Armistice by Nick Stafford Read Free Book Online

second man entered the cinema auditorium and almost immediately began to laugh uproariously. Jonathan felt irked by this noise, this too-loud laughing. His pleasure was being ruined by the newcomer’s ostentatious expressions ofappreciation. While he had to admit that his own behavior in this public cinema showing comedies was perverse, he also thought the man was being ridiculous. Why laugh like that when there’s only one other present and they’re not laughing at all? For God’s sake! He feared that at any moment the man might turn to him to demand, “Did you see that? Did you see that?” when all he wanted was to watch the screen alone, or as if alone, and brood. This desire thwarted, Jonathan experienced a flash of anger, but rather than remonstrate with the other fellow, who was after all behaving more appropriately than he was, Jonathan vacated his seat, leaving the other man to laugh too loudly alone.
    He headed for the cafe, The Conduit. Once there he took a seat at a table and began to drink inexpensive red wine, French, and he waited.
    Arriving opposite Philomena could look from the darkness into the brightly lit cafe without being detected. It was busy inside—most of the twenty or so tables were occupied, some by couples, not speaking, one by a group of men in office suits, talking over each other, and to her relief, two by single female diners, also office workers by the look of them; and there was the one at which Jonathan sat.
    As she crossed the street, he drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. He seemed to be drinking without much pleasure. What was his life like? Nobody ever asks anyone that, do they? What’s your life like? Up at home nobody asked such a question because everyone thought they knew whatyour life was like. It was like their life. Dan hates that—Philomena caught herself—Dan
had
hated that. Dan would never have returned and remained there.
    Stepping forward to put her hand on the cafe door handle, a terrible feeling overwhelmed her. She found herself absolutely stricken, unable to move. Without warning, inertia had invaded and made her rigid. She would have toppled but fortunately there were only inches to go before her shoulder met the glass of the cafe window, where she leaned, wide-eyed.
    From inside the cafe Jonathan stared out at Philomena. He had been about to take another swig of wine—the glass was still inches from his lips, held there because he was gripped, watching her in some sort of distress. Her eyes were open but her focus was elsewhere. The top of her chest rose and fell rapidly. Jonathan put down his glass and, continuing to watch her, he stood. But instead of going to help Philomena he looked over his shoulder toward the back of the cafe, to the door marked exit. He imagined Philomena as being on the edge of a great hole of sorrow, a terrifying void that he knew, only too well, existed, and that he believed could receive and accommodate all the many souls that fell into it without any prospect of it ever being filled. Glancing again at her, seeing that she was coming to, Jonathan threw some money down on the table, seized his hat, and skedaddled.
    When Philomena entered the cafe Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. She looked around for him, blinking to clear her vision. The waitress approached and Philomena explained thatshe was due to meet someone. Indeed, he was here a few moments earlier. At that table.
    â€œAh, yes,” the waitress replied. “He’s gone, I think.”
    â€œGone?”
    â€œHe’s left money for his bill.”
    â€œGone where?”
    The waitress showed she was sensitive to the implications of what was unfolding by smiling apologetically and discreetly indicating the rear exit. Philomena looked suitably baffled.
    â€œWould you like a seat?” asked the waitress. “Would you like to eat? Are you sure he was the man you were expecting?”
    Mumbling that perhaps it