Tourmaline

by James Brogden

  ‘I like it. It’s optimistic. Daddy’s coming home; mother and daughter are waiting for him.’

  ‘Funny. That’s exactly what I think.’

  Bobby reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a slim brown-paper parcel, then sat fiddling with it, turning it over and over in his hands. ‘The day I left, it was in a bit of a hurry. You were here; I remember that. You were having a kip.’

  The old man laughed, despite the strange tingle of déjà vu which Bobby’s words had caused. ‘I tend to do that,’ he admitted.

  ‘The place I ended up was dangerous. To say the least. For the first few days I was completely alone, with no food or water or shelter or anything, and I’m pretty sure that I would have died if it hadn’t been for you. What you were dreaming.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you, lad.’

  ‘Here.’ Bobby handed him the parcel. ‘It’ll make more sense if you open this.’

  Somewhat dubiously, the old man pried open a corner of the wrapping until he saw what was inside, then tore the rest away with trembling fingers.

  ‘Oh my…’

  The copy of Nicholas Brannigan’s A Tender Death was battered and dog-eared, having been soaked by the sea and baked by the sun, but still in much too good a condition to be as old as the publication date claimed. When he opened the cover and saw the enigmatic Adriana’s inscription and her lipstick kiss, the old man’s hand went to his mouth in shock. ‘Where on earth…?’ he breathed.

  ‘Not on earth, Mr Jenkins. Not really. I wanted to say thank you for what you gave to me, and not just because it kept me alive. I wanted you to have that.’

  Robert Jenkins stared at the young man and whispered ‘Who are you? Are you… Am I…?’

  ‘No!’ Bobby laughed and then swallowed it immediately. ‘I’m sorry, that was rude. No, I’m fairly sure you’re not dead. As to who I am?’ He shrugged. ‘Part of me is you – or at least, the younger you that you were dreaming about that day. Part of me is still the me I was when I left. I’m something in the middle, I suppose.’

  ‘But this is impossible.’ His gnarled fingers were tracing the outline of the lipstick smudge, as if denying what his mouth was saying.

  ‘Yes, I know, but don’t worry – you’ll get over it. I also wanted to say that it’s an honour, being you.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘I was something of a shit, you should know,’ said Robert Jenkins.

  Bobby paused and looked back. He smiled. ‘I think I can probably live up to that.’

  ‘I should have gone back for her.’

  ‘Who? Adriana?’

  Robert nodded. ‘I was too full of myself. My career – the expectations of my family. We had one weekend in Singapore at the end of the War, and I promised I’d go back for her, but I never did.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Bobby, ‘that’s one mistake I intend to put right.’

  5

  ‘So this is what two o’clock in the morning looks like.’

  ‘Vessa,’ Steve muttered thickly, ‘for Christ’s sake will you switch that bloody light off and go to sleep?’

  ‘Grumpy sod.’

  But she smiled to herself and turned off the bedside lamp.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks are due to:

  Pam Murphy, one of the bravest people I know, for her invaluable insights into what it’s actually like to wake up from a coma; Giles Sutcliffe, for much-needed constructive pedantry; Marie Browne and Paul Merrell for reading and commenting on early drafts; Jon Hansford for correcting my maths; James Lynch for the tiger-fish-man-thing; Tony Quinn for nautical advice; Emma and Anna at Snowbooks; Peter Coleborn and Jan Edwards for encouraging me in this madness; and Mike Watts, Debs Steffen and the cast of Thethem for general therapeutic geekery.

  Most of all, to TC, Hopey and Eden, for still being here when I come home from strange places.