‘This is it.’ I try to rationalise that the confidence with which I say the words is because I’ve read Millbank Street so many times at the top of the letters sitting inside my bag in the footwell, rather than the sensation of familiarity that the road sign sitting against the red-brick wall is emanating.
The street itself is unremarkable. Back-to-back red-brick Victorian cottages packed along the long road. Spence slows down, as I lean forwards counting the numbers… 23, 24, 25…
‘Your destination is on the right.’
I lean forwards, eyes scanning the houses that lead up.
But right where number 26 should be is a Tesco Express.
Shit.
The blue letters are underlined in red, as if this imposter of a building needs to be emphasised even more than the glass frontage gaping out at cars parked outside.
‘That can’t be right.’ My voice is tight. I look up to where the original red brick is still visible, two double-glazed windows sitting above the sign, stark against the dark brick.
‘You have arrived at your destination.’
‘Shut up!’ we say in unison. Spence turns off the ignition. He looks to the road, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. I reach inside my bag and pull out the letters; even though I know his address by heart, I’m hoping that the number will read differently.
‘We came all this way for a Tesco Express?’ Georgia says, scrunching up her face.
I turn towards the right. Mike said he could see the pithead from his window but from here I can’t see anything.
‘Shall we go in?’ Spence asks tentatively, but I’m still looking from the paper to the shop outside and back again hoping to see some sort of mistake.
‘Al?’ he repeats.
‘I…’ I look at the words on the page again, the past and present battling against each other.
‘Someone might know something about him?’ His voice is gentle, but I know from his tone that he thinks there isn’t much chance of finding out something from the staff behind a Tesco Express counter.
‘May as well.’ I shrug, even though my shoulders are already perched high.
Outside the shop, my eyes scour up and down the street. For a second, I can almost see Michael, hands tucked into his denim jacket, dark hair falling forwards, blue eyes focused on the cracks in the pavement. I blink and the image fades.
I turn, covering my eyes with my hand and stand on tiptoes. I can’t see the whole wheel at the pithead, but it’s there, I look back to the windows above the shop; he would have definitely been able to see it from there. My stomach drops towards the pavement.
The blue doors hiss open, and we step inside. Meal deals stare from the fridge instead of a pair of blue eyes. Georgia heads straight for the chocolate aisle despite Spence protesting thatshe’s just wolfed down a takeaway. ‘They’re for the way back!’ she answers as I make my way to the counter.
‘What can I get you?’ the woman asks. She’s small, attractive with a neat grey bob and plum lipstick. The words stick in my throat. Get a grip, Alice. You know how to do this.
‘Actually, we’re looking for an old friend who used to live at this address?’ The words come out slightly strangled.
‘Fire away,’ she answers as she moves behind a plastic container and fiddles with the roll of scratch cards.
‘His name was Michael. Does that ring a bell?’
‘Ah, yes!’ she says, smiling and coming back to us. My heart quickens.
‘You know him?’ Hope flickers in my chest, along with a pull of something like regret. Do I want to meet him, Michael as he is now?
‘Oh no, not as such, but he sure is popular… Wait a tick.’
She turns and walks into the back of the store, the door closing swiftly behind her. Georgia approaches, basket filled with chocolate, grapes, nuts and a magazine. Spence promptly takes half of the chocolate out and tells her to put them back on the shelves. She complies with a grumble about it being a long journey home and not to blame her if she gets hangry.
‘Ah, here we are!’ The woman is back. The optimism I felt a few moments ago splats on the floor. On the counter are my letters. Each one delivered, each one still sealed. Spence reaches for one and cocks his eyebrow, recognising my handwriting.
‘I’ve asked around,’ she says, fiddling with her nametag which readsJudy is happy to help!‘But no takers, I’m afraid.’
