‘Dad will need mints though. One sniff at a rollercoaster and he turns green.’
‘No problem, we can get some on the way.’
I pass Heather her coffee. The tips of her fingers touch mine and our eyes meet. I give a small nod then take my hand away.
‘So, what’s your favourite ride?’ she asks Georgia and the two begin swapping notes on Wicker Man versus Oblivion. Both sound hellish. But the hum under my skin quietens, replaced by something else. I can’t put my finger on what it is, and it’s not until I see the photo later that day of the three of us, mid-ride, heads thrown back, mouths wide open as we hurtle along the tracks that I realise what that feeling is.
Hope.
A hope that terrifies me.
Because for the first time in years, I think I can see a future that looks completely different from the one I’ve built.
34
ALICE
Mike’s playlist is ringing from my speakers and even though it’s been weeks since I found out he died, it still feels as though he’s trying to speak to me, and in a way he is. I might not have the ending that I wanted for the article, but I still have a story. I just need to find a new way to finish it.
Me and Spence haven’t talked about the afternoon before I left for Whitby, or the things that were said. We haven’t seen much of each other these past few weeks, but I know from Georgia, and the pictures she’s posting, that Heather has been spending more time with them.
I’ve taken down my wall of research and collated all the information I have into tidy piles on the new kitchen table. They’re not in any particular order yet, but that will come. Right now, the material is raw, in the same way his tragic death was. No order. No reason. I haven’t found the rhythm of the piece yet, but I will.
I tighten my ponytail as Kate Bush’s ‘Man with the Child in His Eyes’ begins playing. As the lyrics echo, and I try to extract what it was about this song that Michael liked, my thoughts swing towards Spence. How he’d driven all that way to break thenews to me. Even with everything he’s got going on, despite the argument we had. He was there. He always is. I’ll make it up to him. Somehow.
I reach for my coffee and open my laptop; the news of Mike’s death is still chiming inside my chest, a vibration that won’t quieten. I toss and turn most nights, imagining his hand on a steering wheel, the sound of metal folding, the screech of tyres. Part of me hopes I’ll sleepwalk, that I will find myself in 1985, eating chips from the paper with him next to me.
His death can’t be the end to his story.
I won’t let it.
I’m going to bring him back to life.
I begin scanning the pictures I’ve taken: the mural, the Concrete Fingers promo piece, his photo.
It feels good to be moving forward, and the throb of grief feels more distant the more I focus.
The song trails off, ‘Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)’ taking over. My phone buzzes and I open Georgia’s TikTok: ‘Out with my fam.’ They’re on a rollercoaster, mouths open in a scream, but their eyes are bright. Georgia is in the middle, bracketed by both her parents. Heather is flushed, even mid-scream and she still looks every bit the most popular girl in school and Spence… I take a breath, hit like, and turn my phone off.
I don’t need distractions. I have a job to do.
It’s dusk by the time I close the screen. I’ve collated all the information I have in chronological order. The timeline from the first letter until his death all blocked into a spreadsheet. Tomorrow, I will start looking for his family. For Kate. And hopefully they will be able to explain about Alice, or, well, me. Find out if I did accidentally time trav?—
There is a knock at the door and I crick my neck before opening it. Spence is holding on to the door frame, face flushed, like he’s been running.
‘Spence?’
‘You weren’t answering your phone,’ he says, stepping past me.
‘I was working. What’s wrong?’
I frown as he straightens his hair and looks around. The wall now bare, the house tidy.
He rubs at his forehead, like there’s a stain that he’s trying to get rid of.
‘Let’s… sit, eh?’ I say.
He frowns, eyes off in the distance.
