Chapter 32
We finish the bottle of wine. The conversation flows with the alcohol.
It’s pleasant, easy. Something I’ve missed. Tonight is reminding me how nice it is to enjoy a woman’s company. It’s so bittersweet it almost hurts. We talk about all sort of things: childhood, work, the surprise turn of events that brought Sadie and I here.
‘So, you had no idea?’
‘Nope. Mum never left the UK, as far as I know. She hated the thought of flying. And we never had much money, growing up, after Dad left. And yet …’ I hold my hands out.
Lori traces her finger around the rim of her wineglass. ‘Well, people will always surprise you.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘And we often forget our parents had a life before us.’
I suddenly remember the weird card in Mum’s box of stuff. The one from the club. Closing Time. And then I think about how Mum acquired the house here around the same time I was born.
I shake my head. ‘I think that’s the hardest thing about losing someone. Suddenly, you realize there was all this stuff you didn’t know. All these questions you didn’t ask – and now you’ll never get the chance.’
She smiles sympathetically. ‘We enter and leave this world an enigma.’
‘Profound.’
She raises her glass. ‘Three glasses in, I’m profound. Six, and I’m profane.’
I burst out laughing. ‘I need to remember that one.’
‘You know, I’m sure your mother had a good reason for not telling you about this house. We think we need to know everything about the people we love. But we can’t. Nor should we.’
I sip my wine and let her words settle. Maybe she’s right. I never really knew Nat. I thought I did, I thought we shared everything, but, ultimately, she kept a whole world from me.
I sigh. ‘How do we ever maintain relationships if we don’t really know each other?’
‘Well, that is the wonder. Perhaps we should nurture them more. Treat them like the precious things they are.’ As she speaks, she leans forward over the table. ‘And of course’ – she smiles – ‘keep secrets.’
I smile back. A waft of her scent drifts up my nostrils. Subtle and citrussy. Just like Nat’s scent. Memory rushes at me like a missile. My head throbs. My stomach turns over. I suddenly feel dizzy and sick.
‘Hey. Are you okay?’
I can’t speak. The pain in my head is back, and even more intense. I can feel fluid dripping from my nose, see bright red splotches on the floor. I stand abruptly, chair squealing across the floor.
‘Sorry. I just … I just need to use the bathroom.’
I hurry across the café, aware that people are staring. The room is swimming, and it’s not just the wine. I can feel sharp pains in my head like someone is stabbing it with an internal pitchfork.
I shove open the doors to the toilets. They’re empty, fortunately. I head to the sink. Blood is pouring from my nose. I splash my face with water and reach for a paper towel. What the hell was that? I dab at my face and look in the mirror.
My heart jack-knifes. ‘Fuck!’
Nat stands behind me. But not the Nat enshrined in photographs. This Nat is pale, lips blue. Her eyes are sunken, and her hair is heavy and wet on her shoulders, slimy with river weed. Her T-shirt and jeans are sodden, clinging to her slight figure.
I turn. She doesn’t disappear like all good mirror ghosts should. Instead, she moves closer, and I can smell her now. The fetid stench of dank water and things that swim and slither along the riverbed.
‘No,’ I mutter as pain grips my head in a vice. ‘No.’
Her wet trainers squelch on the floor.
‘Remember, Dan. Remember me.’
I press myself back up against the sink. I can feel the taps digging into my butt, but I can’t get any further away. I scrunch my eyes closed, and then I hear a voice say: ‘Are you all right, son?’
I open my eyes. An older man with thinning hair and glasses is staring at me with a mix of concern and wariness.
‘Oh. Yes,’ I stutter. ‘Just a nosebleed.’
He nods sympathetically, but his eyes haven’t lost their cloud of suspicion. ‘My wife gets those. You tried acupuncture? She swears by it.’
‘No, no, I haven’t. But I’ll bear that in mind.
’ I smile and turn back to the sink, where I make a show of washing my hands.
He gets the hint and disappears into a cubicle.
I dry my hands and walk out of the toilets.
I realize that my cream shirt has red splotches all down the front. Another one for the bin.
Lori looks up from the table. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Just a migraine,’ I say.
‘Really?’ She glances at my shirt.
I look down. ‘And a nosebleed. Bad choice of shirt, I know.’
‘You get them often, these migraines?’
‘Only since moving here.’
The ghost of my wife is new too.
‘You should see a doctor if they keep happening.’
‘I’m sure it’s just stress or something. A good night’s sleep will probably help.’
‘Maybe. But you shouldn’t ignore these things.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Spoken like a true man. I swear you’re all allergic to doctors.’ She softens it with a smile and grabs her bag. ‘I should probably get back too.’
‘Shouldn’t we pay, or is that not a thing in Serenity Falls?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I took care of it.’
‘But I asked you out.’
‘And I am repaying that favour by picking up the tab.’ She squints. ‘You’re not going to go all chauvinistic on me, are you?’
‘On a teacher’s salary? Definitely not. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
This is probably where I should say I hope to return the favour or that I’ve had a nice evening, but my head is still aching, and the wine is sitting sourly in my stomach.
Lori frowns. ‘You know, you look a little pale.’
‘I’ll be fine. Fresh air will help.’
We walk towards the door. We’re the only ones left in the café.
The clock on the wall informs me that it’s just gone quarter to ten.
Not late. But then I remember the curfew.
I’m not sure I like it. I’m an adult. I don’t want anyone telling me when I can quit drinking or go to bed.
But maybe, as Lori says, I’ll get used to it. A new normal.
The evening isn’t exactly fresh, but it’s less humid and suffocating than the day. I feel my head loosen a little, the sickness begin to fade.
‘Can I walk you home?’ I offer.
‘Thanks,’ Lori says. ‘I think I’m heading in your direction anyway.’
We stroll away from the restaurant back towards the town square. I can see that more preparations have been made for the fiftieth celebrations. There are stalls set up and banners and bunting. Every single building now has colourful flags and strings of lights.
‘Looks like it’s going to be quite a party,’ I say.
‘Yes. They’re going to decorate all the store fronts too, and I think there’s talk of some kind of a light show on the lake.’
We stop in front of the statue of Winsom. Lori looks up at it.
‘You know, Harold would have been so happy to see this.’
‘I guess the man who invented Winsom Wonderland enjoyed a big show.’
She laughs. ‘Actually, Harold Winsom was a very private man, and a serious scientist. Serenity Falls was a personal project. He was passionate about creating a truly harmonious society. A haven where families could grow up in a safe, crime-free environment. A blueprint for future towns.’
‘Advanced Residential Communities,’ I say, summoning it from memory. ‘Or Arcs.’
‘Exactly.’ Lori beams like I’ve answered a question correctly.
I consider. ‘But doesn’t every perfect society end up excluding those who don’t fit in?’
‘Natural selection. Select the best and discard the less desirable.’
‘Sounds more like a fascist society.’
There’s a pause, not a comfortable one.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘That was rude.’
‘No, you’re right.’ She smiles disarmingly. ‘And if everyone here really was perfect, I’d be out of a job.’
I chuckle, as I am meant to, even though I can’t help feeling that our conversation has taken a wrong steer. And then I jump as the clock on the town hall chimes ten o’clock. Only thirty minutes till curfew.
Enjoy the hour. It’s later than you think.
I glance at the plaque beneath Winsom’s statue again. My eyes fall on the numerals:
VI XIII XXII
I frown. I didn’t pay much attention to them before, presuming they signified the date the statue was erected. But now, with the added clarity of half a bottle of wine inside me, I don’t know how I missed it.
VI: 6. XIII: 13. XXII: 22.
61322.
The number on the card left with the balloons. The number on the flyer Sadie was given.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ Lori asks. ‘Your migraine isn’t back?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ I point at the plaque. ‘I just wondered – the numbers beneath the inscription. D’you know their relevance?’
‘The numerals?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Harold Winsom never revealed their meaning … but many people think that it’s a Bible reference. Genesis. 6: 13–22.’
‘Okay. I’m not so hot on the Bible …’
‘You actually said it yourself. Harold called his towns Advanced Residential Communities. Or Arcs.’
I try to control my impatience. ‘And?’
She gestures to the numerals: ‘This is the story of Noah and the Ark.’