I head in the kid’s direction. He’s playing some ultra-violent warfare game that involves a lot of flame- throwing, fancy weaponry and people dying in agony in extreme close-up. He doesn’t look up when I squeeze past him to get to my terminal.
I insert the token and place the cursor in the little bar at the top of the page, typing in the exact string of letters for the social networking site’s home page that I saw Ranald input into his laptop. A few seconds later, the computer’s asking for an email address and a password, and I type in the email address I saw this morning and the word misericordia, smiling to myself as I do.
It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing next: advertisements for weight-loss supplements, wrinkle-removal creams and free audio books on a try-before-you-buy basis. Stuff I didn’t even know I needed, ‘tailor-made’ for me. But as I stare at the page harder I realise that I have one friend online at the moment and he badly wants to chat.
I study the little window that’s popped open at the base of my screen, the miniature version of the photo I’ve already seen. Read the black text printed there:
Damn, Mercy, is it you? Really you? Answer me!
I observe with almost detached curiosity that Lela’s hands are shaking a little. It’s after midnight where he is. I can’t believe we’re together again, after a fashion.
I type back:
Yes. Ask for proof if you like.
Almost instantly, he shoots back:
What’s my father’s name? My mother’s?
I reply, grinning:
Too easy. Stewart, Louisa. You can do better than that. I could have gotten that out of a phone book.
He types:
What was the song that Carmen’s choir had to learn for the interschool concert?
I reply at speed:
Part 1 of Mahler’s Symphony No 8 in E flat major. Although that’s probably publicly available information as well. This is hopeless, Ryan. Neither of us has really proven that we are who we say we are — you can’t see me, I can’t see you. You might be Brenda Sorensen for all I know, snooping around. Ask me something only you and I would know.
He’s silent for a long time and I wonder for a minute if it really is Brenda digging around in Ryan’s computer, or whether I’ve offended him in some way with my baiting, my acidity.
It’s funny how he brings that out in me, how we’ve fallen straight back into our old way of talking to each other. It’s like a defence mechanism, I suppose. No one likes to be hurt, especially not someone who’s spent nearly the entire course of their life in hiding. Because I’ve been forced to, because I can’t afford to give myself away. I’m almost poised for disappointment. As the seconds tick by, I almost convince myself I’m communicating with an impostor.
But then words appear on my screen, in fits and bursts so that I must read what’s written there twice for it to make any kind of sense.
He writes haltingly:
Do you think it’s possible . . . to fall for someone you’ve never even really . . . seen?
Luc was right. Ryan may prove to be my salvation, in the end. The blaze of joy I feel is so sudden and so fierce that I find myself literally crushing the edges of the table top with Lela’s fine-boned fingers. Cracks appear in the chipboard surface where her right hand is resting.
I glance over my shoulder at the middle-aged man inside the booth to see if he’s noticed anything out of the ordinary, but he continues reading his Chinese-language newspaper without looking up. Only the ceiling falling down would grab the attention of the baby-faced gamer beside me.
I’m suddenly so dizzy, so giddy, I can’t type straight and I need to wait until my sight clears, until Lela’s crazy heartbeat is roughly back under my control.
He writes:
Mercy? Are you still there?
And I reply, still clinging to that necessary veneer of distance:
Can you be specific?
Am I flirting? I’m no good at flirting.
You know exactly what I mean. The words race themselves to fill the screen. This is hard enough.
I reply: Humour me. Humour someone who’s had everything they’ve ever known taken away from them.
There’s another long pause. Then the words: What are you?
He adds: You promised me once that you’d answer that question when we got Lauren back. Then you went and disappeared off the face of the earth.
I feel the corners of Lela’s mouth quirk upwards and think for a while before typing cautiously:
The people who put me in here say that the knowledge is in me. But I can’t access it. I’m not a ghost, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m very much alive. And I’m not a bad . . . person. Not any more. There are things I can do that I don’t understand. But I have a physical form. Lauren mhave told you. I saw myself in Carmen, can see myself in Lela Neill, as I could in the reflections of some of the others. I’m getting stronger. My ability to remember is beginning to regenerate. But I don’t know if what I am is worthy of . . . love.
It’s a leading statement and, mentally, I kick myself for even mentioning the word. But he continues to sidestep the real reason we’ve blundered towards each other again, even though we’re separated by oceans, by continents, by logic itself.
He types:
After you left, Lauren described you to a sketch artist, a guy we know who’s a court reporter. I have his sketch taped up in my room, carry a copy of it in my wallet. I know what you look like. Would know what you look like anywhere. Lauren was the one who saw the resemblance. She knows a bit about art and she said you look like the Delphic Sybil, but your eyes are brown. Now that’s how I think of you. Kind of sacred. Magical. Not-of- this-world.
I make a mental note to look up this Delphic Sybil and write back, grinning:
She’d better be pretty, this Sybil character. So what do we do next?
His response is swift.
It’s Tuesday where you are, Monday here. I’ll be there by Friday your time. There are a few things I need to do here first, a few people I need to talk to. I’ve started studying again so I’m playing catch-up big time. There’s a lot I’ve missed out on. Dad says it’s thanks to you (well, Carmen!) that this little miracle has come to pass. And I may just do that, finally. Pass (LOL).
Lauren sends her love. She’s getting better, too. Some days are better than others. But she knows that she wouldn’t be here without you and she wants so much to thank you properly. She’s not officially back with Rich Coates, although he doesn’t let her out of his sight these days. They spend almost all their time together.
The news makes me smile. Hooray for second chances, I think.
He adds:
Don’t argue. I know you like to argue. I’ve already booked a ticket. I know where the Green Lantern is — I’ve looked it up online. I’ll get there in the morning, I’m coming straight from the airport. So just wait for me. Try not to go anywhere until I get there. Think you can do that?
Lela’s hands are a little unsteady as I write:
That question you asked me? I think it’s definitely possible. And I’ll be right here, waiting.
I frown, remembering, and add:
But Lela might not be able to leave right away. Her mother’s really sick. I might need to wait. But it won’t be long. Days, maybe hours. Just a feeling I get.
Ryan’s response is swift and joyous.
See you Friday. Friday! It doesn’t matter if we have to wait. I haven’t stopped thinking of you since you left. I’ll wait. I9;ll wait forever if I have to.
I don’t trust myself to reply, just close out of the chat screen with a feeling in my heart like sun on the water. Though that little voice in my head’s reminding me all the while just to stick to the plan.
