‘It’s still going?’
‘Yep.’
‘Great.’
He straightens the ashtray and wipes down the mahogany. ‘You want it?’
I take a breath. ‘No, but I know someone who might. Leave it with me, yeah?’
‘Be quick about it or it’ll be gone, lad.’
It doesn’t take me long to find Bobby’s house. I haven’t seen him around since the night I met Alice.
He looks tired as he opens the door. ‘Michael? What’s up?’ he asks, suspicious.
‘Nowt much. I was just passing and thought I’d knock on. Let you know there’s a job going at the pub. Part-time. If you’re interested?’
His hand opens and closes, the damage from the last job flexing. ‘Cheers. Appreciate that, mate.’
‘No bother. Eric’s a good sort, but you might want to get over there quickly.’
‘Will do. And thanks again. I owe you one.’
‘Ah, you can give me a free pint next time I’m in, yeah?’
He closes the door, and I make my way across town. I’m almost out of paper. I need some new pencils too, but I’ll have to make do with sharpening what I already have else I’ll be wiping my arse on newspaper for the rest of the week.
19
ALICE
I drain the last of my coffee. A student working opposite me closes her laptop and smiles a goodbye. Someone coughs behind a hand, the sound muted, the library alive and yet half-asleep.
Next to me, a middle-aged woman is pulling out various books from the shelf, undecided on her next read. I bite back a smile, as she glances around before settling on a Jilly Cooper. My screen blinks. I’ve already combed through the available transcripts of the 1981 and 1991 Census but there isn’t a Michael listed at that address. It’s showing as a rented property to Mr Paul Jones. There is a Mrs Susan Jones there and a Carl Jones in 1985 but no mention of a Michael on either of them.
I know he refers to his parents though and it sounds like they’re close… Was he staying there? I can almost hear Spence’s voice teasing:Single and still at home in his thirties? What a catch. A quick Google search confirms that was pretty typical for the time and place, especially for a single man and the economic crash. I bank that information, ready to defend him. It all tracks. If this is the right family, then that might mean his surname is Jones. I look to the photo of him next to me, holding it in my hand. Michael Jones. Something in me shifts.
I prop the photo next to my empty cup and pull up the photo of the mural. Pinching my fingers together against my phone screen, I zoom in on the initials. That could definitely be a J. It’s hard to tell. I look back to the photo with a smile. I’m getting closer.
I scroll the land registry archive, typing Michael’s address, trying to pinpoint the details of who owned the property in 1985. The connection is slower here and I crick my neck as I wait for the information to load. I shrink the window and instead open Facebook. It’s been so long since I’ve used it and I’m on my final password attempt before I get logged out until I remember the correct one. My old feed loads, and I swallow down the grinning photo of me and Ryan, the status of ‘engaged’ mocking me from the past. I straighten and begin searching for nostalgia sites. There’s a group called Everything Yorkshire; I select the group and wait for admin approval. I have no idea what I will say… ‘Hi there, I think I might be losing my mind and that I’ve sleepwalked to 1985 and met my soulmate?’ I groan, shaking my head, and receive a sharp look from the Jilly Cooper fan. I knock my fist against my chest as though I’m trying to settle some kind of imaginary heartburn. She reaches for a Harlan Coben next, placing it over the copy ofRidersthat I must have read at least three times. I go back to the land registry site, still nothing. It looks like it’s stuck. I exit the site, log in again, repeating the search. Researching is time-consuming, but being here, going back to the life I used to love before I started writing current affairs with Ryan, is like stepping into a pair of old slippers.
I check my email. Finally!
Dear Miss Barker,
Thank you for getting in touch regarding your recent deliveries. We’re afraid we have no record of missing letters having been found at Shropshire Sorting Office.
It’s quite the conundrum!
Any undelivered letters would have been sent to our National Returns office. We do our utmost to ensure our mail is delivered and so a small investigation would have been carried out, which does include opening the letters. As you mention the letters in question had a return address inside, it’s likely that they would have been returned to the sender. If this wasn’t the case, then the letters would have been held for a set period before being securely destroyed.
I’m keenly aware that this doesn’t help with your rather interesting situation and so I’ve forwarded your email to head office who will hopefully be able to help you further.
If there is anything else I can help you with, do get in touch.
Kindest regar?—
Huh. I hate the idea of some stranger reading Michael’s words, but these letters are unopened. There is nothing that shows they’ve been tampered with, so I guess they weren’t returned?
