After the Credits

I wait until they have locked me in before stepping out from my hiding place. There’s a little cubby-hole at the front of the cinema which has been there since I was a child. I remember looking at it every time we saw a movie, lost in all the reasons this peculiar gap had found its way into the design. I’d cuddle into my father, breathing in the sharp tang of his citrus aftershave, the one my mother forced him to wear. He’d lean his head closer to mine, eyes still on the screen, and I’d move my lips up to his ear.

“Daddy, where did the gap come from?”

He’d turn to me and whisper something new every single time.

“It’s where the pirates bury their treasure.”

“It’s where the fairies make their pixie dust.”

“It’s where they’re incubating the egg of a dinosaur.”

I didn’t care whether any of these things were true; I just wanted to hear what he had to say.

Now here I am, in the same cinema that we visited once every week, taking in that tangled aroma of stale sweets and salty popcorn that hangs in the air. If I close my eyes, I can almost make out his image, perched on our regular seats in the middle, staring with awe as images danced around in a silvery haze.

I climb up to the middle row and cut through, sitting next to where he would be. My throat tightens, because while this is almost exactly as my memory claims, there’s something broken in the picture. Without the projection on the screen, the room feels as if its heart has been ripped out.

Running my hand across the coarse fabric seats, my fingers work their way up to the wooden base of the chair. It’s smooth along the edges, but the bumpy scratch in the centre makes my chest clamp up. The darkness covers the secret I have found, so I follow the lines to make certain. Down into the line and up into the kicking K and a full circle to make the O. We etched them in on our last day of living here. K.O.

Kate Owens.

Kevin Owens.

I’d always enjoyed having the same initials as my father; it’s something I’d teased my little brother about throughout our childhood. No matter where my mother took us, I had these two letters which kept me connected to him. It’s why when she remarried I refused to change my name too, and also why I’m here today.

The entire train ride over here I’d thought that everything would be the same. That the same spotty teenager would take my tickets and I’d be guided by those painted red arrows that were already scuffed away enough. Once I was in this chair, I thought his voice would light up the room again, and we would talk and laugh and share too much sweet-and-salted popcorn.

My phone buzzes; its bright screen is harsh on my eyes, drawing me in like a portal into reality.

It’s Isaac.

Four messages.

Five missed calls.

I’d lost signal on the train. At least that’s what I told myself. No point looking at it right now, because I wouldn’t be able to reply. The ring was tucked away in my pocket, where it’s been for the last two days since he’d asked me. I should have seen it coming, really, but I always thought he was different. That he knew marriage was off the table, because it wasn’t something that I wanted to do.

Don’t you love me?

The pleading tone says it all. It makes me want to grab him by the throat and thrust him into a wall. Doesn’t he realise how stupid that question is?

I shove the phone back into my pocket and allow my surroundings, with its peeling walls and its rickety structure, to pull me into the past. While most of the time I spent here has been watching the silver screen perform, there was one trip where I’d seen this place inactive. It had been at the showing of the first Pokémon movie, and although Dad had been working nights, I’d forced him to get out of bed anyway. He’d rubbed the sleep from his eyes and we’d gotten straight into the car.

Then, just as they’d finished playing all the trailers, we were plunged into darkness. A power cut ran right through the city. At first, it felt like I’d been swallowed by a whale like the one in Pinnochio; I thought demons would swoop out and take me right there, but his big hand reached out to mine. Its rough and clammy exterior cupped around my tiny fist like a mama bear protecting her cub.

But nothing keeps me safe today.

Another buzz.

I try to swallow back the dryness in my throat.

Call me Babe. I’m worried about you.

The phone is out of my hand before I even think, sliding across the scratchy surface as far away from me as I can get it. I stumble out of the seat, legs trembling as if they’ve forgotten how to take my weight. Resting my hands on the wall, I look up at the mesh of wires that hang from the ceiling above.

“Daddy, what do I do?” I whisper.

The words come out high, as if the younger Kate has possession of my body and it’s her tears that streak across my red cheeks and her blind hope miracles happen. You hear about it all the time: spirits are tied to places, and if his was anywhere, it would be right here. If there was anywhere that I’d get an answer, it would be in this cinema.

No reply.

This was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have come here.

I’ve never been this impulsive, but all my life I have been Kate Owens, and Kate Owens is the only person who I know and understand. I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up for anyone, even Isaac.

I leave my phone in the cinema and make my way down the aisle and out towards the exit. A draught catches me as I step out into the hallway; it’s dimly lit with posters of different films through the ages. I need to find a security guard; maybe they’ll be able to let me out so I can get on the train and get back to my life.

According to the old clock on the wall of the atrium, it takes twenty minutes to scout the entire building. Nobody is here and no-one can let me out. If I want to escape this building, it will have to wait until morning. The thought makes the walls around close in; I’m hit with the instinct to take my phone out and call Isaac. He’s always a great help when my feelings get too much.

But Isaac won’t talk to me right now. Not if I tell him the answer to his question.

I put a hand on my heart, the way my dad would do when I was a child, and breathe into it. It’s alright. I can keep myself calm. One night here won’t be so bad. I’ll just go back to our seat and stay there until they let me out in the morning. They might be perplexed, but I’ll pretend I’d fallen asleep and that they locked me in for the night.

I turn the corner, and one poster catches my eye.

Jim Carrey’s young smiling face, broken up with snippets of his life. I’ll never when forget Dad took me to see The Truman Show. We’d sat for hours that night, talking about it at the dinner table.

“I think it would be quite nice,” I’d said, passing him the salt. “To be living a simple life like his. I know it’s all fake, but he didn’t have to know that.”

“But he was a prisoner,” my Dad replied, that knowing smile on his face. “He never had the opportunity to change.”

“I don’t like change,” I’d said, poking at the chicken dinosaur on my plate.

He’d stop what he was doing then and looked at me with serious eyes. “Honey, in life, we have to change.”

“But it’s scary,” I said.

“Yes, it is, but it’s also important,” he replied. “Life will throw changes at you, but they don’t always have to be bad.”

I stare at that poster, replaying the memory in my head on repeat. I’d forgotten that conversation until now. It took being here and seeing this poster to bring it back. I’m not sure if the answer was sent from my dad, but it’s his words that ring through my mind as I break into a run. Truman wasn’t allowed to make the choice about the changes in his life; it doesn’t mean I don’t have options. I don’t need this name; he still lives through my memories.

Slamming the doors open to the cinema, I run up the aisle taking two steps at a time. My phone has a crack down the edges, but it’s still able to work. I pick it up and check the notifications.

Six missed calls.

My heart leaps; I hope I haven’t messed this up.

Hovering over Isaac's name, I press the call button.