Fallen Angel

by Melody John

  And I smiled, and felt my apprehension leave me.

  I was halfway through unpacking when there came a knock on the door. I opened it, and Laura and David came in. There was lots of exclaiming and hugging. Laura had completely recovered, and her eyeliner was still unnaturally perfect. David had a new aftershave, and I caught the faint scent of it when I hugged him.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘What about you?’

  He lifted one shoulder, and half-smiled. ‘Better than I was. You know. It’s hard, but… well, I guess you have to move on.’

  ‘You haven’t heard anything from him?’ Laura asked.

  ‘No. But I suppose if you’re on the run, you can’t really stop to Skype, can you.’

  ‘No.’ I nudged his shoulder. ‘One day, though. Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighed, then gave a rather forced smile. ‘Well, anyway. Did you guys get anything good for Christmas?’

  I sat there, listening to my own voice going on about minion oven gloves and book vouchers, and then listening to both of them. It was strange, and at first it was so uncomfortable that I felt quite miserable. But gradually we all thawed out towards each other again. Laura had a story about her uncle losing a tooth in his plum pudding, and David had an unpopular opinion about the Doctor Who Christmas special, and I’d heard casting rumours for the new Star Wars film.

  And as we talked, and eventually laughed together, I felt the shadow of the previous term lighten. We weren’t going to forget Dmitri, but we could still live our lives with the memory of all that had happened. And as I watched David relax and finally throw back his head and laugh in his old familiar way, I knew that things wouldn’t sour between him and me. They might change, but everything was always changing. What mattered was that we would all change together, not apart. As long as that remained solid, I felt like we could handle pretty much anything this term had to throw at us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ten weeks into the new term, on a bright, crisp Saturday morning, I was in the kitchen with Laura. I was scrambling eggs, and she was frying bacon, and we were waiting for David to come and make the toast.

  He came into the kitchen, and Laura said with mock-anger, ‘Where have you been, you slacker? Bacon’s almost ready.’

  ‘Look.’ David’s voice was breathless, and a little shaky. We immediately looked around. We saw that he was holding something in his hand. ‘I just went and got the post,’ he said. He held the thing up, and I saw that it was a postcard, very dog-eared, and with one corner torn away.

  I drew in my breath. ‘Is it—’

  ‘Yes.’ David crossed the room, and showed us the postcard. It just had a faded picture of a waterfall on, but the back was covered in firm black handwriting.

  Laura read it aloud softly: ‘Dear David, Lizzie, and Laura. I hope you’re well. I can’t really tell you where I am, because—well, you know why. But I’m doing well. It’s unbelievably strange, living this life without elders or tutors or coursework deadlines. It was hard (don’t say that’s what she said) but I think I’m getting used to it now. I miss you all. But I’m well and I’m safe and I’m free. Thank you. Thank you for showing me that this was a possibility. And I really really hope that I can come back one day. But until then—David, I’m sure you didn’t like the Doctor Who special, and I agree with you, the coincidences are getting very annoying. Laura, I hope you’re better after all that happened, and I hope you’re not feeling suffocated by all the Kerouacs in your classes. Lizzie, don’t forget to practise. Great power, great responsibility, and all that. I hope I’ll see you guys soon. Dmitri.’

  ‘See,’ David said rather loudly, ‘I said the coincidences were getting ridiculous.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘Bacon!’ Laura exclaimed. Both the pans were smoking. We hastily rescued the eggs and bacon, and then we sat down at the table. David held Dmitri’s postcard, reading it over and over again.

  I gently poked him with my fork. ‘Eat your breakfast.’

  David grinned, and picked up his cutlery. ‘See, the thing is that the writers just don’t understand that coincidences can be overdone. What they need to remember is…’

  And he and Laura were off, hotly debating the merits and flaws of recent Doctor Who episodes. I smiled, and began eating my breakfast.

  ~ end ~