Breathe You In (3 page)

The first room I came to held several big
dark wooden dressers stuffed with trinkets. I gazed absently at them; jewelry
boxes, compact mirrors, pillboxes. They were pretty enough, but not what I’d
come to see. On a stack of shelves were shoes and boots of various sizes and in
an array of disrepair.

I hung around for a few minutes to make it
look like I was there as a genuine museum-goer, should anyone be watching me,
then, after reading the small brass plaques beneath a half dozen portraits of
stuffy-looking ladies in old-fashioned dresses, I moved through to the next
room.

Taxidermy seemed to be the main theme in
this high-ceilinged area. Instantly my guts rolled and the hairs on the back of
my neck spiked. I hurried past a glass cabinet holding a snarling fox with
milky eyes then winced at several stuffed birds perched on twigs that looked
like they’d been snagged from the park outside. I quickly exited through a dark
doorway that had an enormous snowy-white owl glaring down from the top frame,
and not caring that I hadn’t lingered to appreciate whatever it was that dead,
stuffed animals were supposed to offer.

I suppressed a shudder. The thought of
being packed full from the inside like that was gross. As was doing it to
animals that had once been living, breathing things. What kind of person picked
taxidermy as a job? Who would want to work in a place that housed those things?

Ruben Strong obviously didn’t mind them,
not if this was where he spent his days. Perhaps he was a creep. A real weirdo.
The sort who had odd collections of bizarre things
—
rare birds’ eggs with the insides sucked out or famous people’s
toenail clippings
. Yuk, I hoped not. I wanted him to be normal,
to be appreciative of what he had and be enjoying his second chance at life by
doing healthy, respectful things.

Absently I stared at a collection of black-and-white
pictures showing the
Northamptonshire
countryside being
farmed by horse and plow and the crops picked by hand. He didn’t have to be a
saint, that was expecting too much, but he had to be good and honorable,
otherwise what was the point?

I still hadn’t encountered anyone on my journey
through the silent rooms. It really wasn’t the busiest of museums. It was a
little dusty, too, a bit worn around the edges.

Beside a genuine set of stone grinding wheels
was an old oil radiator—as much an antique as the artifacts it was
designed to keep warm in the winter. I noticed the paint peeling beside the
window frame. An insipid green, its curling flakes revealed a dusty brick-like
substance.

I moved through to the next room. It was dark,
the walls painted black, and in the corner was what looked like a bunker and
some kind of corrugated iron shelter. A sudden wail—an air-raid
siren—blasted out of a speaker above me. The lights flashed on and off,
and a deafening boom rattled across the ceiling and pounded up through the
soles of my feet.

I clutched my handbag. Stepped backwards. What
the hell…?

A loud voice hollered out. “Northampton during
the blitz. This is what it was like to live in the town in nineteen forty-three.”

“Oh, shit, really.” My heart was galloping, and
my bearings had slipped. I couldn’t see the way out, other than the archway I’d
just come through. There was no obvious exit that would keep my journey
progressive through the museum.

Another loud bang, followed by whizzing and an
explosion that clanked several wall-hanging gas masks and jerry cans against
one another.

I had to get out of there. It smelled musty, and
it was so dark and loud I could hardly think.

Spinning, I came face to chest with another
person.

“Sorry,” I said, the need to flee now
overwhelming. “I’m just…” I glanced left and right. Staggered slightly.

“Hey, are you okay?” He cupped my elbows,
steadied me.

I looked up through the shadows into dark eyes.
“
Er
, yes, I think so. It just made me jump, that’s
all. It’s a bit loud.”

“I’m sorry. It’s supposed to be noisy but this
is too much.”

“Yes, it’s ear-splitting.”

Bomb sounds were raining down on us with gusto.
Screams and shouts were mixed into the soundtrack now, adding to the chaos.

“Which,
er
, way...?” I
asked.

“Through the army camouflage curtain, just
there.”

Shadows sliced across his face but were lost
momentarily when the lights flared again, simulating explosions. I reckoned he
was about my age, maybe a little older. He had a straight, long nose, wide
mouth and a flat, brown mole on his right cheek.

“Okay.” I was about to step away but realized I’d
placed my hand on his chest, right next to a small badge that had a picture of
the museum in the left hand corner. Also on that badge, written in bold black letters,
was the name Ruben.

I snapped my hand away. Had I felt the thud of a
heart beating beneath my palm? Panic raced through my body, starting in my
fingers and shooting up my arm. It went into my lungs and belly, weakening my
knees and softening my spine.

It was him. I knew it was. How many Rubens could
possibly work here? Not only that, I’d touched him. Hell, he was still touching
me. This wasn’t my plan, not at all. No way.

Gasping, I moved back, still staring at his
badge, at his chest. Beneath that neat white shirt, his skin and bones, was
Matt—Matt’s heart and lungs. Beating. Inflating. The heart that had loved
me so much.

Oh, God.

My plan had gone terribly wrong. I was only
supposed to see Ruben from a distance, not speak to him, definitely not touch
him.

“I have to…” I said, bumping into the plastic-molded
bunker and the side of the Anderson shelter. “Go.” I straightened, just; my
body didn’t feel like mine. I was shaking, hot and cold, my brain infused with fear
and fascination.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

What the hell was the matter with my vision? I
couldn’t peel my attention away from his chest, his name badge, the way his
shirt hung down, flat against his long, lean body. It was buttoned at the top,
the collar sitting neat against his neck.. There was no scar that I could make
out, but there would be one. I knew that much.

“Are you sure?” he asked over the din.

“Yes.” I managed to move toward the exit he’d
indicated. “You really should get this volume turned down before you give
someone a heart attack.”

He laughed as another flash filled the room. “The
kids love it, but yes, you’re right. I was actually just fiddling with it.” He
turned and disappeared into the room with the plow and the grinding wheels.

I stared at the space he’d just occupied. At a
place in the world a piece of Matt, that wasn’t ash and dust, had just been.
Tears filled my eyes. I clenched my hand into a fist, imagining I was trapping
those beats of his heart I’d possibly just felt. I needed them. They were mine.
They used to beat for me, and only me—so he’d said.

Dashing at a tear that had over-spilled, I
rushed from ‘Northampton in the Blitz’ and found myself in a room dedicated to
shoes and the local cobbler factories. But it held no interest for me. I just
needed to get the hell out of there. Confusion swirled inside me. Guilt poked
at me like an accusing finger at the same time as a need to know more about
Ruben tugged me. I shouldn’t be here. I
had
to be here.

Next was a narrow corridor lined with eerie-looking
mannequins dressed in dusty, stiff outfits. I rushed past them, and as I did so
I heard the distant bombs stop falling. I needed fresh air and to take stock of
what had just happened back there.

Thankfully, the next section spat me out at reception.
A wide set of steps with brass grippers hugging a
thready
,
bottle-green carpet offered the way up to more display rooms—Northampton’s
sporting achievements, the Romans, the canal network.

“Are you going up, dear?” Ethel, the lady on
reception, grinned at me. Her hair was shifting; she’d turned an electric fan
on and it was catching gray wisps and floating them over her cheek.

“
Er
, no, I’m done,
thanks.”

“Oh, okay.” She looked a little put out. “But
will you come back another day? You’ve only seen half of the exhibits.”

“Yes, perhaps. Is there anywhere around here I
can get a cup of tea?”

Her face softened. “Yes, of course, go right out
of the door, past the aviary and the bandstand and there’s a café. You should
be able to find some shade.”

“Okay, that’s great, thanks.”

The sun was still relentless, but I hardly
noticed it now. I was in turmoil. When I’d got out of bed this morning I had no
idea where Matt’s heart was or who it was serving. And now, only hours later,
I’d actually rested my hand over it.

I walked, unsteadily, past the side of the
museum, the deep gravel hampering my steps. I could hear the aviary the
receptionist had mentioned—the happy chatter of sociable little birds. As
I turned the corner, a pathway edged with large domed wire cages led toward a
distant bandstand set on a wide lawn.

A cup of tea was just what I needed, preferably
with a dash of brandy in it. It was so strange to come face-to-face with Matt’s
recipient like that. Almost as if he were waiting for me here and all I’d had
to do was come and find him.

Of course, that was rubbish and fanciful
thinking. If that stupid exhibition room hadn’t been so loud I would never have
even stepped back into him. We would have had nothing to talk about. We’d never
have met.

I paused, gripped the railings that lined that
path and stared into a cage full of zebra finches that were darting about. Did
Ruben know anything about Matt? Did he know the heart that now beat so strongly
in his chest came from a fine man who had been loyal and kind, had hated
injustice and adored West Ham United? Had the transplant team told him that
Matt had always dreamed of being a father, of being a grandfather too? That he’d
disliked cheese of any description and could listen to U2 for months at a time
in his car without bothering to change the disk?

Movement caught my attention.

Shit. The peacock was right next to me. There
wasn’t an arm’s length between us—or a leg if I had to kick it to protect
myself. The damn thing had its tail feathers spread into an enormous shimmering
fan shape and it was making a strange snorting sound.

Its black beady gaze was fixed firmly on me.

“Shoo,” I said, pressing up against the
railings. “Go away.”

I flicked my handbag toward it, but that seemed
to enrage the fierce-looking bird further. It shook its arc of colorful
feathers and scraped its foot on the floor as if preparing for attack.

Its beak appeared sharp and wicked, hooked at
the end, prehistoric almost. I wondered how fast they could run. Were they like
emus and could sprint for miles?

Suddenly it tipped its head back and made an
awful screeching sound. Its little black tongue waggled as it cried out its
battle scream several times over. The murderous sound made my ears ring.

“Get out of here, Chester, stop bullying the
visitors.” Sharp snapping came from my right, someone clapping hard and fast.

I flicked my bag at the peacock again and
stepped away, not daring to take my eyes off the ferocious creature.

“Go, go…be off with you.”

The peacock shuffled backward and in its place
stood Ruben Strong.

Fight or flight warred within me. I should run
away but was compelled to stay put. The adrenaline rush gave me a giddy
sensation.

“I am sorry about this,” he said with a smile.
“You’re really not having the relaxing time we hope our visitors to the museum
will enjoy.”

“What’s the matter with that thing?” I asked
shakily and now unsure whether or not to stare at Ruben or the peacock that was
still eyeing me up like I was his next meal. Part of me was hugely embarrassed
that I’d been cornered by a damn bird, the other part hardly believed that the
man who I’d come only to catch a glimpse of was standing before me, again.

“Oh, he’s just grumpy. His peahen is sitting on
eggs, though whether it will come to anything this late in the season I don’t
know, plus they’re terrible parents.” Ruben turned and gave a final flick of
his hands, sending the rogue peacock on its way. “I think the heat must be
bothering him too.”

It strutted back toward the entrance of the
museum, huge tail still spread, haughty neck bobbing.

“Well, thanks, it was about to mug me.” I took a
deep breath and set my attention on Ruben as he tipped his head back and
laughed. He had dark-brown hair, a fraction over-long, and it fell past his
ears and down his neck. He also had sideburns, again a bit too long, as was the
fashion at the moment.

“Unless you’ve got a stash of sunflower seeds in
your bag, he wouldn’t have mugged you.”