Two strips of masking tape are stretched out along the floor, creating two timelines: one for Mike, and one for me, giving enough space to add branches of extra information. I start witha printout of the first letter. Below it, I add a stack of notes: how I felt at the time; my theories and investigations; receipts, train tickets, snapshots of Yorkshire; Tesco Express; Whitby. I scramble between the pile next to me, flicking through the pages, splitting them up.
What started as a neat pile is now spreading across the floor; the timeline tape has disappeared somewhere, but I know it’s there. Organised chaos, Spence always calls my research. I push the thought away, instead reaching beneath my knee for the photo of Mike, and place it next to Whitby.
I frown, fingers moving it next to the one of the mural. My eyes are pulled to Spence. My body stills, my mind firing back to the way his mouth felt on mine. For a split second, my eyes linger on the phone, before I focus on the photo again, on the mural behind him.
On all fours, and with a red pen held between my teeth, I reach for the printout of Alice Winters from her bio, placing it next to the mural, circling the facial similarities with a red pen. There is another photo of me standing beside the mural, laughing at something Spence had said. Instead of lingering on that, I focus on my face, cross-referencing the details from Mike’s letter with my own side profile and Alice’s.
I move on to the scans of Mike’s art, his home, the painting on Kate’s wall. I crawl between piles, moving them around.
The light begins to change as I work. The sunlight that dappled across the pages in front of me, is changing shape. Now, the sun is blocked by clouds, rain clicking against the window. I swipe away a pile of pages, rip off another piece of masking tape and start putting together the key elements of the story.
It’s only as I find myself having to lean closer to see the images, that I realise night has fallen. I stand, flick on the light, cricking my neck from side to side.
I’ve run out of space.
The whole floor is covered, pages sliding beneath the sofa. I glance at my phone, unable to resist.
Nothing.
How much space is… space?
Maybe I should ask? My thumb hovers but I take a breath, turn over the phone and put it back on the shelf.
Casting an eye over the shape of my timeline, I start collating pages from the floor and tacking them to the wall. I create a sharper outline of the story I want to write. When the wall is almost covered, there is one last space: I add the final picture.
I slowly step back. It’s done.
When I started this journey, I thought it was my and Michael’s story, but as I stand back, it’s Kate’s face staring back at me, Michael next to her, both of them laughing.
I tilt my head, holding my breath. This istheirstory.
My heart is beating loudly as I reach for my phone.Please. I swipe the screen and check my notifications. But all that stares up at me is confirmation of an Asda delivery. I rub at the dull ache beneath my clavicle.
In the kitchen, I pour a glass of wine. I should go to bed. It’s almost midnight, but my whole body is vibrating, that familiar urge to get the story out hums through my veins.
Instead, I click on Michael’s playlist and turn up the volume. I pull out a chair, open my laptop, and begin.
Time is a funny thing, isn’t it? There is so much of it, but sometimes so little. When I moved into my new home, I thought I had lost everything, but then, one morning, I received a letter that would change my life. This is a story of love, loss and finding a connection to the present through the past.
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I tell their story. Hours go by. I make mistakes, I delete whole paragraphs, make myself laugh, wipe away tears when I remember how it felt waiting for him in Whitby, Spence’s soft words when he told me how he died.
The first pinpricks of dawn creep across the walls as I write the final lines.
Sometimes we’re so focused on perfection, and chasing a dream, that we don’t see what’s right in front of us. Michael discovered the beauty and life in the cracks around him.
My fingers stop. I want to speak directly to the reader, to pull them closer to the story.
It was too late for Kate and Michael, but maybe it’s not too late for us.
A single tear runs down my face, but I’m smiling as I read through the draft. It’s raw, open, funny, heartbreaking but uplifting too. It’s one of the most honest pieces I’ve ever written.
Before I can overthink it, I email Giuditta. ‘Here’s the first draft, would love to know what you think!’ I attach the photos in a zip file, then with a deep breath, hit send. I close the laptop with a gentle hand. A sense of calm descends. The wine is untouched. My eyes are dry, my shoulders burn, but I know this is the best work I’ve ever produced.
In the lounge, the floor is still covered with the debris of my research. A beam from the street lamp outside draws a line across the photos. My tired eyes follow a trail of yellow Post-its. I start to see patterns through the chaos. Photos, memories, all leading to each other. I fold myself onto the floor, fingersfollowing shapes through the chaos. Music spills into the room, another eighties playlist. ‘China in Your Hand’ by T’Pau starts.
My hand is shaking as I pick up a photo of Spence: eyes on me while I’m looking away. I reach for another, Spence’s hand just in shot. A rushing sound fills my ears: a photo of Whitby Abbey, Spence’s shadow at the edge. His handwriting on the back of a napkin. Memories begin to fall over themselves, one by one: us as children, laughing under his covers with a torch; sitting on the bus the day I dragged him to the bus depot; agreeing to go to prom together, holding a tiny Georgia in his arms. Late nights, early mornings, discarded bowls of cereal, empty takeaway cartons… It’s like I’ve unlocked something and can’t stop the thoughts colliding against each other.
He’s here.
