I turned on my side and hugged my pillow. That was when I noticed the cracks in the wall. Had they always been there? Surely I would have noticed them. Three crooked lines of various thickness appeared from behind the wardrobe and spread out like tiny vines creeping along the blue wall. I lay there staring at them. How could I not have spotted them before? And what was going on behind the wardrobe? I got up and ran my fingers over them. They seemed pretty deep and solid, as though they had been there for some time. I tried to move the wardrobe but it was an antique and weighed a ton. For a second, I became aware of breathing; someone else’s breathing. I turned around but there was nothing there. I wondered if it were possible to read places, the same way that I could read people. The thought made me shudder. Maybe I didn’t want to know what had gone on here. I whispered the name Opaline into the walls. Nothing. I shook my head, realised I was being ridiculous and got dressed for bed.
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.
Once inside, I felt my shoulders relax and my nose picked up that distinctive scent of paper, leather and ink. Glass cases discreetly displayed rows of Parker and Cross pens along with calligraphy nibs, like expensive jewels. Behind the counter were leather satchels that brought to mind Hemingway’s lost novel. Would it have been kept inside a leather satchel just like this? That’s what every MA Lit student assumed as they strolled around campus with an exact replica slung over their shoulder.
Two or three other customers milled around and as I turned to see if I could find my pen, I saw her, standing in the doorway, unsure of herself.
‘Martha, you made it.’ Well, no one could say I ever missed an opportunity to point out the obvious.
She just smiled in response and slowly let the door close behind her. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘An existentialist. I knew it.’
She looked at me askance.
‘Just a little humour, no need to be alarmed.’ God, why did I sound like such a fucking weirdo? It seemed I had lost all ability to speak like a normal human.
‘Can I help, sir?’ came a voice from behind the counter.
‘Yes! I mean, yes please. I was looking at the Mont Blanc in the window.’
‘Ah, Le Petit Prince,’ he said, anticipating my taste. The sign of an excellent salesman.