“Oh, I’m sorry. Is he in hospital?”
“No. It’s not that kind of ill. It’s…” And Hal gently taps the side of his head.
I’ve seen that gesture before. A rapid tap-tap-tap to the side of the temple. The international sign for crazy. I’ve seen it lots. But something about the way Hal does it is different – he isn’t doing it to make fun of someone. He’s doing it because he can’t find the words…like he can’t bring himself to say it out loud.
Suddenly, I have an idea why this matters so much to him.
“That’s why you can’t ask him any more about the story, isn’t it? You don’t want to upset him.”
Hal nods, pushing his hands back through his hair again and closing his eyes. “He has trouble remembering. Not all the time, but sometimes. It’s like he’s looking through a book he’s read before, and suddenly there’s a page missing. He gets angry.”
“And scared?”
Hal’s eyes flick open and he looks straight at me, measuring me. “Yes.”
Feeling pinned under his gaze, I fidget. “I get it. I’ve got…someone in my family with mental health stuff.”
His stare warms and softens, as though I’ve passed some kind of test. “Then you know what it’s like.”
Better than you do.
Hal sighs. “My family’s…complicated. Kind of distant.” From the look on his face I’m not sure that’s quite the word he wanted. “Pa’s the only one who’s never made me feel like I owe him something just for existing, and he’s the only one who never treated me like I was a massive pain in the arse when I was growing up.”
“Really? My brother still tells me I am one, regularly.”
Hal’s laugh is as much of a surprise to him as it is to me. “Sorry,” he says, a flush creeping across his cheeks.
“No, I’m sorry. I was messing around, and you were saying something important.”
“Pa’s the important one.”
“Which is why…this?” I wave a hand at the stacks of paper.
“Yeah. He always wanted to find out if the story was true. He had this idea about tracking down the guy’s family somehow, if there were any of them left, and telling them he hadn’t been forgotten.” Hal tilts his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “He said that too many things get forgotten about, that people only remember the bad ones, when it’s the good memories we should be keeping.” This time, his laugh is quiet and sad, and I don’t think he’s actually talking to me any more. I’m not sure he even remembers I’m here. “So I thought, if I could find out…if I could tell him whether it was true or not, or if it was just some story his grandfather made up…it would be a way of saying thank you. For not making me feel like I was just a…an inconvenience. I started looking, and then he started to be…not so good, and now I can’t stop.”
Then his head tilts forward again, and he looks at me with those pale eyes…and I understand. He’s telling me because he can’t tell anybody else. I’m never going to cross paths with anyone he knows, let alone his family. They’re the kind of people I’m meant to be invisible to, aren’t they? Just like in Mrs Tilney’s rule book. So what’s the harm in him telling me something like this, something quiet and secret? He’s never going to see me again after he’s figured this out – he might as well go and shout it at the birds.
But he hasn’t. He’s told me.
Why doesn’t he have anyone else he can tell?
The thought drifts quietly through my mind. Does he really not have someone – anyone – he can talk to? Watching him sift through the remaining pile, his lips moving silently as he turns the pages over and discards them one by one, I guess not.
“I think we need a better system.” His voice pulls me out of thinking about, well, him.
“A better system?”
“Mmm.”
“‘Better’ implies there was one to start with.”
“There was!” He jumps up, grabbing the nearest box and hefting it onto the table.
“Right.”
A cloud of dust rises into the air as he sweeps a hand across the top of the box, making us both cough. This is not a guy who’s used to handling anything dirty. When the dust clears, he seems to have acquired a light grey streak through his red hair – along with a dark smudge across his nose where he’s obviously rubbed it.
“You’ve…ummm…got some dirt.” My arm feels like it belongs to somebody else as it sticks straight out, pointing at him. “On your nose.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.” He wipes his face with his hand, managing to completely miss the smudge on his nose.
It suits him. The smudge.
You could always wipe it away…
“Okay,” I say, quickly turning to the box on the table. “What do you want to do now then?”
“That housekeeping book was dated 1913. We should check the boxes for anything around then. ”
“So all we have to do is find the 1913 papers in amongst…this?”
He follows my pointed look around the room. “Things on the table are later. Look – that one’s labelled 1932.” Already, he’s got the next lid off. “This one looks like it’s…1915.” He twists on the spot, pointing to the next box in the stack. “Try that one. They’re the same kind of box, and they look about as dirty as each other – hopefully they’re about the same age.”
I grab the next box from the pile. It’s heavy, but I manage to swing it up onto the table next to Hal’s and pull the lid off.
A large spider scuttles out and across the table. It’s the size of my hand.
Frozen, we both watch it.
It carries on across the table, down to the floor and sets off over the rug, rounding the door and disappearing from sight.
Hal laughs. “Maybe he wants to talk to Reception about his room.”
I sort of hiccup, because: spider. And then I glance over at him…and he’s looking at me. Heat prickles up my jaw.
“This box looks like it’s…” Clearing my throat, I pick up the first thing I see inside: a sheet of heavy notepaper. “Oh. Hang on.” When I turn it over, it’s covered with flowing handwriting – and topped with an AEH monogram. “It’s personalized writing paper. Look.”
I hold it out to Hal, who is suddenly pressed up against my shoulder. Part of me wants to step away, to keep my distance…but a bigger part of me doesn’t. It wants to stay close to the letter, to see what it says at the same time as he does. I want to see the puzzle come together first-hand, to feel the pieces clicking together, and I can’t do that from a distance.
Hal slides his palm underneath the old paper to support it. “Careful,” he whispers, as though speaking too loudly will make the page fall apart in front of us. “AEH. Like Albert Holmwood?”
“Or Albie.” Now I’m whispering too. I can’t help it – that’s the mood we’re going for. (See, Sanjay? I’m matching the mood.)
“Or both.”
“Can you read it?” It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me – it’s that old-fashioned kind of handwriting that makes it look like a quick note took a month to write, and takes just as long to read.