The toast feels thick in my throat. Heat crawls across my skin. Because isn’t that exactly how I felt when we went to Yorkshire? How I feel when I read Michael’s letters?
Somnambulism, or sleepwalking, is where the body moves while the brain remains in a dreamlike state. Some psychologists suggest this is a form of metaphorical time travel, where the mind explores experiences in other times and places beyond conscious control.
The peanut butter churns in my stomach. I look up at the source: Timetravel 4 U.
I let out a long breath and close my eyes, slowing down my heart rate. One of the first rules of journalism, make sure your source is reliable. This issonot a reliable source.
Get a grip, Alice.
And let’s be honest, if I’d bloody time travelled, wouldn’t I at least remember it? Then again, I can’t remember getting on a bus or walking out of my hotel room.
I close the tab and instead search for a complaints department at Royal Mail.
The search stops, the buffering logo spinning, just as the low battery light comes on.
I scan the room for the power cable as the clatter of the letterbox flips open, the envelope landing on the floor with a soft thud. My laptop shuts down, the light disappearing, leaving just the emerging daylight cutting across the floor and landing on the post like it’s spotlit. I move slowly. I’m not scared. I’m not even hopeful. Because I already know with every part of me.
It’s from Michael.
16
MICHAEL
12 June 1985
I lean against the door frame,Just Jenny’s praise making my skin prickle. ‘Goodness, I had no idea it would look this, well, good. I was expecting a blue background and a few fluffy clouds, but this…?’ Her fingers touch the wall. They follow the purples at the top, trailing down through lilac towards where burnt orange leaks from the base of the wall. ‘It’s exquisite work.’
‘Aye, it’s alright.’
I don’t mention that I’ve had to put in extra hours to get it finished.
She turns and runs the gold pendant on her chain back up and down. ‘You’re wasted on this job.’
‘Pays the bills,’ I reply as she frowns.
‘But talent like yours should be explored! Where would we be without art, culture, music!’ she exclaims, large gold earrings swinging violently.Where would we be without grafters painting folk’s houses?I want to say, but clamp my mouth shut. ‘Just think of Van Gogh, his work fetches millions!’
I don’t say that he died penniless and going half-mad.
I step aside as a suited and booted Mr Jenny lowers a little girl from his hip. She rushes into the room, blonde pigtails swinging from pink glittery bobbles.
She freezes, eyes like saucers, cheeks pink. ‘Is this my room?’ She jumps up and down on the spot. ‘My room has a skyyyyyy?!’
‘It. Is!’ Jenny replies, bending down. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Can I have a Care Bear too?’
Jenny glances at me, a question in a raised eyebrow.
‘I don’t know.’ She turns her daughter towards me. ‘We’d have to ask the artist, really nicely now, wouldn’t we?’
The girl bounds forwards, takes my hand in hers, squeezing my fingers surprisingly tight.
‘Purleeeease! Pretty please with sugar on top, can I have a Care Bear on my skywall?’
I crouch down. ‘Well, that depends. What does this Care Bear look like?’
‘She’s pink and fluffy and has a rainbow on her tummy!’
