Famie stared out of the window. ‘Spare us the lecture, Sam. We’ll decide what they see.’
She turned the radio up. There were reports of an American presidential hopeful, a prison reformer who’d gone to jail and the imminent end of the heatwave.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ muttered Sam.
‘And thank Christ it’s not about us for a change,’ said Famie. ‘Though give it a few hours …’
They swept past Famie’s flat. All clear. Sam parked.
‘Come up, Sam, I’ll make coffee. You know you want to.’ Sam looked unsure, Famie took his head between her hands. ‘Sam, you can be late just this once. You’ve quit already. You have no one to impress. Come and have coffee with us.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘OK, you’ve won me over. Do I get to wash up too like usual?’
The press had all gone but not without leaving their trademark coffee cups and paper bags in an overflowing bin. They stepped inside the hallway. Famie put her key in the door.
‘Three iced lattes coming up,’ she said.
She pushed the door over a few days of post. Two freesheet newspapers, four take-out menus, two utility bills and a plain white envelope with a handwritten address. Famie tossed them all on the sofa. Several days of heat and no ventilation demanded as many windows open as possible, as quickly as possible. Sam and Sophie slumped on the sofa, Famie walked through to the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine.
Sam appeared, handed her the handwritten envelope. ‘You probably should,’ he said. ‘Another Coventry postmark.’
Sophie walked in. ‘Another weatherman forecast maybe. Exciting.’
Sam grimaced.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
Famie took the envelope. The other letters had been typewritten, this was biro-written. Small, meticulous handwriting. She peered at the stamp. ‘Posted yesterday.’ She dug her nail into the envelope, sliced it open. Inside was a printed card from a hospital and a folded sheet of paper tucked behind it. Famie unfolded the piece of paper. No address, no signature. Three lines of writing, the same neat script as the envelope. She scanned it quickly then read the message out loud.
‘I work in the University Hospital, Coventry. A young man insisted I send this to you. He said he was in trouble with a woman. I think he’s telling the truth. I hope you can help him.’
Famie handed the note to Sam then picked up the card. She flipped it in her hands. ‘Huh,’ she said. Her address had been scrawled in the top right corner. Similar biro to the envelope, different handwriting. Hurried. Messy. She flipped it again. It was a cheaply printed postcard requesting hospital users to write comments in the spaces provided. Around the edges, more handwriting. In clear black capitals it read ‘SEE THAT MY GRAVE IS KEPT CLEAN’.
‘What the fuck?’ said Sophie.
‘That’s our guy,’ said Famie.
‘And definitely a guy,’ said Sam. ‘A guy in trouble with a woman.’
Famie made the coffees, thinking fast. ‘Is he telling us he’s about to die? Because that’s a desperately sad note to pass on.’
‘It can’t be that, can it?’ said Sam. ‘Surely not. We don’t know who he is or where he is.’
Sophie was on her phone. ‘It’s the main hospital in Coventry. New-build in 2006. Used to be the Walsgrave.’ She showed them a Google map.
‘So we know he’s in Coventry,’ said Famie, ‘we know he’s trying to message us, and we know he’s having to go to these ridiculous lengths to send cryptic messages. Might still be a fruitcake.’
‘Not another Dylan song, is it?’ asked Sophie.
Famie grabbed her laptop, opened it on her lap, typed in the words. She gaped. ‘Holy shit, he’s done it again. It’s not Dylan but it is another song.’ She spun the screen.
‘A Texas blues song by Blind Lemon Jefferson,’ read Sam. He hit play and the kitchen filled with a scratchy guitar and vocal from, the screen said, 1928. ‘Why is he sending this?’
‘We got one music reference,’ said Famie, ‘so he’s sending another. Read the lyrics.’
Sam scanned and summarized. ‘Essentially it says there’s one kind favour I’ll ask of you, see that my grave is kept clean. Then it says, “Did you hear that coughing sound? Did you hear them church bells tone? Means another poor boy is dead and gone … see that my grave is kept clean.”’
The kitchen was quiet. ‘That’s one heavy song,’ said Sophie. ‘Sounds like he’s given up.’
‘But why would he tell us that?’ said Famie. ‘Why tell some folk you don’t know that you’re about to die, or give up?’
‘Unless that isn’t what he’s saying. What’s the story no one is reporting?’ said Sophie. ‘Maybe he’s saying something else. Anyone know anything about Blind Lemon Jefferson?’
Sam started a search.
Famie picked up the card again. Stared at it blankly. ‘Is there anything new in the Telegraph? Has anyone checked?’ She fanned herself with the card.
‘Me,’ said Sam, scrolling through music history websites. ‘I checked. Nothing. Obviously I’d have told you …’
‘We’ve never struggled to understand him before,’ said Famie. ‘One look, one Google search and we’ve had it. What are we missing?’
‘Put it on again,’ said Sam.
Famie hit play. An image of a bespectacled, squinting young African-American, guitar on his lap, appeared on the screen.
‘He’s blind. We’re blind,’ said Sam, scrolling. ‘He was from Coutchman, Texas, considered the father of Texas blues. You want more?’
Famie downed her coffee. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘This needs to be obvious. It’s either the song or it’s him. Title and artist. You said we’re blind. That’s right, we are. So “blind” and “lemon” and “Jefferson” all come into play. Does that take it somewhere?’
‘Sure there’s nothing else on the card?’ said Sam. ‘All blank?’
Famie looked again, flipping the card in her hand. She held it up for them both to see.
Sam shrugged. ‘Looks blank,’ he said. ‘So maybe “lemon” is the word. Maybe that’s it! We used it as invisible ink when we were kids.’
Sophie laughed. ‘Really? That’s a thing?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You
