Sottopassaggio by Nick Alexander Read Free Book Online

my throat. “A service,” I say.
    â€œDo you want me to read it to you?”
    I sigh. “No, just, um, send it on will you?”
    â€œOK, if you …”
    â€œActually, just keep it,” I say.
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah,” I say. “Whenever it is, I won’t be able to go.”
    â€œIt’s the 5th of June.”
    I swallow. “Really?” I say.
    â€œHumm,” Isabelle says, apparently still reading.
    â€œThat’s the day before
my
birthday,” I say.
    â€œYeah,” she says.
    â€œHis birthday was the day before mine,” I say.
    â€œYes, I just realised. So you’re not going?”
    â€œNo,” I say sharply. I clear my throat. “I can’t go.”
    â€œMaybe you should, you know. It might do you good. Will you actually be back by then?”
    â€œI don’t really know,” I mumble. “Look, I’m sorry Isa, but I’ve got to go now,” I say. “I’ll call you later in the week, OK?”
    Isabelle coughs. “OK Mark. I’m sorry,” she says.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “Never mind, eh? Any others like that, just, you know, post them on.”
    â€œOK. Bye then,” she says.
    I drop the receiver onto the base. I stare at it numbly for a moment, and then, for some reason I start to feel angry; for some reason I start to feel furiously angry.
    I pace to the window, and then I pace back again and stare angrily at the telephone. Then I return to the window and stare at the sea.
    â€œSteve’s,” I mutter. “Steve’s insurance, Steve’s birthday, Steve’s friends, Steve’s family.”
    I shake my head. “Doesn’t anyone know? He’s
dead
.”

Past Imperfect
    Steve’s telephone resurrection stays with me for a few days, haunting my sleep with tortured nightmares and making my days silent and thoughtful.
    I battle along the windswept seafront and walk along the pier. Looking through the wooden slats at the murky depths below, I ponder his death and his unexpected continuing existence.
    The more I think about it, the more absurd it seems that someone can simply cease to exist, and the stranger it seems that everything that defined them, everything that
defines
them, from the jobs they did, to the clothes that they chose, from the holiday snaps to friends and family, and above all our memories, our opinions of them, should continue obstinately to exist.
    Within a few days I am feeling chronically lonely again but the call has been useful in at least one way. I’m now certain that I’m not ready to go back. I’m not ready to face the concerned glances, the sympathetic pats on the shoulder.
    In fact the only people I can even envisage talking to are those who know nothing of this. That I realise, means meeting new people, or delving into the distant past.
    Right now through the bay window, I can see a beautiful orange VW camper-van which I think could be Jenny’s. Something tells me that only an old hippy like her could have enough respect for the iconic VW camper van to keep one in such perfect condition.
    A woman climbs down from the driver’s seat, and if it
is
Jenny she has put on a lot of weight. But even after 15 years, something about the way she holds herself, the way she pulls her windswept hair from her face tells me that it is indeed her. My old friend, my last ever girlfriend, my last ever abortive attempt at being straight.
    I run outside to meet her and amid the salty gusts we hug awkwardly. I run my hand along the curved roof-panel of the van.
    â€œI love the van!” I say.
    She smiles. “Yeah, isn’t it great?”
    â€œIt looks brand new.”
    She laughs. “Believe it or not, it is. They still make them in Brazil.”
    Then she grabs my arm and pulls me towards the house. “Enough of the car though, I’ve been sitting in the thing for nearly two hours. What I need is a cup of