by Amy Cross
“Thank you,” I say cautiously. “I think.”
“You will thank me,” she replies, as she sets the Radio Times aside and turns to look at the TV. “Mark my words, young lady. One day you'll be very grateful to me for all the help I give you.”
“Of course I will,” I say under my breath, before pressing a button on the remote control and starting the film, keen for the noise to drown out any further comments that she might want to make. “Remind me to give you a Thank You card.”
The film starts, and I quickly turn the volume up so that Mum can't get another word in. Then I lean back in the chair and watch as the opening credits begin, although I have to admit that my mind almost immediately begins to wander. I can't help thinking about the papers I found in your bed, Jasper, and in my mind's eye I'm already going over the first page again. I feel as if there has to be some way to unlock the meaning of all that strange text, although admittedly I've never been very good at that sort of thing. Still, I have to at least try.
After a few minutes, I slide my phone from my pocket and start surreptitiously looking online for information about code-breaking.
“Not watching the film, love?” Dad asks after a few minutes.
“Just looking up an actor,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen as I scroll down the latest page, “to work out where I've seen him before.”
But that's not what I'm doing. And Mum and Dad stay quiet as I continue to quietly hunt for clues online. I know that I won't find some magical solution that'll instantly unlock the meaning of all that text, but I'm convinced that the answers are out there somewhere. Those pages aren't just filled with gibberish.
The text must have meant something to someone.
Chapter Five
“I will,” I say as I finally manage to shut the front door. “Goodnight, Mum. Night, Dad. See you on Sunday.”
Sighing I slide the chain across, I realize with a great sense of relief that I've managed to make it through another film night with my parents. It's not that I'm ungrateful, Jasper. You know full well that I love Mum and Dad, and I'm really glad that they want to see me so often. It's just that Mum in particular always peppers me with questions about my life, and sometimes – like tonight – I feel as if I'm being interrogated. Then again, maybe I'm being unfair. Mum only wants me to be happy.
And I have to admit, my mind was elsewhere all through the evening. Maybe Mum and Dad sensed that. Maybe I should have just told them about the strange sheets of paper and have done with it. Who knows? They might even have come up with a half decent theory.
Sighing, I turn and head through to the bathroom, ready to take a shower, but at the last moment I glance into the front room and spot Mum's message still attached to the noticeboard. Perhaps I'm being unreasonable, but I feel a sudden surge of irritation at the thought that she still wants to meddle in my life like this, so I head over and pull the offending piece of paper away.
Stepping back, I take a moment to check that she hasn't left any other unwelcome notes around, and then I turn to head back through to the kitchen.
And then I freeze, as I suddenly realize that the noticeboard has jogged my memory about something. I turn slowly and look back at the various bills and other items, and I start to feel a cold shiver pass up my spine as I realize that maybe, just maybe, the noticeboard seems familiar. I mean, obviously it's familiar, because it's my noticeboard and I at least glance at it every day, but this time I'm suddenly aware that I've seen it somewhere else.
Slowly, I turn and look at the desk in the corner, and then I make my way over and pull the drawer open. With trembling hands, I start once again sorting through the sheets of paper that I found under your bed, and finally I hold up the sheet that contains a crude drawing of a square with several squiggly rows of text arranged in various sections.
This is a coincidence.
It has to be a coincidence.
Still holding the sheet, I head back to the noticeboard and hold it up so that I can compare the two. To my growing sense of shock, I see that – despite one or two small changes – the image on the sheet of paper seems to be an exact drawing of the noticeboard, as if someone has taken the time to sketch out a copy of part of my home.
That's creepy.
I turn and look around, suddenly filled with the fear that I'm somehow being stalked. By someone who draws things, and then leaves those drawings hidden in my dog's basket.
That's some kind of weird, hyper-specific stalker.
Looking at the drawing again, I realize that the artist really went into a lot of detail. I have to squint to get a better look at some of the elements, but the main headers from the noticeboard have all been copied down, albeit translated into whatever weird, crazy language has been used. At first, I can't help but find that pretty weird, but then after a moment I realize that, actually, this might be the lucky break I was hoping for.
This sketch might be my own personal Rosetta Stone, my way of breaking the code of this screwed-up language.
I start counting the symbols on one section of the noticeboard, and I find that the word for 'Bills' seems to also be made of five distinct sections, with the third and fourth being identical. That means, in theory, that I now know how to translate four letters between the two languages, and a moment later I check the symbols for the word 'Remember' and I find that here, too, the translation might be quite easy.
Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen from the desk, I take a seat and start writing out the symbols that I've deciphered so far, and I find to my surprise that I already have six worked out, which is almost a quarter of the entire alphabet.
I work quickly, encouraged by the realization that I seem to be making good progress. Not every part of the drawing corresponds exactly to a word on the noticeboard, but there's enough here that I soon have more than half the alphabet figured out, almost with several numbers. There are a few sections where the scribbled words aren't entirely clear, but I put that down to sloppy handwriting more than anything, and I start losing track of time as I get closer and closer to a complete alphabet.
Jasper, this is nothing short of astonishing.
This is a miracle.
Finally I'm done, and I hold the paper up to see the symbols that – I believe – comprise twenty-three of the twenty-six letters of the alphabet as well as the numbers 1, 2, 5 and 7. The only letters that I don't have – X, Y and Z – aren't exactly common anyway, at least not on my noticeboard, but I figure I can work around them.
I grab another of the sheets from the desk and carry it over, and then I sit down and try to work out whether I can actually translate this crazy thing into English.
And do you know what, Jasper?
I can!
As I start figuring out what each symbol means, I find myself translating whole words. In fact, within just a few minutes I've managed to finish my first full sentence.
“She was late home again tonight,” I read out loud. “I think she's sad.”
I pause for a moment.
Okay, this is starting to feel extra creepy. Deep down, I'm starting to get freaked out by the idea that maybe I've got some kind of stalker, although obviously there are parts of the situation that directly contradict that. Like the fact that these papers were hidden in your bed, Jasper.
Wait, was someone breaking in while I was at work?
I quickly get to work translating another, random line from the papers.
“It hurts a lot more now,” I whisper finally, reading out loud again. “The days are so long. I don't even want to eat my food, but I do it for her.”
That's definitely odd. I'm starting to think that somehow I've attracted the attention of a very strange, very glum stalker who seems inordinately concerned about my opinion of him. Or her. I guess it's possible that this is a woman I'm dealing with, although my gut instinct says that it's probably a guy. As I check out another section of the strange text, I'm already starting to think that I need to get the police involved in
this matter. Not to mention, I need to change my locks and maybe even get a few cameras installed. I should -
Suddenly I see what the next line says, and I gasp as I get to my feet.
“No way!” I stammer, convinced that somehow there has to be a mistake.
I check the translation again, trying to find out what I've done wrong, but I get the same result. My mind is spinning, and I keep telling myself that the translation has to be wrong, but finally I hold up the piece of paper and I read out what I've written.
“Sometimes I wish Paula could read my diary,” I say cautiously, with a growing sense of shock, “but I don't think she'd ever understand. After all, I'm just a dog.”
Suddenly feeling light-headed, I get to my feet and take a step back. I blink a couple of times as I try to clear my head, and then I take a deep breath, and then – after a few more seconds – I do something that I've never done before in my life. Ever.
I faint.
Chapter Six
“Hey,” a voice says in the darkness. “Are you okay out here?”
Startled, I turn and see that Justin – the guy from the apartment directly above mine – has stopped just a few feet away. I look around at the cold parking lot, and then I realize that I must have not heard the sound of him coming over from his car. I've been sitting here, on the steps at the front of the building, for a few hours now.
“I'm fine,” I stammer, getting to my feet and stepping back, only to bump against the wall.
“You seemed pretty out of it,” he replies with a faint, cute smile. “I almost went round to the back door, to avoid disturbing you.”
“I was just thinking about something,” I tell him.
“It must have been something pretty big,” he explains. “I tried clearing my throat a few times, and you didn't even seem to notice.”
“You did?” I swallow hard. “I'm really sorry,” I say, before taking a step to one side so that he can get to the door. “I don't know why I was sitting here of all places, I just...”
My voice trails off.
I don't know Justin very well, but I definitely don't want to make a fool of myself in front of him. And I'm pretty sure that he'd think I'm a major fool if I told him that I'd fainted after translating some strange notes, and that I'd then run out of the apartment once I woke up. That's even before I consider the craziest part of the story, which is that the notes were written as if they were from the point of view of you, Jasper. From the point of view of my recently deceased dog.
“Are you sure you're okay?” Justin asks, peering at me with a hint of concern in his expression. “You look kinda... pale. Are you sure you're not about to faint?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply firmly. “I'm definitely not going to faint again.”
“Again?”
“'I'm fine.”
“Right, well...” He still seems unconvinced, but then he steps past me and pulls the door open. “Please, don't mind me,” he continues, “I didn't mean to disturb you. I hope you can go back to thinking about whatever you were thinking about.”
“I'll try,” I reply, even though I'm not sure that it would do much good.
He hesitates for a moment, before holding a hand out toward me.
“Justin,” he says, smiling again. “Justin Taylor. I live above you.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I've seen your mail,” I tell him, before wincing as I realize that I must sound pretty weird now. “I mean, sometimes your mail got put into my slot, so I put it into yours for you. You know what the mail's like in this building. Everything's always ending up in the wrong slots.”
“I'm very grateful,” he replies. “Although if it's a bill, please feel free to just hang onto it. Anything in a brown envelope is really not very welcome.”
I try to think of something funny to say, but nothing comes to mind.
“You have that cute dog, right?” he continues. “I've seen you with him a few times, he's, like... a lurcher, maybe?”
“Jasper,” I reply.
“Nice name.”
“He's dead.”
“Oh.”
“It was only a few weeks ago. He'd been ill for a while, he had cancer, and then...”
My voice trails off as I realize that maybe I shouldn't go into too much detail. I haven't really told anyone, not even Mum and Dad, about the precise circumstances of your death. I've told them that it was an accident, that you saw a fox on the other side of the road and ran out. Sorry, I know that makes you sound a little nuts and ill-disciplined, but I think it's better than telling them all the truth. Or is that wrong of me? Am I somehow disrespecting your memory?
“I'm sorry,” Justin says after a moment. “I've had dogs before. It's really hard when they go, it's like losing a member of your family.”
I nod.
“Well,” he adds, “if you ever need to talk, feel free to knock on my door.”
“I won't, thanks,” I reply, before realizing that I probably sound rude. “I mean, I won't need to talk. That's what I meant. I'm fine, there's nothing I need to talk about.”
“Okay.”
I swallow hard. I guess I still feel a little hazy after my fainting fit earlier tonight.
“There's so much dust in this hallway,” Justin mutters, wiping some from the handrail. “Hey, do you ever get these passive-aggressive notes from a Mr. Seymour in flat 5a, up on the top floor?”
“I do,” I tell him.
“The man complains about everything,” he continues. “Especially letting heat out of the building. This morning I woke up to a note telling me that he'd noticed I leave my kitchen window open when I go to work. Does the guy just watch everyone all the time and nit-pick over anything we do?”
“I think so.”
“And I shut my front door too loudly,” he adds. “Apparently.”
“He certainly seems to know what he likes,” I point out, feeling a little as if this Justin guy is unnecessarily prolonging the conversation.
“Okay,” he says finally, “well, I guess I'd better get home. But I meant what I said earlier, if you ever need to talk, about your dog or anything else... Just give me a shout.”
“I will,” I lie.
He hesitates, and then he turns and starts making his way up the stairs. He's a nice guy, about my age, but as he walks I can't help noticing that he seems exhausted. Then again, I've been exhausted ever since I came to live in this building, and I don't think that I'm alone. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen anyone run up these steps, or even walk up them at a normal pace. We all just kind of slink up there as if our feet are so damn heavy.
Did you ever notice that, Jasper? You were the same, in a way. As soon as you got to this place, you kinda stopped running around like a puppy.
Finally, realizing that it's past eleven and that I still have work in the morning, get to my feet and head to my apartment's front door. As I slip my key into the lock, I remind myself that I still have plenty of pages to translate and read, but I'm going to have to save that for tomorrow. Right now, I need to stay just a little sane for work.
Chapter Seven
The bus jolts over a bump in the road, but I don't even look up from the papers I'm deciphering. I was thinking about the pages all day at work, and now – as I head home – I can't help working on them.
I know this can't actually be your diary, Jasper. I'm not nuts enough to believe that for a second.
“She took me to the hated place again today,” I read, once I've translated another line. “Injection. Thermometer in my butt. The hated place smells of death.”
I've worked out that 'the hated place' refers to the vet's office. After he first got sick a few years ago, you became something of a regular down there. I always knew that you hated it, Jasper, but I hope you understand that I only took you for your own good. When you got your first tumors, they didn't even seem that big or that bad. There was a period when I freaked out, but then for a while you seeme
d to be on the road to recovery. They started coming back, though, didn't they? They were more aggressive each and every time. And then, a few months ago, the vet first mentioned the possibility that I should consider what was in your best interest.
She wanted me to have you put down.
The bus jolts again, this time knocking the pen from my hand. I reach down and try to pick it up, but it's already rolled under the seat and I don't really want to scramble around like a lunatic. I've got plenty more pens at home.
“Are you a translator?” a voice asks suddenly.
I turn to see a woman watching me from the seat on the other side of the aisle. She cranes her neck to see the papers I'm holding.
“No,” I say, “I work in events management.”
“Huh.” She cranes her neck a little more. “Is that a puzzle, something like that?”
“No,” I reply, feeling a little shocked that a stranger is talking to me on public transport. Only nutters do that in London. Or so I always thought.
Does that make me cynical, Jasper?
“I'm good at puzzles,” the woman continues. “I can help, if you want.”
“I'm fine, thank you.”
“Why not? I told you, I'm good at puzzles.”
“I'm sure you are,” I reply, trying to stay calm and polite, “but -”
“I've won prizes in magazines,” she adds, interrupting me. “I even solve puzzles within puzzles, where the people who set the puzzles didn't know they were another puzzle in there.”
“I...”
For a moment, I'm genuinely not sure how to respond to that statement. Or, frankly, quite what she meant.
“Have you started to notice the messages?” she asks.
“The messages?”
“You have to be smart to pick them out,” she continues, “but then, they're only for smart people. Maybe you're new, so you don't understand all the messages, but I can help you find them.”
