Page 15 of Undefined Terms

Can’t undo it. Can’t pretend my head didn’t go where it went.

The phone, the screen’s gone dark, I press it. The message is still there. You’re in the novel. I promoted you to structural engineer.

I should reply. Something a normal person says when someone puts them in a book. Cheers or nice one or hope he’s good looking.

I type: Better pay than site manager?

Send.

Three dots, Celyn’s typing.

Marginally. But you get killed by the house in chapter six so it’s short-lived.

I stare at the screen. My hand, thirty seconds ago.

Spoiler, I type.

You’ll survive. I need you for chapter seven.

The dots again, then:

Night, Ronan

The R, the soft R. Even in text I hear it. The Welsh pulling the letter somewhere it doesn’t usually go.

Night, I type, don’t add the name, don’t know why.

The phone goes dark.

I put it on the bedside table, face down. The screen glows through the case, blue, then black.

The flat on Tib Street, twelve-month contract. Close to the site and close to a bar and now I’ve got a phone number and a message thread and a profile photo I just saved.

I pull the duvet up. The sheets need washing already. My fault.

The ceiling, new ceiling, still white. Still nothing to look at.

The message on the phone. I need you for chapter seven.

The nail in the wall with nothing on it.

Twelve months.

CHAPTER THREE

Celyn’s not here. Every night this week, every night, the corner table, the laptop, the mug with the tag hanging over the rim. Tonight the table’s empty and the laptop bag isn’t hooked on the chair and I’m sat looking at a table like it owes me something.

I check my phone, nothing. The last message, Night, Ronan, two days ago. I haven’t sent anything since. Don’t know what I’d say. You about tonight? Sounds needy. Pint? Sounds normal. That’s the problem. It isn’t.

I drink half the pint, order a second. The door opens on a couple, not Celyn. The door opens on a bloke on his own, not Celyn. The door.

The door.

Different tonight, all of it.

A dress, dark green, stops above the knee. The hair’s down, loose, moving when the head turns. The lips are red, proper red, not the dark colour from the other night. And the eyes have got more on them. The whole face is arranged, like it was done on purpose.

Celyn crosses the bar and I watch the legs move and the dress move with them and the boots click on the floor and there’s a chain at the throat, silver, thin, catching the light. And the nails, not orange anymore. Bright red, same as the mouth.