Within Darkness

by C J M Naylor

  "I realize you know what's best," Ian said, "but I can't exactly speed things along on my end. If she's not a danger to herself or others, then—" He stopped speaking, most likely having been cut off by the person he was speaking to.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, okay.”

  He hung up the phone, and I took my chance and stepped into the hallway. When the floor squeaked, he turned around and saw me.

  "Who were you talking to?" I asked him.

  “Mathias.”

  Mathias. He had been talking to Mathias. Why didn’t Mathias want to speak with me? He hadn’t responded to any of my letters.

  “I’m sorry,” Ian said. “I would have let you speak to him, but I thought you were asleep. It is morning on his end, after all. He wanted to call and check up on you. I told him you’d been writing to him, but I think he hasn’t been getting the letters. It must be something to do with overseas mail right now.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, what were you talking about other than that? I heard you say Aldridge's name. Does Mathias know him? And how did you know the number to get into contact with Mathias?”

  Ian looked like he didn’t want to say. After a moment though, he took a deep breath and spoke. “He thinks maybe you should follow Aldridge’s advice and go to the hospital. But—only until—only until you get better.” Ian walked toward me and placed his hands on my arms. “We only want what’s best for you Abby. I know I was little over-the-top today, but you hadn’t been out of the apartment in months. And while it’s great that you did get out, I was worried something would have happened to you. And as for the number, he actually called us and I forgot to ask. I’m sorry.”

  I stepped out of Ian’s grip.

  “Mathias has been wrong before,” I said to him. “I’m fine. I am.”

  Ian smiled at me. “Okay,” he said. “I believe you.”

  I stepped away and walked back to my room, closing the door behind me. Ian hadn’t been talking to Mathias. You didn’t allow someone like Mathias to call you, not get his phone number, and not tell his daughter that he was on the phone so that she could talk to him as well. Something strange was going on, and I needed to figure it out.

  The Tower Bridge loomed in the distance. Phillip's hand was entwined in mine as we made our way toward it—the moonlight shining on our skin. The Thames was calm tonight—not a single patch of rough water in sight. As we reached the bridge, Phillip led me up to the walkway, and we paused about halfway down it to look out over the railing of the bridge.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “What is?” Phillip asked.

  “London,” I responded. “The river, Big Ben, everything. It’s all beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful,” Phillip. “You’re my kind of beautiful.”

  He lightly touched my cheek and leaned into me—our lips touched. It wasn't a passionate kiss. It was just a kiss between two people that loved each other—a quick, meaningful gesture.

  “It’s time for you to go,” Phillip said.

  “What?”

  “It’s time for me to die again.”

  I shook my head at him. I didn’t understand. He extended his arm and pointed out over the water. I turned my head and saw the aircrafts coming into the city—the bombs falling from beneath them.

  “Why did you let me die? Why, Abby?”

  Suddenly, the bridge began to deteriorate around me, and it took Phillip with it and then—then there was only darkness.

  “Abby, Abby, wake up!”

  My eyes opened, and Bridget was leaning over me. The morning sun was pouring in through the window and concern was in Bridget's eyes. She was already ready for the day—she must have heard me as she was getting ready to leave.

  “Was I screaming again?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said, “but I did hear you groaning, and I came in here, and you were flailing around, and I figured you'd probably want out of whatever you were in."

  I nodded. She was right. I never wanted to be stuck in my nightmares, but I needed sleep all the same. And the nightmares didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. For a person that never left the apartment very often, I felt exhausted.

  Bridget sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand in mine. “You know what I want you to do?” she asked. “I want you to spend the day preparing to go out tonight. You can wear that dress we bought you yesterday, you can get your hair done, whatever you want to do. Ian is taking me to the Verdi Club—it’s a swing dancing club—and I want you to come.”

  "Bridget," I hesitated, "that's a little different than going to lunch. I'm sure it'll be crowded and, well, I don't know."

  “It’ll do you good,” she responded. “Please? For me?”

  “For you,” I said.

  She smiled and stood up. “I need to get going, but you be ready at seven o’clock.” Before she left the room, she turned around again, as if she wanted to say one more thing. But she just smiled and gave a little wave before she turned and left.

  The Verdi Club was one of the “in” clubs at the moment for swing dancing. Bridget and Ian came quite often, but this was my first outing. The music was wonderful, the crowd was made up of well-dressed individuals out for a good time, and there was dancing. On top of all that, the dress that Bridget had purchased for me matched the attire of everyone else. But even with all of this, I just couldn’t get into any of it, and thus, I sat in the corner sulking. At least I was out and about—I hoped that would satisfy Bridget. It probably wouldn’t though because as soon as we had arrived, I had staked my claim at a table and turned my attention watching her dance with Ian.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  I looked up to see a tall man, probably a couple of years older than I was, standing before me. He had broad shoulders, and his black suit fit well to his muscular upper frame. His hair was a sandy blond; his eyes a deep hazel, but it was his cheeky grin that really got to me. I didn’t like the message it was sending, but at the same time, it sent a thrill through my veins that I hadn’t felt in quite some time.

  Phillip.

  I quickly shook my head at the man.

  "No thank you.”

  I turned my attention back to watching Bridget and Ian dancing together. The song was a slow one right now so the two of them were up against each other, barely an inch between them. He had his arm wrapped around her waist, and she was resting her hand in the crook of his neck as they danced in tune to the song.

  "Are you sure?"

  The man was still there? I turned my gaze up again, and sure enough, he stood before me. The answer was yes, I wouldn't mind dancing with him. He was handsome, and he seemed confident. But I didn't want to dance. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be far away from here, because what I was feeling when I looked at this man made me grieve for Phillip and long for the hideaway of my bedroom.

  “I said no.” I didn’t mean to be rude, but if that’s what it took to be left alone, then it was fine by me.

  “Just one dance.”

  Was he serious?

  "No." I looked him square in the eye. But when I did, I couldn’t stop Phillip from consuming my thoughts. As he always had, he came back to me so quickly. His cheeky smile, his blue eyes, and unkempt hair. I stood and pushed through the crowd of dancing people. The only goal right now was to get out of this nightclub before I started crying. A hand touched my shoulder and I around. I thought it was going to be Ian or Bridget, but it was the man again.

  “Where are you going?”

  Who was this man? I had never any feelings like this since Phillip. They reminded me so much of Phillip it hurt my insides.

  "I can't be here right now," I said. “Let me go." He still had his hand on my shoulder and quickly dropped it. He was standing more in the light now, and I could see his features, his strong cheekbones, tan complexion, and sandy blond hair combed back for the night. There was that thrill going through me again. I turned away though.

  “What’s your name?�
�� I heard him say behind me.

  “None of your business,” I responded.

  “Will you dance with me? Just one dance?” he asked.

  Seriously? I looked around the room—where was the door? I knew where the door was, of course, but this man was distracting me.

  I took a deep breath and then answered.

  “I need to get out of here,” I said. “I can’t dance right now—I just need to get out of here.”

  He smiled, and I felt myself melt. The way he smiled produced a feeling in my heart that I had felt only one other time. What was happening? I wasn't ready to feel these things again. I knew that I should have stayed at the apartment. He extended his hand, and I took it. His hand was firm and strong on mine. It made me feel safe.

  “I’ll help you,” he said.

  A part of me felt terrified—the idea of going somewhere with a stranger was odd. But then a part of me wanted it. I wanted to fall into this man’s arms and bare my soul to him. I knew that would not be appropriate though.

  He led me through the throng of people and a set of doors. Finally, we were stepping outside onto Mariposa Street. It was dark, and the temperature had dropped quite a bit—fall was here. I must have shivered without realizing it because the man spoke up and offered me his jacket.

  "I'm fine," I said. "Thank you, though." We stood there like that, rather awkwardly, for an extended period. He had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and he was leaning forward just a little on the balls of his feet.

  “Do you want to get a coffee with me?” he asked.

  A small chuckle erupted from within me. Was this happening? Was I really talking to this person?

  “I—,” I hesitated, but then, “sure. I can’t be gone too long though. I just, I really need to get home.”

  "I know a place on this street," he said. He beckoned a little way down the street. "I'll lead you.”

  I didn’t move though. “Before I go anywhere, I want to know your name.”

  He grinned, and then, finally, he sighed and gave up.

  “It’s Thomas,” he said.

  And because he had answered my request, and because he was so annoyingly persistent, I followed.

  After a rather long walk, we finally arrived at a small coffeehouse. The man, I still didn't know his name, opened the door for me and we entered together. We found an empty table towards the back of the coffeehouse and took our seats. A woman came by, scribbled down our orders and walked away again.

  “So,” he said, “you seemed rather eager to get out of there.” I noticed he was fidgeting with the napkin that the silverware had been wrapped in.

  “Too many people,” I responded.

  “Are you not very social?” he asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I am,” I said, but then, “I mean I used to be.”

  “I like your accent,” he said. “This might be a stupid question, but oh well. You’re British right?”

  "I'm from London. I lived there my entire life, until recently, with the war." I realized I probably needed a lie. Why would I come all the way here because of the war? I could have gone to the countryside. "My friend is studying at the university, and I came here with her. What about you? Have you always lived here?"

  “Born and raised,” he responded. “My family has had their own, um, business here and needless to say I was expected to take over for my father after he retired.”

  There was something about the way he had said business that made me feel like it had partially been a lie.

  “What kind of business?” I asked.

  "Insurance," he quickly said, "boring stuff."

  The waitress came with our coffees and placed them on the table with a ticket and walked away. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a billfold. He slid out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the ticket.

  "You don't have to do that," I said. "I can pay for my own."

  “It’s fine,” he responded. “I want to. And I realize now that you still haven’t told me your name. And to top it off, I never told you my full name earlier. I’m Thomas Jane.”

  Thomas Jane. It only took me a moment to realize why that name was familiar to me. It was because I had heard both Mathias and Ian say it at one point in time. This man was the American Timekeeper—a young Timekeeper apparently. When he had told me his name was Thomas, my mind didn’t even go there. It was a common name. And Timekeeping, that was the family business, as he had called it. I couldn’t even begin to fathom this. I had to stay away from that world. It had taken so much from me already—I couldn't let it take even more. He had no idea who I was, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I need to go.”

  He looked confused and then smiled. “But you haven’t even finished your coffee. And you didn’t tell me your name.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”

  I stood and made my way toward the door of the coffeehouse, but his voice stopped me.

  “At least tell me your name,” he said.

  I hesitated for a moment, and then I left the coffeehouse—leaving Thomas Jane wondering, I’m sure, about what had just happened.

  CHAPTER SIX

  That night, as I waited for Bridget and Ian to get home, I contemplated the evening’s events over and over in my head. I wanted to go and find Thomas Jane. I wanted to talk to him; he felt like someone I could talk to. Instead, I had run away. It was more than just the Timekeeping, obviously. I was afraid of being around another man. A part of me felt some sort of attraction to him, something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It scared me, because I felt I was being unfaithful to Phillip, even though he was dead.

  The door to the apartment creaked open and I heard Bridget and Ian walk in, their laughter filling the hallway.

  “Abby?” Bridget called.

  “I’m in here,” I called back.

  Bridget pushed the door to my room open and smiled at me. Her hair had fallen out of its bun and she had just removed her earrings. She looked tired, but she also looked like she had enjoyed herself.

  “Am I starting to imagine things,” Bridget began asking, “or did I see you leave with a tall, handsome stranger?”

  “You might have seen something like that,” I responded, a smile erupting onto my face.

  “I knew it!”

  Bridget ran over to the bed and sat down, looking at me, clearly waiting for information. I remained seated in my vanity chair and considered what I should say.

  “There really isn’t much to say,” I said. “We just had some coffee and I left.”

  “But what did you talk about?”

  “Well,” I began, unsure of what to reveal, but then I remembered there were no secrets between us, so I told her the truth. “I thought he was just a regular guy, but it turns out he is the American Timekeeper and I didn’t want him to know who I was, so I got up and said I had to leave.”

  “You didn’t even give him your name?” Bridget asked, clearly appalled.

  “Well,” I responded, “I felt like he didn’t need it. If I want him to know who I am, I can easily find him on my own. I just don’t know, Bridget.”

  “Abby,” she said, “talk to me.”

  And so I did. I told her how I had felt close to this person, like I already knew him. I told her how I wanted to fall into his arms and pour my heart and soul out to him. I told her how I panicked, because I felt like I was betraying Phillip, and I told her that that was more so the reason of why I had left and that it really wasn’t about the Timekeeping.

  “I understand,” Bridget said, but then she clarified, “I mean sort of. I understand what it feels like to have lost someone and to be grieving, but in your case the relationship with the person was different. The only thing that I can offer is that you have to take this on your own time, on your own terms, but you also need to remember that Phillip would eventually want you to move on.”

  I knew that she was right because of
the letter that I still had from Phillip. It was safely tucked away in a box in my closet and I had never told anyone about it. I didn’t know if I ever would tell anyone about it, but Phillip had made it very clear that he wanted me to be happy. He wanted me to move on.

  “Moving onto another subject,” Bridget said, “I was thinking maybe you could apply for a job. There is an opening at a place that I think might interest you.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper and held it out to me. I unfolded it and looked over the job listings that were in front of me. Bridget pointed out a specific job with her finger—a library assistant. I looked up at her, unsure of what to say, and she smiled at me. “I thought it might help; that maybe it would ease the pain. I know it would bring back painful memories, but I also feel that it would strengthen you in a way. It would get you reacquainted with the world.”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I think I will apply.”

  “Really?” Bridget responded hopefully, as if she thought I may have been joking or would suddenly change my mind.

  “Really,” I said.

  The following afternoon, I made my way to the San Francisco Main Public Library on Larkin Street. In my handbag, I carried with me all of the necessary paperwork I might need in order to fill out a job application.

  As I stood in front of the large, white building, admiring the majestic lion that stood in front as well as the white columns that supported the building, I felt as if I was being drawn to the building. It felt like some force was drawing me nearer; it felt almost as if I was being called to this place. I took a deep breath to calm myself and ascended the steps toward the entrance to the building.

  As soon as I stepped inside, a woman behind the front library desk greeted me. If there was ever a definition of a librarian, she fit it. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back into a bun and she wore a black dress that covered almost every inch of her body. She also wore a pair of glasses that hung on a chain around her neck.