Page 53 of The White Octopus Hotel
“No, I believed you but…It’s strange, that’s all, seeing it like this. What happened? That night on the roof?”
Max put his hands in his pockets, shrugged slightly. “I got it into my head to jump, that’s all.”
Eve thought of that dark day on the motorway, the grit and the spray and the sickening urge to put an end to it.
“And how did I stop you?” she asked quietly.
“Well, you were there, and you talked some sense, and you were a…a hand in the dark. Sometimes that’s all it takes.” He glanced at her. “There were tentacles too.”
Eve looked away, felt a flush creeping over her skin. What did he mean? What had he seen? She couldn’t quite bear to ask. Then her eye fell on a figure in the photo, stood in shadow in the doorway just behind Eve and Max. It was impossible to make him out in any detail.
“Who’s that?” she asked, pointing.
Max leaned a little closer to get a better look. “I don’t know. I didn’t realise there was anyone there at the time. Nikolas Roth, perhaps? I can’t think who else it would have been. He never spoke to any of us, but we were aware of him lurking in the shadows sometimes. We always got the impression that he didn’t much care for the servicemen, that he would have preferred it if we’d never come to his hotel at all….”
I should say something,Eve thought.I should tell him that Iwant the writing paper, and why, and what it might mean for him if I succeed. It’s what a decent woman would do….
“Listen,” Max said. “There were…some things about that time that I got wrong. With you. When I first arrived at the hotel I…I wasn’t myself. Shell shock, they called it. You helped me and I’ll always be grateful to you for that, but there was a…a misunderstanding between us.”
Eve narrowed her eyes. “What sort of misunderstanding?”
He opened his mouth, but words appeared to fail him. After a moment, he clamped his jaw shut, but the expression on his face made a sudden chill touch Eve’s blood.
“You said we were friends,” she pointed out.
“Yes. But friends hurt each other sometimes,” Max said, avoiding her gaze. “That’s why we’re all better off alone, in the end.”
Chapter 35
Max—The White Octopus Hotel, 1918
He was in the dugout with Thomas and they were looking for a particular record—“Frog Legs Rag”—and Max didn’t notice that Thomas had picked up one of his notebooks and was flipping through the pages until he went completely still.
“Didyouwrite this?”
“What?” Max’s eyes fell upon the notebook. It was filled with compositions he was working on, had been working on for quite a while, but he’d never shown them to anyone. He flushed, knowing that Thomas could read music. “Yes, but I mean, obviously, they’re not finished yet and—”
“Everly!” Thomas was staring at him with the oddest expression. Were the songs really that bad? With a shake of his head, Thomas held the notebook out to him. “My dear fellow,” he said quietly. “You’re going to be one of the greatest composers this world has ever seen.”
Max laughed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know about that.”
He reached out, but it was no longer a book in Thomas’s hand, it was a grenade. His friend’s eyes slid slowly to his. “It’s my last time over the top,” he whispered.
And then the bomb exploded.
Max woke up screaming and it took a while before he realised where he was and with whom.
“Come with me,” Eve said quietly.
It was the middle of the night and she led him down a maze of corridors and staircases until they reached the deserted lobby of the hotel. It was past midnight. There wasn’t a soul around and the only illumination came from a row of candles glowing in their silver holders atop the grand piano in the corner, making it seem as if the instrument shone beneath a spotlight.
“Sit.” Eve indicated the piano stool. “It’s hard to know what’s real sometimes when there are so many ghosts crowding the room. But music makes everyone less afraid—even ghosts.”
It had been such a long time since Max’s hands had touched piano keys. On the last occasion he’d seen a piano there had been blood and bombs. He found himself telling Eve what had happened to Captain Young and was grateful when she didn’t say anything. There were no words that could possibly be suitable, but the touch of her hand on his shoulder reminded him that he wasn’t entirely alone in this moment. He glanced at her spotless nurse’s uniform, and it was a relief to see someone unmarked by the gore and gas of the war.
He wanted to thank her for listening, for being there, for reminding him that there was kindness and gentleness in a world that had gone mad. Only he knew he wouldn’t be able to find the right words. For a wild moment, he thought of kissing her instead. But she was clean and whole, and he was dirty and damaged, and it could not be.
When he finally summoned the courage to open the lid of the piano keys, he wondered whether he might have forgotten how to play music altogether. The notes all seemed to jerk and jumble inside his head. But then Eve reached out and pressed down on middle C—the clear, perfect note rang through the room in such a pleasing, peaceful way that Max pressed it again. And again. Andagain. Relishing the purity of the sound before it faded softly back into nothing.
