringing again.
Louder than before, somehow. He dug it out of his pocket and dropped it in the passenger seat.
It landed on the seat and slid all the way back, until it hit a little gargoyle with grey eyes and a grimace on its face.
Aberlour had forgotten about dropping it there after Sabine had given it to him, and he’d intentionally left it there so he wouldn’t be reminded of it.
It was impossible to ignore now. The ugly figurine was only a few inches tall, made out of concrete in a factory somewhere in China. Despite its hideous appearance, Aberlour held onto it. As the cellphone rang next to it, all he could do was swallow back his rising sob.
He picked the gargoyle up, and oddly, the phone fell silent.
He held it in his hand and stared down into its dead eyes. Then he closed his fist around it and clenched, as hard as he could.
It wouldn’t break. He knew because he’d already tried, but its coarse edges dug sharply into Aberlour’s hand.
As he unclenched his fist, his hand began bleeding from a small crack in his palm.
His skin was dry, unloved, too easily pierced.
The gargoyle sat in the middle of his palm, with blood running down the length of it.
He felt—something.
The phone began to ring again.