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address book
It had been three days since I last saw her. She'd moved her things into the spare room, emerged for meals twice and to use the phone once. Since then, nothing. Complete silence. It was mid-afternoon; she had to be awake. I knocked, hesitantly, and then slightly louder. "Caitlin? are you awake?" Still nothing. I tried the door - it was open. She wasn't there. Her books, magazines; her A2-sized folio with her artwork; several garbage bags stuffed with clothes; a macintosh SE-30 in a black vinyl carry-bag; her thigh-length boots. No Caitlin. The desk was bare except for a small address book. I entered the room, stepping over the haphazardly arranged luggage. It was the standard sort of thing you'd pick up in a newsagents'. I opened it. The first page had her name, old address and phone numbers, and a list of numbers to contact in case of emergency, written in faded, smeared pencil. Probably the 6H leads she used for drawing. Below that, entries for marital status (SINGLE, the word emphasised as if she'd pressed particularly hard into the paper when writing it), religion (she'd put 'Crowleyist- Mansonite', crossed it out and substituted 'Wiccan') and 'other contacts' (which had the words 'Sysop, ha ha' after it). I turned to the next page, which had her friends' numbers: vendra 95614999 The last name was underlined. I closed the address book. |
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