Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘Grow up, Justin. It’s not him,’ Doris says sternly. ‘Start looking elsewhere. Call the dry cleaners, call the guy who delivered the muffins.’

‘I have already. They were charged to a credit card and they can’t release the owner’s details.’

‘Your life is just one big mystery. Between the Joyce woman and these mysterious deliveries, you should hire a private investigator,’ Doris responds. ‘Oh! I just remembered.’ She reaches into her pocket and hands him a piece of paper. ‘Speaking of private investigators. I got this for you. I’ve had it for a few days but didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you going on a wild-goose chase and making a fool of yourself. But seeing as you’re choosing to do that anyway, here.’

She hands him the piece of paper with Joyce’s details.

‘I called International Directory Enquiries and gave them the number of the Joyce person that showed up on Bea’s phone last week. They gave me the address that goes with it. I think it’d be a better idea to find this woman, Justin. Forget this other person. It seems very odd behaviour to me. Who knows who’s sending you these notes? Concentrate on the woman; a nice healthy relationship is what you need.’

He barely reads the page before putting it in his jacket pocket, totally uninterested, his mind elsewhere.

‘You just jump from one woman to another, don’t you?’ Doris studies him.

‘Hey, it could be the Joyce woman that’s sending the messages,’ Al pipes up.

Doris and Justin both look at him and roll their eyes.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Al,’ Justin dismisses him. ‘I met her in a hair salon. Anyway, who says it’s a woman that’s doing this?’

‘Well, it’s obvious,’ Al replies. ‘Because you were given a muffin basket .’ He scrunches up his nose. ‘Only a woman would think of sending a muffin basket. Or a gay guy. And whoever it is, he or she – or maybe it’s a hes he – they know how to do calligraphy, which further backs up my theory. Woman, gay guy or tranny,’ he sums up.

‘ I was the one who thought of the muffin basket!’ Justin puffs. ‘ And I do calligraphy.’

‘Yeah, like I said. Woman, gay guy or tranny,’ he grins.

Justin throws his hands up in exasperation and falls back in his chair. ‘You two are no help.’

‘Hey, I know who could help you.’ Al sits up.

‘Who?’ Justin rests his chin on his fist, bored.

‘Vampira,’ he says spookily.

‘I’ve already asked her for help. All I could see were my blood details in the database. Nothing about who received my donation. She won’t tell me where my blood went and she won’t ever speak to me again either.’

‘On account of you running away from her after a Viking bus?’

‘That had something to do with it.’

‘Gee, Justin, you really have a beautiful way with women.’

‘Well, at least somebody thinks I’m doing something right.’ He stares at the two cards he’s placed in the centre of the table.

Who are you?

‘You don’t have to ask Sarah straight out. Maybe you could snoop around a bit in her office,’ Al gets excited.

‘No, that would be wrong,’ Justin says unconvincingly. ‘I could get into trouble. I could get her into trouble and, besides, I’ve treated her so badly.’

‘So a really lovely thing to do,’ Doris says slyly, ‘would be to drop by her office, and tell her you’re sorry. As a friend.’

A smile slowly creeps onto each of their faces.

‘But can you take a day off work next week, to go to Dublin?’ Doris asks, breaking their evil moment.

‘I’ve already accepted an invitation from the National Gallery in Dublin to give a talk on Terborch’s Woman Writing a Letter ,’ Justin says excitedly.

‘What’s the painting of?’ Al asks.

‘A woman writing a letter, Sherlock,’ Doris snorts.

‘What a boring story.’ Al scrunches up his nose. Then he and Doris settle down and watch as Justin reads the notes over and over, hoping to decipher a hidden code.

‘ Man Reading a Note ,’ Al says rather grandly, ‘Discuss.’

He and Doris crack up again as Justin exits the room.

‘Hey, where are you going?’

‘Man booking a flight,’ he winks.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

At seven fifteen the next morning, just before Justin leaves his flat for work, he stands poised at the front door, hand on the door handle.

‘Justin, where’s Al? He wasn’t in bed when I woke up.’ Doris shuffles out of her bedroom in her slippers and robe. ‘What on earth are you doing now, you funny little man?’

Justin holds a finger to his lips, hushing her, and jerks his head in the direction of the door.

‘Is the blood person out there?’ she whispers excitedly, kicking off her slippers and tiptoeing like a cartoon character, to join him at the door.

He nods excitedly.

They press their ears up against the door and Doris’s eyes widen. ‘ I can hear! ’ she mouths.

‘OK, on three,’ he whispers and they mouth together, One, two —He pulls the door open with full force. ‘HA! Gotcha!’ he shouts, striking an attacker’s pose and pointing his finger with more aggression than intended.

‘Aaaah!’ the postman screams with fright, dropping envelopes by Justin’s feet. He fires a package at Justin and holds another parcel by his head in defence.

‘Aaaah!’ Doris shouts.

Justin doubles over as the package hits between his legs. He falls to his knees, his face turning red as he gasps for air.

They all hold their chests, panting.

The postman remains cowered, his knees bent, his head covered by a package.

‘Justin,’ Doris picks up an envelope and hits Justin across the arm, ‘you idiot! It’s the postman.’

‘Yes,’ he rasps, and makes choking sounds. ‘I can see that now.’ He takes a moment to compose himself. ‘It’s OK, sir, you can lower your package now. I’m sorry to have frightened you.’

The postman slowly lowers the parcel, fear and confusion in his eyes. ‘What was that about?’

‘I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry, I was expecting … something else.’ He looks to the envelopes on the floor. Bills. ‘Is there nothing else for me?’

His left arm starts to niggle at him again. Tingling as though a mosquito has bitten him. He starts to scratch. Lightly at first and then he pats his inner elbow, smacking the itch away. The tingling becomes more intense and he digs his nail into his skin, scratching over and over. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead.

The postman shakes his head and starts to back away.

‘Did nobody give you anything to deliver to me?’ He climbs back to his feet and moves closer, unintentionally appearing threatening.

‘No, I said no.’ The postman rushes up the steps.

Justin looks after him, confused.

‘Leave the man alone. You almost gave him a heart attack.’ Doris continues picking up the envelopes. ‘If you have that reaction to the real person, then you’ll scare them off too. If you ever do meet this person, I advise you rethink the “Ha! Gotcha!” routine.’

Justin pulls up the sleeve of his shirt and examines his arm, expecting to find red lumps or a rash, but there are no marks on his skin apart from the scratch marks he has made himself.

‘Are you on something?’ Doris narrows her eyes.

‘No!’

She shuffles back into the kitchen with a harrumphing sound. ‘Al?’ her voice echoes around the kitchen. ‘Where are you?’

‘Help! Help me! Someone!’

In the distance they hear Al’s voice, muffled as though his mouth is stuffed with socks.

Doris gasps, ‘Baby?’ Justin hears the fridge door opening. ‘Al?’ She sticks her head in the fridge. She returns to the living room, shaking her head, alterting Justin to the fact that her husband was not in the fridge after all.