12:08
BETHANY CHESTER
COPYRIGHT 2014 by BETHANY CHESTER
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Chapter One
This story, like too many others, starts when I open my eyes and roll over to look at the clock on my bedside table.
The difference is that my clock isn’t there.
My friends would laugh at my bemused expression, but I can’t see the funny side.
Maybe it fell off the table in the night. I scan the floor around the bed, but to no avail. Did I forget to unpack it? I’m sure I set it down on the table, thinking it would help me feel at home.
No, I must have imagined it. I probably forgot. Everything was pretty chaotic yesterday, what with the boxes scattered everywhere and all.
Satisfied with this explanation, I go to the kitchen to find breakfast. I pour some supermarket-brand cereal into a bowl, and look around for my book.
I’ve always read at mealtimes. When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me off, but eventually she realised her words were falling on deaf ears. In the end, she became rather smug about it. She used to loudly assert that I was obviously very mature for my age – she seemed to think the credit was all hers, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to contradict her.
Anyway, I suppose I was fated to be an English Literature student. I tend to read anything and everything I can lay my hands on.
When I arrived yesterday afternoon, I couldn’t remember which box I’d packed my books in, and by then it was too late to run down to the library. Instead, I picked up a book of war memoirs Jamal had left lying on the kitchen table. He and Annemarie aren’t moving in until next week, since that’s when the History course starts, but he came by yesterday to dump some stuff here. War memoirs aren’t generally my reading material of choice, but anything is better than nothing.
I look around the kitchen for the book. It’s nowhere in sight.
This is getting ridiculous.
I search the living room, the hallway, and my room. I could swear I never even took it out of the kitchen, but you never know.
Finally, I have to conclude that it’s nowhere to be found. This is getting stranger by the minute. I begin to worry. Is anything else missing? Surely not. Burglars steal TVs and jewellery, not alarm clocks and autobiographies.
Nothing else has gone, as far as I can tell. I must have moved the clock and the book, and forgotten where I put them. Most likely I was half-asleep at the time.
Then I remember something else.
There’s this little ornament I’ve had since I was a kid – it’s a hummingbird, tilting its beak towards the open petals of a flower. I don’t know where it came from originally, but it’s been sitting in my room for as long as I can remember. I could swear I put it on the table with the alarm clock when I started unpacking yesterday afternoon, but I don’t remember seeing it there this morning. I hurry back into my room to check.
The table is bare.
Either I’m losing it, or someone’s taken the things. But how on earth would they have got in? When I examine the windows, they’re all secure. I go to the front door. The lock looks undamaged, but when I try the door, it swings open.
My heart skips. I know I locked it last night; I even tested the handle to make sure, since I’m alone here at the moment. The key is still on the worktop in the kitchen, exactly where I left it, but someone has been in. How could I possibly have slept through it?
Shakily, I phone the police and report the burglary. The woman tells me I’m not a priority because nothing of value was taken. She takes my name and contact details anyway, though I can’t help but feel that they won’t be used.
I need to get out of here. I decide to head for the library to find some of the books on this year’s reading list. The university library was my second home for most of last year, but now we’ve moved out of student accommodation, the local library is closer. Jamal says it’s stupid to do my research in the library when I could be using the Internet. I’m a bit old-fashioned, I guess.
I tug on some jeans and a baggy jumper, adding a warm coat as an afterthought; it looks chilly out. I haven’t quite caught onto the whole fashion thing yet, and to be honest, I’m starting to doubt whether I ever will.
It’s still early, and the library is just opening. I decide to have a quick scan of the shelves and then retreat to my usual hideout, a low, comfortable chair nestled between a bookshelf and a mural of the local landmarks.
My thoughts are still preoccupied, despite my attempts to forget about the burglary. As a result, I almost trip over a girl who’s kneeling on the floor stacking the shelves. I mutter an apology and attempt to move on, but I’m too late. She lifts her gaze to meet mine, and her eyes widen.
“Your name is Eddie,” she says. “Short for Edna.”
I stare at her. Do I know her? Is she a friend of a friend? I don’t remember meeting her.
Even if we had met, how could she possibly know the tragic detail that is my full name? It’s something I only tell my close friends.
Don’t get me wrong, I really love my grandma Edna, but I sometimes wish my parents hadn’t named me after her. It’s not a bad name, just a little old-fashioned.
“Sit,” says the strange girl, patting the patch of floor to her left. I blink at her. Surreptitiously, I glance around to make sure she’s talking to me. There’s nobody else in the room.
“I’m sorry,” I start. “Do I…”
“Not yet,” she says placidly. “But you will. Sit.”
I don’t know why I do as she says; my legs seem to fold of their own accord. The girl shifts from a crouch to a sitting position, peering at me over an untidy pile of books.
“You’re Eddie,” she says, “and last night, your flat was burgled.”
“I…” I stammer. “How did you…”
“The thief took an alarm clock, a book of war memoirs, and a hummingbird ornament,” she continues.
“Who told you that?” There’s panic in my voice. Is she something to do with the police? Surely not, or why would she be working in the library?
“Nobody told me anything,” she says imperiously. “I knew it the instant I saw you.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
“It sounds like you’re saying…”
“That I’m psychic?” she finishes.
I’m light-headed. “Yes. That.”
“Well, that didn’t take you too long,” she says, pleased. “Some people get ridiculous when it comes to this sort of thing. They keep saying, “But that’s not possible.” I don’t know how they can dismiss something after hearing the evidence with their own ears, but then again, some people have an endless capacity for blocking out things they don’t want to hear…”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Who are you again?”
“Again?” she smirks. “I don’t seem to remember telling you who I am. My name is Clemency.”
“That’s kind of a mouthful,” I remark. “Don’t you ever shorten it?”
Clemency looks blank. “No. Why should I?”
I bite back my response. I don’t think ‘Clem’ would suit her, somehow. It’s a bit Enid Blyton, and she doesn’t exactly fit that description.
She may be sitting right in front of me, but for some reason, I can’t really describe how she looks – it’s almost as if she’s not really there. I can see that she’s slender, with dark, rippling hair that brushes the floor, but her features are a mystery. Although she can’t be any older than I am, she radiates wisdom the way some people radiate happiness. She doesn’t quite seem to belong to this world. That’s about all I can say by way of portrayal.
“Do you have a mobile phone?” she demands. It’s the last thing I expect her to say. The words
sound strange in her mouth. She doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who uses technology, although that does sound a bit silly in this day and age.
“Um, yes,” I say cautiously. “But it’s ancient, and I only use it for emergencies.”
“Irrelevant,” she dismisses. “Add my number. You might need it.”
I type her name into my contacts, unable to believe I’m putting a complete stranger’s number into my phone. It goes against everything I was taught as a child. And what on earth does she mean by “You might need it”? I’m not exactly planning to keep up the acquaintance.
Clemency reels off her number, and I meekly type it in. She doesn’t ask for mine in return. If she’s a stalker, she’s a strange one.
Unexpectedly, Clemency sniggers.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, mystified.
“I’m not a stalker,” she says. “I promise.”
I stare.
“Oh, right,” I say, deadpan. “The psychic thing. Silly me. How did I forget?”
We regard each other for a moment, and then, simultaneously, we laugh.
From that moment onwards, our friendship is pretty much sealed.
“You might want to get home,” Clemency says then, tilting her head as if she’s listening out for something.
“Why? What’s going on?”
She gives me a small smile. “Nothing important, but you should go anyway. Hurry.”
I say goodbye, and leave without taking out any books. My head is spinning. When I get back to Hamilton House, there’s a police car parked outside.
I dash up to the first floor, which is the flat we’re renting. There are two police officers waiting on the landing. Why is it that police officers always seem to come in pairs?
“Miss Briggs?” the man asks. I wince. He makes me sound like a Geography teacher.
“Yes,” I say. “Can I help you?”
“I’m PC Kent,” he says, “and this is PC Jones.” He gestures vaguely towards the female officer at his side. “You reported an alleged burglary which you believe took place last night. We wouldn’t normally investigate any further, given the value of the items involved. However, as you are a potentially vulnerable person…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. Surely anybody is potentially vulnerable.
“It means, Miss Briggs, that you are a young woman living alone,” says PC Jones. That’s a little hypocritical – she doesn’t look a day over twenty-eight. Besides, I’ll only be alone until Monday.
“Can we come in?” PC Kent sounds impatient. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
I fumble with the key, hoping I don’t look too inept. But then again, I am just a vulnerable young woman. How can I be expected to successfully operate a lock?
Once we’re all seated at the kitchen table, they proceed to ask me a variety of tedious questions. They examine the lock, and find it secure. When I point out where I left the clock last night, they are incredulous; all I can do is shrug helplessly and mutter that I’m a deep sleeper. It’s true, but I still can’t believe I slept through a burglary. I think the officers are a little suspicious, and I can’t say I blame them.
By the time they leave, I’m totally drained, even though it’s barely lunchtime. I glance around the empty flat, and feel lonely all of a sudden. Picking up the phone, I dial Jamal’s parents’ home number. Nobody picks up, so I leave a message explaining that a few things have been stolen from the flat. I have to give a reason for my phone call, and besides, it’s probably best if he knows what’s happened. I’m not telling Annemarie, though. She’d freak out.
My course doesn’t start until tomorrow, so I kill the rest of the day by unpacking the other boxes I brought from home when I drove up yesterday. I half-expect to find the missing things in one of the boxes, but no. I’m kind of glad, actually. It would be pretty embarrassing having to phone the police and tell them that I hadn’t been burgled after all. Anyway, the flat looks far more welcoming by the time I’m finished.
Then I go to bed. This has been a really long day.
Chapter Two
When I wake up, there’s light filtering around the edges of the blind, and someone rattling at the door.
Irrationally, my first thought is that the burglar must have returned. I look around for a suitable weapon, and find a part of my bookshelf, which I haven’t assembled yet. Once I’m appropriately armed, I stumble sleepily towards the front door, removing the chair I wedged under the handle last night. My heart races as I yank open the door, raising my makeshift club.
Jamal almost falls into the hallway, and I just manage stop myself from hitting him over the head.
“Shit, sorry,” I say, dropping the plank and almost crushing my own toes in the process. Today is not going well.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s alright. I’m not a burglar, I promise.”
He’s kind of staring at me. “What?” I ask. Then it dawns on me. “Oh. I suppose I should go and put some clothes on.”
He grins, pushing a hand through his dark hair. “Is that your burglar-fighting outfit?”
A blush spreads across my face. How did I forget I was only wearing knickers and a t-shirt? I guess I was kind of preoccupied with the idea that someone was trying to break into the flat.
I make a dash for my room, where I tug on some jeans, a bra and a nicer top. I go to the mirror to comb my hair. My eyes look a little frantic. This is not a good start to the day.
Once I’ve regained my composure, I go into the kitchen, sans bookshelf.
“I really am sorry,” I tell Jamal. “I’ve been on edge since yesterday morning. I didn’t mean to attack you.”
“It’s fine, seriously,” he laughs. “What were you supposed to think?”
My eyes drift over to his guitar case, propped up against the fridge. Only then do I remember that he wasn’t supposed to arrive until Monday.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Nice to know my presence is appreciated.”
“You know that’s not what I meant!”
“Hey, I’m just teasing. I’m here because you left me a scary voicemail, remember? I wanted to make sure you were okay. You didn’t answer when I phoned you back last night.”
“I’m fine. I was probably asleep. I had an early night.”
He pulls me into a hug. “I haven’t seen you in ages. It’s been, what, a month? Crazy. You still look exactly the same.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Well, yes. Were you expecting me to become a Goth or something? You haven’t changed either, except that you’re in greater need of a haircut.”
“Shut up,” he grins. “How can I ever hope to be a rock star if I have short hair?”
“A rock star who’s studying History,” I muse. “Did I ever tell you what a ridiculous combination that is?”
Officially, Jamal wants to be an archaeologist, but privately, I think he’d rather be in a band. I like to tease him about the unlikely mix.
“You may have mentioned it,” he says. “A few dozen times. But come on, you liked my song about the Colosseum.”
I grin. Then I almost fall off my chair.
“What…” I say faintly.
“Eddie? What’s wrong?” Jamal looks concerned.
“That,” I manage, pointing at the kitchen table. “How did that get there?”
My hummingbird ornament is there, huddled innocuously next to an empty mug from last night.
“Oh, that,” Jamal says. “It’s yours, right? It was on the doorstep. I assumed it fell out of a box or something.”
“Yes, it’s mine,” I say faintly, “but it was stolen yesterday.”
Jamal starts to laugh. “This thief of yours is very considerate, isn’t he? Or she, before you accuse me of sexism.”
“But…how?” I stutter.
He shrugs. “Don’t ask me. What else went missing?”
“My alarm clock and one of your books,” I say. “A war memoir.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” I frown.
“And since when did I take anything seriously, Eddie? Come on, it’s pretty funny, you must admit. Someone goes to all the trouble of breaking in to a flat, but steals the three most trivial things imaginable. And then they don’t even keep it all – they go to the trouble of bringing back one of the things they stole, rather than throwing it in a hedge or something. It’s bizarre.”
Maybe I’m going mad. Maybe the hummingbird really did fall out of box, like Jamal said. Maybe I missed it yesterday. Although it’s unlikely the police would have missed it too – I mean, they actually checked the door.
There are footsteps out on the landing. I frown; the clicking heels sound familiar.
“Funny,” I say. “Those sound exactly like Annemarie’s shoes.”
Jamal smiles guiltily. “Ah, about that…I may have told her what happened. She…”
“Oh, God,” I groan.
A moment later, Annemarie bursts into the kitchen, ponytail flying out behind her.
“What happened?” she demands. “I can’t believe we were burgled when Eddie was here by herself! Oh my God Eddie, are you okay? What was taken? Have you called the police? Have you…”
At this point, she is cut off by Jamal, who has clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Chill,” he says. “Everything’s fine.”
Annemarie is a bit…well, easily flustered. She’s half Japanese, and stereotypically, she’s a complete brainbox. Despite her intelligence, she doesn’t cope well with any kind of deviation from the norm. I love her to bits, but she can be a little tiresome in times of crisis.
“Can’t…breathe…” Annemarie protests feebly.
“I’ll let you go if you promise to act like a sane person,” Jamal says. She nods frantically, and he releases her.
I smile affectionately. “I really missed you two.”
“I missed you too,” Annemarie says, hugging me so tight I think I might choke.
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