She found herself face to face with his doorbell, his letterbox. She almost did not notice herself pressing that bell. And with the unlocking of the door would come the unlocking of Catherine Lucia. Footsteps approached, the unhooking of a latch, and when the door finally opened she was presented not with Oliver but with an older man, an uglier man. His feet were bare.
‘Yes?’ he asked, after the silence.
‘Hi, I’m...’ said Catherine, flustered, ‘looking for Oliver.’
‘Who?’
‘Oliver Eden. He lives here.’
‘I live here.’
‘This is Nightingale Avenue, isn’t it?’ she asked, looking over the scrap of paper again. ‘Number thirty-eight.’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Then this should be it.’
‘This is not it.’
‘Oh,’ said Catherine. The man could tell she did not know what to do.
‘You sure you’re not looking for the other Nightingale Avenue?’
‘There’s another one?’
‘Yeah, a little outside of town.’
‘Oh, good. I have a map,’ she said, pulling it out of her bag. The man peered at it.
‘No, no, this is no good,’ he said. ‘It’s not on this map. See this road here?’ he pointed to a single road that fell off the edge of the page, ‘Nightingale Avenue is right over here.’
‘Is it far?’
‘It is if you’re walking.’
‘Down here you say?’ asked Catherine, pointing at the map.
‘Yeah, just keep going down that road and you’ll find it.’
‘Okay,’ said Catherine. ‘Thank you.’ The man shut the door. She stared at the map again and then at her watch; it was too late to continue on tonight. Instead, she headed back into the city.
She had not walked far when she came across a small parade of hotels. Each one looked as squalid as the next but as she checked her watch she figured that these hotels were her last chance. She decided upon The Local Palace because, unlike the others, it at least had a star rating. The entrance presented her with a narrow hallway, at the end of which sat a clerk on the night shift. The hotel did not appear to have a lobby of any kind, merely a desk awkwardly placed, so large it was partly blocking the stairs.
‘Do you have any vacancies?’ Catherine asked the clerk. He gave a lazy nod and looked back down at his paper. ‘Well I’d like one room, please,’ said Catherine. The man pointed to a sign that listed prices. ‘A single,’ said Catherine, opening her purse. The man leaned back in his chair and reached over to one of the many keys that were hanging from a noticeboard on the back wall. The man took Catherine’s money, exchanged it for a key, and carried on with his reading.
As she ventured deeper into the hotel she could understand how the clerk had come to lose all interest. It was dingy and creepy with damp patches on the ceilings, stains on its threadbare brown carpet and wallpaper that had come away to reveal its stone surface. She walked up the stairs, some of which were sunken, and made her way to the first floor. She could hear a variety of different sounds coming from the other rooms: low moans, the chattering of televisions, arguments.
She managed to find her room along the dimly-lit corridor. She slid the key into the lock and struggled with it for a moment before the door swung open. She was presented with pitch black darkness that spilled out into the corridor. She searched blindly for the light switch, and when her fingers finally found it, the bulb gave off a sickly yellow glow that drowned the little room. She put her bag down on the floor and walked cautiously around, observing the bed, the bed-side table, the lamp, the small television, the bathroom. She feared using the bathroom due to the web of stains that scarred the linoleum as well as the thin, dented bathtub and the low, cracked toilet.
She returned to the bedroom and made a special effort to thoroughly examine the bed linen, and only once she was satisfied did she peel back the thick, itchy blanket to reveal the sheets underneath. She slowly removed her clothes, leaving on her underwear and t-shirt, turned out the light and slid into bed. She lay very still, fearing the touch of the thousands of strangers’ bodies that had laid there before her. She tried to sleep but found her eyes staring out into the darkness. She could feel sleep sink through her every time she shut her eyes but the events of the day kept forcing her awake. Here she was, in a dingy hotel room in a new city, when only the night before was she lying next to Edward in her very own bed.
When she discovered that she really couldn’t sleep she turned on the television. She hoped it would provide a distraction from the pictures that consumed her in the darkness. But the reception of the television was so poor, each station marred by interference, that she could barely make out the faces. She chose to keep watching, however, to keep staring at the chaos that played out in front of her. She watched the pulsating flashes of colour as they pushed themselves through the swirling whites and greys, and as she focused upon these images, she sunk deeper within herself. Sleep took over from there.
Edward Glass found himself in the thick of the forest. Every now and then a protruding branch would run past his legs or scratch his face as he inched along the ground, hoping to soon be out on the other side. The problem was that Edward could not see a thing. The sky was now completely dark, the moon was nowhere to be seen, and the night had crept into the forest until Edward could not see where the trees ended and where the darkness began. He stopped moving for a moment. He heard screeching, howling, cooing, and a whole host of other noises up above his head. He rested his back against a tree trunk, sitting on the tree’s hard roots that ventured down into the earth. He finally noticed the true aching of his body as it crept up through him like the branches of the trees that surrounded him. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt sleep pulling him under but the hard ground on which he sat, with its painful roots, as well as the hard trunk of the tree he lay against, kept him awake. The howling of the wind dragged itself through the forest and right over Edward. He pulled his jacket tighter. Almost instinctively, he found himself lying on the ground, moving away from the tree to where the ground was a little softer. And as he closed his eyes and tugged on his jacket, he pressed himself into the ground, his cheek pressed right up against the dirt. As sleep pulled him under, he found himself sinking deeper into the earth.
14.
Before Edward opened his eyes he could already hear the sea, and when he did open them he found a forest laid out in front of him. In the bright morning light all of the mystery it had held the night before had vanished. Edward’s body had sunk a little way into the ground; all through the night he had been pressing himself up against the earth to keep himself warm. Now his clothes, face and hands were covered in dirt. He found himself spitting and gagging as the dirt on his lips became dirt in his mouth. Wiping his face with his jacket, he stood up and looked at the ground where he had been sleeping: an imprint of his body remained, as though he had carved himself a shallow grave. He looked up at the sky through the trees: a clear white. Each direction of the forest appeared identical, except for one distinguished only by the sounds of the sea. He walked in that direction.
He found the woods falling away and an open land of thick grass revealed itself to him. And as he walked he saw that the land ended far too soon, and as he walked a vast sea opened up in front of him, and as he walked he found himself at the edge of a cliff. He had walked to the end of the earth. Where the foot of the cliff met the sea lay a bed of jagged rocks. The water washed, spilled and crashed. Edward stepped away. Everything appeared vast and empty: the wide sea, the plentiful grass, even the thick forest that stood behind him. The green and the white and the watery grey ran on forever. That was until he looked again, for right along the cliff, at the very edge of the horizon, Edward noticed a break in the landscape. He almost wanted to stop in his tracks, to turn away, to head back into the forest, but he could not stop himself from moving: he was drawn to it, step by step, his eyes transfixed on the little mark on the green
. And as he came closer, he saw that the edge of the cliff jutted out where it lay, making it look as though what he saw was hanging out over the sea, as though the rest of the cliff had long since fallen away, sparing the crooked wooden house.
Catherine’s wedding ring was firmly on her finger as she walked up to the door of Oliver’s house. It was not yet ten but Catherine was already on his doorstep. And after the ringing of the bell came a silence, and during that silence Catherine looked down at her left hand and realised that she was still wearing her ring. She pulled it off as quickly as she could but had not managed to slip it into her pocket when she heard the sound of the door unlocking. She froze, the ring locked inside her clenched fist as the door opened. With the unlocking of the door would come the unlocking of Catherine Glass. Oliver was revealed to her: older, taller, aged. The circles she had been running ended there and her dark eyes met with his and a name emerged from Catherine’s mouth, a matter of urgency: ‘Ollie!’ But his eyes did not light, and there was no embrace, and what followed was a horrific silence. She was forced to act. ‘It’s Catherine,’ she said, and only then was there the flash of recognition.
‘Catherine!’ he said, his eyes widening, ‘Really?’ He sounded amazed. A smile came to his lips but there was no embrace as Catherine had imagined. All she could say was,
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘How did you-I mean, where did you-how have you been?’
‘Well, thank you,’ she said, clutching her ring tightly.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘I was just-’ she was going to lie, pretend she was here for another reason: holiday, work, a friend, but all that came out of her mouth was the truth: ‘I came to find you.’
‘To find me?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ There was a pause before,
‘Come in, come in..
As she approached him, he wrapped his arms around her. She quickly pressed her body firmly against his, and suddenly all anxiety washed away: here she was, locked in an embrace with the man who would take care of her. She soaked him up.
Oliver shut the front door and led her deeper into the house, Catherine following closely behind him, her wedding ring trapped lightly in her hand. She was surprised when he led her towards the kitchen. Catherine nevertheless followed but when she entered she stopped still. She saw a table laid out: placemats, plates, napkins, toast-rack, cups, glasses. On the plates lay half-eaten breakfasts of toast and eggs, and in the cups, half-drunk coffee. And still sitting at the table, still chewing, was a woman. She stopped eating and looked straight at Catherine.
‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘this is Christina.’ And everything fell apart: her entire fantasy crumbled and all that she had imagined vanished into thin air. And she wished she had never left, that she had never boarded that train. She was now standing in the house of a stranger, uninvited. ‘This is Catherine,’ said Oliver, ‘an old friend of mine from home. She’s come to visit.’
‘Oh, really?’ asked Christina, a little surprised. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘So what are you doing so far from London?’ Catherine couldn’t answer. She wanted to hide her entire journey, to bury it in the ground.
‘Are you okay, Catherine?’ asked Oliver. ‘You look a little pale.’ Catherine composed herself, clenching her fist and holding her breath until she could escape.
Catherine sat in silence at the back of the train. She looked down at her hand and where there had once been a ring was now a light shadow. She checked her pockets and looked under her seat but the little ring was nowhere to be seen. She clutched her hand with the other and clenched her fingers until the bones were crushed together, until pain shot through her knuckles and across her palm, and her eyes swelled with tears and her face turned red; crying, she did not make a sound.
The ground beneath the house had become weakened over time. As the years passed the cliff had made its way closer and closer towards the forest. Once many houses lay at the edge of the land but one by one they had fallen into the sea. This house, however, looked as though it was waiting for a cyclone to come and take it away. It was a ramshackle old structure: a single room constructed with the thinnest wooden planks, with a sloping roof and a front door with a crack right down its centre. Much of the wood was now rotting away due to dampness and neglect, and as Edward peered in through the single murky window at its front, he found it too dark to reveal anything it contained. He attempted the door. It was locked.
Drops began to fall from the sky, which had turned from a white to a muddy grey. Edward tried to force the handle but it was no use. For some reason he found himself opening his bag, removing the copy of Ozma of Oz he had brought with him, and removing the key he had found there from the inside back cover. But the key was far too small for this lock. The rain was now falling heavily, soaking his hair, his face, his clothes. He forced the door harder, hitting it with his shoulder, again and again. The frame of the door splintered at the lock and the door gave way.
Edward did not find what he was expecting, for inside he found a perfectly furnished little room. It contained a desk, a chair, a stove, a chest of drawers, and a bed neatly made with sheets and blankets. He shut the door behind him, stepping in from the rain. He dared not touch anything as he wandered around the room, as though what he had discovered was a museum. He carefully observed the bed, the desk, the chair, and the stove. On top of the chest of drawers he noticed two empty picture frames, positioned so carefully it was as though they nevertheless presented faces. And next to these frames was a small pile of books. Edward picked up one of these books but when he flicked through the pages he found them to be empty. The others were the same: blank books, page after page.
He attempted to open the top drawer of the cabinet but it was locked shut. The second opened, however, but was empty. The third was also locked. Edward reached into his pocket and pulled out the small key from the Ozma of Oz book. He slid it into the keyhole of the top drawer. It fitted. When he turned it, it clicked. The drawer opened when he pulled it and what he found was another key, identical to the one he held in his hand. He kneeled down and entered this second key into the bottom drawer. It worked in the lock and inside this drawer Edward found a small book. When he opened it, he found it to be filled with handwritten words, and as his eyes passed over the pages, he found his own name written there. And as he observed it further, he found that it was a diary, and by the name written on the inside cover he knew that it was the diary of Mia Rose. And as the storm engulfed the house, its thick, ugly noise turned to silence as Edward found himself sinking into the book: a stream of scribbled words and mysteries, page after page.
I did not utter a single word last week not a single syllable a cough or a sneeze perhaps but no discernable word monday through friday even the sunday before yesterday I spoke but only to myself it pisses him off he screams and shouts I hate the sounds he makes the words he says but I enjoy seeing him go redintheface slamming the door marching out to the fields to curse me to do whateverhedoes but I laugh I laugh inside and when I cannot contain I laugh out loud hear it laugh right back when it hits the walls of this boxofahouse if only his name was jack he would be jackinthebox if only he would fix the cracks in the glass unboard the window there would be light again and the days and nights would not bleed into eachother Ive lost count and even though I may speak of mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursday they mean nothing to me anymore they are just sounds now ever since the clock broke the hands stopped ticking opened up exposed the cogs and mechanisms spilled out onto the floor now a lighter circle above the door and instead of the ticking waves are all that can be heard now or the wind screaming through the cracks between the woodbeams and the breathing and the shifting in the bed at night no time no light of day becomes night becomes I nolongerknowwhat with the clouds so dark sleep is all I know now consumes the night the day the everythingthereis
pitch thicktar blackness feel his hands rough face scouring my red skin burning cold
freezing body against mine the notsofunny feelings of the toing and froing the hands over my mouth the spitted hatred word spatters allIcanthinkof the breath on my face makes me sick if only this bed was notsosmall if only it were not so cold I could sleep on the floor away from him I know it will lead to tragedy I can already feel her falling before its even happened before conception but anyday now at this rate any day now I pushed him off the bed hit his head I laugh at him left middle of night thought hed return to hit me but did not dare I laughed until sleep and awoke to an emptybed I can feel her coming press my stomach wait for signs time will tell without the clock it is hard for time to pass and as daybecomesweekbecomesmonthbecomesyear I do not know how long is past allIknow is that I look different bigger if there was a mirror I have metamorphised into a strange bellyout creature makes me laugh makes him cry all he does is cry selfish tears for her he knows when she comes I will no longer be his never was and he reads my mind because I have fantasies of escaping with her in my arms out of this box with her in my arms he dare not hit me dare not kiss me with my belly out but I hit him because it makesmelaugh
night and day she is kicking the gate down a fierce one like me cannot wait to see her face to turn the insideout and see her eyes open the ball of flames engulfing all sound disappers loudly sucks life from the room lost my body forgot my name in the struggle when drowning then out of nowhere a babyinmyarms though not her who I was expecting not the one who I had dreamed of but her brother a he a boy with his different part the names all disappear and spill out onto the ground and new names come in its place like samuel and edward and vincent and afterawhile I forget about her and allthereis is mylittleedward
The Glass Book - A London Love Story Page 21
