‘Well, cheers for establishing that,’ I say. ‘Though I don’t know why you felt the need to drag an innocent child into it.’
‘Oh, he loved it.’ She throws me an exaggerated wink.
Something’s off.
The thought hits without warning, alarming as a brick through glass.
I’ve not seen Rachel for a couple of months. But, today, she is different. I sense it now, not with my mind, but with my body. The knock of my pulse, the hairs going hard on my arms.
Rachel has never been the type of person to ask strangers to referee debates between us. Or amuse herself, but no one else,withCarry Onwinks. She used to groan at innuendo, and not in an appreciative way.
And there is something else. Something about the expression on her face. The way her eyes don’t quite land on me. As though we’re at opposite ends of a telescope, our proximity just illusion.
She raps her fingers on the table, looks distractedly away from me across the garden.
‘Hey,’ Emma says briskly.
‘Hey. You got five minutes?’
‘Not really. Two, maybe. Insane deadlines. You know how it is.’
I do. But I suspect hers are slightly more pressing than mine, given that they involve things like court dates and murderers.
‘What’s up?’ she says.
I picture Emma tight-jawed at her laptop, head in the law and not at all where I am. ‘I met your mum for lunch today.’
‘Oh, yeah. Nice time?’
‘Yeah, thanks. But I wanted to ask... does she seem different to you, at all?’
I hear fear in the pause that follows. ‘What do you mean?’ But I know she knows, because she says this so quietly, the words emerge barely formed.
My eyes stray to the first-edition copy ofThe Remains of the DayRachel gave me for Christmas, two whole decades ago now. I reach up and take it down from the shelf, then thumb gently through it, as I do sometimes when I’m thinking of her.
I realise I cannot find the language to describe the shape and colour of the foreboding inside me. Slippery as shadow, dark as nightfall.
‘I think something’s wrong.’
On the end of the line, Emma lets out a long breath. And there it is: my worst fears confirmed. ‘I think something’s wrong too. She’s not herself.’
‘No. There are moments when—’
‘Oh, my God, Josh.’ Emma’s voice sounds suddenly muffled, as if she has covered her mouth as the shock finally surfaces.
I shut the book, stare down at the image of the pocket watch on the cover. It overwhelms me suddenly, the inevitability of time passing.
‘No, this can’t be... She’s too young,’ Emma says.
I think of Rachel’s mother. ‘She isn’t,’ I whisper.
‘Fuck.’ Her voice is pitched high, tiny and terrified.
‘It’ll be okay.’
‘How can you know that?’
‘Because. It has to be,’ is all I say.
