5 Books For Eveline

17

17

The rest of the day passed without finding a copy of the third volume. That meant, including the places Briar had searched alone, sixteen locations out of a hundred held nothing. Nothing but that little red, wooden ball and its note. In one way, the day had proved a great disappointment. In another way, Purdy felt as though a little weight had lifted from her shoulders.

She had spent an hour transferring all her written notes on to her new laptop, biting her tongue at acknowledging that Briar had the right idea. All the while, she had listened to more records on the old record player. It had become a bit of a routine, now, going through that extensive album collection and playing the antiquated recordings.

They also served to relax her. She couldn't explain it, but listening to those crackling records gave her a sense of warmth, a comfort that she had not felt in such a long time. It had become so routine, that she couldn't imagine not listening to the records anymore. As though they had become as much a part of her life as the books she had surrounded herself with.

She had an idea, of course, why those recordings touched her. She couldn't remember, but she had a feeling that one or the other of her parents, or both of them, perhaps, used to listen to those albums. Whenever that thought creeped into her mind, she would shake her head and focus back upon typing up her 'Treasure Hunt Diary', as she had decided to call it.

It served no purpose, trying to speculate about the past. She had tried, at first. Walking through this house, too large for one person, she had paid close attention to everything. Touching clothes, picking up ornaments and jewellery, rummaging through drawers. Trying everything that could trigger a memory, any memory, of the days and years now lost to her.

Nothing triggered any memory. Not one single thing. Not one single memory. Nothing. In a fit of pique, she had then gone through the entire house, collecting everything together and tossing them into thick, black, bin bags. Clothes, she left upon the doorsteps of charity shops. Trinkets and ornaments, she had given to a random person on a stall at a second-hand market. Jewellery, sold to a pawnbroker.

The only things she had held onto, were the record player, the albums and the heavy, dark wood clock upon the mantlepiece. Everything else, she removed. Wiping the house clean of any chance of the temptation to attempt reminiscing about the past. Filling the house with her own, new things, proved problematic. She no longer knew what she liked, what she enjoyed.

She had had to relearn about herself. Test her tastes. It soon became clear that she no longer liked the clothes the other her liked, and they soon joined the other clothes upon charity shop doorsteps. She liked dark clothing. Practical clothing. Not one shred of flowery dresses and skirts remained in her wardrobe. Gone, too, were the many make-up items. This Purdy, the living Purdy, didn't like cosmetics.

Beyond that, she had nothing. Nothing apart from books. Books and silence. Those things she liked. Those things she enjoyed. Until now. With the music of 'Pink Floyd' playing in the background, Purdy realised she no longer relied upon silence. She had made some progress back to humanity, after all.

Sitting back, Purdy rubbed her hip, scowling. It didn't give her any pain, now, but it felt stiff after sitting forward and typing everything in to the laptop. Kneading the flesh around her hip, she reviewed what she had written. It seemed fine, if a little cold and impersonal. Hard facts, but little in the way of feelings.

She remembered Briar's notes, seen upon the screen of her phone, and recalled the sense of enthusiasm present in those words. The self-same enthusiasm that permeated the woman's social media feed and the way she had acted throughout that day. Purdy couldn't understand how someone could come across as so awful, so obnoxious, yet still feel infectious in her zeal.