For Rye, Gavin Gardiner [13 ebook reader .TXT] 📗

‘Wait,’ she breathed.

Renata sat on the smaller of the two crates while Quentin perched on the edge of one of the stone steps leading to the window.

‘I’m glad heights don’t bother you,’ she said, placing the candle from her satchel on the larger crate.

Quentin sparked a match and lit the wick. ‘I’d be more scared of falling through one of those crates. Taking your life in your hands there, Ren.’

She smiled. ‘The only thing this place is missing is the smell of my mother’s tomato and rice soup. I used to bring a flask up here without her knowing. I wonder if she still made it before she died.’ Then, looking at the candle flame, ‘Suppose I’ll never know.’

‘Tomato and rice, huh? You folks got weird taste. Hate to say it, but it might be missing a bit more than that.’ He pulled his blazer tight. ‘Some glass in that window for a start.’

The candle flickered.

‘Tell me,’ he began, the flame dancing in his glasses, ‘what was it you came up here to think about?’

‘Just…money stuff,’ she said. ‘Let’s not talk about that.’

He nodded, then glanced around the littered floor. ‘So I get the leaves and dirt, but what’s with the paper?’

She picked up one of the crumpled yellow balls and carefully flattened out the sheet on the makeshift desk. The candlelight revealed clumsy scrawls filling every inch of the page. She ran her eyes over it, then tossed it and reached for another ball. She ran a finger over this sheet, then, satisfied, turned the paper to Quentin and pointed to a name within the scrawl: Adelaide Addington.

Quentin squinted at the words, then glanced around at the paper littering the floor, the occasional stub of worn pencil lying amongst the mess.

‘So,’ he said, ‘this is where you learnt to write.’

She nodded, wiping her hands on her skirt. ‘My father’s always been this way. The anger, I mean. The writing began when I started keeping a diary, but I found it was making up stories that let me escape him. These scribbles were the only way I could get away.’ She looked around the stone walls. ‘And this room.’

Quentin reached for a snapped pencil. ‘Writer’s block that day?’

She took the broken pencil from him. ‘It was starting the stories that frustrated me,’ she said. ‘Once I got going it was fine. But kicking things off drove me mad.’

‘Same here. Like pulling teeth sometimes.’ The candle quivered at a sudden gust of wind. ‘I had a treehouse,’ he continued, shielding the flame as he lit a cigarette. ‘I could get through ten books a week in that thing. Was about as sturdy as that crate you nearly made me sit on. It’s a miracle I survived.’ He blew a cloud of smoke above the undulating candle. ‘Did you read much up here?’

‘Yes,’ she said, motioning to the upside down lettering stencilled on the larger crate. He tilted his head and read the words, Harper’s Books. ‘He’ll be long gone now, but the man who ran that bookshop let me treat it like a library once the books in our house became…well, unavailable. I must have gotten through half his shop, until…’ Her voice trailed off.

Quentin’s hand dug into a plastic packet in his blazer pocket. ‘Until?’

Renata hesitated. ‘Mr Harper,’ she began cautiously, ‘he gave me free reign over any book in his store, as long as I returned them as I’d found them. I was so careful with those books, practically pried them open with tweezers, tried so hard not to—’

‘Until?’ He threw a milk bottle chew into his mouth.

She took a deep breath. ‘Alright, sorry. He…well, he gave me free reign over the whole shop except one section, and when he found out I’d taken one of those books without his knowledge, that free reign ended.’

Renata walked to the pile of rubble against the wall and reached for the sodden book sticking out from the leaves and dirt.

Again, pain.

She clenched her eyes, willing the pain to subside, then pulled the book from the rubble. The slimy thing was sealed shut by the damp of decades, but its cover was still clear. She held it out to Quentin. He peered through the candlelight.

He nodded. ‘It was the horror section he didn’t want you going in, wasn’t it?’

She dropped the sodden book. The road, the burning pickup truck, the woman in the emerald green dress: Horror Highway stared up at Renata. Printed below the title: Quentin C. Rye.

‘Not a fan?’

‘I…well, it affected me,’ she said. ‘I only flicked through it, but I landed on some nasty things, as well as the scene from the cover. That pickup truck…it just tore right through her. Ripped her to bits.’ Her voice wavered. ‘To this day I don’t know why the truck was on fire, or why the woman just stood there.’ She crossed her arms tight. The walls flickered. ‘And, well…I have these nightmares. Had them for years. They just feel so…real. I don’t know where they come from, maybe…’ The stone settled into its orange glow as the candle calmed. ‘I’m sorry, Quentin. I don’t mean to burden you.’

He reached into his blazer and pulled out that chunky leather notebook and pen she’d seen him with so many times already. He scribbled, then, as quick as it had emerged, the notebook was back in his pocket.

He looked up. ‘Ideas, they come at any time. Usually the worst.’ He stood, twirling the pen. ‘Listen, your nightmares: they’re useless. Just your brain pissing in the wind, coming back to slap you in the face.’

‘Elegant.’

‘Crude poetry aside, they’re still useless. You just gotta wipe it off and get on with things, Ren. Forget that trash. There’s more important things to worry about.’ He removed the horn-rimmed frames and wiped their lenses on his