The Love of My Afterlife(41)

He waves hello. “You didn’t respond to my message. To have gone from being so pally to nothing at all made me worried that you had perhaps drunk too much, or that something terrible had happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But here I am. Alive!”

For how long, who knows? But for now.

“Who is this?” Frida asks in a weird voice.

“This is Aled, who works at Tyburnia Library. Aled, this is Frida, a professional dog walker in the area.”

“I’m Delphie’s friend.” Frida holds her hand out.

“Me too!” Aled gasps, as if this is a level of coincidence that ought to be investigated by experts.

“Thanks for the company, Frida,” I say, unlocking my door and heading inside. “And for…you know, dancing with me.”

“My pleasure.” Frida steps into the building lobby with me. Aled follows. Are they expecting me to invite them up? I don’t invite people up. I’ve never invited people up. “LET’S BLOW THIS JOINT!” she yells once more, her hands on her hips. Aled laughs heartily at this although he has no idea what she’s referring to.

Within seconds Cooper peers out into the hallway to see what’s causing the noise.

He looks at me curiously, as if he doesn’t know who I am, and then his eyebrows shoot up, his gaze skimming over my hair. I wait for him to make some disagreeable comment, but instead he looks between Aled and Frida, a puzzled expression on his face, which is fair, considering I’ve never had people in the lobby before.

“Sorry for the hullabaloo,” Frida giggles. “We’ve been hunting for a man at the Shard. It was a very fun evening and we’re all a little overexcited.”

“Did you find him?” Cooper asks, eyebrows still raised. I shake my head no and open my mouth to thank him for his apology text, but before I can, Aled gasps loudly.

“Hold on a moment!” Aled narrows his eyes at Cooper. “I knew I recognised you!”

Cooper’s shoulders slump.

“You’re R. L. Cooper!”

I screw up my face. “Who the hell is R. L. Cooper?”

“Um, only one of the best crime writers of our generation!” Aled’s voice rises with excitement. “Your books are always out on loan at the library. But there’s not been a new one in so long. Why is that? Wow. THE R. L. Cooper himself. Tell me, R. L., how did you come up with the bank heist plot in Money Maims, Money Kills? It was ingenious. What is your process? Where do you get your inspiration?”

Cooper is a writer? Of crime books? I thought he was a computer programmer. Wait—is that how he had access to the police database? Crime writers usually have people in the police to help them with research—or at least that’s what happens on one of my favourite TV shows, Murder in the Pretty Village. Is that how he was able to locate Jonah so quickly? I glance at Cooper and see that he’s now shuffling from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with Aled’s line of questioning.

“Okay!” I yawn in such an over-the-top way that it’s impossible for Aled to ignore. “I really do need to go. Frida, will you be okay getting home from here?”

“Of course! It’s only a five-minute walk to Edgware Road.”

“Edgware Road is on my way!” Aled beams.

“We’ll walk together?” Frida grins amiably. “I would love to hear all about the library.” I can’t help but smile. How Frida doesn’t have more friends is beyond me. I’ve never in my life met someone so comfortable around new people. I feel physical discomfort when I have to make small talk—but she seems to actively enjoy it.

“I’ll be back!” Aled says to Cooper as Frida leads him away. “We must get you booked in for an event at the library. And, Delphie, I will be in touch about the best friendship, do not think I have forgotten!”

As I close the door on Aled and Frida, Cooper clears his throat.

“Thanks for that. Haven’t been recognised in a while.”

I yawn again. “No worries.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, when a door creaks open, the head of Mrs. Ernestine poking out, her craggy face all pinched up. “It’s like bloody King’s Cross station out here,” she spits. “Do none of you have homes to go to? I’m trying to eat my lasagne and watch Breaking Bad, and all I can hear is ruckus and bloody doors slamming. All and sundry popping in and out like it’s a damn thoroughfare.”

Mrs. Ernestine terrifies me. Every time I see her, she’s arguing with someone. Out on the street or in the lobby of the building. Sometimes, when I walk past her door, I hear her screeching inside her flat, god only knows at who. Plus she has a tattoo on her knuckles that reads Never Again. I often find myself wondering what it means, every conclusion I reach making me even more determined to stay out of her way.

“Sorry, Mrs. Ernestine,” I say as politely as I can, bowing my head a little.

“Yes. Ever so sorry,” Cooper adds, also bowing his head a little.

Is he making fun of me?

Mrs. Ernestine rolls her eyes and backs away into her apartment, glaring at the pair of us until her door is closed again.

Cooper reaches his hand out towards me, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to touch my cheek—the thought of which makes my face flame—but his hand moves swiftly to my hair, slowly plucking something out.