* * *
Nancy’s jeans were a little too baggy for her but she liked the jumper she had lent her. It was a sweater knitted in soft purple angora which matched the colour of her highlights. Cora brushed her hair vigorously to give it the spiky look she liked. She slammed the brush down onto the stone top that surrounded the wash basin.
Why had Ollie not confided in her?
She moved to the spare room that was adjacent to the bathroom and walked over to the window. A feeble sun now shone in the sky, clouds obstructing its glow intermittently. The few people who were leaving the building looked well wrapped up. Snow was coming … she could feel it in her bones. The sole of her foot still hurt and she walked back gingerly to the bed.
She is barely 16 years of age. It is her first march with the people of Hong Kong to demand democracy. She loves being part of such a massive movement. The organisers themselves have not anticipated the size of the turnout. Her parents are marching too, although Cora is sticking with her college friends. She is not staying with mum and dad. She disappears into the mass of protesters and loses them from sight. She’s a grown-up who can chart her own path.
Cora sighed.
She slumped back onto the bed. She needed a new phone. She needed to get back to Hoxton. She needed to find Ollie.
She rolled onto her side, grabbed the pair of socks Nancy had lent her. The old trainers were a little tight but they would do.
She walked out of the bedroom and called Nancy’s name. Her friend was on the phone, talking to Jonathan no doubt. Nancy finished her conversation.
“We’ll have someone with us in the next couple of hours. We can then go back to the flat and have a proper look at it.”
Cora nodded … but two hours sounded like an eternity.
“How about we go to buy a phone in the meantime?”
Nancy squinted but after a short moment relented. “We buy the phone and then come back straight away.”
Cora gave a big smile … butter would have melted …
* * *
The young man in the shop was all smiles. He expressed a suitable amount of concern when Cora explained she had lost her phone in a fire.
“Really tragic … but as long as no one is hurt.” Cora’s face remained impassive. She just wanted the phone not some fake sympathy.
He downloaded the data saved under her mobile number and made sure it had all transferred smoothly. Texts would, unfortunately, be lost. She wouldn’t be able to tell whether Ollie had tried to contact her that way.
Nancy presented her credit card. Cora thanked her and disappeared outside to find a secluded corner to place her phone call.
Ollie’s phone rang and went to voicemail. His soft American accent cheerful greeting unexpectedly hit her. She pressed the phone against her lips to muffle a small cry.
She turned around. Nancy was still in the shop waiting for her receipt.
The pedestrian crossing light was green, it disappeared, and the countdown started 8-7-6-5 …
Cora ran across the road and disappeared into the backstreets of Islington.
She ran all the way down to the canal that led from Islington to the River Thames. Her foot hurt but she ignored the pain. She found the stairs to the canal footpath, climbing down two at a time and almost slipped halfway. She stopped for a short moment. This was stupid, she knew, but she was not going back.
Cora started her journey again. She was alone. The bank of the Regents Canal was deserted. With no money in her pocket, she could not hope to catch a cab or a bus if she left the canal further along.
The buildings along the towpath had been renovated and cleaned of graffiti. She recalled taking a similar walk with her parents. She was perhaps ten. Most buildings were derelict and she had squeezed her mother’s hand hard. Her father had not been impressed with his wife’s choice of setting for a family stroll, but she had convinced him that the artist they were going to visit was worth the extra effort.
“And anyway, it is broad daylight … It is unlikely we are going to be mugged.”
“Unlikely” had not somehow satisfied her husband but it all changed when they arrived in the studio of Yinka Shonibare.
The explosion of colours, the richness of the African fabrics he used for his sculptures stunned them. The young man in his wheelchair had welcomed them with warmth and courtesy. He had showed them around the latest creations arranged on three mannequins … period costumes in batik fabrics.
Cora had wanted to touch the material for it looked so beautiful. The artist had given her a couple of samples, leftovers from cutting out the garments. She had folded them neatly and kept them in her tiny rucksack for the rest of the trip. They must still be in Hong Kong she thought, pressed into her first diary. Inspired by the visit, she had immediately started to record the art she found so fascinating.
The towpath narrowed as she arrived at a bridge junction. Something distracted her from the memories of her parents. She felt a light pounding underneath her feet. The sound was muffled and yet distinct.
Its rhythm became more certain and the noise louder. Someone was running along the canal bank in her direction. She looked around … there was no escape. She couldn’t go back and the next set of steps ahead of her was at least half a mile away.
She started running. Her injured foot pleaded for her to stop but she pushed against the pain. The cold air had started burning her lungs as she accelerated the pace.
“Hey … hang on …” she shouted at the top of her voice. Her eyes were watering as the icy wind slapped her face. “Wait … please …”
She waved her arms, and the narrow
