I woke up later, on the shore, mid-cough. Pop was slapping my cheek and shouting at me. I gurgled up salty acid and spit it on the sand. A crowd gathered around us, clapping and cheering. Once I’d shaken off the wooziness, I sat up and looked down at the happy-colored boogie board, still strapped to my ankle. Pop had grabbed it and yanked me out.
But now, there’s no boogie board. No Pop.
The river is a thief that steals me from myself.
My limbs disappear as I flail and choke in the freezing water, all heat ripped from my body and sucked out to sea. The urn is gone. I know it’s gone, but I can’t accept it. I dive down over and over again, struggling against the current as a blurry, burning darkness enters my nose and mouth. As my lungs struggle to expel the water and catch up, a strange sleepiness overcomes me. Everything slows and I see him there, in the deep.
I stop fighting. The ice fills me from toes to head and I sink to him. His red hair fans out in the water, his arms and legs suspended as if he’s imitating a seastar. He’s so still, so peaceful. But then I meet his eyes, and they’re the color of a frozen lake. His expression is harsh, anger carved deeply into the lines of his face. It sends a jolt of dread through me.
He only got angry with me once, when I was eleven. I’d directly disobeyed him and rode my bike across the highway. I didn’t see what the big deal was at the time; nothing bad had happened. But he hadn’t seen it that way. He’d yelled at me until the vein in his forehead was bulging and I was sobbing into my hands.
He looks like that now.
I wait on him to tell me how I could have hurt myself, how this could have been really bad. But instead, bubbles rush out of his mouth as he screams a warbled phrase, over and over.
I stare at him hard. Try to concentrate on what he’s saying. Finally, it registers.
“It isn’t me!”
Something yanks me, hard. I’m rolled, shaken, and then blinded by a bright light. My body sloshes over a blunt edge that digs into my ribs momentarily, and then I plunk into a heap onto a cold, hard surface. A waterfall pours from my mouth. It’s endless. I choke and gag and yet still more pours out. My throat feels peppered with broken glass. A gasp rattles my chest and I open my eyes to a shivering blur. A wide, bearded face stares down at me, but it isn’t Pop. His hair and beard are gray. His mouth is moving, making the most terrible roaring noise. I shrink away but he grabs me by the shoulders with gloved hands and sets me upright, then throws something soft and thick around me. The world pitches and rolls beneath me as if I’m on a—
I’m on a boat.
I blink. A massive wall of light shines in the sky above me. Ice water drizzles out of both of my ears as the deep voice of the man reverberates against my brain and begins to sound like language. He’s wearing a bright yellow rain slicker. It occurs to me that the soft, thick material around me is a towel. With numb hands, I grab it by the edges and pull it tight against me, even though it smells sour, like it was left in the washing machine too long.
“Do ya know where ya are?” he asks. I stare at him dumbly, glance at the light behind and above him that reflects on the shiny material of his slicker. Tower Bridge. That’s where the light is coming from. I look back at the man, huddled protectively above me. A jackhammering sensation pulses pain through my jaw. I realize after a moment it’s because my teeth are knocking together. “Were ya tryin’ to hurt yourself?”
Things click together, slowly. The river. The urn. Oh my God, the urn! I try to scramble to my feet but he yells, “Whoa!” as he presses his hands into my shoulders and forces me to sit back down.
“I d-d-d-dropped it!” The shivering only gets worse as icy wind slices me from every angle.
“Ya dropped something? In the river?”
I nod my head, but I don’t know if he can tell since I’m shaking so hard. “Y-y-yes! My f-f-f-father…” I can’t form the words.
“Oh, dearie,” the big man says, “whatever ya dropped, it isn’t worth your life! Your father will forgive ya.”
* * *
: : : : :
* * *
I don’t know how much time passes.
I fight the disoriented feeling for what feels like a long time. After some hot tea, and a whole lot of asserting that I’m fine, I convince my good Samaritan, a fisherman who saw me jump, to take me to the closest access point to where I’d been sitting. By some miracle, we find my backpack still sitting on the ledge, completely unharmed and just slightly wet from the rain.
When the fisherman stops his old truck on the street in front of the Fox Den, I thank him and climb out onto the sidewalk.
“If I see your Beatles jar, I’ll be sure to let ya know!”
My shame submerges me more thoroughly than the Thames. I couldn’t bear to tell him I dropped my father’s ashes in the river. So I told him it was a jar covered in Beatles stickers. With any luck, the locked lid of the urn will hold, and the sealed plastic bag inside will keep the ashes dry. Or it won’t, and Pop is clumping like cat litter as we speak.
But better still, maybe Pop was never in there at all.
It isn’t me.
I shiver violently as I wave goodbye. Though I’m no longer dripping, thanks to the loaned towel, my clothes are still wet, and the night breeze reminds me of that fact every two seconds. I turn the corner to the back alley and stop in my tracks.
Henry is there, leaning against the brick wall.
George asked me not to use the front door after close. Before I can consider breaking this rule, Henry looks up and sees me. A bulky camera hangs on a strap around his neck. A tendril of smoke spirals the air above his fingers. The closer I get to the door, the more the sickly sweet aroma of Cloves inundates me.
Of course he smokes Cloves.
It’s like Buzzfeed writers created him in a lab: the golem of every hipster joke ever told. Smokes Cloves. Wears Warby Parkers. Reads books on quantum mechanics. Is Unimpressed© with everything else, including the Beatles.
His eyes move over me, take note of the towel. He smirks. “Been out for a swim?”
An irritated breath rises in my still-burning lungs. Though he has no idea how terrible my evening has been, his teasing hurts. I give him a side-eye as I shove my key in the lock. “Smoking will kill you.”
He takes a drag and blows wispy smoke around his reply. “So will hypothermia.”
I glance down at my waterlogged clothes. Touché, Hipster Golem.
“They say kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray. It’s gross.” I jiggle the handle, but the door won’t budge. I yank the handle and my wrist smarts. Only my Baptist brainwashing keeps me from taking the Lord’s name in vain.
Henry flicks his cigarette into the puddle at my feet and it sizzles. He reaches past me and grips the handle, tweaks it just so. The door opens, but when I glance up at him, I’m stunned still. The violet shade I noticed the other day blossoms behind him in the post-rain mist of the alley.
“Been thinking of kissing me, then?” A smile curls his lips, and I hate myself but I look right at them. It takes a moment to remember where my feet are located.
“Nope.” I step past him and give the door a little shove.
He drops his grip on the handle. “Good.”
“Good,” I echo, shaking it off.
Quiet blankets the store. Trivia night has ended and everything settles under the darkness. I follow the dim light illuminating the stairwell. Henry’s footsteps thud behind me, so I jog to put space between us.
The moment I’m in the relative solitude of the upstairs bathroom, I lock the door and turn on the shower. I ditch my soaked clothes and stand in the hot stream, washing away the dirt and grime of the Thames. As the heat returns to my body, the reality of what happened sets in, and my shame slowly morphs into regret, and then into self-loathing.
I dropped his urn into the Thames.
But then I remember Pop’s words, and I’m able to breathe again. It isn’t me.
Now that I have time to think
about what I did, it frightens me. Pop used to say leap and a net will appear. But I leapt without even considering a net. It never crossed my mind. You’re being impulsive again, my psychiatrist’s gravelly voice says in my head. You always regret impulsive decisions, so why do you keep making them?
As I’m towel drying my hair, Henry’s voice filters through the door. I catch only snippets.
Got some good shots
Magnetic fields were supercharged
Storms make it easier
Just uploaded them
It’s not that I care what Henry is talking about or to whom he is speaking. But I put two and two together and figure out the session George was referring to must have had something to do with that camera around his neck.
I dress in warm, dry pajamas, crawl in bed, and click off the light. But like most things do, my curiosity only becomes unbearably large in the dark. My phone finds its way into my hands and I track down the bookmarked Instagram accounts I don’t follow.
Okay, one account I don’t follow. Henry’s.
I scroll through the recently uploaded pictures. They’re all black-and-white photos with heavy contrast. The first one is a shot of the Tower of London, from an on-the-ground perspective, looking up. The night sky frames it with eerie shadows and bursts of light. The caption reads, Bryn Gwyn: Window to the past. Additional shots in the Places of Power column.
I scroll through until I come to the ones I’ve already seen. More landscape photos with references to Places of Power. Huh. He must be some sort of a journalist. Not that I care, but I pull up my browser and search Places of Power + Henry Pemberton.
The first result is an interview from an online publication called New Ages.
Places of Power is an ongoing column mapping Britain’s ley lines, their About Us page reads. Then, beneath the byline: Henry Pemberton, a ley line cartographer, shares with us his eye-opening theories on the supernatural properties of these sites.
I snap the light back on and sit up. Then read and re-read it three times. Ley line cartographer? Who is this guy?
Allegedly you can communicate with the other side if you know what you’re doing, he tells us. But even a novice can do it on a ley line. Magnetic forcefields occurring at these powerful sites intensify latent abilities. Think of these places like windows between the past and present, the living and the dead.
Magnetic forcefields. Maybe that’s what those things in his pockets that first day were about. A Q&A follows some full-color and black-and-white shots, similar to the ones on his Instagram feed.
Q: What began this hobby of sorts for you, Henry?
A: Curiosity, mostly.
Q: Curiosity of…?
A: The notion of supernatural communication. With anyone. Even people we’ve lost.
Q: Are you attempting to communicate with someone you lost?
A: Yes.
Q: And does it work?
A: (laughs) I’ll let you know.
* * *
I glance up at the date—two weeks ago. Is he actively trying to communicate with someone now? His mother? And if so, would he teach me how to do it?
I’d probably have to start being nicer to him.
The door lock to the bathroom clicks and the faucet turns on. I remember that I left my wet clothes on the floor and I instantly regret it. As much as Henry irritates me, I don’t want him to think I’m a slob. I listen as he brushes his teeth and rummages around. Eventually he turns out the light and returns to his room.
I stand and press my ear to the wall, holding my breath so I can listen. But I’m met with silence. He must be off the phone. I turn the knob to go into the bathroom and clean up my wet clothes, but it’s locked.
I exhale and creep down the hall.
His door hangs open a crack. Yellow light spills onto the dark hallway floor. I stop just before I reach the light and peek inside.
Henry’s curled up on his bed, with Felix snuggled into a ball against his chest. His head is propped on one hand while the other strokes the length of Felix’s back. He speaks softly to him, voice gentle as a heartbeat. My eyes feel like they might roll out of their sockets.
I’ve never even seen him speak to Felix, let alone pet him. Felix yawns with a squeak.
He looks up and sees me then, as if my gape-mouthed stare is emitting a homing beam. His face changes, but this time, it’s the opposite of his usual smirk. It’s the look you’d give a squatter after you caught her lurking in your attic. I want to melt between the floorboards.
“You uh—the bathroom door, uh—” I point wildly with my finger. Toward the ceiling, for whatever reason. I guess I’m pointing at all the other planets I’d rather be on.
He nods like my foolishness made sense, but he doesn’t say anything as he rolls off the other side of his bed and disappears to unlock the bathroom door.
I can’t make my feet move until I hear the click.
Chapter 14
: Child of Nature :
HENRY LOOKS DIFFERENT on Saturday.
A purple halo of light surrounds him. I blink and blink and blink. But the aura stays.
As he rings in customer sales, I sneak peeks at him over the top of the shelves. I can’t bring myself to say one snarky thing to him. Usually by now he would’ve chastised me about my guitar playing or asked me when I expect my luggage, which still isn’t here. But he hasn’t uttered a peep all day.
When he’s quietly working alone, the aura has dark streaks. But when he interacts with customers, recommending Hozier to the older ones and Damien Rice to the younger ones, he’s all smiles and thumbs and floppy hair, and the aura brightens to lavender.
I see the auras of every customer in the store. Greens and blues and yellows. They’re all there if I concentrate hard enough, but Henry’s is vivid. I don’t even have to try to see his. I’ve never met anyone else with a purple aura before. Purple auras indicate a highly sensitive, deeply spiritual person. They’re prone to depression. Relatable since, according to Pop, my aura is also purple. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been able to see my own.
Pop’s aura was like tie-dye. Never the same color twice.
When the store is empty again, I open another box of albums to shelve and, before I can talk myself out of it, take a swing at casual conversation.
“So. Your dad tells me you’re a photographer for a website.” Not technically true, since I had to online stalk him to uncover the one clue George did give me. I’m betting on him not questioning my source.
He glances up at me, but his aura doesn’t turn lavender when our eyes meet. It darkens.
“I’m a freelancer.” He steps away from the register and makes himself busy straightening displays.
I refuel and try again. “So, I looked at the site.”
“Hocus pocus, child of nature stuff, but the pay is decent.” He doesn’t turn around. I narrow my eyes, because I know good and well that purple aura people don’t say things like that. Besides, his t-shirt from the other day and his interview responses in New Ages contradict him.
“So these ley lines. They’re energy lines?” I nudge. “I googled it. They’re a possible place of supernatural connection, right?”
Henry leaves his spot and rounds the counter. He reaches into the shelf below the cash register and pulls out a book, worn and frayed on the binding. It’s the book he was reading the day I arrived. He hands it to me.
Ley Lines of Britain by Alfred McFadden has a tree in a misty field on the cover. I flip it open. Copyright 1925.
“What is this?” I raise an eyebrow as he returns to his post. The pages smell like a basement. I skim through them, picking up words I stumbled across online. Geoglyphs. Dowsers. Magnetic fields. But everything else is watered-down pseudoscience. It doesn’t even try to assert itself as fact. A tad different from his quantum-whatever-whatever books.
“Are you trying to communicate with ghosts?” I ask, my voice a little squeaky and unsure. He stacks book after book in the rock biography section
like he’s building a fortress that will block my attempts to converse. “Because if you are, I want in.”
He looks up at me then. Pauses a moment. “My mother…” Henry stops and regroups. “She taught me to be open to every idea, to pursue my curiosity even if the idea appears silly and unfounded. That’s all.”
The front door opens as more customers enter the store. Henry leaves his station to greet them. For the rest of the day, each time the store empties of customers, he takes a smoke break. I get the feeling he’s only doing it to get away from me.
* * *
: : : : :
* * *
We’re closing the store up when he comes in.
“Hello, love, would it be possible to put these flyers…” He squints ever-so-slightly, then his eyes widen. “Hey, I know you! You’re the singer! Well, the undecided one.”
The man from the pub stands in the doorway and shakes rain off his umbrella with one hand, holding out two neon-pink papers with the other. It’s more Open Mic Night flyers like the one I saw the other day.
“Could you perhaps hang these in your window? If you have to ask George, it’s fine. He knows me quite well. Trying to drum up a bit of business because the new place down on Scoresby keeps siphoning our patrons and we don’t have much in the way of signups tonight.”
I turn to get direction from Henry, but he’s stepped away. Probably to smoke again.
“Uh, I uh—”
“Nigel O’Neill,” the man says. “I’m the proprietor of Blackfriar’s Crow.”
All the Lonely People Page 5