Graham Thomas

Baby safe, I’m safe! Survived the Tsar’s apocalypse! Angeline gone! Gone! Turned to dust! Here’s what happened. Apologies first, I am so rattled and too panicked to write coherently.

Paisley’s leg is twitching. Must be dreaming. Hope it is of happier times. Playing with his master. Chewing a bone. He is a great companion. Love him dearly.

Angeline could not recall to me her life and so instead she recalled to me a dream. The smoky cataract in her ‘good eye’ cleared. She smiled. I glimpsed her wooden dentures. Around me the replicated diners and waiters went through their routines.

Night-time within the embrace of the Exxon Valdez. The woman is sleeping with her head on my lap, the bustle of her dress a maroon waterfall. Her lace collar is undone, exposing her neck. Clear sign she is comfortable. No rings on fingers. Loose ringlets in hair. Slender neck. Old and young.

Woke up a few minutes ago to sound of scraping. Sitting up on bench, huddled in coat (cushion provided no dream). Scraping was soft. Almost a slide. A note under my door! I am staring at it. Still folded under doorframe. Peeking through the edge. Paisley is fast asleep.

Door slid open effortlessly. On rails. Odd. No handle, just on rails. Only one bench inside, facing sliding door. Nobody sitting on it. Window above it. Maroon-coloured blind drawn. Picture of a tree on blind – very fine embroidery, like the ivy on the hem of sister’s dress.