The Library of Lost and Found. Phaedra Patrick

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      Owen insisted on driving Martha back home. She sat in his car stiffly, aware that her wet coat would dampen the seat. The footwell of his old Ford Focus was full of stuff – screwed-up carrier bags, paper bags and car park receipts. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said, as he batted an empty sandwich packet off the dashboard.

      Still feeling dizzy from the revelation that Zelda had written the book, Martha sank down in her seat.

      ‘It’s so cool that your grandmother was the author,’ Owen said, as they turned the corner onto the coastal road back to Sandshift. ‘But didn’t you say they were your stories?’

      Martha nodded. It was too confusing to think about this now. She wondered why she’d never seen a copy of the book before, if Zelda had written it. With too many questions swirling around in her head, she just wanted to get home. She managed to answer Owen’s comments and questions with a range of hmms and nods, until they neared the library.

      Martha pulled up the collar of her coat, in an attempt to go incognito in case anyone was around. ‘Please drop me here,’ she said, when they reached the end of her road.

      ‘Are you sure this is close enough… to where you live?’

      ‘Yes,’ Martha said, momentarily distracted by the sight of her shopping trolley parked back outside the house. She wondered if Siegfried had returned it. ‘It’s a narrow road to get the car down. I’ll walk from here.’

      ‘I’ll call you about the book, as soon as Dexter gets back in touch.’

      ‘I don’t know how to thank you…’

      Owen shrugged. ‘Coffee and cake is always good.’

      Martha got out of the car and gave him a small wave. As she took her keys out of her pocket, she caught sight of something small and glinting in the trolley. She picked out her hair slide and held it between her thumb and forefinger for a moment. It shone under a street lamp and she fastened it back into her hair.

      When she opened her front door, the dragon’s head gave her a stiff smile, and she gave it one in return.

      The cuckoo clock ticked and Martha stood in the middle of the room. It was past nine o’clock, her father’s supper time, and it still felt strange that he was no longer here. There was no smell of burnt toast, the way he liked it.

      Martha patted the dragon on its head and swung an invisible mallet through the air. She tossed her notepad onto the dining table, too tired to take a look at which tasks she’d failed to accomplish.

      As she slumped in the wooden chair and looked out the window at the glistening sea, she leaned over and pressed the button on the answering machine. Then she closed her eyes and let the sound of Owen’s warm tones wash over her. She liked the way he said Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, like he was reading a bedtime story.

      She thought about the strange sensation that had engulfed her in the arcade, as she bashed the crabs. She’d been unable to identify it before, but now she could.

      Freedom. She imagined it might be what freedom felt like.

CHAPTER EIGHT

       Chinese Dragon

      ‘Martha. Martha.’

      A voice shouted from outside and the doorbell rang, but Martha wasn’t sure if the sounds were in her dream or not.

      She’d slept fitfully through the night, dreaming of the Sandshift sea and its inky waves. A fishing boat rocked, in trouble, and she stood rooted to a spot on the sands. She frantically waved her arms, but there was no one around to see or hear her. As she waded into the water, it sloshed around her ankles, then her knees and thighs. The boat bobbed and vanished. Martha tried to shout, but the water lapped at her chest and then her chin. She felt the seabed beneath her toes and then it was gone. Twisting in the water, she was far from shore. The waves chilled her bones and pulled her under. No one could save her. She thrashed until she gave up and let herself sink slowly down.

      It was a recurring dream that she’d had since she was a child. Sometimes it might be months until it invaded her sleep, and she thought it might have gone, but then she’d close her eyes and find herself battling the ferocity of the waves again.

      ‘Martha.’

      The call of her name brought her back to the safety of her own room. She opened one eye and then the other. Relief washed over her when she realized she was in her bed.

      With a shiver and her nightie clinging to her chest from sweat, she noticed she’d kicked all the covers off the bed. She scooped them up and gathered them around her. Her arms were sore and stiff from handling the hammer, and she groaned as she pulled on her dressing gown. As her actions of the previous day began to speckle back into her memory, she didn’t want to see or speak to anyone.

      The doorbell rang again and she slid wearily off the mattress. She pushed her feet into her slippers and trod downstairs. Grudgingly opening the front door, she blinked against the daylight.

      ‘Congrats, you did it!’ Suki thrust a small bunch of freesias at her chest. She wore a long purple tie-dyed dress and glittery sandals more suited to the Mediterranean. The backs of her hands were henna-painted with intricate flowers.

      Martha took hold of the freesias and stared at them, remembering how a vaseful always sat on the dining room table. As soon as her dad died, she bought roses instead. ‘I did what, exactly?’ she asked.

      ‘You said no. It’s a spectacular phenomenon-on, or whatever the word is.’

      ‘Thank you, but not really.’ Martha fiddled with her dressing gown belt as she recalled her behaviour. ‘I need to apologize to everyone. I overreacted and need to explain that…’

      However, Suki crossed her legs and bounced up and down. She pushed Martha’s handbag into her arms. ‘You left this behind at the library, yesterday. Sorry, but I need the loo,’ she winced. ‘The baby is kicking my bladder.’

      Martha glanced behind her at her job-laden СКАЧАТЬ