The Water Tower - Books 1-3

Chapter 1-3

Only recollections and remembrances thrive in a vacuum, after all, when there is nothing left to shut them out.

* * *

The light wasn’t flickering. It was the first thing the young man noticed, although he couldn’t quite fathom why he’d expected it to. Perhaps he’d imagined it was just a fault with the electrics; a surge in the circuit, or a fuse that had tripped. Something that could be accounted for by way of a rational explanation. But the light was steady, unrepentant; shining at the back of the shop with stability as it illuminated the room behind the counter.

Or rather, where the counter used to be, he corrected himself. It was only an empty shell now. With most of the fixtures and fittings having been wrenched out of place, the room was almost entirely devoid of character or personality, all of its familiar trappings stripped away and confined to the darkness which he himself had helped to spread. He noticed that one of the glass panels in the door was smudged with something; the result, perhaps, of an unexpected downpour or the sudden redirection of standing water from a shaken umbrella or a passing car. She used to wipe the glass down every morning, he mused. She would never have let it stay like that. She’d have said that it let the place down.

Or rather, where the counter used to beShe used to wipe the glass down every morningShe would never have let it stay like that. She’d have said that it let the place down.The young man moved to the left hand side of the door and tried to better gauge whether there was any sign of movement inside. His fingertips came to rest on the glass. His breath momentarily misted the pane, but the cloud dissipated almost as quickly as it had formed. He narrowed his eyes, but all he could see was the steady light in the back room. There was no indication of activity, no hint that anything untoward had happened there. Briefly, he considered the possibility that someone had broken in, but there was nothing to suggest forced entry – and, besides, there was nothing left to steal. Nothing but the scant few items that still remained in storage, waiting for their new home, and he couldn’t imagine a burglar rushing to load those into the back of a getaway van.

A few envelopes lay scattered on the coir mat; uncollected post that had been delivered since the shop had closed. A small pile had begun to accumulate, but he could tell the envelopes had been dispersed slightly, as if something had forced them out of their natural resting place. The brass numbers on the door still gleamed; he caught a small whisper of light in their reflection as, behind him, the sun began its descent below the horizon.

Cautiously, his fingers came to rest on the door handle. He hesitated, but he had no idea why. Was it something instinctive? Or had the culmination of the day’s events instilled a sense of security within him, hardwiring a need for safety somewhere deep inside that suppressed any of his former confidence? His hand remained there, for what felt like a long time. His face, now pressed against the glass, rotated slightly, his eyes taking in every corner of the empty shop floor. His vision wandered from the corners of the room to the handful of dusty shelves that still remained, across the empty window ledges, until finally they swept over the wide, open space where a beating, thriving business had once sustained itself. It was gone now, snuffed out of existence almost overnight. And all that was left was a steady light – not over bright, but certainly not dim – emanating from a room that should have been left to sleep in silence.

He pushed down on the handle and was surprised to find that the door swung easily open. It did so with hardly any sound; just the brush of wood against the coir mat, the slight yawn of the timbre, and the rush of stale air that rose to greet him. He stood on the lip of the entrance, a place he’d stood countless times before – from his childhood, through his adolescence, and into adulthood. It was the same spot, but it felt different this time. Nothing seemed familiar, aside from the reality of place.

Everything was still; not so much as a sound came from inside the shop. There was only the light in the back room, beckoning him forward, egging him on; calling to him somehow. But it was tinged with warning, and the uncertainty of what he might find.

callingThe young man’s fingers slipped easily from the handle. The door creaked open as far as its hinges would allow. It should have been locked, and he found himself pushing aside the questions that began clawing at his thoughts.

Maybe she’s been here. To pick something up, or to check on the place, he rationalised. Maybe she just forgot to lock up when she left.

Maybe she’s been here. To pick something up, or to check on the place. Maybe she just forgot to lock up when she leftBut he knew that wasn’t true. There was nothing to check, there was nothing to pick up, and she was too meticulous not to have locked the door after herself. Nor was there anything that would ever have invited her back. Just a mounting pile of junk mail on the mat, ready to be discarded by the new owners; the slight chips in the paintwork that would be decorated over; and the memories that hung like ghosts in the dusk. A dusk that would soon be airbrushed with a new broom.

Before long, the windows would be full again. There would be a new counter in the corner. The lights would be switched on. And some new face would stand there, greeting whoever walked through the door; smiling and welcoming, full of hope and opportunity, a curtain long since drawn on everything that had come before.

But if it wasn’t her, then…

But if it wasn’t her, then…He didn’t complete the thought. Maybe, somewhere deep in the tunnels of his mind, he knew what he’d find when he walked towards the light. Or perhaps, later, he would reconcile himself to the fact that there was no way he could have known; that no arrangement of his conscious thoughts could ever have resulted in his guessing correctly. In the moment though, he didn’t speculate; the idea didn’t even occur to him. He only knew what it wasn’t, not what it was. He tried to switch off the steadily rising voice of resistance in his subconscious and push on.

waywasn’twasThe young man stepped over the threshold of the familiar shopfront, just as he’d done a thousand times before. The shop that should have been cloaked in darkness, but wasn’t. The shop with the door that should have been locked, but wasn’t. The shop that should have been clear of anyone and anything, but wasn’t.

Empty of thought, empty of predictions, empty of purpose, he walked numbly towards the light. The thin, steady reed of light that was shining from the back room.

And the world shifted on its axis again.