‘Oh… These are my letters,’ I say with an apologetic smile, heat flushing my cheeks. ‘My mistake, I must have the wrong address. He lived around here in the eighties. Are there any families that still live close by that might know who or where he is?’
Happy to help Judy lives up to her name. ‘Well, there’s a few folks who have lived here a while, and there is Mr Evans who comes in on a regular basis, but I couldn’t tell you where he lives. I can ask next time any of them pop in?’
I chew my bottom lip. ‘That would be great.’ I pull out a notepad and write down my name, number and as an afterthought, my address. ‘He was an…’ I’m about to say that he’s an artist but Michael kept much of that to himself. ‘He was a painter and decorator around here in 1985…’ I trail off. Then, as though he’s right beside me I hear his voice, a low Yorkshire drawl… ‘That mural we passed – aye, that were me.’
‘Is there… a mural painted on a wall close by?’
‘A mural? Oh, I don’t know if mural is the right word for it, but Victoria Street is where the local Banksys try their hand.’
Thanking her, we head outside.
‘You wrote to him?’ Spence asks, opening a packet of wine gums and offering me one as he leans back against his car.
‘Yeah… thought it was worth a shot.’
He chews thoughtfully. Georgia has her earpods in and is staring at her phone screen. She catches me looking and pockets it.
‘What did you say?’
Joining him against the car, I reach into the bag and pop one in my mouth. ‘Nothing much, just, you know, stuff about me, about my life.’
‘Right. So, what’s this mural?’
‘It’s something he mentioned. He painted it, it’s probably nothing but…’ I open up Google Maps on my phone and find Victoria Street. ‘It’s not far…’
‘Come on then,’ he answers. Georgia asks to stay in the car.
‘Absolutely not. Come on, the fresh air will do you good.’
She wrinkles her nose and looks around. ‘Doesn’t feel very fresh around here.’
She has a point; there is a bin outside the shop, overflowing.
Ten minutes later and we find the right street. It’s long, similar to Millbank, but with the exception of a working man’s club with a sign outside advertising Friday night karaoke.
I look to the wall. It’s covered in posters with pictures of missing pets, plenty of graffiti. A gust of wind kicks up a crisp packet, and leaves scatter along the path.
I step closer.
Against the outside of the wall, there is the edge of a lighter colour, a whitewash over the dark brick. My hand reaches forward, fingers catching on the rough brickwork. I hook my finger under the stack of paper and adverts packed over one another – a local football match, bingo at the town hall, and then just the pulp left behind from old posters. I chip away, my nails catching beneath the layers of the past until I start to uncover faded lines of black and white. Spence and Georgia help, and little by little we start to reveal an image: a face, an ear, a lock of hair… We continue whittling away: a nose, a chin. Cars pass, the wind continuing to dance with the debris. Finally, Spence pulls back a large section, the plaster and paper scrunched in his hands.
There’s a buzzing sound in my ears, my pulse thrumming against the tendons of my neck as I step back. ‘Holy shit,’ Georgia says.
Spence doesn’t even correct her because he can see what I can.
‘Is that…?’ she continues.
‘Me?’ I ask, stepping closer again. It’s a side profile, the lines aged and worn, but the similarity is astounding. It’s all shades of grey, white and black, except for the eyes which are still, even now, brown.
‘But how is that possible?’ Georgia asks.
‘It’s not,’ Spence replies. But I only half hear him. I move forwards again, my fingers tracing the outline of the lips. I get closer still, my finger pressing against a small mark just above the Cupid’s bow. I pull my hand back, resting it just above where the mole I hated as a kid sits.
Spence looks to my mouth then back to the image on the wall, creases forming in his forehead.
The world feels like it’s out of sync. I can hear ‘Sweet Dreams’, the sound of feet walking along this road, the smell of paint, and the low laugh of a stranger who feels more like a friend.
‘He…’ I begin, my voice wistful. Spence crouches down, taking out his keys, nicking away a section of plaster.
