In Crouch End

Giancarlo Bellini knows that big boys don't cry.  This knowledge adds shame to his burden of despair as he sits weeping in the kitchen of his father's house in Crouch End.

Upstairs, his father lies in bed.  He is dying.

Giancarlo dries his eyes on a paper towel and makes two cups of strong coffee.  He takes them upstairs to his father's bedroom and knocks on the door.  Not waiting for an answer, he takes the coffee in and hands a cup to his father. 

Giovanni Bellini is barely forty-five years old, but he looks like an old man of eighty.   His hands, once strong and brown, the hands of a working man, are now pale and their skin is paper-thin.  His face is ashen and pinched with age, his hair is prematurely grey.   Giancarlo hands the cup of coffee to his father and sits on the chair at the foot off the bed to watch him drink it.

There is a picture of the Holy Mother of God on the wall above the head of the bed.  Giancarlo cannot understand why Mary does not step down from the painting and lay her blessed healing hands upon his father.  He is a good man.  He works hard.  He hurts nobody.  He has suffered enough in his life (Giancarlo can hardly remember his mother.  He knows nothing of the lump, the hospital waiting-rooms, the failed therapy – too late, too late – and the morphia-assisted death), so why does he need to suffer now?

Giancarlo remembers the other times when his father seemed to be ill.  He would say 'Giancarlo, mio caro, I feel tired.  Let's go on holiday!' and they would put on their brightest clothes, pack their things, board a south-bound bus, and before they knew it, they would be in a beautiful city of white buildings, blue seas, green hills and brilliant sunshine.  They would spend all day on the beach, or in the shady olive groves, or strolling up and down the café-lined boulevards and, miraculously, his father would grow stronger and taller and happier with every passing hour.

This year it was different.  They packed their bags as usual, caught the bus as usual; but there was no holiday.  They returned to their home in the respectable north London suburb of Crouch End the same day that they left it.

That was the first time that Giancarlo had seen defeat in the eyes of Giovanni Bellini.  His father took to his bed a fortnight later and has not left his room since.

Big boys don't cry.  But what else can Giancarlo do?

In the flat

Lizzie has risen early.  Tiptoeing around the flat, knowing that if she wakes Darren he will ask her questions which she would rather not answer, she washes perfunctorily, dresses in the same clothes she wore the previous night, drinks half a pint of milk straight from the carton, scribbles a quick note to Darren, and slips quietly down the stairs and out of the front door into the street.

Later, Will is woken by the sun shining through the south-facing dormer window of Lizzie's flat.  He no longer possesses a watch, so he has no idea what time it is.  Acutely aware that the underclothes in which he slept are far from clean, he wraps the duvet around himself and half-walks, half-hops across the carpet to Lizzie's bedroom.  He knocks on the door, but there is no answer.  He opens it and discovers that the room is empty.  Remarkably so – there are few of the things that one might expect to find in a girl's bedroom.  No posters, no unruly pile of clothes, no cosmetics, no magazines, no plush toys.

Will closes the bedroom door, uses the bathroom, and goes into the kitchen. He finds bread, tea, coffee and cornflakes in the cupboards, and milk, butter and eggs in the refrigerator.  He opens the freezer and finds it full of ready meals; chicken tikka masala, prawn chow mein, cottage pie.  A breakfast of tea, cornflakes, two boiled eggs and buttered toast will do fine.

There is a microwave on the worktop, next to the breadbin.  It has a clock, which reads 10:14am.  So – he slept for nearly twelve hours.  Not surprising; the flat is warm and the couch is comfortable.  Will puts his breakfast on a tray, takes it into the lounge and sets it down on the melamine coffee table by the couch.  Only then does he see the note that Lizzie has left there:

Darren,

I've got to go out for a while.  Back soon.  Help yourself from the kitchen.  There's washing powder in the cupboard under the sink (hint, hint!)

Lizzie x

Will has learned some useful things on the streets of London.  One of them is never to turn down the chance of a wash.  He throws all his clothes into the washer-drier and sets it off.  He is now confined to the flat for at least two hours while his things go round in the machine.  Just as Lizzie intended.

Kirjava has been watching Will with increasing irritation.

Will, what are you doing?

'What does it look like?  I'm having breakfast.  I've got to eat, even if you haven't.'

We must get out of here.  This place is a trap!

'Don't be daft!  We can leave any time we like.  Soon as my stuff is dry.'

It's the girl, isn't it?

'What do you mean?'

You know what I mean.

'You mean, what she looks like.'

Yes

'Kir; I'm not stupid.  I know she's not Lyra.  She's too old for a start.  She must be at least twenty.  And I'm sure she's a junkie.  Lyra would never do anything like that.'

You can't help yourself, though, can you?

'Help what?'

I saw how you looked at her.

'And?'

Will – I know what you're thinking…

'Of course you do.'

…But I'm going to say it anyway.  You're thinking that, if Lyra's world and our world are so similar, then there must be plenty of things in common between them.

'Yes.'

People.  You think that if towns and buildings can be the same, then why not people?  You're thinking that there must be a Lyra in this world too.  Not our Lyra, but a Lyra.  And you're wondering if this girl – Lizzie – is her.  And if she is, perhaps it can be a little bit like it was before.  Between you and her.

'All right, Kir.  That's enough!  Yes, of course that's what I'm thinking!'  Will puts down his toast.  'And why not?  Give me one good reason why not!'

Kirjava gives Will the good reason why not.  Will is stunned into silence.