Neighbourhood Watch Rhonda Mullins (my reading book TXT) 📖

months. Giving himself a chance.

Not ready for the real world.

‘It’s dark at five o’clock. I go to bed once it’s dark. It makes it go faster.’

Roxane is sitting at the end of the bed.

‘Hey, take off your coat.’

She takes off her coat.

Marc looks down at the floor.

‘You okay, Dad?’

Lifts his head. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay … There are good people here. This time it’s for good … For good.’

‘ … ’

‘Do you still believe me?’

‘Yes, I believe you.’

Silence.

‘Your boat’s getting dusty.’

‘Huh?’

‘Your boat. Getting dusty.’

* * *

An episode of Lost is playing on the televisions. Kathy and Kelly like it. They’ve watched every episode. Even without the sound, they can follow it. A group is trying to survive. Doesn’t get any simpler than that.

Some passersby stop to watch, head off again after a bit.

They must know how it ends. Who survives.

* * *

One block away. Mélissa is sitting on the sidewalk. She’s eating salted sunflower seeds, spitting the shells as far as she can to the street. On the other side, the huddle of prostitutes kills time waiting for clients. Mélissa has put on her snow pants so she can hang out there as long as she needs to.

Six notes have piled up in the cracks in the gutter, and no one is picking them up.

Tough shit. She’ll read them eventually, and it’ll be more all at once. Like a little book.

Meg hasn’t been there for a while. The stork occasionally glances at Mélissa.

Mélissa tries to spit her sunflower seed shell at her. Too far.

‘Hey! Tell Meg there are notes here for her!’

The stork turns around. The other prostitutes too.

‘Do you get it or are you deaf? Tell Meg to pick up her mail. It’s important!’

The prostitutes stop talking and look at the little girl in her purple snowsuit.

Silence.

The stork walks toward the curb.

‘Meg will be away for a bit.’

She has the voice of a child.

‘Where is she?

‘She’ll be back in a while. I’ll tell her once she’s back.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s sick. She’s resting.’

‘Where?’

‘ … ’

‘WHERE?’

Mélissa grabs a handful of sunflower seeds, hurls them to the other side of the street. She’s red, feels like throwing up.

‘Here, eat that! Eat that!’

She throws her sunflower seeds, arm outstretched, another handful, and another, empties her bag.

The girls watch her in silence.

Mélissa is crying.

* * *

‘Look, Dad.’

Roxane takes her violin from its case.

She brings it to her shoulder. Slides the bow along the strings. A sustained, graceful gesture. A long, perfect note.

Marc, eyes glued to his daughter.

Love in his eyes, which hardly ever happens.

Another note. Longer, even more beautiful.

Marc’s eyes move from the violin to his daughter, from his daughter to the violin.

Sticks his head out in the hall.

‘Hey, come check this out, Jean-Luc! My daughter can play the violin!’

Roxane focuses. Another long note like a stream, perfect, delicate but solid, to the point that you could walk on it on tiptoe without falling.

Slowly, the guys file into the little bedroom.

A herd of men, flayed, the shards of a life, basement warriors, they all let the light in for a moment.

Mélissa walks slowly. She’s broken a wing and is going home.

Roxane, clutching her violin, crosses the street.

In his bedroom, Marc lights a cigarette and watches her disappear into the night. Hopes life will take care of her. Leaning against the window is the gift she gave him a while ago. His little boat. With some of its sails still white. Marc takes the sailboat in his big hands, blows on it. The dust takes to the air.

He gently puts the boat back in front of the window. Outside, the storm blusters. Marc turns the boat so its nose is facing outside. Course set for the storm. A beat.

Marc turns out the lights and lies down.

* * *

Roxane pushes open the door of the apartment block, goes inside. In the distance, she spots Mélissa advancing along the sidewalk. She looks small in the dark. As if she could disappear without anyone noticing.

Roxane waits for her, holds the door.

‘Hi.’

‘ … ’

Mélissa’s hair is covered in snow.

She notices Roxane’s case. ‘You’re the one playing the violin?’

Roxane nods.

They climb the stairs. Mélissa holds the handrail.

‘Did you hurt yourself?’

‘No.’

They get to their floor.

Roxane looks at Mélissa, who is trying to get her key in the lock.

She can’t do it. She’s trembling.

‘I’m playing a concert with guests soon. You can come if you want.’

Mélissa gets her key in the lock.

She pushes open the door. Looks at Roxane.

It’s like even her eyes are cold.

She goes in.

Roxane stays there for a moment. Then she goes inside too.

девять

9

It’s sunny out. A true winter morning when people are scurrying and looking up to catch a few rays. Mélissa walks to school, the boys hanging off her coat.

The prostitute corner is empty. Meg must be sleeping. Mélissa thinks about her mother, who is sleeping.

The notes aren’t in the cracks in the gutter anymore.

Yessss!

* * *

For once everyone is looking at them. Kathy and Kelly. For a moment they exist. Finally, a light is shining on their life on the street, the time it takes to scream. Kathy’s arms are being held behind her by a cop, who is putting handcuffs on while another one restrains Kelly, who is seething with rage, consumed – ‘LET HER GO’ – Kathy is pushed against the car – they’re saying she killed someone – Kelly, released, rushes at the windows, ‘IT WAS FOR FOOD!’ – who trembles – it was for something to eat – who strikes with her hands, body, head, ‘LET HER GO’ – who with a groan lies down on the ground while the car leaves with Kathy, leaves with what remained of her life.

A child curled in a ball is crying surrounded by the dogs. Eyes brush over her in a caress, then disappear.

The epilogue of Lost is showing on one hundred screens.

* * *

Meg throws up on a metal step deep in an alley. In