Structo issue 12

settled into one of pity. Then it cleared suddenly, as a thought occurred to her.

“We could ask him, if you want?”

“What?”

“I could channel him for you. I can do that. I can call him to us, let him speak through me. You can ask him yourself, anything you want to know.”

“No,” I said quickly, “no, thanks.”

The thought of it was hideous. I shivered, suddenly very cold.

Alice wanted to go inside and buy another bottle of wine, but I called time on it. When people start suggesting séances, it’s time to go home.

At the station, we were waiting for different trains from either side of the same platform. I stared at the information board, willing the minutes to pass faster, aware that Alice was unnervingly focussed on me.

I had to ask her.

“Are you getting any help? Any treatment? Can I help?”

“You were always kind to me,” she said with drunk gravitas, smiling. I wanted to stop her, to contradict her, but she held up a hand, silencing me.

“You were. So I’ll tell you what I told him when I saw him. Because I loved him, even though he didn’t love me; so, I warned him. Bad things are coming. Really bad. You should get away from London. There are going to be dark times ahead. I mean it.”

“I still live in Brighton,” I told her simply.

She deflated somewhat, her premonition faltering.

“Good,” she said determinedly. “Maybe you’ll be safe there.”

Her train arrived. She clasped me briefly in a bony embrace before lurching on board. She watched me solemnly from the window, brightly illuminated in harsh light, before the train carried her away into the night, leaving me gratefully alone.

If I could have spoken to him, if it had really been possible… I wouldn’t have asked him about what he had or hadn’t done. I’d have asked him about our friendship; whether it had ever truly meant anything to him, or had he simply humoured my embarrassing attempts to get his attention, pausing occasionally in the street to offer a docile cat a fleeting moment of affection?

I thought of him stretched out on the grass, patiently explaining to me that you couldn’t ever know someone absolutely.

On the journey back, I clutched the order of service, staring at his picture, trying to know him by looking hard at the pixels.

I touched the image, stroking his face with my finger. But it was only paper. Just surface.

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