Week 8: Day 50 / 08:54
Juliet is walking next to him and, as usual, she’s talking. Would she ever try to hold her words in, contain their power, so that they make her stronger? Noah can’t imagine her doing that. Everything about her is light and quick and momentary, as thoughts land she says them aloud, flicking from idea to idea, filling empty spaces. Even on a day as hot as this, Juliet hasn’t stopped talking, moving, gesticulating.
He doesn’t mind it all that much. She’s fast and funny, and besides, when she’s around, he doesn’t have to worry about the words inside his head, or the ones he struggles to say. She’s useful that way.
‘One of the things I miss about home is my cat,’ Juliet’s saying now. ‘You’d love her, Noah.’
Spit and Spot flash through Noah’s mind and he’s filled with a sudden longing to be home, to see his dogs running to meet him, tails wagging like crazy.
‘Smudge,’ Juliet’s saying now. ‘Her name is Smudge. Dumb, I know, but Lily chose it.’ Her voice softens as she mentions her sister. ‘She’s got a mark on her nose. Smudge, I mean, not Lily. A little grey smudge. Otherwise she’s black. A sleek, black, beautiful cat called Smudge. I would have called her Midnight. But I like her name now, can’t imagine calling her anything else. What about you, Noah? Do you have pets? What are their names?’
He doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t mind. He’s there to listen as she goes on (and on). He knows what she’s doing; the more she talks, the less she has to think.
They’re at his room now, and he pushes the handle (down-up-down-up-down). The door swings open.
‘Bye, Noah, see you at—’
But he’s not listening. He’s standing in the doorway, stock still.
‘What is it, Noah? What’s the matter?’
He moves into his room and looks around slowly. He turns carefully, checking everything as he moves.
Juliet’s looking around, too. ‘Noah,’ she says. ‘Why are you so freaked out?’
He can’t answer her, can’t pay her any attention. He’s still moving in a slow circle, but his eyes are darting all over his room.
He stops.
He’s facing the small table where he keeps his kettle, mugs, biscuits.
‘Noah? What’s wrong?’
He moves to the table, picks up a mug – his indigo one – and holds it for a moment. Then he carefully closes the gap between it and the navy and royal blue ones on either side. He puts the indigo mug at the end of the row. Very carefully, as if it might fall and break if he does not exercise extreme care.
‘Noah?’ Juliet’s really worried now.
Do you see? Things fall apart if you give away too much, and now—
He can’t listen. All he can do is stare at the shelf.
‘My mug,’ he finally manages to say. ‘Someone moved my mug.’