She says this with absolutely zero embarrassment, as though she is simply resigned to seeing herself like that. As though being a complete mess is part of her identity, like being a cop is part of mine. I wonder who did a number on her, made her think that. None of my business, I remind myself.
We disentangle our cases, and turn to finally look at the place that sucked us both in – the Edge of the World bookstore. It’s a three-level building, and the brickwork is painted white and lilac. That was Shannon’s favourite colour as a kid, and I painted her whole bedroom that exact shade back in the day.
So far, so good – the bookstore fits right in with the bunting, as she called it. There’s a wooden sign in the shape of a book dangling over the door, hand painted, swaying in the wind. It looks a little loose, and I step to one side just in case. Hanging baskets of flowers not quite in bloom are suspended from metal brackets either side of the door, but they look a little sorry for themselves.
She raises her eyebrows, and walks closer. ‘Well, we’ve come this far, my American friend – we might as well go in!’ I can tell she’s nervous, but also excited. I feel a little of both myself.
I look on as she pushes at the door, which doesn’t budge an inch. Huh. Maybe it needs a little power behind it. I approach, and try myself. I turn the handle, I push, and I pull – but the door is firmly locked, or possibly stuck.
‘Do you think it’s because it’s so late?’ she asks, crestfallen. I glance at my watch.
‘It’s only four p.m. The internet told me it was open until five.’
She sighs, and folds her arms across her chest. ‘Do you think it’s possible that the internet lied to you? Or, even worse, that we’re a pair of total idiots, standing here in the rain wondering why our fantasy trip isn’t going as planned?’
‘It’s not raining.’
Right on cue, the skies open, and she gives me a ‘told you so’ look. I push the door again, even harder, but get nothing but a fresh burst of pain for my efforts. I cup my hands against the sunlight, and peer through the windows.
It’s pretty dim inside, and the glass is smeared and a little grimy, so I can’t see much. I catch a glimpse of somebody moving around though, and knock firmly on the pane. The figure pauses, then walks towards us. I hear the sound of locks turning, and eventually, after a little pushing and shoving, the big wooden door is pulled open.
Three stone steps lead up to the door, and an older woman stands at the top of them. She has masses of wild curls, mainly grey but with hints of the auburn it probably once was. Her face is lined, and her eyes are red. It looks to me like she’s been crying. Another one. Damn, I’m surrounded.
‘Are you okay?’ my train companion says straight away, spotting the signs of distress. ‘Can we help?’
The former redhead swipes at her eyes, and forces a sad smile. Her curls wobble as she shakes her head. ‘I doubt it, hen, but thanks for asking. I’m sorry, but the bookshop is closed.’
‘Oh. I see. I thought it was open until five?’
‘It’s… it’s not open at all now, darling. I’m just here to… och, to say goodbye, I suppose.’
I have no clue what’s going on here, but I’m exhausted, I’m confused, and I’m not in the greatest of moods.
‘We were invited,’ I say firmly, wondering if there’s any point in getting the card out to show her. It’s not like this is a masked ball at an embassy.
‘Oh. Who by?’ she asks, looking intrigued. I glance over at the woman I travelled with, and our eyes meet. She shrugs a little, and I nod. Yeah. We really did both come all the way here without having a clue who invited us.
‘Well, we don’t exactly know,’ she says. ‘But we assume by whoever owns the shop? Is that you? No, it can’t be, or you’d know what we were talking about…’
The rain steps up its game, and I can’t help noticing the little rivulets of water that are gathering in the delicate hollow at the base of her throat. She shivers a little, and I drag my eyes away. It’s rude to stare, especially when you’re a man staring at an attractive woman you’ve only just met.
‘I don’t own it, no,’ the lady on the step says, ‘my best friend does. Look, I have no idea what’s going on, but why don’t you come in for a spell? Get out of that rain, take a look around at least?’
She seems harmless enough, but I’m still assessing the potential risks when my dark-haired friend walks right in. Okay then. We’re doing this.
‘I’m Ginny,’ the woman tells us as she closes the door behind us. ‘I run the village store. This place belongs to Moira McLeod, has done for decades. It’s… it’s not at its best, I’m afraid. Fair breaks my heart to see it like this. It used to be so different…’
I gaze around, taking in the empty fireplace, the sheets over the furniture. The air is musty, damp, the telltale signs of neglect and entirely possibly a leak. The bookshelves are dark wood, crammed full, but coated in a thick layer of dust. While Ginny chats, I follow my nose to one of the corners, see the bubbledwater damage that confirms my suspicions. The rug beneath my feet is squelching, and the rain that made it inside has wrecked one whole shelf full of books.
This place isn’t cosy. It isn’t a refuge. It’s broken and sad, and I fight back a sharp stab of disappointment. What did I expect? Some Hollywood version of reality – a roaring log fire, friendly locals, a bottle of Scotch? Did I really think I’d turn up here, and magically find a place I could ‘sleep soundly, live fully, and learn to love the world again’, like that stupid card promised? I should have known better. I’ve been a cop for too many years, seen too much of the unfairness of life, to believe such horseshit.
I’m angry with myself for hoping, and I’m angry with whoever wrote those messages, and I’m angry with the whole godforsaken universe. My fists clench, and I want to punch something. I tell myself to calm down. Both the women are watching me, and I try to look less intimidating. I know my angry face is enough to scare even me when I see it in the mirror.
‘There’s a leak,’ I say. ‘Needs fixing.’
Ginny nods, and raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, thank goodness you arrived to tell me that!’ she says, her tone sarcastic. Fair enough.
She puffs out some air, and continues: ‘I’m sorry, I’m being a harpy. It’s just been hard. Moira had a fall, a year ago. We wanted to keep this place going for her, but we all have our own jobs and businesses, and it was a struggle. We kept waiting for Moira to want to come back, but she never did, and bit by bit it fell into a state… then there was a big storm, and that’s obviously done some damage, and… well. I don’t suppose you need to know any of this.’
