What do you think this is?
You’re right that this is a hook. What in God’s name makes you think it’s a good idea to bite?
I reached inside my coat on the other side, and pulled out a second envelope. This one was addressed to Andrew – my reply, already written, stamped and ready to post.
You shouldn’t respond to this. If you’re asking for my advice, then that’s the advice I have for you. Do not respond to this.
The wind sent a breaker of leaves roaring past me, skittering and crashing away towards the old church with the post box outside. Stuffing both hands – and both letters – into my coat pockets, I put my head down and made my way after them.
o
I stood in front of the post box, for two, three, four minutes.
Just put it into the slot. It’s just a letter.
My hand didn’t move.
‘Fucking hell.’
I didn’t want to stand there like an idiot for another five minutes, so I crossed the road, climbed over the old fence and sat myself on the steps of the boarded-up church, Black’s letter in one hand, my reply in the other.
‘Fucking hell, Sophie,’ I said.
That’s another thing I should’ve told you about Sophie Almonds – whenever she gave advice, it was almost always right. The longer I’d known her, the harder it had become to dispute this one simple fact.
‘Fucking hell.’
There were more trees by the church, the fallen leaves even more plentiful, and swarms of them whipped and tumbled as the icy wind threw its weight around the little graveyard.
I stretched out my arms, holding both envelopes up to the wind and they fluttered and shook violently, trying to get free. It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to let them go. The leaves were so deep, they’d probably lie forgotten amongst the weathered headstones until they mulched down in the cycle of winter snows and thaws. The thread of this whole story would simply blow away and be gone. Nothing would come next: no answers, no problems, no decisions, no nothing. Turn off the computer – click, and that would be that.
I held my hands up a little higher. Sophie had done all she could to convince me to let this whole business go, and with the slightest movement, I could do exactly that.
The entropy of a closed system tends to a maximum, I thought, picturing those coloured plastic letters on the fridge back home. I thought about Imogen, away from home for so long, and about what our marriage might be, or not be, when she came back. I thought about frayed phone cables and crossed lines over empty fields, and about all the silence and all the noise between my father and me. I felt the envelopes in my hand and I thought, ‘clue’ is an old-fashioned word for a ball of twine, promising guidance through the labyrinth. Was Black’s sphere photograph a clue? I thought, of course it’s a hook and beware raccoon traps promising answers. I thought, there is no labyrinth, no grand plan. Only chaos and collapse. Things just fall apart. I thought, ‘I talk to God, but the sky is empty.’
I closed my eyes, focusing on the thunder of leaves all around me.
The entropy of a closed system tends to a maximum.
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