Somehow a most beautiful image

Hill looks at his watch. It’s still dark outside, the wind and rain rattling the two small windows in the downstairs area of the clock tower. It’s cold. Hill is wearing an old baseball cap he found in one of his mother’s fancy-dress bags, two T-shirts on top of one another, and a cable-knit sweater that Trudy left at the house. He texted her to say that it was there, that she could collect it before she left for Australia, but she didn’t respond.

Hill looks at the taupe armchair. Ralph is sitting on it, asleep, snoring. The armchair was in one of the spare bedrooms in the house. Hill tries to remember whether his mother reupholstered it. Hill tries to remember the last conversation he had with his mother. Hill tries to remember the last conversation he had with Trudy; something about Trudy leaving her Nespresso machine with Roger as a loan until she returned from Australia. Hill lies down on the futon and looks up towards the planks of wood that constitute the ceiling. He looks at Dave on the opposite pillow, asleep. He looks at his watch. He looks up towards the planks of wood. Hill gets up from the futon and walks over to the Nespresso machine. He looks at the red and black design then runs his hand over the casing and looks at the unopened boxes of Nespresso pods next to it. He looks at his watch. Hill walks over towards the Wi-Fi router underneath the desk. The smiley face on the router is flashing. Hill picks up the router and the smiley face lights up. He puts the router on the windowsill. The smiley face stays lit. Hill looks at his watch. Everything is fine.

She’ll know, Hill thinks.

Hill walks over to the desk and sits down on the chair. He presses the MacBook touchpad, looks at a freeze frame image of a wakeboarder waving at a nearby dolphin, minimises Final Cut Pro. He moves the cursor over the Skype icon. He moves the cursor over the contacts list. He moves the cursor over Trudy Dafis. He looks at the screen and listens to the ringing noise.

No one there… hang up… oh, Hill thinks.

The call connects and Trudy’s face appears on screen. Her hair is short, blonder. Her skin is tanned, not darker necessarily, a golden colour. Trudy stares out from the screen, unblinking. She tries to say hi two or three times but breaks down in tears with each attempt, covering her mouth with one hand and her eyes with the other.

Jesus, Trudy says, finally. When did it happen?

Four days ago, Hill says.

Hill looks on as Trudy begins crying. She is clasping her arms around her chest. Hill looks at her arms. She has a small mandala tattoo on her right arm, with something written underneath that he can’t make out. She’s wearing a Casio, one of Roger’s stockpile that he gave her to help with timekeeping. Her arms are tanned and more muscular than before. She is still crying, shaking her head a little and mumbling something over and over.

I can’t hear you, Hill says.

Trudy tries to compose herself. She runs her hands through her hair and places them on the table. She clenches her jaw and nods her head. She clasps her hands tightly.

I just wish I’d been there, Trudy says, immediately starting to shake and cry again. She wipes her nose and then wipes her hand on the table in front of her.

Don’t know, Hill thinks.

Don’t say anything, Hill thinks.

Trudy is looking directly into camera, biting her bottom lip. Her arms are outstretched and she appears to be holding both sides of her laptop screen.

I just want, I don’t know, Hill, I just want—

Trudy’s voice begins to break up, her image on the screen moving erratically. Hill looks at the Wi-Fi router, the smiley face flashing. Hill gets up from the table and walks over to the small black box. He takes it down from the windowsill and places it on the floor. The smiley face lights up.

Can you hear me, are you listening, Hill? Trudy says.

Yes, my internet is bad, Hill says. I’m here. I didn’t hear any of that. Was it important?

Jesus, Hill, Trudy says, simultaneously laughing and crying.

Hill looks at his watch. Hill looks at the ceiling. Hill looks at Dave. Hill looks at Ralph. Hill looks at his running shoes. Hill looks at the wooden box underneath the clothes rail. Hill looks at the screen: Trudy is sitting bolt upright, her eyes red, her mouth open.

Hill, your fucking dad died, say something, Trudy says, the failing internet connection rendering her words a glitchy staccato.

Roger died four days ago, Hill says. I don’t know what else to say. He left me instructions on how to do everything. It’s okay.

Hill listens to the sound of ancient plumbing briefly shuddering to life, the sound of dog snores, the sound of

I remember the day you left, Hill says. Roger told me he paid for your taxi to the airport. I was so angry. Seems an absurd reaction now. Of course. I don’t know. I took Ralph to Llanddwyn the day after you left, he did a shit in the Irish Sea. Friends of yours from the beach party stood and watched him poo but they got angry with me instead. Like I had told him to do it. Of course. It’s fine, I consider Ralph my son now.

Hill listens to the sound of dog snores, the sound of a Hudl powering down, the sound of

I emailed Lucy’s parents about the ashes, Hill says. You were right, Roger was right, Ed was right, Russell Brand Instagram was right. I don’t know. Grief is a journey, self-pity a destination bleep-bleep, bloop-bloop, blah-blah. It’s true though. I hope you’re happy my friend. That’s all I can possibly say.

Hill looks towards the Wi-Fi router, the smiley face staring back towards him, empty and lifeless. He looks up at the screen, Trudy’s face and upper body frozen and heavily pixilated, silent, somehow a most beautiful image.

Hill puts the iPhone down on the table and looks at the wooden box underneath the clothes rail, a small splintering of wood on the side of the box where he prised it open with a screwdriver. The wooden box has paper and photographs inside it. The pieces of paper are carefully folded, the photographs have the date and location written on the back in blue ink. Two photographs are held together by a paperclip. In the first photograph, Hill’s mother and Roger are at a restaurant or dinner party maybe. They are sitting next to each other in the central seats of a long L-shaped table. Roger is wearing a dark suit and blue-and-white floral pattern silk tie. Hill’s mother is wearing an Asian-influenced turquoise dress. Roger is holding a glass of whisky and a cigarette. Hill’s mother is holding a glass of white wine and a cigarette. Roger is in conversation with the man sitting next to him. Hill’s mother is in conversation with the woman sitting next to her.

In the second photograph, Hill’s mother and Roger are at a restaurant or dinner party maybe. They are sitting next to each other in the central seats of a long L-shaped table. Roger is wearing a dark suit and blue-and-white floral pattern silk tie. Hill’s mother is wearing an Asian-influenced fitted turquoise dress. Roger is holding a glass of whisky and a cigarette. Hill’s mother is holding a glass of white wine and a cigarette. As the other people in the photo hold their raised their glasses and look towards the photographer, Roger and Hill’s mother look at each other, smiling and alive.

Hill minimises Skype and maximises Final Cut Pro.

Hill minimises Final Cut Pro and maximises Skype, hovering the cursor over the call button.

Hill minimises Skype, gets up from the chair, and puts on his running shoes.