The Lost Bookshop(19)

I woke in the middle of the night with another line from the story in my head. Like a notification in my inbox, they came to me like that sometimes, whispered into my subconscious mind. I had no explanation for it. I only knew that I had to hold on to them somehow. Writing the words down on paper wasn’t enough. So the following day I would go to the local tattoo parlour and have them inked on my back. It was a story that didn’t seem to have a beginning or an end, but every time I felt a new line came to me, I would ink the words on my skin along with the others and instantly feel better. No one knew about it, not even Shane. It was a small act of defiance. Something just for me. I’d managed to hide this strange story from the world, but the further along it went, the more I needed to know what it meant and where it was coming from.

Knowing I’d struggle to get back to sleep, I tiptoed upstairs to see what kind of mess the women had left. I didn’t want Madame Bowden giving me an earful in the morning and figured I might as well clear up while I was awake. I stepped into the dining room and flicked on the light. I couldn’t believe it – the room was in perfect order and not a thing out of place. I quickly reassessed my earlier opinion of Madame Bowden’s friends and conceded that anyone who clears up their own mess can’t be all bad. I didn’t even hear them leave. A quick trip to the kitchen confirmed that they had even washed and dried all of their plates and glasses; there wasn’t even a spoon left to be cleaned. Like nothing had happened at all.





Chapter Twelve





HENRY





I did consider ringing the doorbell, but where was the fun in that? I hunkered down and knocked on the basement window of number 12 Ha'penny Lane. I’d spent the past few days searching through online archives and old newspapers for Opaline Carlisle, but with no success. I needed a break and that’s the excuse I was telling myself when my feet brought me back to her door. Or rather her window. After a few minutes, the blind flew up and I came face to face with a very angry and tired-looking Martha.

‘What the hell?’ she croaked, once she’d got the window open.

‘Bit early?’

‘It’s seven in the morning, so yes, I’d say you’re a bit early.’

‘Oh. Apologies. I just wondered if you might join me for a little excursion.’

‘Now?’

What had seemed like a good idea last night when I couldn’t sleep had now lost its lustre. I hardly knew this girl and here I was, banging on her window.

‘Um, well, whenever you’re free really.’

She looked down at her clothes and did that thing again where she seemed to be calculating an impossible equation very quickly in her mind.

‘I’ll have to get Madame Bowden’s breakfast and do some cleaning, but I could be free by eleven?’

‘Perfect!’ I shouted a little too enthusiastically. I’d forgotten how nerve-wracking it could be, asking someone if they wanted to hang out with you. As youngsters, we do it all the time, making new friends. But when you get older, it feels as though there is so much more on the line – the rejection is so much harder to take. ‘I’ll text you the deets.’ I had never spoken the word ‘deets’ aloud in my life and wasn’t quite sure I had carried it off.

‘You don’t have my number.’

‘Yes, that was a roundabout invitation for you to offer it, Martha. Work with me here!’

An awkward silence followed, which she seemed to relish a little too much.

‘Are you … going to give it to me?’

‘I might.’ She smiled.

Was this flirting? It certainly felt like flirting, but it was hard to tell when most of her body language was on the defensive.

‘Here,’ she said, putting her hand out for my phone, quickly typing her number in. ‘Now, I have to go.’ With that, she shut the window and pulled the blind back down.





It was like something out of a romcom my mother would watch. My thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button until I recalled a hack my sister often employed. Count down from five to one and then just do it. I lightly touched the screen, my phone made a whooshing sound and my message was now time-stamped.

Meet me at Pen Corner





I thought it sounded enigmatic … until I got Martha’s reply:

Who is this?





It’s Henry. The guy who isn’t a weirdo.





Oh, that Henry. Where is Pen Corner?





Just get to the junction of College Green & Trinity Street. You’ll see





The only establishment that could rival a bookshop or a library, in my opinion, was a good stationery shop. The Pen Corner, however, was something of a hallowed ground when it came to the humble writing instrument. In full prominence on the corner of the street, the Edwardian building had a tower with a clock at the top which told me I was unfashionably early. The black and gold lettering of the shop sign, along with the mosaic-style glass panels above the windows, held all the promise of a hushed library. I had intended to wait for Martha outside, but my willpower lasted all of two minutes. I spotted a Mont Blanc pen in the window that begged closer inspection.