I saw inside was a counter with a display of commemorative stamps at the side – plus a stack of differently shaped envelopes. There was a poster with a photo of a passport and lots of foreign writing. It was… strange – and so disconcerting that I almost missed the bank of boxes off to the side.
I only saw them after the man behind the counter said something I didn’t understand. There were rows and rows of small metal doors, each around fifteen centimetres square, with numbers on the front.
The man at the counter was still talking, calling at me maybe, but I wasn’t listening – because I suddenly realised what the 133 meant – and why there was a key in the envelope.
So I walked across, put the key in the door of PO box 133 – and then I unlocked it.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE MAGIC GOAT HAIR
Geoffrey McGinley (husband of Bethan McGinley, father of Emma and Julius McGinley): It’ll need more than a drop from a steep cliff to take me out, sunshine.
Emma: Dad’s ring was back on his finger when I saw him in the hospital that afternoon. I doubt he even knew it had been missing.
He was awake but drowsy, slurring jokes to himself and trying to get Mum to scratch his backside. Mum said he was on strong painkillers, which was an understatement considering he asked me what rhymed with orange and then giggled himself back to a half sleep that didn’t last long.
It’s fair to say he wasn’t himself… which was apt because I wasn’t sure whether I could ever look at him the same way again.
Scott had asked me who benefitted from Alan being pushed – and I didn’t want to listen. Then I’d opened the post office box…
I was lost in that when the door to Dad’s room opened and the doctor came in. He told us that Dad had multiple fractures in both legs and that operations would be needed to help set them. Before he could finish, Mum asked if that could be done in the UK. I thought it was fairly clear that the doctor was trying to steer us away from that, but as soon as he said ‘it’s possible’, Mum leapt on that and said that they’d get anything done privately as soon as they got back.
The doctor was trying to explain the dangers, but Dad was higher than a hot-air balloon and Mum seemed determined to get him out of there. The doctor said that Dad would need a wheelchair to be on a plane and that they’d do something with his legs to try to make it as comfortable as possible for him.
In the end, he could have said that Dad needed a bed of marshmallows and a pillow made out of magic goat hair and Mum would have said it was fine. She wanted him off the island.
The doctor made a few other checks, gave one final attempt to change Mum’s mind – and then wished us well. It was like a parent telling a child not to stick their fingers in an electrical socket and then standing back with their hands up when their stupid kid insisted on doing it anyway.
We sat with Dad for another half an hour or so as he drifted in and out of consciousness. I wanted to ask him about the cliff and whether he was with anyone. If he was, then he never said… not that he said much that was coherent. He pointed at the wall behind me and asked why there were sheep in his room. He asked Mum what was for tea and wondered why there were no spaghetti hoops in the cupboard.
It was surreal.
Mum and I got a taxi back to the hotel, but we were still in the village when I asked the driver to let me out. I told Mum I’d see her later and then crossed a mini plaza and headed across to where the documentary crew were filming. I’d spotted them from the cab and, if you want to know the truth, I was being nosey. I wedged myself behind one of the market stalls and watched as the crew talked to a guy who was running a café. Scott wasn’t there – but Paul was. He was holding the boom mic as one of the others asked questions and the café owner answered.
I really wanted to hear what they were saying, especially after seeing the contents of that PO box