It rained the next day. Wave after wave of liquid bullets slammed against the office window, too heavy to form the flowing drops I liked to follow as they raced one another to the bottom. As a child I placed bets in my head on which ones would win. Sometimes I thought I could influence the results, if I concentrated hard enough.
From my office, I could see the sandstone steps that led up to the solid wooden door, a physical representation of the firm’s dependability. The view gave me advance warning when clients dropped in without an appointment. Jenny would always greet them in reception, taking orders for tea and coffee while mentioning their names loud enough for each of the partners to receive a subtle alert of the imminent interruption. It wouldn’t do to keep the firm’s clients waiting, appointment or no.
The knock at the door took me by surprise. Jenny popped her head in. “John, do you have a minute? Someone here to see you.”
My face lit up. No respectable office had an ugly receptionist. But our little firm had outdone itself in this department. Jenny brightened even the darkest day with her cheerful efficiency and her knowing smile. My detached professionalism deserted me every time she looked my way.
“Good morning, Jenny. How are you today?”
She gave a wicked wink. “I’m on top of the world, as usual. Are you ready?”
It took a moment for me to remember what I needed to be ready for.
“Ah, yes, certainly. Show them in.”
But this wasn’t a client. With his hoodie down, shaved head exposed, he looked even younger than before.
“Thanks, Jenny. Close the door, will you?”
As soon as we were alone, I leaped to my feet. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He sat in a visitors chair, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Been following Facebook?”
“What does that mean? And how do you know where I work?”
He shook his head. “Come on, John. It’s the 21st century. Nobody has any secrets these days. Your home, your friends, your work, where you are at any given moment – it’s all over the internet.”
I sat down. At least he hadn’t swung his grimy Nikes onto my desk. And it would look odd if I kicked him out immediately.
“What do you want?”
“Have you been on Facebook today?”
“No. Not while I’m working.”
He reached inside his jacket and produced a grubby cellphone. He pushed a button, swiped sideways, then slid it across the desk.
“What?”
He nodded at the phone.
Reluctantly, I picked it up. Louise’s profile. Her familiar cover photo across the top of the screen.
And underneath, the latest post. “RIP Garth. I will love you forever.”
Latest in a series of emails sent to me by an old Valhalla drinking buddy. He couldn’t post them himself, for reasons that will become obvious over time. I’m publishing them here at his request, as I received them.
