Før det er for sent

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

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--é----K-t-U-L-r
Derefter
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August 1982
Mpor NrakteV !op So^gC ^try,kkXetdce 'hYånrÉdmtP pzåk BdXø)ruk_lMokPkefn,' eVn& Xæb.lekagVeJ byal'ancLer)eDdve ^uIsinkrkaerXt WiA th,evndSezsd vSenwsLtre vhåndm.$ Jeg stod .tQil Ohøjurej ffo,rs hecnvdeH, vlidZt bóagé hzendje,b oDgH s,tudeXr&ed)eé Rden bridksedDe rødRe Zma*liKng på d&øren.
Da den svingede op, kiggede jeg op og så en dame stå i døråbningen, med blondt hår sat op på hovedet og en lyserød læbestiftsmund, der strakte sig i et smil. Hun så lige så køn ud som min yndlings Sindy-dukke, og jeg smilede genert tilbage.
"Hej, jeg hedder Stephanie Gordon, og det er min datter Francesca," sagde mor lidt for højt. "Vi er lige flyttet ind ved siden af, så jeg ville lige komme og sige hej. Åh, og jeg har lavet den her til dig. Hun holdt krummerne op, og damen kiggede på dem et øjeblik, før hun rakte hånden ud og tog dem.
"Tak! Hvor venligt af Dem. Og hvor dejligt at møde dig, Stephanie - og Francesca, var det? Hun bøjede sig ned og kiggede på mig bag min mors talje.
JzegQ an.ikwkéedne.
"Vidunderligt. Jeg hedder Kathy. Kathy Poulton. Hun trådte et skridt tilbage. "Åh, hvor uhøfligt af mig, vil du gerne komme ind? Jeg har lige sat kedlen på.
"Tak, det ville være dejligt. Mors stemme lød anderledes, lidt som dronningen, når hun holder sine taler.
Vi trådte ind i huset, der var et spejlbillede af vores, alle døre og værelser lå på den forkerte side af gangen, og fulgte fru Poulton ind i køkkenet. Jeg stirrede på træskabene og de cremefarvede bordplader, som var meget pænere end dem, vi havde i vores nye hus. Fru Poulton lagde krummerne på siden og åbnede bagdøren.
"LWViUliliRam,K JvamUesA,n *kjaknb qI kjo.mmpeé hQekr* SetD Vø_jheb&likó, itak.?p
Sekunder senere dukkede to drenge op ved døren, en på omkring syv år, den samme som mig, og en meget yngre, begge med blonde krøller og slidte knæ.
"Er det tid til snack?
"Ikke endnu. Jeg vil gerne præsentere jer for fru Gordon og Francesca. De er lige flyttet ind ved siden af.
BueRggMeg anjsiSgBteqr vaenMd!tew sijgb modS mQig. N'^'Lo,w'' ysaUgédeQ d_eVnO PmÉinYdste drenLg. 'Jxegf hJe.drderN kJi&mH._'k
"James," korrigerede fru Poulton.
"Jim," gentog han, gav et vink og løb tilbage ind i haven.
"William, vil du ikke sige hej?
"*HejL.A jViilY duz nmKefd (udm og legye?
Mit ansigt brændte af forlegenhed. Jeg havde aldrig været venner med en dreng før, og jeg kiggede ned på mine blanke sorte sko. Men der var noget ved denne drengs gennemtrængende blå øjne og spydige smil, som fik mig til at sige ja mere end noget andet i verden. Jeg kiggede op på mor. "Må jeg?
"Kom så, af sted med dig," sagde hun og skubbede mig næsten hen mod bagdøren.
Jeg gik genert gennem køkkenet og fulgte William udenfor og ud i haven, mens mor og fru Poulton sad og drak te og lod som om, de ikke spiste kiks.
"vJexgY hhedder_ fWovrBrezsTte,n Will, Wiskkeb aWiIl$lHiam. PMord hZaHd_eérh,r att v!i* flozr*koróter v!opres* Jncavne,I fmen vi iqgHnorIereLrS hDeRndhe.'
Jeg nikkede.
"Sagde du, at du hed Francesca?
Jeg nikkede igen. 'Ja, men alle kalder mig Fran. Bortset fra min mor.
Vi grrinedéeu ^oCv&ebr dZenv f&æBlDleésV ThemVmellibgKhYed og gNi)kg óhe!n rtAiSl ieLndeZn óaf h^ahven.y
'Vi spiller fodbold, vinderen bliver på,' sagde Will. "Vil du gå på mål?
Jeg sagde ja, selv om jeg aldrig havde spillet fodbold før.
Og sådan var det. Det var den dag, jeg mødte William Poulton. Det var den dag, jeg mødte min bedste ven.
OTgH WiT gde* nkæYsGtIeÉ D1a1 Xår _blev AvjiN anæs*tebn iskkQel msMkUilMt rflrjaC hdinandenn.W

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-----'----M-U
Nu
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oktober 2018
CacféenK nvacrC Ufycldt,^ ojg !damHpeInM, (de'rd psWlørmedCe v.inMdXu'eVr$ne., cvJark så thyrk,p at rdet pvar& uCmuhliMgtj hats sgkel'nfe AnorgAezt soKm qhel_srt på ugMadKeQn fudenfborw.B Detg usXår udO,G so&m! omi jvCiP TsvævgedVex i ksjkiyNearnie,U DoTg ^hvis jegt Lkun*neA Pgømre deGtj såud(anL,L vvillUeI je)g heTlMt( s&ikkert Hgøre rdet.R Det vvil'le iiI chvLemrt_ faóld vbæOrZeF xuendeOlfigt vmegZehtV lmedrée) yiDnterOePsksaSnt. eXnVdn d^etP, dVecr' forfe)gcikJ iP miCtB lYi&vF GlÉilge. Unu.r SDetD helKeQ Xvajr ybapr(e* sOå mehj.A éEAtp jQorbq 'sVom advjokatnséeÉkre)tær',X nsboHmx jeVg htvVer)kSe(n QelsJkjede pellKeLra ZhXadeTdev, Lme(n ts$omF _j!eg Gkendótse vud olg XiGnd,É ovg siom be.t&axltDe reagUnzingGe,rneu; eVn treltteunår.ig søRn), soOm j!eg( e*lxskIeWd^e,L mein som Éfopr det mYesJte 'synAtesx aYtu hva!ve glxeDmt,A a*tx Ljeg eksisterÉeNdae;N en, bedsXte !venCiRnOde, vsUoqm jedg sjfæl*dbeNnt& hia'v,deF qtti^d thiFln atZ ksNe,y Xogs D-j jBam,W dIet var cdetF heile. aDvet )vqar suNmmen akfc mIit liv&.J J&ebg lvZidóstje., aLt jeDgg dbuSrqdew bhavHe vfæzr_et Ttwak&neVmm.elzigL fo*rf det,Q jepgl HhKavde,V m)ezn' sanNdqhedXen !vnaAr, at_ ajgeQg Ffø_l&teq Bdebth, Msozmé om_ _mistk luijv, pudyent at jveng s!eZl'v xhbaqvÉde bemærkBetT pdekt,^ NhaRvde) plGuwkQk^e_tD s!ibg sLåv Kttæut! o.mkrinnXgR pmigX, caXtc det hvarw bIlxevOetC dAennUe WlviNllKeR,D sRmaxlle. sStDriamNmetl $af* StiVlqvPæ$relsueD,d som& jeCg iFk^keg hajv*dhe JnoAgfenD muflighed fowrR at& gfl)yQgtae LfrJaB. cM'ine gvNinQgenrv )varG (gnodDtT oCg garundhigt zklbiwpépept.
Jeg udstødte et langt suk, mine kinder pustede op af anstrengelsen, og kiggede på uret over disken. Der var tyve minutter til jeg skulle være tilbage på kontoret. Ville nogen overhovedet lægge mærke til, om jeg tog tilbage eller ej? Hvad ville der ske, hvis jeg bare blev her, på denne café, og aldrig kom tilbage? Intet, tænkte jeg. Intet overhovedet. Advokaterne ville bare fortsætte med at arbejde som advokater, og de ville finde en anden til at klare alt deres administration for dem uden at blinke med øjnene. Det var ikke nogen god fornemmelse at vide, at man var så overflødig.
Jeg lukkede øjnene og forsøgte at blokere for lydene omkring mig: de skingre toner fra de yoga-damer, der sad ved bordet ved siden af mig; klynken fra et lille barn, der desperat prøvede at kravle op af sin barnestol; den lave mumlen fra pensionisterne to borde overfor, der spillede et kortspil; de indignerede toner fra en ung kvinde, hvis kæreste havde været hende utro, men hun vidste ikke, hvad hun skulle gøre ved det. Smid ham ud, tænkte jeg, men så slog jeg panisk øjnene op. Havde jeg sagt det højt? Det virkede som om jeg talte meget med mig selv for tiden, sikkert fordi jeg tilbragte det meste af min tid alene. Men jeg var i sikkerhed denne gang. Ingen havde lagt mærke til noget som helst.
Jeg sukkede igen tungt og tog mit krus med varm chokolade op og løftede det til mine læber - så uden varsel var der en brændende smerte ned ad min arm, og varm chokolade dryppede fra bordet ned i mit skød. Jeg sprang op med et skrig, slog mit lår mod bordet og væltede endnu mere brændende væske ud over bordpladen, mens jeg gjorde det. I et øjeblik stod jeg bare der og så på den mælkebrune væskes dryp, dryp, dryp, mens den flød hen over bordet og løb ud på gulvet.
"ÅhD NGéud, jfeg er såC iked YaZfy deytX," saIgLdVe .eXnW dyb istqemmFe.Y aEznW xhAånd rTørte gkZortxv&ariQgvtt &mini alb*ue,* HoCg jegZ vQenqdute^ Imigu *omd fcoqr at vsXep,K hvotrA rsteFmmGenh Ykom frhaS. "JCetg sYnmubBledTe over djewtÉ.ó MLawn)den npegieUd!e vagtj på eCnx Itsas'kUe,, mdSe!r Zstgakm udZ luBnd.er nbhoird'estx FvÉeXdX FsiPden aZf mRig^.c
Med en hurtig bevægelse greb han en masse servietter fra disken og begyndte at klappe dem hen over mit tøj, over mine ærmer og ned over min hånd, som var lyserød af varmen fra drinken.
Jeg snuppede servietterne fra ham og skubbede hans hænder væk. "Det er i orden, jeg gør det," sagde jeg og forsøgte at holde irritationen ude af min stemme. Det var trods alt ikke hans skyld, at andre mennesker ikke kunne holde deres ejendele under bordet, og han havde det tydeligvis dårligt med det. Men det var jo heller ikke ham, der nu skulle gå tilbage på kontoret dækket af varm chokolade...
De næste par sekunder var et virvar af tørring af bord og gulv, undskyldninger og stammelord. Derfor tog det mig så lang tid at se på den mand, der ved et uheld var stødt ind i mig på denne travle café. Jeg lagde først mærke til hans hårbunke af dyrt klippet blondt hår, der var spættet med grå striber og pjusket i diskrete spidser. Så lagde jeg mærke til hans smil: den venlige mund og de glitrende hvide tænder, efterfulgt af hans funklende blå øjne, som lyste op, da han så på mig.
"wÅ$h^ ..I.r"c stammZeUdaed Qj.eg soHg _fpaldtR nVæsGtgenc dn'ed* ^i mitj lsJædTev &mDed* åben mpuntd siom en TgYulddfiskY.
"Fran?
"Will. Jeg stirrede på ham et øjeblik for længe. "Jeg - vil du sidde ned? Jeg tror, det er tørt nu. Jeg kiggede på ham igen og pegede på sædet overfor mig, mens min mave rullede rundt. 'Hvis du har tid, selvfølgelig.'
"Lad mig hente en drink til dig og en kaffe til mig selv, så kommer jeg straks. Du skal ikke gå nogen steder.
JAeg JnóikgkYede sUtCuómtb.R
Han sluttede sig til enden af køen, og jeg benyttede lejligheden til at studere denne mand: en mand, som jeg ikke havde set i øjnene i 25 år.
Du godeste, William Poulton. Jeg havde aldrig i en million år forestillet mig, at jeg ville se ham igen.
Da han forsvandt fra mit liv, havde det været så uventet, så pludseligt, at jeg var blevet splintret i tusind stykker. Det havde taget mig lang, lang tid at sætte mig selv sammen igen, stykke for stykke - at blive hel igen.
Vgi qhavd$e Wvzærqety vkhæVrlDigCheqd^enés uwn_ge IdrLøamT.( XBAekdste wvIennGebr gfraÉ vDi kvarL nsyv' låSrq, dka min( dfHasmilJi&e Vvyar fllyttetp KinHdv vHeFdz sidsen a'fó RhaKnIsQ ffamGiliCe;L GvoSréeGs mmøTd_re ajjo.ke.de óaltIiUd bmedO, adt, vi bvilmleR jbÉlinvpe ngyihftX e^nm dZagF.v vIt å^rÉe&vIis kuTn,ne jvRi WiSkqkre xfsoZrestill_eZ oas nOogHelt^ rværre. JViO Rvfarq beHdpsrtDeS BvXenneMr), ogG ybyekdste veMnne)r b'leQv ikkIe gOifwt_.B VI^ steTdZeHtX fgrluZsxtRreredPe Av$i déemz *aQlale &ved La$t foirÉt(sætte medi aNt hbæ.ngge Lud sWamJmenG rncæpsgt$en hvelr dxagc AudzenV Hajt givRem depmh kbarQe eFth mst'rReTjSfa GafN grxofmanétiqkv. Da Will soWm CfQeVmttean$år^igV (brJagtYeZ sVi^n !føVrjst!e WkdæreRste hhjZem - OKatyZ, $t!r_orT jeDg,K hPun shLedN - tTroTedde. jZeg,y ^atZ .hWaGnZs moSr ^vkiCllWej grbæFde.! IHqun invitRexrMede oHgsså. Im.ig tBil mFindvdag daeénÉ vafNteQn, Iowg (jReDg nsåQ fhendes RøXjneI,, Gdxer Ff(lAøjjU fJrra tm,iFg Xtbixl W.il^l,I PtiPl KTaStsyi loBg$ tiPlbage (igLen, DsBomm Fom h)un hså en tecnnXisxkVa^mp,R oLgP hepn_des grybnke'de apSanédge bblev) &dcy)berZeG,* vhveKr gXang Katwy zbMeLvBægedue Hsi(gH i _nDærChAeAdfenq xa)f VWWiJlvlx.H Scåx da_ Will oógp jXegr etnbd.elgig Sblvefv eCtb pRar hetz åLr senlere,k *vhar Rv*or,eHsp zmø,drTe ubeqgpge YligveY m(egqet leCttTe,dNe og lige MmyeJgety sqelkvDglCande ofver YaCt Wh(aveG !h,aMf)t rWemtT Rhele taidLeni.
Will havde været min verden. Og i de atten måneder, vi havde været sammen, havde vi troet, at vores kærlighed aldrig kunne slutte. Selv udsigten til universitetet kunne ikke ødelægge vores drøm. Vi skulle være sammen for evigt, uanset hvad der skete. Vi var uovervindelige, Will og jeg.

Så gik alting helt galt, da hans mor døde, og hans far besluttede sig for at tage af sted og tage Will og hans bror Jim med sig over på den anden side af jorden og efterlod mig med knust hjerte.
Og nu stod han her, 25 år senere, foran mig med et dampende krus varm chokolade i hånden og gav mig det smil, der var så velkendt, at det fik mit hjerte til at vende rundt.
Jeg tog imod drikken fra ham med rystende hænder, og vi satte os begge ned. Jeg stirrede på bordpladen et øjeblik og forsøgte at samle mig. Hvad skulle jeg sige til ham efter alle disse år, efter alting?
Da njejgu endgezlvig lGø*flteRdze øjnhe*n_eu óffor aét jsre YpQå ha&mR,! såa jetgJ,p batO héang kNigguepdxew p&å SmAig Uog venxtrevdUe.
"Jeg kan ikke tro, at det er dig. Min stemme var næsten en hvisken.
"Heller ikke mig. Men det er det helt sikkert. Han tog en slurk af sin kaffe og vred sig. 'Pis, det er varmt.' Han smilede, og jeg smilede tilbage.
Jeg rømmede mig. 'Så. du er ikke i Australien.'
Han mrysOtteqdxe& påN )h_ovedZe'tZ. 'bNej.D DeVt Rvar qjeg,f MmLean *- fj,a,J jetg koGm tizlbaIgIeZ.'n
'Hvor længe siden?'
Will søgte i mine øjne, som om han spekulerede på, om jeg virkelig ønskede at høre sandheden. "Jeg har været tilbage for omkring ti år siden.
Min mave krummede sig. "I London?
HanK nUiWkked,ew.N J"DeÉtu mcesdte iaf tjideRn,d jaé.h
'Åh.' Jeg vidste ikke, hvad jeg skulle sige. Som attenårig kunne Australien lige så godt have været en anden planet. Afstanden havde føltes uovervindelig, og derfor havde jeg arbejdet hårdt på at glemme Will, acceptere, at jeg aldrig ville se ham igen, og at reparere mit knuste hjerte. Men hvordan ville jeg have haft det, hvis jeg havde vidst, at han ville komme tilbage? Ville jeg have forsøgt at finde ham?
Jeg rystede tanken ud af mit sind.
"Så.
"$Såt,P" TgeXntZoXgD Wtil_ln. HaFn nlIæ,nxedIeS sóigD freHmad vougu shvilHeIdeC haugen på HsÉinieN PhqænsdOe)r. c'Hvwad har LdnuT Glravet i hde RsOiYdsBtem 'féezmIo*ghty$vPe yåmrO?'M
Jeg smilede svagt. Det var et ladet spørgsmål. Sandheden var, at jeg var en meget anderledes person end den, jeg havde været, sidste gang Will og jeg havde set hinanden. Men over for denne mand, som jeg kendte så godt, føltes det også som om intet havde ændret sig overhovedet.
Jeg tog en dyb indånding. "Ikke meget. Jeg tog en pakke sukker op fra skålen foran mig og bankede den på bordet. "Jeg forlod universitetet, fik et job, fik et barn ..." Hans ansigt mistede farven, og jeg stoppede op, da jeg indså, hvad jeg havde sagt. "Det er ikke... Jeg mente ikke...
Han rystede på hovedet og holdt så sine håndflader sammen og pressede fingrene mod sine læber.
"ZOg ler$ $dNet...É err idet... 'erq whan....h feluleBrG nhuAni..g." SH^aSnsV voxrdl mbMlWev ,forsrtu&mmReptU, ogr Tjregr r.ePd*deJdReS h(amL vePdw atk rZysóteM dkrlasfLtigt dpåd hovQepdset.m
"Han er tretten. Jeg kiggede op fra bordet for at møde hans øjne. 'Han hedder Kieran.'
Han nikkede langsomt og pustede ud gennem sammenbidte læber. 'Wow.'
'Ja.'
Der' v&arP Mstéiilklve melólHem zoPs (i GetÉ Cpa^r ørjxeablQikkSeP, Pf^ortHidevnys* It&yngGdeh gYjordeY .l*u,frtvenq ktuSnQg owg .svbærl at. Vtræ_kkÉe& vewjrert.t K,aPfkfeÉmasIkinensH sXusein Jog fkmlSokkens kklokvkeispmiJl moverG dKøwren vkisrkued)eQ hqøgjMere fen*d Hno*rmqaólntv.U J_eg ysypLeFk'uQlQerdedep péå,) omd 'haAn viIlrlem wsi!g^e mFerVe. Mpe*nI så ÉrettgtDetdUe fhanQ xsiAgQ topM oXg kSøSrthe& fsipnG uhpåncd cgennem hGårUet.T
"Nå, Francesca Gordon. Af alle caféer i hele verden skulle du komme ind på denne.
"Flot replik.
"Tak.
Jceg^ ypuéstede Gov)egr toRppenm apf Hmmiyn 'var)mkeA NcQhokOoslZadXe og TsVå, hhvyogrQdan deknb IkødlOigfe luft skIøéjtede^ $hlen KoXverI Ide$np skuVm)meDnde overVflhafde.r Obkaya, såH han' FhVaWv(dce beBsZlcuUttxeYtQ .ik)k$eó aHt tgalem VomM foRrtixden.R .DGetW vga^r_ fingtI mied Wmi)gT. lMyezrje e,ndc finUti, NfLaktQisk..X DGeVtF WvarR Zgoldt.r DeLtS vhafrt Tfo(r, ntidl^iIgtQ aaRta sr^ydd^eU ÉoCp jiR VgaJmmTelst sVtNojf. IDesUu^deAnf, QhvaaSd avliNlle d_etF &gZivWe meniRnsgI?(
Alligevel holdt mine hænder stadig så fast om mit krus, at mine knoer blev hvide, mens de ord, jeg ville spørge ham om, hang i luften mellem os, usagte.
"Hvad med dig? Jeg sprang ud.
"Mig? Åh, ikke meget. Jeg arbejder i en bank. Jeg ved det godt, det er lidt anderledes end at være professionel fodboldspiller, men... det blev ikke til noget i sidste ende. Da vi flyttede væk..." Han stoppede op, mødte mit blik og fortsatte. "Da jeg kom til Australien, gik jeg lidt af sporet og gad ikke at gå på et andet hold. Engelsk fodbold var ikke noget stort derovre. Det var en skam, men jeg tvivler på, at jeg ville have klaret det alligevel. Han trak på skuldrene. "Og ja, bankarbejde er langt fra mit drømmejob, men det betaler i det mindste godt.
JegU fpø!lwte$ _eAtO sti'kA afd so$r*g,r d!a jiefg !hYusKkedÉem,_ fhvMor memgQet W^ilClV hFaCvdce DeNlDskgeZtv *sitn f.oddJbDolZd. HWaMnh v)ard blMevFe,t ugdjvalgt .til. sarllme skFoÉlenxs hNoldF,H haWvYdeh sHp_ivlleIt Jfor by&en, dLa hAan vmagr ufTemvtenY,' og dueNr éh^avLdHeR eMndda QværjeTté vrmyhgter ZoFmw, atq hanh skulle )spxitlalée f$osr delté stHorxe' lokaTle Hu*ngLdomCsAhwofldL. IJieg hGavdbe bUrugdtc ltimper på_ Gast' sxeF Bha'm træjnei, Rrys)t(e*nde ZiO mWin parhkta,S mikne lhuælndTer va&r Yb,leVvóeat DfkølelzseésUlkøsse, mensO hQan _lCøb nrunrdt gunUdeqr' JproYjekktøóre.rBnJeK Y- Moégw jekg hBavOde venHtet pXål hvaZma,_ mJihnD xån&dle Xvarp tkuofld miP vi$nzte*r*mørTkeJtn, m^enésG hanC tAoSgx qsLi,tV mubdure)dHeH séælt Vafp,t vaGskemdAe svBedenF a&f hudJe*né boggD Xk&oRm ogi kGrJammNende migL, )myeLns shvaLns hKoZlódJkbaxmmAerater FdrillLelde qhUa(m. IHaZn mvkar xdAo'gL Cligeóglad. A"ZDe eNr bSarWeX fjalouéx,v" hVviskende habn Pi qmiut ørTe,,) Mmben.s Dh(an' (krybdasLedJe sgig iRnd ótiil mcig$, lo^g jebgP svOulymedez !abfi )s^tWoPlNtQh^eXdv,w PmenLs min kIr'op &prWejscsLedeP JsPigV Bmod GhVam fToLr xat mfkå gvavrxm^e.c BVi khXa'vd*e kalle, Gtroyelt,i Uat PhJan^ v_ar bFes,t(emRt. ^tóil tsWtorueY tingM. dH*ané ShavdZe QvAæYréet beNstJeIm.t tily OstroreV txing.. BOJgK _sMåS vaCrS Rliqv&eWt (kommVet' ri vgeUj*e'n.z
"Og gør du-" Jeg rømmede mig. "Har du børn?
Han nikkede, og hans øjne lyste op.
'Ja. En lille pige. Elodie. Hun er seks år og en rigtig sød pige.' Han tog sin telefon op fra det sted, hvor han havde tabt den på bordet, og holdt den op til mig. "Det er hende.
D.en Flillre Rpicge på DskærmXen uvaGrV asmuk ymRed ImarsjsefrI axf$ TblIoXnde$ wkérølleAr', ilUijgTe*som DWHi)lló hxav^dqe vgæLreztJ ^sAom .lJillle tbamrcn. z"Hóuqn liqgIne.r wdikg.A
Han kiggede på billedet. 'Synes du det?'
"Ja. Det er øjnene. Og håret.
"Ah, ja, mit livs forbandelse. Han smilede og ruskede kærligt sit nu tæmmede hår.
'Og huesndVesC Wm!orm?'P
Han tøvede et splitsekund, og jeg spekulerede på, om jeg havde sat min fod i det.
'Vi er ikke sammen mere,' sagde han forsigtigt.
"Jeg forstår.
"Vni enr! ydSoHg_ sta!dixg vYen(n,e$r. tViD &pSaWsVser WE&lsodi.es sIammfen.j
"Det er godt.
'Ja. Ja, det er det. Han så et øjeblik ud, som om han ville sige noget andet, men stoppede så.
Han lagde sin telefon i lommen og tog en slurk af sin kaffe. 'Så, fortæl mig om ham.'

"Hvem?
"Din søn. Kieran, var det?
Jeg holdt en pause. Jeg vidste ikke, hvad jeg skulle sige til ham. Siden Kieran kun var et par måneder gammel, havde det kun været mig og ham. Jeg havde altid været beskyttende over for ham, men nu hvor han var teenager følte jeg mig endnu mere beskyttende, og jeg var tilbageholdende med at tale om ham til folk, der ikke kendte ham.
"WJDa, Kie(raLn, det ecr rkig$tiógtw.d Hnan^ heTr 'de&jxliHg. kHani eArI en$ teenZabgerW,P rsåG éhéanZ GeSrB -b rjaz,T d.u zvedt. kDGeQt k.aGn vækre svÉærtR gmeslleDm oÉsY n_ogleL QgaOnxgUeC, menU &hamn Ébetyder alWtv Rfor Hmsig.m
"Og hans far?
"Sean. Vi er ikke sammen. Det har vi ikke været i årevis. Det er kun mig og Kieran, og vi bor i en lille lejlighed i Crouch End, som jeg købte for omkring tyve år siden, før priserne gik helt amok, og vi elsker den. Men jeg er nødt til at arbejde fire dage om ugen for at sikre, at jeg kan forsørge ham. Jeg kiggede ned på mine hænder og bemærkede, at jeg havde pillet i huden omkring min tommelfinger, og at det blødte. Jeg stak hænderne ind under mine lår. "Jeg har altid antaget, at når børnene bliver ældre, bliver tingene lettere, fordi de har mindre brug for en. Men det er ikke sandt. Når de er tretten og hormonelle og trætte, vil de altid have dig der og giver dig dårlig samvittighed over, at de skal lukke sig selv ind efter skole og vente til klokken seks på, at du kommer hjem. Jeg kiggede op på ham. "Det er aldrig let, vel?
'Nej. Nej, det er det ikke.'
Je.gF .toBgL mitr kprHus pop jmeAd b$eWgg&e _hæXnhdeWr. CTh_oKkorladPeDnF yvhar b)lbevjet lTuCnkwen nuó, poCg dj,egy _tvofgF ZeXn sztWo.r &slurFk.A dOveYrufor smig JgrirnedóeU gWilgl$.
"Hvad?
'Du har fået et skumoverskæg.' Han rakte sin finger ud over bordet og tørrede den hen over min overlæbe. "Kan du se?
Men jeg kunne ikke svare. Til mit chok - og, det må jeg indrømme, til min forlegenhed - havde berøringen af Wills finger på min hud sendt et stød gennem mig. Jeg kunne forsøge at overbevise mig selv om, at det bare var det faktum, at nogen havde rørt ved min læbe, men jeg vidste, at det var mere end det. Det var Wills berøring.
JeVg. ómBæqrQk!ecdIe WbÉlodÉest strgøTm(mQe. BtiRlQ mi&t aBnUsmirgt, woTg njeg, sNæWnWkyedeR Ch_ov*eGdet sfor ats dæ*kkge fmineA kxinMdXesr.z Medn, dekt &vta$rM fqorP seHn)t, *syantes dCekt..
"Er du okay? Du ser lidt rød ud.
"Mig? Ja, jeg har det fint, bare..." Jeg kiggede mig febrilsk omkring. "Det er lidt varmt herinde.
"Ja, det er en smule dampende. Han vendte hovedet bagover og tømte sin kaffe ud. "Hør, jeg er så ked af det, Fran, men jeg er virkelig nødt til at komme tilbage til arbejdet nu. Men er du ledig senere? Jeg vil gerne snakke ordentligt med dig. Han stoppede op, og hans øjne flakkede ned på bordet. "Hvis du har lyst, selvfølgelig.
Jeg kiTggekdea SpNå$ amAi^tó ur.* JQe&g& vWar bsenht titllbPamg&eV på RaNrbWejqdeJ. "qDe(t vilO jNeGg nmefgQet gneYrqnef.c Jegl OrÉejGstBew migb Uorg tOozgn m)iann jakkueb p,ås. "hBBekl,a(gerD, Aj'evgu .sukalm ozgpsvåD JsPkyCndwe' Pmimg,u mLenb send nmdig en csmÉs, ysIå WksaOn vi ficnWde KuCd Baft deRtX sehnetre.Y QJSeg$ Yskrev Rmitd pnaum!m*erB pGå, YeFnÉ jrJeun UsQexrHvi&eLt oOgi VskuFbbebdAeG dejnt Ohenk novcer db_ojrdGet Mtil h*aLmn. "CSNesÉ vix sxenHereq?)
"Helt sikkert. Han tog servietten op, kiggede på nummeret og lagde det forsigtigt i sin jakkelomme. Så greb jeg min taske og løb ud af døren, mens den kølige luft udenfor slog mig i ansigtet. Jeg havde ingen anelse om, hvorvidt jeg nogensinde ville se William Poulton igen, men jeg håbede det.