Things the Eye Can't See. Penny Joelson

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      ‘Yes, exactly.’

      He’s gone. I pick up my brush and dip it in the yellow. As I hold it over the paper, I realise my hand is actually shaking. This is ridiculous. It was just a note. It probably said, Can you lend me twenty quid? or something like that. But Charlie was so secretive about it, and he made it seem so important . . . Anyway, I’ve done it now. My role is over. I feel a little deflated.

      ‘Here’s the brown. Shall I squeeze some out?’ Kyle’s back.

      ‘Thanks – just here.’

      He squeezes it on to my palette. I keep all the colours in the same order so I can find the one I want. ‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ he tells me.

      He’s being very attentive. Is he being kind, or is it because he’s curious about the note? Maybe he thinks I wrote it. I hope he doesn’t think it’s a love note or something.

      I hold the photograph I’m painting from close to my eyes. It’s a yellow rose, but it’s amazing how many colours there are in it: shades of yellow, but also greens, whites, creams, browns. I look through the magnifier at what I’ve painted so far.

      I love painting. It takes my full focus and there’s something so relaxing about it. I love photography even more – macro photography, because I can look through the lens and see so clearly, every tiny detail. It’s so different from just looking around me at vague blurred shapes. I’m sure people give me funny looks when they see me out with my camera and a guide dog. Sometimes I hear comments, but I don’t let it bother me. So many people think ‘blind’ just means you can’t see. They don’t realise how many variations of visual impairment there are.

      I need clean water, and pass Kyle’s table as I go to get it. I realise I have no idea what his project is. I’m suddenly curious about what he’s painting.

      ‘Can I look?’ I ask him. ‘With my magnifier?’

      ‘Yes, if you want.’ He sounds surprised – but pleased too. ‘It’s not a patch on yours though.’

      ‘I’ll just get my water first,’ I tell him.

      ‘Shall I do it?’ he asks.

      ‘No – it’s OK.’ I’m touched he is being so sweet, but I like to do things for myself. I keep on a straight path towards the side of the classroom where the sinks are, feel for the edge of the sink and then find the tap. I turn it, listen to water splashing and check with a finger that the pot is not getting too full. I need to be able to carry it back without spilling it.

      Kyle’s height is a useful landmark as I work my way back to my table. I’m determined not to make a fool of myself by spilling water everywhere now. I feel for the table edge and put the water down carefully, then find and lift my magnifier, taking it back towards Kyle.

      ‘Let me help,’ he says, taking it from me and positioning it over his picture.

      I look down. Kyle is painting what looks like a fantasy battle scene from a film – monsters with weapons raised, mouths bared with teeth showing.

      ‘Wow! That’s intense!’ I say, hoping he doesn’t take it as an insult. ‘I mean – the detail is incredible.’

      ‘I love creating monsters,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve not got the perspective right though.’

      ‘I can’t tell,’ I say honestly. ‘Thanks for showing me. I’d better get back to mine.’

      After art I have French. Madz is doing German, so at the end of the day I walk with Samson towards the cloakrooms where we usually meet.

      ‘Hey, Libby!’ Someone touches the top of my arm gently. ‘Libby, it’s Kyle.’

      ‘Samson, stand,’ I tell him. He stops.

      ‘Listen – that note . . .’ says Kyle. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’

      I’m instantly curious, but I don’t want to be late.

      ‘Madz will be waiting for me,’ I tell him.

      ‘Please, just for a sec,’ he says.

      ‘OK.’ I tell Samson to turn left and we follow Kyle to a quiet spot round by the old disused lockers.

      ‘Have you read it?’ I ask him.

      ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Did Charlie give it to you himself? I need to know.’

      ‘Yes,’ I say awkwardly. ‘What . . . what did it say? Or can’t you tell me?’

      ‘It says he needs help.’

      ‘What kind of help?’

      ‘It’s bad, Libby.’ Kyle’s voice is low and serious. ‘He thinks someone’s going to kill him.’

      I’m so shocked, I open my mouth, but can’t speak. I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

      Finally, I manage one word. ‘What?’

      ‘I know,’ says Kyle. ‘My feelings exactly.’

      ‘So what does he want you to do?’

      ‘He wants me to meet him tomorrow. He’s told me where. I don’t know what to do. I mean, what if I don’t go, and then it happens – he gets killed? I’ll have to go, won’t I? I mean – what do you think?’

      ‘Maybe you should go to the police?’ I suggest.

      ‘The note says clearly, “no police”,’ says Kyle. ‘I guess it could put him in even more danger if whoever’s after him gets wind that he put the police on to them. If he’s asking me to help, he must think there’s something I can do.’

      ‘I guess,’ I say.

      ‘The note says I’m not to tell anyone,’ says Kyle. ‘But he must trust you, as he gave you the note. He must’ve known you’d want to know what was in it.’

      I’m not sure that’s true, but I don’t say anything.

      ‘I think I’ll go,’ Kyle continues, ‘but listen. I want you to memorise the address before I tear it up, so that someone knows where I am. Just in case something happens.’

      ‘What do you think’s going on?’ I ask him.

      ‘I’ve no idea. I’m not sure I even want to know,’ says Kyle.

      I wonder if this is true. Why has Charlie asked Kyle? Why does he think Kyle can help?

      ‘Maybe I should come with you?’ I suggest.

      ‘That’s nice of you, but he asked me,’ says Kyle. ‘And don’t get me wrong, but you and Samson . . . you’re a bit conspicuous. No – I’ll go alone.’

      ‘I’ll give you my number,’ I suggest. ‘Then you can call me and let me know what СКАЧАТЬ