Page 95 of The Society of Unknowable Objects
Magda scrambled to her feet and stumbled across to Frank, dropping down next to him on the bed of fading flowers.
“Frank!” she pleaded, shaking him. She was aware of Henrietta crouching down opposite her, next to James. Frank gave no response.
Magda watched Henrietta feel for a pulse and then put her head to his thin chest. Will stood awkwardly behind her, shifting from one foot to the other. The waves of rats thinned around them as the creatures scurried out into the night. Magda heard screams that sounded far away, the wail of sirens, and the patter of rain becoming noisier as the roof that had sheltered them receded and collapsed.
“Frank!” Magda wailed, the tears in her eyes blurring her vision.
Henrietta slumped backwards, supporting her weight on one hand. “He’s gone.”
No, he’s not! That can’t be! I refuse!
Magda shook Frank again, feeling she was shaking something weightless and empty. “Frank, wake up!” His head flopped to the side. “Do CPR or something!” She glared at Henrietta. “Do something, Henry!”
“Do what?” Henrietta asked quietly, gently. She stared at Frank, then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “He’s gone. Nothing will change that now.”
Magda hated Henrietta in that moment, for being so callous as to tell the plain truth, for being so accepting of the fact of Frank’s death.
She never liked Frank. She’s probably glad he’s gone.
“You could use the crucifix,” James suggested, and Magda’s mind seized on that idea like a starving man grabbing a loaf of bread. She glanced over to the Impossible Box. Lukas had been wearing it when he had gone into the box.
But maybe you could take it out, just the crucifix by itself? Leave Lukas where he is and just retrieve the cross?
She bit her lip, remembering Alabama, the thing that had been her mother.
“Surely the last thing we need is more magic right now?” Will said. He sounded exhausted. “Magda, please, when will it be enough?”
Magda looked at Will. Even through her tears she saw that he cut a forlorn shape. Dishevelled, so unlike him, soaked with rain, the knees of his trousers stained with dirt. His eyes begged her not to do anything stupid, and she knew he was right. She knew there was no way she would use the crucifix to bring Frank back. There was no way Frank would ever forgive her.
Henrietta leaned over and clasped Magda’s hands in her own, staring deep into her eyes.
“He’s gone,” she said.
“He died because of me!” Magda lamented.
“No,” Henrietta answered, smiling at her, even though Magda saw tears brimming in the other woman’s eyes. “No, he did not. You know that’s just grief and sadness getting together and making up stories.”
Magda stared at Frank’s lifeless form, raindrops dotting his face.
It’s amazing how quickly the magic of life vanishes. It’s amazing how something so full, something brimming with emotions and experiences and opinions, how swiftly and silently it empties.
“What will I do without you, Frank?” Magda asked him, but he wasn’t there to answer.
She slumped down onto the road amongst the debris and dead flowers, seeing the faces of onlookers down the street, feeling the rain on her face.
She reached across and held Frank’s hand and felt the tears coming fully, the sobs racking her body. Everything hurt, every joint and limb, her heart and her soul. She felt James moving around to sit next to her and hold her. And then Will sat down on the kerb and stared off into space, hands clasped between his knees.
And Magda kept crying, for a while, as the streets became busy with people and chatter and eventually blue lights, swirling in the damp air.
Things That Start Again
Ten days after the death of Frank Simpson, Magda, Will, Henrietta, and James were together in Bell Street Books once more. They had attended the funeral and the cremation at the West London Crematorium and then had returned to Marylebone together, travelling in silence in the back of a black cab, all of them dressed for the occasion in sombre black.
The streets of London had returned to something like normal, but there was still evidence to be found of that night of mayhem: stray rose petals and branches lying along kerbs, rotting orange sunflowers and damage to buildings and vehicles, even rats scuttling down side streets and gathering around rubbish bins. The postmortem of all that had gone on was still underway in the media. In the numb days after Frank’s death Magda had let some of it wash over her: the television specials and the newspaper cover photos, stories from people who had survived the sudden explosions of plants and flowers across the city. There were conspiracy theories about government experiments and suggestions of the natural world fighting back against humanity. There were experts who knew nothing and police spokespeople and eyewitnesses and promises of government investigations. All of it amounted to a lot of speculation and not much insight. And now, days later, London continued about itsbusiness, people going to work, people meeting for drinks and meals. What else could they do?
When Magda and the others reached Bell Street Books, they trouped up to Frank’s apartment and into his living room. They stood at the kitchen counter as Magda poured them each a glass of whisky.
“Toast,” she instructed, and they all lifted a glass, even Will, whom Magda had expected to complain about not liking whisky. But he said nothing, he just held the glass against his chest and watched Magda, waiting. “To Frank,” Magda said, lifting her glass. She swallowed down the drink and almost gagged on the taste. “God, I hate whisky,” she muttered, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
