had been caught between the stones and piles of dry seaweed and built a pyre on the beach. He found the book of matches he’d picked up at the B&B in his pocket and as the first stars appeared in the sky he managed to get a fire started. He watched as the flames grew higher and the logs glowed red in the gathering darkness before dragging the wooden chest over and heaving it onto the fire. At first, it was difficult to get the chest to burn, but once the ancient wood caught and the dry papers inside started to burn, there was a rush as sparks floated high into the night sky.
The flames started to subside into a red-gold ember glow and Tom poked it with a stick until there was nothing left but the twisted remains of charred metal.
He looked up at the sky. Without the light pollution of the city, the sliver of moon shone brightly in a vast dome of stars. The Milky Way was clearly recognisable and also some constellations he could remember from comics when he was young. He breathed deeply; it was almost as if he had been holding his breath since he opened that poisonous chest. He must never tell anyone what he had seen. He must keep it a secret.
He felt tears prick his eyes. Who would he tell? There was no one. His parents were both dead; his sister, and the half-brother he’d never even known, also gone far too soon. He’d led too superficial a life in South Africa to form close friendships. He shivered, although the air was not cold. He felt so lonely, so totally alone.
He put his hand in his pocket and felt his mobile phone. Sarah. He had Sarah’s number. He’d forgotten, until this moment, that she’d given it to him that first evening. She was the one person in the world he wanted to talk to. He typed in a text message.
*
Sarah was sitting in her favourite chair, flicking through the television channels and half-reading the
Evening News
on her knee. She felt restless, in limbo, waiting for something to happen.
A beep sounded. She leapt up. Where was her mobile phone? She patted her pockets and looked into her handbag. Not there. After keeping her phone next to her for days, she’d almost given up on Tom contacting her and had no idea where it was. She looked around, feeling frantic.
Calm down
, she told herself
, it could be anyone
. She looked under cushions and newspapers and eventually went to the landline to phone her mobile.
There was a ring from the bookcase. She ran over and looked at the screen.
Thinking of you
. She didn’t recognise the number but it could only be Tom.
Her heart gave a leap. He’d contacted her.
Thinking of you too. How are things? When are you coming back? Sarah x
As she sent the message off she saw her hand was shaking. Tom had sent her a text; he was thinking of her. She held the phone close to her breast.
She jumped as she heard the key in the lock and Rory came in. ‘Come on, we’re going out. We’re filming HJ’s poetry evening at the Canongate Centre and he wants you to come too.’
Sarah started guiltily as if he could read the phone messages. ‘Now? I’m not dressed for going out.’
‘You look fine. Come on, we’ll be late.’ Sarah grabbed her coat and fluffed up her hair in front of the hall mirror, before obediently following Rory down the worn stone stairs.
The Canongate Centre was a decommissioned church which had been converted into an Arts Centre. The pews were removed, but otherwise little had changed from when it was in use. A small film crew was standing in a corner, adjusting the lamps. The beams of light emphasised the gothic curves and pillars and cast deep shadows over the drafty interior.
Where the altar had stood there was a raised podium and a gaunt figure with dreadlocks was reading from a crumpled paper. As he read in a staccato, breathless voice, Sarah could feel the anguish in the psychedelic whirr of words and images. The poet finished with a muted flourish and raised his eyes for the first time to the circle of watchers.
HJ Kidd was
The flames started to subside into a red-gold ember glow and Tom poked it with a stick until there was nothing left but the twisted remains of charred metal.
He looked up at the sky. Without the light pollution of the city, the sliver of moon shone brightly in a vast dome of stars. The Milky Way was clearly recognisable and also some constellations he could remember from comics when he was young. He breathed deeply; it was almost as if he had been holding his breath since he opened that poisonous chest. He must never tell anyone what he had seen. He must keep it a secret.
He felt tears prick his eyes. Who would he tell? There was no one. His parents were both dead; his sister, and the half-brother he’d never even known, also gone far too soon. He’d led too superficial a life in South Africa to form close friendships. He shivered, although the air was not cold. He felt so lonely, so totally alone.
He put his hand in his pocket and felt his mobile phone. Sarah. He had Sarah’s number. He’d forgotten, until this moment, that she’d given it to him that first evening. She was the one person in the world he wanted to talk to. He typed in a text message.
*
Sarah was sitting in her favourite chair, flicking through the television channels and half-reading the
Evening News
on her knee. She felt restless, in limbo, waiting for something to happen.
A beep sounded. She leapt up. Where was her mobile phone? She patted her pockets and looked into her handbag. Not there. After keeping her phone next to her for days, she’d almost given up on Tom contacting her and had no idea where it was. She looked around, feeling frantic.
Calm down
, she told herself
, it could be anyone
. She looked under cushions and newspapers and eventually went to the landline to phone her mobile.
There was a ring from the bookcase. She ran over and looked at the screen.
Thinking of you
. She didn’t recognise the number but it could only be Tom.
Her heart gave a leap. He’d contacted her.
Thinking of you too. How are things? When are you coming back? Sarah x
As she sent the message off she saw her hand was shaking. Tom had sent her a text; he was thinking of her. She held the phone close to her breast.
She jumped as she heard the key in the lock and Rory came in. ‘Come on, we’re going out. We’re filming HJ’s poetry evening at the Canongate Centre and he wants you to come too.’
Sarah started guiltily as if he could read the phone messages. ‘Now? I’m not dressed for going out.’
‘You look fine. Come on, we’ll be late.’ Sarah grabbed her coat and fluffed up her hair in front of the hall mirror, before obediently following Rory down the worn stone stairs.
The Canongate Centre was a decommissioned church which had been converted into an Arts Centre. The pews were removed, but otherwise little had changed from when it was in use. A small film crew was standing in a corner, adjusting the lamps. The beams of light emphasised the gothic curves and pillars and cast deep shadows over the drafty interior.
Where the altar had stood there was a raised podium and a gaunt figure with dreadlocks was reading from a crumpled paper. As he read in a staccato, breathless voice, Sarah could feel the anguish in the psychedelic whirr of words and images. The poet finished with a muted flourish and raised his eyes for the first time to the circle of watchers.
HJ Kidd was
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