12-08

by Bethany Chester

  “But not me, evidently,” Jamal says drily. She pokes out her tongue at him over my shoulder.

  I vividly remember the night I met my two best friends. It was Freshers’ week, and I didn’t know anybody. I’m not so good at the mingling thing, and I’m not a massive drinker, so I don’t quite know how I ended up in a nightclub full of people I’d never even exchanged a word with.

  I was looking around, kind of lost, when I spotted a guy and a girl who were in a similar predicament. They were leaning up against the wall, looking all casual, but they couldn’t quite mask the boredom and discomfort on their faces. That was when I made an unusually bold move. I approached them and introduced myself, having to shout over the pounding dance music.

  The guy grinned at me. “Hi, Eddie,” he said. “I’m Jamal, and this is Annemarie. God, I hate this place. The music sucks. Shall we bail?”

  Annemarie just nodded. She’s a bit quiet around people she doesn’t know. We pushed our way through the sweaty crowds, bursting out into the street. The cold air caressed our faces, and we breathed simultaneous sighs of relief.

  “Thank God for that,” Jamal muttered. We all got talking, and from that night on, the three of us were firm friends.

  At first, I assumed the two of them were a couple, and worried that I might be intruding on them. I saw the way he teased her, the way she pretended to be hurt and made faces at him, the way they were so different and yet so similar...it was all a little misleading. I got the impression they’d known each other for months, when in reality it was only days. They bonded after finding out they were taking the same History course. But the length of time you’ve known a person isn’t really relevant. Sometimes, you meet someone and you just click. After talking to Jamal and Annemarie for half an hour or so, I already knew they’d be in my life forever. And yet it’s possible to be acquainted with some people for years without knowing who they really are.

  Back to the present.

  “Can we do something this afternoon?” Annemarie asks. “We should celebrate that we’re together again.”

  “Can’t,” I say. “I have to go over to campus. Some of us have actual work to do.”

  She pouts. “Not fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Jamal dismisses. “Come on, we’re spending the next year together. I think we can spare Eddie for one afternoon.”

  After lunch, I walk over to the university. The sun’s out, and it’s quite pleasant. Besides, I need the exercise.

  My lecture passes without event; I won’t bother narrating it. Only one of that afternoon’s events is worth mentioning.

  For some reason, Clemency pops into my mind just as I leave campus. That’s why I’m so surprised when I almost bump into her a couple of streets away from the university.

  “Eddie,” she says, as if she’s greeting an old friend. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you. Your hummingbird came back to you this morning.”

  The most unnerving thing is the way she simply states it, as if there’s no doubt in her mind that she’s in the right – which there probably isn’t.

  I’m a bit annoyed that she seems to know more about my life than I do.

  “What’s going on?” I demand. “How do I know I can trust you? I don’t even know you! For all I know, you were the one who took those things. You might just be messing with my head.”

  She smiles wryly. “I was expecting this. Rest assured that I have better things to do than commit petty theft.”

  “Then what’s going on?” I repeat. “You know everything, right? So why can’t you tell me what’s happening?”

  Clemency raises an eyebrow. “Who said anything was happening? Your house was burgled, that’s all. And I certainly don’t know everything – I just happen to know a little more than the average person.”

  I regard her suspiciously. I get the feeling she knows something I don’t. Make that several things.

  Clemency tilts her head as if she’s trying to hear a faint sound in the distance. She did the same thing when we were in the library. What is that all about?

  “I have to go,” she says abruptly. “Another time.” Before I can question her any further, she hurries off down the street and disappears. Damn it.

  I arrive back at Hamilton House, dragging myself up the stairs to the first floor. It’s good to be home.

  Jamal is in the living room with his feet up on the coffee table. Detachedly, I note the ragged holes in the bottoms of his socks. He takes a drag on his cigarette.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Do you have to do that in here? It stinks.”

  “Hey, I opened the window,” he protests.

  “Oh, well that makes it all alright, then.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll go out onto the balcony next time, alright?”

  “I really wish you would quit. I read somewhere that every cigarette takes eleven minutes off your life. I don’t want you to get cancer and die.”

  “Pfft,” he scorns. “I swear you deliberately look up and memorise those statistics just so you can scare me with them. Stop worrying. It’s not going to happen to me.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  He stubs out his cigarette. “If I quit smoking,” he says, softening his voice, “would it make you like me?”

  Heat floods my face.

  “I already like you,” I say, feigning ignorance. “Otherwise I’d never have agreed to live in a house with you. Especially not with that habit.” I gesture towards the cigarette packet on the coffee table.

  “You know that’s not what I meant,” he says. I don’t know what to say – this is so awkward. I suspected he had feelings for me before the summer, but I was never quite sure if it was a good thing. He’s my friend, and it’s strange to think of him as anything more.

  “I’m going to put the kettle on,” I mutter, hastily making my escape. And there was me thinking I’d have a nice, stress-free evening. Silly of me.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, I turn on my phone. This isn’t an extraordinary event for most people, but it’s something I don’t do unless I really have to. I have no idea what I’m turning it on for – I don’t want to make a call, or text anyone, or play the infamous snake game. But nevertheless, I go to my contacts and scroll down the list. I don’t have to scroll far; I only have a few numbers. Then I press Call.

  I still don’t know why I’m doing this, but since I seem incapable of cancelling the call, I clamp the phone to my ear and wait.

  She gives me her usual brusque greeting.

  “Eddie,” she says.

  “How did you know it was me? I didn’t give you my number.”

  “Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were the one who said I knew everything.”

  Fair enough, I suppose.

  “So why am I calling?” I ask. The sentence sounds backwards.

  “We’re going for coffee,” she says. “It’s a little place in Stratford Street. You’ll know it when you see it. Be there at eleven.”

  Then she hangs up. Why does she do that? She doesn’t seem to understand the concept of conversation; she just talks at you and then disappears.

  That may just have been the weirdest phone call I’ve ever made.

  I’ve no obligation to meet up with someone I barely know. I don’t particularly want to do it, either. But at ten to eleven sharp, I slip out of the flat and head for Stratford Street. I don’t feel like explaining to Jamal and Annemarie where I’m going, so I do my best to be quiet. Luckily for me, they have yet to emerge from their rooms, in typical student fashion.

  There are several places on Stratford Street where you could potentially get coffee; I’m not sure what Clemency meant by “You’ll know it when you see it”.

  And then I get it. I’m sure I’ve never seen the place before, but since it’s right in front of me, I can’t deny its existence. Maybe it’s just opened?

  The Hummingbird, reads the sign over the door. Okay, I get it now. Well, at least she has a sense of humou
r.

  It’s a shabby little place. The décor effectively dispels my theory that it opened recently – it must have been here for years. The stained wallpaper is emblazoned with little hummingbirds.

  Clemency sits at a small table in the corner. When she sees me, she smiles slightly, but doesn’t beckon me over. She knows I’ve seen her.

  “You’re hilarious,” I say drily.

  “What on earth do you mean?” She’s all innocence.

  “Picking this place.”

  “It’s one of my favourite places. I discovered it when I was twelve or so. I’ve been coming here almost every weekend since.”

  “It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it?” I say suspiciously. “The name, I mean.”

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence,” she dismisses.

  “So you did pick it on purpose?”

  “Did I say that?”

  I slump back in my seat, exasperated.

  “You are infuriating,” I say.

  A waitress approaches us. Clemency orders some kind of weird herbal tea.

  “I thought you said we were here for coffee,” I accuse.

  She shrugs. “Well, you’re obviously not much of a tea person.”

  I have no idea what she means by that, but since the waitress is beginning to look impatient, I don’t question her.

  “Fine,” I say. “Then I’ll have a hot chocolate.”

  “Is that your idea of rebellion?” she smirks. I ignore her.

  “Are you going to explain why I’m here?”

  “Because you phoned me, and we arranged to meet up.”

  “I didn’t want to phone you. You made me do it. And you arranged that I would meet you here. There was no ‘we’.”

  She shrugs. “Have it your way.”

  There’s a moment of silence. The waitress brings our drinks. I wrinkle my nose when I see Clemency’s.

  “That looks disgusting,” I remark.

  “It’s only ginger tea,” she says mildly. “It smells nice, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s okay, I guess,” I say. “I don’t really like ginger.”

  “I know,” she says. “But you haven’t tried it since you were fourteen. You might like it by now. You never know.”

  I stare at her. “I’d forgotten that. So you’re a mind-reader, too?”

  “No,” she says. “Thankfully not. Mind-reading isn’t possible, as such.”

  “You should know.”

  She smiles. “This is why I like hanging out with you. You don’t waste time doubting things.”

  She’s right, I guess. I hate it when people deny that something happened just because they can’t explain it.

  “I’ve never really spoken about this stuff before,” she muses. “When I was in primary school, I used to tell the other children about it, but it scared them and I got told off all the time. The teachers thought I was making it up.”

  That amuses me. I can just see the looks on her poor teachers’ faces, their scepticism mingling with distrust and perhaps even fear. For some reason, it’s hard to imagine Clemency as a little kid. She’s one of those people who only seems to exist in the moment. She was probably a very serious child, and I bet a lot of people didn’t understand her. That’s something I can definitely sympathise with.

  “Nowadays, I can tell just by looking at someone,” Clemency says. Seeing my confusion, she clarifies. “When I first set eyes on someone, I instantly know how accepting they’ll be of my differences and my...abilities. There are a lot of people who would never believe me, no matter what I did to try to convince them. I avoid those people. Aside from my mother, you’re the only person who’s ever been fully accepting of me. Well, apart from...”

  She tails off. Maybe the memories are too painful.

  “But how?” I ask, taking a sip of my hot chocolate. “How can you tell?”

  I’m expecting another cryptic reply, but to my surprise, she hesitates for a moment, as if thinking up a serious answer.

  “Do you know about auras?” she asks.

  “I guess so,” I say carefully. “They’re like rings of light, aren’t they? They surround living things. Or so they say.”

  “You never really believed in them,” Clemency smiles. “But you’ll believe me if I tell you they’re real.”

  I nod. “A lot of people claim they can see them,” I say. “Who am I to doubt them?”

  “Exactly,” she smiles. “Well, auras are a type of energy. If someone is close-minded, or malicious, or overly pessimistic, then their aura looks dull and shrunken. But if they’re sympathetic, and open-minded, and generous, it will be bright and radiant.” She pauses. “When I first saw you, I was struck by the brightness of your aura. I instantly knew I could tell you pretty much anything without being judged.”

  I’m not sure why that embarrasses me so much. I take another sip of hot chocolate, staring down at the swirls in my cup. I can still feel her eyes on me.

  Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me. I look up.

  “Is it true that auras vary in colour from person to person?” I ask tentatively. She shakes her head.

  “That’s what the phony psychics want you to believe,” she says. “All those myths about different colours for different personality types…well, it’s a nice idea, but in reality they simply vary in brightness.”

  “Oh.” I pause. “That’s kind of disappointing.”

  “You only say that because you’ve never seen one. Auras are the most beautiful thing there is in this world.”

  “I’d like to see one,” I say. “One day.”

  “Maybe you will,” she says thoughtfully. “You’ve got the right kind of mind for it.”

  “I hope so.”

  I always feel as if she’s watching me. It’s as if I’m some newly-discovered species, and she’s observing my behaviour, trying to predict what I’ll do next. But I’m probably being paranoid. She spends a lot of time inside her head. Most likely she spaces out and forgets to divert her gaze from wherever she happened to be looking when she got distracted.

  She’s so strange; I just don’t know what to make of her. I’m not even sure whether she’s trustworthy. She’s manipulative, mysterious and completely unfathomable, but I like her nonetheless. If she’s telling the truth, she’s been more honest with me than she has with anyone else, but some of the things she says are so fantastical that I wonder if it’s wise to accept them unquestioningly. After all, I’ve only known her for a few days.

  Clemency reaches into her pocket and pulls out one of those little flip phones. It looks bizarre on her, though I don’t really know why it should.

  “Twelve already,” she says. “That was quick.”

  “Crap,” I say. “I have a lecture at one. I need to go.”

  “Okay,” she says, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

  “Wait,” I say. “Have my number.”

  She looks puzzled. “Why?”

  “So that next time you want to meet up, you don’t have to resort to hypnotising me, or whatever creepy thing you did earlier.”

  “I’m not capable of hypnosis,” she says. She grins wickedly. “Not yet, anyhow. But alright.”

  *

  “You have mail,” Jamal says in a monotonous American accent, dangling an envelope over my head. “To retrieve it, please stop being such a midget.”

  I stand on tiptoes, snatching it out of his hand. “Or alternatively,” I say, “kick your so-called friend in the balls.”

  I glance at the old-fashioned handwriting on the envelope. It’s from Grandma Edna, my namesake. She still refuses to get a computer; she thinks emails are soulless.

  The note inside is fairly concise.

  Dear Eddie,

  Hope you’re well. It’s been such a long time since I last saw you. I imagine you’re glad to be back at university, but I do hope you’ll drop by before long, although I’m sure you don’t really want to spend your time with a grumpy old lady like me. I very much appr
eciated your beautiful birthday present - you know how I love the works of Jane Austen. I’m afraid I don’t have any news for you, but we never seem to run out of conversation when we speak face to face. Anyhow, I’m sure I’ll see you at some point over the next month or so. Take care.

  With love,

  Your Grandma Edna

  I smile wryly. She doesn’t beat about the bush, that’s for sure. But I also feel a pang of guilt; it’s been far too long since I last visited her. She doesn’t get any other company, aside from the social worker who visits her from time to time. I make a mental note to drop by at the next opportunity. My parents are generally too busy to call on her, and I hate that she has to live alone.

  That’s one of the saddest things about this world. Nobody seems to have time for the people who really need them.

  Chapter Four

  At nine o’clock, I decide it’s time to start ploughing my way through Paradise Lost. Satan certainly has an impressive vocabulary, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to the task. It all seems a bit long-winded.

  I generally love reading the classics. Back then, the quality of writing was so much higher than it tends to be these days. They took it all very seriously in those times. Sometimes I think it’s a shame that tradition didn’t continue. But then again, good grammar and sentence structure don’t necessarily make for a good story. Besides, when you look at the length of Paradise Lost, you do get the impression that John Milton was milking it a little bit.

  I get to the end of the first page, then realise I didn’t taken in a single word. Sighing, I go back to the beginning. The old-timey spelling is really messing with my head.

  I’ve made it all the way to page three when I’m rudely interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

  Great – now I’ve lost my place. Frowning, I look up from the page. It’s still ringing. Surely Jamal or Annemarie should have answered it by now? They are so lazy. It’s probably just a sales call, but they can’t be sure unless they pick up. They’re both in the kitchen, where the phone is, so it’s not as if they can pretend not to have heard it. I guess Jamal might have those enormous headphones on, but Annemarie has no excuse.