The fire happened before I left. I asked him about it on my return. Had they found the missing person? No, he said, he’s still in there. A Lithuanian man. They took ages to find his family, he said. Why haven’t they got him out? I asked. It’s unsafe, structurally unsafe, he said, they can’t go in. And it’s true. It’s all cordoned off. Even the hotel next door is shut. Dark windows. A police van parked permanently outside within the tape. And this is their busy time. But that isn’t important. What about the missing man? Alone in there. From the outside it looks normal. The curtains hang in the window, apparently still white. And the smoke, I remember wasn’t black and ominous but a pale grey. It doesn’t seem real. Nothing does today.
There is always something, I thought as I walked. Three kids straight out off the Why Not? club hanging from the scaffolding surrounding the opticians. I pass the Greggs lorry just as the driver wheels the trolley back. It’s a different guy. There were fewer people about. The smell of baking bread from Slater’s was strong, delicious, comforting.
I think about her. She is so unwarm. She cannot soften. Must not soften. No, no, no. A grey sky. They promise rain. My back is tight again, fearful and closed-off. We began watching Amelie last night. A joyful, colourful distraction. I have a notebook full of ideas but I need to wade through this experience for now. A closure of sorts. But she was kind. We shall share your birthday, she said. That would be nice. That would be nice. There is always something. Always something warm in the coldness. Don’t you find?
