day. Go home, have some pasta.
The Life Galleries are really spectacular. A series of exhibits demonstrating that each individual animal, plant and person is just one component in a complex system. There are some cool special-effects holograms of the atmosphere, hydrosphere and lithosphere. There’s a reproduction of a bit of the rainforest, with sound effects of pouring rain and screeching birds. There’s a bit about oceans and coastlines. The sound effects change to crashing waves and seagulls.
Whitby.
Him.
It could be my imagination but I think I can smell the sea.
Less romantically there is a stuffed rattlesnake and a decomposing rabbit.
I walk through howling gales and head towards the funky bell music, which puts me in mind of the stuff that’s played in Camden market or in flotation tanks. I head along a dark corridor towards a series of mirrors that are arranged to reflect and refract light to create the impression that you are standing outside the earth and you are watching the hydrosphere. Water recycles endlessly, in all its many guises, water, steam, ice. I don’t quite understand it. But the scale and silver holograms are awesome.
Darren.
Suddenly there are hundreds of him. I can see Darren. He’s right next to me. He’s left, next to me. I reach to touch him but my hand plummets through space. I can see him. He’s in front of me, and he’s behind me too. I look up, he’s above me. Then he’s gone.
My breath surges out of my body, creating a vacuum. I can’t breathe. It gushes back in again, nearly knocking me over.
He was here. It was him. I try to work out where he must have been standing, and which were mere shadows and visions of him created by the mirrors. I can’t calculate it. But he can only have gone one of two ways: back through the rainforest to the Waterhouse Way corridor or forward towards the Visions of Earth exhibitions.
Creepy crawlies or lost in space?
I pelt towards the Visions of Earth exhibitions. A series of six statues, representing different aspects of life on earth, are dominated by a dramatic sculpture of earth, which revolves between two giant walls. The walls depict the solar system and the night sky. I collide with a party of overseas schoolkids, universally noisy, happy and overexcited. They’re all dressed in blue and merge into one homogenous mass of rucksacks, acne and ponytails.
He’s in front of the party.
He’s ascending the giant escalator that takes you up through the solar system.
I have no time to consider English tradition. I shove and barge and push my way through the queues of schoolchildren. They object noisily.
‘There’s a queue, you know, madam.’
They try and elbow me back, but their attempts are pathetic in the face of my love and panic-induced strength.
‘Excuse me. You are going the wrong way.’
But I’m not. I’m finally going in the right direction. I fasten my eyes on Darren’s head and don’t drop the link. He isn’t aware of me and I don’t call out. The schoolchildren dividing us may prove to be too much of an obstacle if he decides to run. The escalator rises through sheets of beaten copper, which represents the core of the earth, and we are accompanied by Indie music, which represents the poor taste of the curator. I pass the stars Ursa Major, Draco and Ophiuchus at an achingly slow speed. I want to stamp my feet and although I’ve squeezed past a number of other gallery visitors, by intimidating them with my sense of urgency, I’m stumped now I’ve reached a woman with a double buggy. Short of climbing over her, I’m stuck.
At the top of the escalators I turn right and follow Darren through volcanic eruptions and earthquakes.
‘Darren,’ I scream. ‘Darren!’
But my voice, usually powerful, doesn’t cut through the natural disasters or the fourth-form chatter.
‘Darren.’
He turns.
For a moment he doesn’t recognize me because of the haircut and the unfashionable grunge look.
‘Cas?’ As the word edges from his brain to his vocal cords I see his face flicker in surprise, disbelief, pleasure and then settle in irritation.
‘This is a coincidence.’ Darren puts his rucksack on the floor and folds his arms across his chest. My brain computes that he’s saying don’t come near. My stomach is oblivious; it becomes gymnastic as I see the muscles in his arms flex.
‘Not really. I’ve been looking for you.’ I don’t mention Linda’s tip-off. I don’t want to get her into trouble. ‘I’ve been here for hours,’ I stutter. He looks surprised.