Wide Open. Nicola Barker

never met before,’ she murmured. ‘I’m me. I’m Sara.’

      And then, as if to contradict everything, a wild laugh flew out of her, so quickly, so unexpectedly, that it had filled each and every corner of the room before her own slow hand could move to mask her lips.

      9

      Jim found Ronny on the beach. Ronny was surrounded by several large piles of shells. It was six a.m.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      Ronny was engrossed. He spoke slowly. ‘You know, one minute I was just sitting here, watching the sea, and the next I was sorting out these shells.’

      ‘Sorting them? What for?’

      ‘Into families. Into colours.’

      Jim sat down. He took one shell from one of the piles and one from another. He held them next to each other. ‘I see no difference.’

      Ronny inspected Jim’s two shells. ‘Then you aren’t looking.’

      Jim put the shells back down. ‘So what will you do with them once they’re all sorted?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Perhaps you could create something.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘People cover wine bottles in them. Or they make shell frogs or shell dolls in shell dresses.’

      Jim watched as Ronny picked up the two shells he had just put down.

      Ronny displayed them to him. ‘You put these back on the wrong piles. Couldn’t you tell?’

      Jim focused on the shells again. Ronny held them in his left palm. Jim noted, once more, that Ronny’s fingers were strangely waxy at their tips, but also that his wrist had been lacerated. Scars as thick as pale maggots, long scars, nosed out from the dark shelter of his cardigan.

      ‘Maybe there is a difference,’ he said, in a spirit of compromise, although if there was then it was so slight that he could hardly detect it. Ronny nodded, gratified.

      The squeal of seagulls alerted Jim to the arrival of a woman and a man on a distant section of the beach. They were disrobing. Jim observed them, unobtrusively, from the corner of his eye. Ronny continued to sort the shells, oblivious. The couple undressed completely and then ran into the sea. The cold made the woman yell and the man laugh. Ronny looked up.

      ‘Are they naked?’

      ‘That’s the nudist beach. There’s a sign over there to say exactly where the nudist zone begins and ends.’

      ‘Ah,’ Ronny peered over. ‘I was wondering what that said.’

      ‘Why?’ Jim picked up a random shell and placed it gently on to one of Ronny’s piles. ‘Can’t you read?’

      ‘I can read,’ Ronny said, carefully removing the shell and placing it on to another pile. ‘It’s just that I prefer to read only certain types of lettering.’

      ‘Certain types?’

      ‘I met someone once who worked in printing and graphics. She told me how there were certain kinds of letters that made you feel happy.’ He looked into Jim’s face. ‘You think that’s reasonable?’

      ‘I don’t know. I’m not an expert on lettering.’

      ‘Well, there’s a particular kind of lettering that’s apparently very friendly. And because of the shape of the letters – their roundness, their whole design – they can’t help but make you feel cheerful when you read them. They use them a lot in adverts to make people feel good about certain products.’

      ‘I never knew that.’

      Jim was fanning at the beach with his hand, shifting shells aside and revealing the sand below.

      ‘How about,’ Ronny said, ‘you clear a space about as big as a table and then I lay out my shells on it.’

      ‘Like a picture?’

      ‘No,’ Ronny spoke gently, but very seriously, ‘not like a picture, like a table.’

      Jim sensed something contract. His face. His mouth. His chest. He felt a dart of panic. Was it a sickness? Then he realized that he was not in pain. It was not uncomfortable. It was simply a smile. A smile. He was smiling. It was nothing to worry about.

      It was a real smile and it had started off from somewhere deep down inside him, somewhere numb next to his breast-bone. He tentatively touched the spot where the smile came from with his index finger as he shifted forward, clumsily, to clear a patch on the beach. It was all very sudden and rather peculiar. He looked around him, squinting, like he was all at sea in familiar territory.

      10

      Nathan had received three letters and he hadn’t responded to any of them. The first came from the authorities, the second from a lawyer, and the third was from a young woman whose name he did not recognize. Connie. An old-fashioned name. It made him think of lavender and starch and thimbles. But her writing was bold, and her demands – which she clearly thought reasonable – struck Nathan as entirely unfeasible. So that was that.

      Each time Nathan received one of these letters, he took it to work and secreted it into a special file, a private file that nobody else ever accessed. He didn’t stop and think about why he had done this. Why did he take something so personal from his own private arena and carry it, so brazenly, into such a public one?

      Possibly he did it to avoid a confrontation with Margery. In some respects, where information was concerned, where the past was concerned, she was his enemy, she was his inquisitor, his conscience. He had allowed her to enter his home, his life, his bed. But he would not offer her a window into his past. His past was a graveyard that he did not visit. His past was a cemetery full of dirt. Nothing lived there.

      The letters found a home in Nathan’s Lost Property Kingdom. In his quiet folder they found an appropriate, a gentle and unobtrusive resting place. They snuggled comfortably up against pictures and scraps and other fragments. They had been opened, digested, closed again. They had offered up their information. They had made requests – unfulfilled – but that was not their responsibility. Like butterflies, they had spread their wings – all gaudy glory – and then they had softly closed them. That had to be enough.

      The letters referred to a lost friend, a lost soul. They concerned a stranger whom Nathan had once known. But they had no bearing, now, on anything. That part of his life was gone, was lost. It was so private that it was not even private any more. And that should have been an end to it. But like a child with a scab Nathan felt compelled to pick, to poke, to ponder. He nudged at the scab but he refused to contemplate the wound just under. He came back to the file; once, twice, many times. He couldn’t drop it.

      And then he did drop it. He was discovered, one night, after hours, paging through this private document. It had slipped, it had fallen. Its contents were exhumed. They looked curious in bright light. The letters, the photographs; polaroids, mainly.

      ‘Isn’t it funny,’ Laura had said, squatting down to help Nathan gather up his past, scooping up his secrets, his life, ‘the things people leave behind?’

      Nathan had nodded. He’d muttered something. But he’d been flustered. He had given himself away. He sensed it. And he simply hadn’t felt right with Laura after that. In fact he felt wide open. A moth with its wings pinned, under the microscope. A girl with her legs spread, no knickers.

      And Margery would have said, ‘Has it ever occurred to you that you might actually have wanted to be discovered? Have you even considered that possibility, Nathan?’

      Margery would have said that. So he didn’t mention it to Margery. He didn’t mention the letters. And when the girl arrived, out of the blue, he didn’t mention her either. She called herself Connie.

      ‘You know what Connie’s