The Antique Shop - Part 9

I swear people in China can hear my sigh of relief. The pages feel dry and brittle but they’re still intact. That beautiful, steady hand is as clear as ever. I run my fingers over the words. Such intimate, delicate declarations. I have to read them later. I need to.
I stand up shakily and hold the box tightly to my chest. One of the firemen comes up to me and takes my shoulder. He helps me pick my way through the mess and out the flat. He speaks to me gently but I can’t hear him. I feel numb. Devastated but relieved. Confused, lost, but hopeful.
Before I know it I’m back on the stretcher. The girl is gone. The paramedic shines a light into my eyes and asks me questions. I give him one-word answers. Eventually he just pats my arm and packs his stuff away. Right now I want nothing more than to drift into a deep, languid sleep.
- Excuse me?
I ignore the voice and close my eyes. If you can see them they can see you, so if the reverse is true then. . .
- Sir?
A hand taps my shoulder. I open my eyes and look into the face of the cop who was talking to the old lady earlier. I raise my eyebrows for him to continue.
- I need to ask you some questions.
I nod my head.
- Do you have any idea what happened here?
- Uh, an explosion?
The cop rolls his eyes.
- You know what I mean. Do you know why your flat exploded?
I shake my head.
- I have no idea. . .
- It was a pretty big blast. It’s not the kind of thing we usually associate with an accident.
- I don’t know what to tell you. I left the flat this morning and everything was in one piece. I came back just now and everything I own is destroyed. Your guess is as good as mine.
- Do you know anyone who would want you hurt or dead?
- I don’t know anyone, let alone anyone who would want to do anything to me.
- Are you not from Cape Town?
- No, Durban. I’ve been here a few weeks. I hadn’t even finished unpacking.
- What are you holding?
- It’s nothing. It’s private.
- Mind if I take a look?
- Uh, yes, I mind very much.
I hold the box tighter.
- With respect, sir, there has just been a n explosion. Right now we don’t know why. It’s not in your best interests to hide things from the police. It might. . . colour. . . our opinion of you.
- So I’m a suspect?
- I’m just saying you should do your utmost to cooperate.
I clench my jaw and look away.
- The box, sir?
- It’s nothing, it’s just letters, okay!?
- I don’t want to ask again.
I give him the box and swear under my breath. It’s been months since I swore. He prises it open and empties it out onto the stretcher. I cringe as the ancient pages fold awkwardly.
- Could you be careful please? Those are freaking old!
- Sir, kindly let me do my job.
He flicks through the pages without a hint of compassion. A few pages drop to the ground which he doesn’t bother to pick up. I have to grip the edge of the stretcher tightly to stop myself from freaking out and kicking him in the groin. Every now and then he grunts or chuckles as he reads something. I can tell it’s theatrical. He finally clumps all the pages together and stuffs them back in the box. He hands it back to me and smiles.
- You’re right, it was nothing. Private, too.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.
- Before you go anywhere, let me know where you’ll be staying in case I have more questions.
He saunters off before I can think of a cutting reply. I’ll probably wake up screaming something witty at two in the morning. I open the box and gently take out all the pages. I pick up the ones on the floor and blow on them lightly. They don’t look too dirty. I stack them neatly and put them back in the box. I feel my eyes tear up. I hate crying, but once I start I can’t stop it. I feel so violated. Everything I own is destroyed, and I my most intimate secret has just been divulged and laughed at by someone who is supposed to help people in distress.
- Young man, do you need a place to stay?
It’s the old lady again. I wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath.
- Thank you, but I. . . I’ll get a hotel room. I have some thinking to do.
- All right, but if you change your mind you know where to find me. I’m in flat number 18.
She smiles at me and pinches my cheek and I can’t help but smile. There’s nothing like the kindness of an old lady. I stand up slowly and stare at the hole in the building that used to be my flat. I’ll come back tomorrow and see if I can salvage anything. Right now I need to get to a hotel, brush my teeth (and tongue and throat and gums and wherever else that vomit taste is still hiding) and sleep. I walk past the cop.
- I’m going to find a hotel. You’re a cop. Finding me should be easy.
He just stares at me and waves his hand dismissively.
I don’t remember the drive to the Holiday Inn. I don’t remember checking in to a room. I don’t remember showering, brushing my teeth, shaving, dressing. I don’t remember getting into bed. I don’t remember opening the box. But here I am, the pages spread out before me, my security blanket in my times of greatest need.
I start reading.

© William Edgcumbe