Chapter One: Chris

Christopher cannot even look at the lights. He wants to but he can’t, and there is a tearing in his ears. Everything is too loud, and everything is far too bright. It is louder here than it was at the gig, which doesn’t make any sense. He sits with his hands crushed tight against his ears, flattening the sweaty peaks of hair.

He is not supposed to be out this late.

Not because anyone gives a fuck, or will notice when he gets home. No one is time-keeping. His home is a one-bedroom thing in Stockwell, his home has exposed brick because no one cares enough to cover it up. His is the type of life that has one set of sheets. He sometimes wonders what it would be like to live a life like his mother’s, with rotating sheets, a life when you wouldn’t have to mind if someone suddenly had to get into your bed, caught ill or something. His mother wouldn’t have to explain the pizza sauce, and the islands of semen dried into iridescent scabs. There are always bits at the bottom of his bed, bits that he tracks in on the pads of his feet when he gets up for water, and for a wee. If he had a vacuum he could do something about it. He doesn’t even know where he would buy a vacuum. Amazon, maybe, but then you have to be the kind of person who knows when they might be home to sign for package, or live somewhere where a big brown box wouldn’t be stolen from a stoop.

He likes Stockwell because it’s not pretending to be anything it isn’t. The estate over from his is the second worst in London. That’s what an Uber driver told him, a few weeks ago, in the early morning, when he was trying to sleep. Sometimes he thinks he can will it away, the erratic thump of his heart against his ribs. He takes deep breaths and counts slowly, but he can’t slow it down. Besides, what does second worst mean? What does it take to be worse? More dead people, more stolen things. Sometimes people shoot up in his elevator, and he steps around them, and takes the stairs. No one gives him sideways looks in Stockwell.

How do you even decide which kind of vacuum to buy? You could be ironic and buy a Henry Hoover, with his red face and that black long nose. They might not even sell them anymore. Though if they’ve stopped, they’ll bring it back soon. Nostalgia is everywhere. The Henry had gone the way of the ironic Halloween costume, like a guy he’d lived with, who’d done the red face with his girlfriend’s red lipstick, and had to go to work 2 days later with a waxy red sheen still to his face, and he was a lawyer. He’d thought, with vacuums, they probably let you take them on a money-back guarantee, because that’s the kind of thing people fall for. You never send it back though, even if you hate it, even if it just takes up space. You buy it as an experiment and then if you hate it you pretend to like it anyway. Because boxing it up and arranging for it to be picked up is way more energy than turning that hate into tolerance. Besides, you can get cordless vacuums now. He’d like one of them.

There are two girls sitting opposite him, with one boy in the middle, holding hands with both of them, like he’s still deciding which one he’s going to take home, like he’d quite like it to be both. Christopher can’t bring himself to look any further up than their knees (the rushing wall of the tunnel past the panes, his own warped reflection, those bright lights) but they tell a story, all their angles, towards and away. The girl on the left has Doc Martens a bit like his, but they look better on her legs, the way they can’t quite close around her skinny shin. She’s a bit bruised, and he can see spikes of hair on her legs. He quite likes girls with hairy legs. He’d like to tell her, but his mouth had better stay shut (what might come out) and besides what would he tell the other girl? She has long socks and Converses, muddy at the toes, and he doesn’t like them as much. She wouldn’t want to know that. Nobody wants to know that they’re second best.

He shouldn’t be out this late. It must be 3, or 4, or 5, he dropped his phone about 20 minutes in, when he was too up to care, and now he’s come down and been sorry and made the choice to go back up again. Up instead of down is an easy choice. The taste is on the back of that tongue, the sweetness that is also acrid, that is like nothing else he has ever tasted. Nothing is as good. Once, at a festival, desperate for another hit, he’d bought some off a man in the crowd. He’d melted away like he’d never been there, and with the music throbbing underneath his feet and behind his teeth Chris had stuck a finger in the bag and tasted something else. The same wrong taste, the same chemical wrongness, but not the right thing. He’d kept taking it anyway, just in case, because fifty quid is fifty quid, but. It had probably been rat poison.

They’re just drunk, the three opposite him. He can tell by their movements, slow and lazy.The boy has moved his hand to the knee of the girl with the hairy legs, a bit further up than the knee. He likes hairy legs too, or maybe he just doesn’t care because it’s 3am, and you start to compromise with yourself at 3am. I will only stay another hour. I will go home in two hours, but I’ll make sure I get up and don’t waste the day. I’ll take a bit more but that will be the last of it and then I won’t take any for 6 weeks, maybe 7. I will stop. I will stop.

His vision is doing the juddering, cracking thing, and there is something welling up at the bottom of his eyes. He can’t see the hairy legs anymore, he can’t see much of anything. And he’s not sure if he’s sitting up straight anymore.

Converse laughs, and it enters his ears like music. “That dude is fucked. Man, you’re fucked.”

He is not sure when he became a man. In his mind he is a boy, acting out, trying something new. It’s not that new anymore, it hasn’t been new for seven years. Is it seven? He can feel his mouth moving. He’s grinding his teeth. They’ll hurt tomorrow. If he was still at the rave someone would have given him gum. No one one on this train is going to give him anything. He should have stayed in that dark warehouse, with other wide-eyed kids jumping around him. He is just a kid.

“Dude. Dude?” The boy opposite is leaning over to him. He has his hand on his shoulder.

“Dude, sit up. You might swallow your tongue or some shit.”

He would like to tell him to fuck off. He is a man, he does not need help, but he does need help, the lines of the train carriage aren’t staying where they should and he feels, more than ever, more than before, that he might have entered somewhere strange in his mind, somewhere he hasn’t gone before.

“Should we stop the train? Pull the thing?”

“No, all the signs say wait for a station. We can’t just stop in the middle of a tunnel. What would we do if he passed out?”

Doc Martens stands up and shouts down the carriage. “Is there a doctor on here? Something’s wrong with this guy.”

A voice from his left, older, replies, “Perhaps you should have stopped your friend from speaking to men on street corners.”

Doc Martens cocks a hip. “He is not our friend. And don’t be a cunt. Might be you dying on a train one day, you old bitch.”

Chris would like to smile. More than that, he would like to be somewhere else. He does not miss Australia very often. It is too hot and too loud. It is too outside. There are not enough bits of it that have been closed off, it is like a big uncovered scab. But he misses it right now. He would like to be seeing the sun. Then he would know which way is up.

He is lying on the floor of the train carriage, and the guy is putting him into recovery position. Converse is admiring, scuffing a toe. “Where did you learn that?”

“Rugby.” Chris is not that heavy but the guy is panting with the effort of getting him into position. “Guys choke on their tongues after tackles. Or some shit. I never saw it happen.”

Australians play rugby. A lot of sport. Chris hasn’t played rugby since he was at school, but he was good at it once. Big, and dense, and low to the ground. You can be good at high school rugby without being fast. When he moved to London he thought he might join a football league, to meet people, but you do have to be fast to be good at football, and tricky, with mastery over your toes. Chris only played two games, and then they stopped texting him to join. Cunts. But then, that left more time for other things.

If only there were music. Music always helps when people have taken too much gear. They start to come up and they freak the fuck out, but then the music gets into their blood, the thud and bang of it, and the drugs mix with the music, and then it’s magic. He likes watching first timers begin to sway with it, and close their eyes to it. He was at a gig once where a girl just shut her eyes the entire time. You never know whether you’re hearing the same things. Probably not.

He could still be at the rave right now. It won’t be over. Those things, they go until past dawn, for as long as the light can be blocked out, and there’s always another little bag. Rat poison, rat poison.

His heart is going with the rhythm of the train, as it barrels through the tunnel, underground. He can feel each railing. Do they even run on railings?

Doc Martens speaks again. “We’re slowing down.” There is relief in her voice. She is very young, he thinks. It’s too late for her to be up. She will have school soon. Not tomorrow – today – but soon. “James, we can call for help at the platform.” James, Converse, Doc Martens. His companions on this very wild ride.

Converse chimes in. “And then we’re going fucking HOME, rather than spending all night taking care of a deadbeat.”

It is hard to argue that he is not a deadbeat. The swimming in his eyes has come again and the floor is moving in pulses. His heart is hard against his ribs. The train stops, and he waits for his friend, the big guy, the guy with his hand exploring Doc Martens, to lift him, but nobody moves.

“Fuck’s sake.” It’s the old lady again, clutching her plastic bags around her, one on her knees, one hooked between her feet. He can hear them moving. She’s kneading her fingers like he’s grinding his jaw. “Where are we?”

“Dunno.”

“Why have we stopped?”

“I don’t know.”

“FUCK.” Chris’ saviour stamps his foot, like a kid in a movie. He has nice shoes on too. Chris tries to think of the word. Brogues.

“James,” chides Doc. “Fuckssake.”

He has never been this close to a floor before. Nobody has. He is puddling against it, or he would be if he wasn’t rigid with the chemicals jolting his nerves wide. A bad pill, he thinks, but the only difference between a bad pill and a good pill is where you take it, really. He has been called, on occasion, bad. His mother has called him a bad influence, his father, with an amber whiskey in one hand behind whitening knuckles, didn’t bother mincing words. “You’re never going to grow up, ya idiot. Never gonna be much of anything, are ya. Came out a bit fucked in the head, gonna stay that way. We should never have taken ya on. Shoulda known. ” They’d had that conversation (would we call it a conversation?) 9 years ago, and no conversations since (some messages, from his mother, who’d plainly got Facebook for this very purpose, written in the kind of tentative prose that comes from a woman who’d spent her life peering over the shoulder of a much larger man, ‘Love, I just want to know you’re alright’, ‘Hun it’d be lovely to hear from you, ‘Joan down the road got married, they did their first dance to that song you always played, what was it called, gem?’. Strange, when you consider the kind of woman she is. Of course, she’d deleted them later). Bad.

Bad, and now that swimming was gone, and instead a halo around the corners of his eyes. He might have chewed all the teeth out of his head by now. He pictures bits of his teeth dropping out the sides of his mouth, chalky on his tongue, spitting them out likes bits of peanut.

James was hovering by the door, forehead pressed flat against his own black reflection. “Can’t see shit.”

Doc was doing the same, through the window to the other carriage. “Can’t see anyone in the next carriage. Might be a few a bit along.” She tried the handle.

Converse jumped. “Don’t! It’ll start soon. Don’t be dumb. Don’t get stuck.”

Doc moved away from the door, scuffing the boot again. “When, though. Where’s the fucking driver? Why’s he not saying anything?”

“Might be a woman, though.”

“Fuck off.”

Converse laughed. “Sorry. Can we just fucking be in bed already?”

James stayed where he was. “Maybe we’re stuck. Maybe someone’s coming. Can’t see shit, though? Are there usually lights in the tunnels? I can’t remember.”

How long has it been, 10 minutes, more? Christopher can’t remember the last time he was lit so brightly and so lost in time. It could be 3am or 5am or 7am, but it wasn’t 7am because there were no tradies, no men headed out to shifts knocking through loft apartments. Just one old lady with a pile of plastic bags. He’d like to ask her where she’s going. Where she’s been. She’d probably tell him to fuck off though.

If there had been other passengers in the carriage, Chris couldn’t remember them. He can’t remember anyone from on the platform, or even where he got on. He could barely remember the colour of the seats (blue, alright, so he could). There was just him, and James, and Doc and Converse. And the old woman who was pretending none of this was happening, sat with her bags clutched about her like something that might be stolen. She looked a bit like his mother. HIs real mother. Maybe. Maybe she just looked old.

He couldn’t see. James would probably want to know that, if he could tell him. The shoes, the lines on the floor. There’s nothing.

There is the sound of a door opening and closing. “Hello, did you – oh.” There is a quick movement near him, and someone drops down to her knees beside him. He can tell it’s a woman because of the smell of her hair, which flicks down over him like a shawl, like a blanket, like he’s come home and laid down on the couch and passed out and someone has draped it over him. Her hair is very long and it has the smell of freesias, like a lawn in summer, and he feels quite calm. She’s lifting his eyelids, he can feel that, but he still can’t see her, except in his mind’s eye. She probably looks like a primary school teacher he had, who always had dog hairs on her sweater.

“How long have his eyes looked like that?”

“Looked like what?”

“Where’d you come from?” asks Converse, which makes Chris feel better, because he’s pretty sure it had only been them, those three, and the old woman, and she hasn’t moved.

“Through the door. There’s a woman through there with two kids, after some water. One of them won’t stop crying, she reckons he’s a bit hot.” She speaks very fast, clipped, fitting more words out than most. “This guy, why’d you put him down here on the floor like this?”

“He’s fucked,” says Doc. “On something. He looked weird before.”

James speaks. “He was leaning off his seat a bit, I thought he might fall and hit his head. Put him on the ground.” He’s proud of his work.

She nods, and puts her hand around Chris’ jaw, pulling it open. It’s a struggle. “I’m Annette. Anne. I’m a nurse.”

They make noises of relief. “Now, what has he taken? Just tell me. I can help him.”

Converse is mad, she spits her words, she wants to be in bed. “We don’t know the old cunt. Never met him.”

32. Not so old. Too old for this, but not so old.

James nods. “It’s true, didn’t even see him get on.We just noticed him when he started moving around funny.”

There are hands pressing down on him but no one has moved and so they are rave hands, the kinds of hands that lift you up and out and up and away. They can take all your weight and carry you on. Annette, he says in his head, through the pain, Annette I can’t see. And then he is moving, what’s the word, he is convulsing, he is retching, someone is shouting and he wants to tell Annette, it is alright, Annette you have lovely hair and there are worse things than being held by a stranger on the floor of the night tube, but he can’t fit his tongue out through his lips and his clenched teeth, and he is James, with his forehead against the window, staring out at a black tunnel.

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The Heatwave

At first they called it a heatwave. After two months, they shifted to calling it an Indian Summer. There was some discussion about whether this was racist, but everyone was too hot to get worked up. When October arrived, and the temperatures remained in the 30s, the protests began. It wasn’t as big as the Trump march, but some 50,000 Londoners took to the streets to demand attention be paid to climate change. On the day of the march, it was 36 degrees in the hottest part of the day, and the cooling systems failed on the Underground. 3 people died.

People stopped sharing pictures of the parks. It was funny when the grass was yellow, but the trees were still green, and  there were still ducks in the ponds, and teens drinking cans on rugs by the sides of the paths. It was less funny when the leaves fell, not because it was winter, but because the huge trees, which had stood for 60 years, died. Their trunks withered and stiffened. Some of them fell. Soon, even the yellow grass was gone.

In mid-November, a barbecue left unattended in Hyde Park led to a huge swathe of fire that cut across the main fields and was thwarted only by the Serpentine. The London firefighters fought courageously, but were unaccustomed to wildfire. The ground remained hot to the touch for weeks. Tourists were encouraged to avoid the park while they replanted. Fire warning signs were posted in the main parks around the city, with their arrows pointed permanently to “Fire Danger: Severe”. The supermarkets were banned from sales of portables barbecues, firelighters and kindling. There were two further, smaller, fires in other suburban parks.

At the beginning of December, a tweet from a well-known account went viral, leading to panicked Londoners beginning to stockpile water. London made international news, led by pictures of sweaty, red-faced urbanites, loading tote bags and wheelie suitcases with as many bottles of water as they could carry. Fighting broke out on the streets. On Amazon, all Prime stockists who carried water-purification tablets and water carriers began to sell out. In Hackney, there was a fight in the streets outside one local Nisa. A local teenager was stabbed. A few weeks later, travel on the Underground was banned for anyone under the age of 16 or over the age of 50, with temperatures on some lines found to be reaching nearly 55 degrees. When a delay on the Central Line resulted in 4 deaths, it was put out of commission altogether. Seaside villages began imposing steep road taxes to discourage tourists. Investors in ice deliveries got rich quick.

Sadiq Khan was forced to put out a ruling banning displays of Christmas lights, as it was found that the strings of lights, manufactured for European climes, began to start small fires, which grew when paired with the tinder of dying Christmas trees. Images of snowy Christmases and Santa Claus were circulated on social media with irony.

Organic farms around the cities began to go out of business, unable to keep crops alive as water bans became widespread. Vegetables prices doubled, then tripled, as imports struggled to keep pace for demand. Battersea Cat and Dog Home reported a 50% decrease in the number of stray animals in the city.

It wasn’t until January that people began to accept that this might be the new norm. They did this by leaving the city in droves. European citizens fled back to their hometowns, where temperatures were also high, but where the infrastructure could cope. Despite the lowering population of London, supply for water still failed to keep pace, and Thames Water began imposing a 250 litre per day limit on local households. Residents were advised not to flush urine, and to shower only once every two days. The use of dishwashers was banned. Bath water was to be kept for watering essential garden items.

By February, they were unable to keep the Lidos open. Hampstead Ponds dried up, resulting in a violent raiding of the pond beds. Over 1000 pieces of jewellery were turned into authorities, but it was thought that many more went unreported. While the Thames continued to ebb and flow, many of the inland waterways dried up. Boats were abandoned. All but 6 of the 120 breeding pairs of London swans were found dead. Those that remained were transported to Sweden for safekeeping.

As the water-table dropped, land under inner city London suburbs began to subside, and several documentaries were made when Victorian conversions began to collapse. The property market took a steep downward turn, and those who were able to remain in London quickly took advantage of plummeting prices. Office buildings without sufficient air-conditioning were found to be unusable, and employees were advised to work from home if temperatures regularly breached 40 degrees inside. It is thought this was 60% of offices, though many companies refused to let temperature readings be taken. 

At every turn, it was advised that the weather could shift, but it widely acknowledged that traditional methods of weather forecasting were now failing.

There were no spring flowers, and as the months progressed into April, it became clear how many of the trees in London had failed to survive the drought. Extra budget had to be invested in street cleaning as the bodies of birds, foxes, rabbits and households pets upset the children in suburban neighbourhoods. Schools were closed, and efforts made to relocate families with young children further north. As the Thames dried up further, it became common practice to walk across the river bed, rather than diverting to the bridges. A police raid on Shoreditch House found it to be using many times its allocation of water to keep the rooftop pool open. It was closed. The Daily Mail published images of Boris Johnson in Canada, fishing in a lake.

The new financial year saw some companies opt to move their headquarters out of London, with water prices, lack of transport, cooling costs and the dwindling talent pool making the capital economically unfeasible. Some trialled new offices in Spain and Greece, while many others moved north to Leeds and Manchester. Facebook and Google, in an unprecedented alliance, shifted their UK headquarters to Edinburough – where temperatures remained in the mid-twenties – joined swiftly by other, smaller start-ups.

In London, temperatures continued to climb. The city’s population of rats was driven out from underground by rising temperatures, and took ownership of the remaining green spaces. The NHS released a pamphlet recommending that children be allowed outside only between the hours of 7pm and 8pm, and the sale of sunscreen under 50 SPF was banned. Online guides advised tourists to avoid the capital. For the first time since opening, the curtain raised on Hamilton to empty seats.  

In June 2019, a year since the heatwave began, an unofficial census reported that the population of the capital had dropped by 30%. Many news outlets surmised the actual percentage to be much greater. Temperatures dropped occasionally to the mid-thirties, but often reached 50 degrees around midday. While Canary Wharf was still operational, it was estimated that up to 70% of offices were empty, with employees either working from home or relocated. Those that remained living in the inner suburbs were changed. They walked slowly, conserving energy, and wore long, billowing clothes that deflected the heat. Congestion was no longer an issue. It was rumoured that a cult had taken over the abandoned underground tunnels with air-conditioning units smuggled from the US illegally tapping into the grid. Certainly, if you tried to enter the system, you were greeted only by gates, and occasionally dogs.

There were many attempts to reverse the damage. Consultants were brought in from Perth and Dubai. Long-range forecasts were parsed, abandoned, parsed again. It was agreed that the costs of reworking the city to accommodate the new temperatures would go into the billions. All works on new buildings were halted until they could prove provision for the temperatures. Construction city-wide halted. The New York Times printed a picture of the London skyline without a single crane.

There were plenty of attempts to make the best of it. Young professionals who had formerly been priced out of the property market bought property in inner suburbs. There were many great innovations in ice-cream. Comparisons charts with other, hotter regions in the world brought round mockery to Londoners who had proved themselves unable to cope, and there was an influx of immigration from equatorial countries, which slowed when the sewerage systems began to fail.

A Google Earth recording of London on December 29, 2020, when midday temperatures passed 60 degrees in Covent Garden, showed a deserted city sliced in half by a brown riverbed. Rain was finally recorded on March 27, but there was hardly anyone left to witness it.

An Inspector Calls

The train is full, of bodies and of bits. Everyone has just a little more than they can carry comfortably, wedging cases down aisles and catching each other at the hip. Everyone, too, a bit less themselves than usual. Commuting back to London in that bit, that blip, between Christmas and New Years, means leaving people behind. Or going back to empty houses. It means you probably didn’t get a real holiday, when everyone else did. It means you’re a bit pissed off.

The man next to me doesn’t look pissed off, and he doesn’t have any luggage that I can see – just a plastic bag under the seat in front, and a coat over his knees. His table is pulled down, and on it he has a thick book of pages, heavily marked in ink. He is hunched over them, muttering to himself.

I prefer the aisle on a plane, but not on a train. On a train, sitting on an aisle is a licence for people to hit you, with the corner of boardgames that they don’t really want, suitcases stuffed with jumpers that don’t really fit them. I am tucked in tight, but that doesn’t guarantee safety. I always fall asleep on trains, planes, anything moving with that low level of sound and rhythm. I don’t fall asleep neatly, with my chin in my collar, but aggressively, swung about by dreams, mouth open, head jerking, legs and knees unhinging. I’m exactly the person you hit with your case as you bump down the aisle, looking for a seat that isn’t near children. I’d hit myself, if I saw myself, leg sticking out, torso draped like a towel.

So I’m trying to stay awake, even though I’ve eaten enough food to put 10 people to sleep, even though I haven’t been really, properly, safe-to-drive sober since November 11th, even though I haven’t sleep properly in 71 days (not all in a row, but it’s still too many days), even though sleeping would distract me from whatever is happening in my guts (twisted, and stationary, it isn’t good, whatever it is, but that’s what it’s supposed to be like).

You shouldn’t really talk to strangers on public transport, as a general rule. That’s how most murders happen: interaction. Safer by far to put your head in a book and plug in your headphones and wait until you meet someone with whom you have at least 3 mutual friends. Mutual friends prevent murder. Still, there’s not an enormous amount you can do when they speak to you, which is what he does, my seat-sharing mumbler, turning to me and saying, “I really hate this time of year.”

He is handsome, in the way of characters in movies who have been through a bad stretch but will probably come out the other side better off. He hasn’t shaved in a while, and might not have brushed his teeth in a while longer. His eyebrow hairs spiral up his forehead to meet scrubby bits of fringe. Before I lived with a man, I never knew eyebrows could do that, growing and growing like over-watered bush. I never knew some people had to clip them into submission, having spent the last fews years trying to coax life out of brows I ripped out with my fingernails in more stressful times.

The first thing I said to him couldn’t be “You should get your hairdresser to clip your eyebrows next time you go”, so I said, “Me too”, which wasn’t true, which meant our relationship wasn’t off to a good start.

He smiled, more unbrushed teeth. You know when you can tell? The gathering of white around the top of the teeth and into the gums, around the bottom of the bottom teeth, with bits in gaps.

“I’ve been up with my mother. Grumpy cow. And her cat shits everywhere. Just shits!” He laughed.

I laughed. “Gross.”

“Why are you headed back down to London? No more holiday?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Used up all my leave. Should be a quiet week though.”

He picked up the papers on his table and angled them in my direction. “I’m going back for this.”

They read “An Inspector Calls’. “You’re in a play?” I asked. It made sense. He was handsome but unkempt, exactly the right kind of someone to be an actor. It was almost too obvious, like we were in a movie ourselves.  

He nodded. “My first one in years.”

I would have continued the conversation if I’d known anything at all about the play, but all I could guess was that it was probably about a detective and that he was probably the lead. He wouldn’t have told me about it if it was a bit part. So I nodded and said “Congratulations” and then stared out into the aisle.

He was a bit pissed off. You can tell when people are a bit pissed off. He squared his shoulders away from me, and flipped a page with a bit too much vigour, glancing at me twice before sinking back into the script. After a while, he leant forward under the seat, and pulled out a small bottle of white wine, the kind of you buy from M&S for a picnic or a train journey. My mother would have said it was too early for wine, but Christmas means you can drink whenever you want, so I didn’t judge him. I didn’t judge him until he finished it in one gulp and put in back in the brown bag in the same movement as pulling out a second, and finishing that too. A third followed, sipped more slowly.

The smell came only a few minutes after that. Don’t worry, he hadn’t wet himself. It was the smell of someone who had woken up the alcohol in their bloodstream. You know what I mean? When you’ve been drinking the night before, and you decide on a hair-of-the-dog to make you feel better, and almost instantly you’re drunk again, because it’s all still there, sitting there, waiting.

He stopped marking the pages after the fourth bottle. He sunk back into his seat, wriggling down a bit more. Our coats were touching where the seats met.

“Have you ever seen it?”

I knew he was asking about the play, but I said “Seen what?”

“This”, pointing at the script. “Seen it?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t you like plays?”

“I do”. Another lie. “I just haven’t seen that one.” He was looking at me, and I could feel his breath on my nose and cheeks.

“You should,” he said. “You should come see me in it.”

I nodded. Across the aisle, a couple were watching us. They were whispering. I thought they were probably taking bets on whether we knew each other, whether we’d be going to make out in the train toilets. I wanted to show them the bag of bottles.

“It opens in May.”

I nodded again. “Sounds good!”

We were almost in King’s Cross, Kentish Town flashing past. 10 minutes or so, I’d done the journey enough. Other people had taken note of the same and were standing, stretching. I started to button up my coat, and noticed that the small wine bottles, five or six of them, had rolled free from the bag.

I nudged him, pointed. He bent down, but couldn’t get around the tray table to reach the last two, which rolled away from his fingers. The smell was stronger.

I stood up, grabbing my bag from the rack above my head. It was heavy with a bottle of rum, and I thought briefly that I should give it to him.

When I looked back at him, he was watching me, and I thought about the way I’d lifted my arms, and felt uncomfortable.

“I was on TV, you know,” he said.

The train was slowing down, people moving into the aisles, and suddenly I was in the way. “I’ll try to come see you,” I said, suddenly meaning it. “Which theatre is it?” I started moving down the aisle, moved by people, my bag catching on the seat in front.

He was nearly two rows away, sitting silently. “Which theatre?” I asked again.

He didn’t answer, only bent down, and I knew he was feeling for a full one among the empties gathered at his feet, and that there wasn’t one.

There are mermaids in the Hampstead Ladies’ Pond

There are mermaids in the Hampstead Ladies’ Pond.

They are the green kind, and the silver kind. The ones molded from bits of lake floor – from weed and wetness and the bones and bills of ducklings. The water is very dark in the Ladies’ Pond. There are shadows from the willows and the bigger trees. The leaves trail into the water, dipping into their own reflections, so it is hard to tell where the tree ends and where the reflection begins, a green vine spinning darker and taller and longer.

It is hard to tell where the water ends and where the mermaids begin. They move like you imagine they might: that is to say, not like you, with your white wet legs jerking at angles, propelling you awkwardly, forcefully, away from the dock and into the darker bits of the green-black water. Not like you with your shivering, and the sharp chatter of your teeth. Not like you treading the water to keep your head up, to keep your ears dry. Not like you, so clearly out of your depth, and out of your element, trying to talk while your tongue quakes in your mouth and your skin screams to return to the sun and the meadow and your half-read book on your sun-warmed towel.

They move like you imagine they might: like not half-fish, but like whole-fish, like a boneless being that might be more like 90, or 95% water, armoured and cooling.

A game they play: touching. Your small pink and white feet are so pretty, dancing up above, twitching and moving, always moving. A mermaid knows how to sink, but a human only knows not to, flickering and forcing, pushing to remain on the surface even as the water draws you in. You will do just about anything not to believe in the mermaids: you will believe in small tangles of weed, or lost fish. You will believe in imagination and fear, so you do not have to think about grey-green fingers tipped with greener nails, flashing out for a touch of skin.

When you’re in the water you keep your thoughts from the bottom, though they want, very badly, to drift there. It gets darker and colder down there, much more of both than you could tolerate for long, and there are things down there: we won’t talk about it. Don’t stir it up.

They won’t pull you in, but of course they’ve done it before. The mermaids want more – there’s not much room on the surface of the pond, what with the ducks and buoys and the chattering grannies, but there’s plenty down the bottom, where the sun doesn’t reach. Mermaids don’t breed – how could they? You’ve seen the pictures. You know how it works. Where would it go? But they probably won’t pull you down. They only want a touch. You’re very warm. You carry the sun.

They don’t allow men in the Hampstead Ladies’ Pond. This is a source of freedom for the women on the banks of the pond, who take their tops off and let their breasts loll free. Women look at each other’s breasts of course, because they can. Women are allowed to look at the size of each other’s nipples, the scars and the sag and the drape; pink and white and brown.

You don’t think about teeth on a mermaid, but they have them, and they get sick of fish. They nibble on weed, and suck down the occasional eel, but when they’re hungry, properly hungry, from the rigor and the rush of a life spent swimming, what they really like to eat is swan. It’s a sight, from above, in the Hampstead Ladies’ Pond, and if you were watching, you could see it happening: the bird, white and black and orange, on the black-green water, drifting across the surface. And then, beneath that, a shadow, a quick-flicker.

You can imagine how they do it: two quick hands wrapped around each orange foot and then a jerk beneath the surface. They have to be quick: if they’re slow, the swan will start into the sky, the way they can, and only two strong beats of those big wings and they’re up, and free, and safe – and a bird like that can lift a mermaid out of the water if it’s a small one (and they’re mostly small). But if they’re quick that’s it: beneath the surface is no place for a swan, and they break the wings, and the neck. A swan can break a man’s arm, so they say, but I’ve never seen them do the same to a mermaid. And then, from above, you’d see the stirring cease, and then perhaps, a drift of red. But there won’t be waste.

If you’re wondering where mermaids come from, don’t. They don’t breed, they just feed. I’ve never seen a pregnant mermaid. Thoughts like those are heavy ones, with a tendency to drift, and sink. It’s just a piece of weed. It’s just a silver fish.

The Orange Man

The door opens by itself. He doesn’t open doors. They open for him. They said it couldn’t be done, back in the 80s, when he built it, stone by stone, with his own bare hands. And a large team of builders. Not immigrants though – he checked. Soon he won’t have to.

There isn’t a hallway. Hallways are for small people, who need to be led where they’re going. His home opens into a cathedral, into a colossal cavern. He can go wherever he wants. Everything is gold.

The staff don’t talk to him, but they nod a lot. Women, all of them. Men don’t apply for jobs like these, they’re not designed for it. They’re the hunters and gatherers, they need to be out in the open air. The blonde who takes his coat, in the uniform he sewed with his own bare hands, bare hands, the hands that built America, this is what she wants to be doing. She smiles at him. “Good evening, sir”.

You shouldn’t talk to them, it only encourages them. She takes his coat and he walks through the huge room, feet sinking into the carpet. He doesn’t believe in carpet, but carpet says something about a man. “Walk on my wealth”, it says, “I am goddamn rich.” He is so goddamn rich. £3 billion, that’s what they guess at. Idiots. Closer to £10, when you take into account his branding. He pats his hair and smiles. Nobody understands like he does the value of the personal brand.

That bitch, though. That scheming bitch, in her pantsuits. The kinds of things she said to him, he hasn’t heard those kind of things since he was a boy. No one speaks to him like that. Sometimes, his advisers come to him, and advise him (ha!) of people on the internet saying things about him. “Say them to my face!” he retorts, and sends them out of the room. They never come and say it to his face. They’re too afraid.

That bitch though, standing there by the microphone, swaying like she can’t quite manage the size of him in the room, like she can’t quite stand still in his presence. That’s who they think will be beat him?

No one will beat him. No one has beaten him since he was kicked out of school at 13 years old, and that wasn’t a beating, that was an opportunity. He eats bastards like them for breakfast now.

The door to the bedroom opens by itself, or maybe there’s someone there opening it, he doesn’t see them. All he sees is his big bed, his big gold bed, and beside it his wife.

“You did wonderfully, dear!”

“I know.” She picks up his favourite brand of whiskey, pours him a heavy drink. Some men drink vodka, some men drink water. Those men are weak. “Here you go, darling.” She extends her hand to hand it to him, but he walks up close to her. She melts into his touch. She’s afraid of him. Everyone is.

“Do you want me to do it?” she breathes into his ear. This would make most men melt. She has the right kind of body, the good kind, with the long hair. She looks like a woman should look like. Women like this have always gravitated to him, because they understand.

He nods, tightly, and sits in a chair, leaning back. This is the only time he relaxes, and even then, he’s watching. He never switches off. Men never do. Each night he makes her check the light fixtures for cameras. She doesn’t even know what she’s looking for, but it soothes him. She does it naked.

She moves behind him and picks up a brush. It’s gold. Softly, like he likes it (he likes most things hard, she knows that) she runs the brush through his hair. It’s all his hair, despite what the people say, his hair because he paid for it. You can make anything your own if you have enough money. He is so goddamn rich. £3 billion. What a joke. Jokers.

She pins the front down with her palm as she brushes the back, short light strokes, like you’d brush a horse. He’s never brushed a horse, but he knows how horses should be brushed. He can smell her wrist. She smells expensive.

That bitch, though. How dare she, standing there in trousers, raising her eyebrows like she knows something. Well. If a woman can still stand there, like that, when the world knows what her husband did. If not even her husband wants her, then why should anyone else? They don’t, that’s a fact. None of them. They don’t know what they want.

His advisers, the ones he listens to, they’ve told him to prepare for a loss. He doesn’t know how to do that. He’s never lost before. You’re a loser if you admit to being a loser.

Still, though. A man in his position has to think about the jealous ones, the ones who want to get him. They’d be outside the wall, if he had it his way, but they haven’t let him build it yet. They wouldn’t be above twisting things, rigging the polls. Everyone knows it happens. Everyone knows how easy it is.

“Faster,” he says. She gets sore wrists. She’s complained once before. There’s a mirror across from them, gold, and in it he can see her wincing. Weak, just like a woman.

He’d love to be able to fire them. All of them. Just point a finger and yell, “You’re fired”. Everyone loves it when he does that. He’s never lost a damn thing in his damn life, and certainly not to a woman. That nasty woman. She represents all women. The ugly ones.

The thing about women is that it’s so easy to see what they want. They think they’re complicated but there’s nothing complicated about them. They’re easy. And they always come to him first. He’s never chased a woman in his life.

“Faster,” he says, again. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“I could do this all night,” he says, cradling his whiskey in his crotch. She knows that.

Back To The Lake

The water should have been cold. It was the middle of winter.

The lake was cold. That’s how she remembered it, though they’d always come in summer, when the sun shone all day, most days.

The best days were the rare cloudy ones. That was when they were allowed to use the pool table, and when they might sneak to the adjacent cabin and prise open the freezer door, where he hung whole pigs, their throats slit and rubbery. One summer he’d padlocked the door and they’d broken it off with a rock, out of pique more than anything else, and curiosity about what could be worse than a pig, but it was empty. She remembered that – the cold smell of the empty freezer, which still had pink stains on the floor. And the cold of the lake.

She sat at the end of the jetty, dangling both feet, warped in the water. The weeds rose almost to touch her. That’s how she judged her friends, back when she was thirteen and allowed to invite one to join the family each summer – how they reacted to the weeds. Most of the girls from her school were used to swimming pools, and they’d never swum with the green, where fish might flick up against you in the shallows. Catherine had been the worst, but it made her the bravest – she’d only swim off the boat, or off the end of the longest jetty, where the weeds couldn’t grow up long enough to touch her. Jane hadn’t cared at all. She’d come back three summers all up, until that last one, when they were fifteen, and old enough to have one drink when the fireworks across the lake went up, set off by one of the rich families who owned property right on the water. You wanted to hate them, because of everything they had, but you couldn’t, because of the fireworks.

There wouldn’t be any fireworks during this trip. This was the first time Ellen had visited in winter. She hadn’t wanted to come, but Jack had heard so much about the lake, and Hot Water Rock, and the sand tennis courts that merged with the beach, that he’d insisted. Her own fault, for the tying the place up so tightly with her childhood. He’d even driven, plugging the address she had memorised into the SatNav, and managing the local roads while she sat watching the bush flash by, counting.

“19,” she’d announced to him as he made the last turn onto the five-minute downhill that would spit them out directly on the lake front.

“What? 19 what?”

“19. That’s how many dead animals we’ve driven by. 19.”

“You’re counting the roadkill?” he’d asked. He should have looked stupid in his Brits-on-holiday get-up, the chequered shirt half-tucked into knee-length shorts, but instead he looked comfortable. He always looked comfortable, born in the right skin, even when, like now, he was dotted with bites and burnt across his knees and neck. It was one of the things she liked about him.

“We always did it, on the way down,” she’d said. “It’s not weird or anything.”

He’d risked a glance at her, one eyebrow up. He was doing better than her, really. She couldn’t shake her London habit of black-all-over, especially in winter, but winter here wasn’t really winter, and she was sweating beneath her jumper and jeans.

“19’s a lot,” she’d said, half to herself. It was one of their habits, passing the time in the back of the car, after the Anne of Green Gables audiobooks had finished. Possums, cats, rats, dogs. The highest she could remember from this stretch of road was 11, but that was a long time ago. There were more cars now.

Gravel beneath the tyres. “We’re here!” Jack had announced, pulling up on the handbrake. “Let’s see what it’s all about!”

He owed her this enthusiasm, even if she didn’t particularly want it. Six years now they’d lived together in London, and even though he was northern, and had moved to the city at the same time she had, it was still his. His university friends, and his family home for Christmas. Coming here this year had been his idea.

They hadn’t managed Christmas, since prices had been impossible, but it was almost nice to come in winter. No tourists. No humidity, though of course he’d still managed to get sunburnt. The hard part was over now, hadn’t even been that hard. Her parents already knew she wasn’t coming back, even before she’d met him. She was as much of a stranger to them as he was.

Now it was just them, would be until next Sunday, when they’d drive back up north and get back on the flight.

Jack had been amazed that they’d been able to book the same cabin that her family had visited for so many years, but it wasn’t so amazing. No one visited the lake during winter. It was cold, and grey, and the nearest town was a 50-minute drive along roads so dark you’d never chance it in the rain. At this time of year it was only locals. They’d wonder what they were doing here, but they’d never ask, she knew. There was a line between those that lived, and those that visited.

She didn’t tell Jack that though. He thought everyone was so friendly; best to keep it that way.

Still: she’d have liked to ask someone why the water was this warm. It was almost sensationless against her feet and she thought, idly, that that must make it the same temperature as her. Blood temperature. 42 degrees? She could never remember. But then, it couldn’t be.

Steps on the wood behind her, and she leant her head back, waiting for Jack’s heavy hands on her shoulders.

“Warm, isn’t it?”

She jerked her head around. A woman, no more than 50, dressed in the uniform of a lake local: shorts, damp at the hem, and a fleece zipped up to her neck. She had grey hair cropped close to her head, no makeup, black eyes.

Ellen stood, slipping wet feet into her shoes, brushing off her palms against her jeans, but the woman made no move to take her hand. She’d never really shaken hands in greeting before she lived in London, but now it was instinct, and she paused awkwardly before clasping both hands before her.

“Yeah, I was just thinking that.”

The woman smiled. “Really? Most tourists are just pleased. Don’t wonder about it.”

“I used to come here every summer, for 10 years or so,” Ellen said, a tiny hint of defensiveness creeping in. “Never been here at this time of year before, I thought it’d be freezing.”

The woman didn’t react to her words, and Ellen knew she’d made herself look more of a fool than anything else, trying to pretend like this was her place. It wasn’t, not any more than London was.

“The springs. That’s why”.

It clicked. It was one of the best parts of the lake, as a kid, a spot you could get to only by boat, a tiny inlet you only knew if you knew, where natural springs bubbled up under the cliff, mixed with the lake water, formed a perfect pool of hot water. They’d spent hours there, eating cold sausages and drinking from the lake.

“But… they’re tiny. Wouldn’t that…” she trailed off. She worked in digital. She’d failed biology. She had no fucking idea. “The whole lake?”

The woman nodded, looking out at the water. “Screwed all the fishing. Made the koura spawn like anything.”

Koura were local endangered crayfish, black and the size of a child’s foot. Only the indigenous were allowed to fish them, technically, but everyone did, spotlighting them with torches after dark. She looked down into the water and suddenly she saw that the darkness at the bottom of the lake wasn’t weed, or mud, but a thick, crawling mass of crayfish, scrabbling shell on shell.

“Ellen!” Jack’s voice, bouncing off the water, brightly foreign. It was getting dark. The winter thing again; she remembered endless evenings here.

Ellen smiled with the same brightness at the woman who hadn’t offered her hand, or her name. “I’d better get back. He’s new here, doesn’t know where anything is.”

The woman was thin but the jetty was narrow and she was firmly planted, barefoot, of course, right in the centre. “You’re staying there?” She jerked a thumb at the little cabin, so much smaller now than in Ellen’s memory.

“Yes,” she said, because the car was there and because Jack stood in the doorway with moths swarming his head.

The woman stood aside at that, and Ellen smiled, said good night, walked past. There was a moment of closeness where she could have been pushed, would have had no chance at stopping it, but nothing happened, of course.

She didn’t turn around as she walked back up the sand, avoiding the sharp rocks though she had her shoes on. She walked into the cabin, but Jack was gone, and the two rooms were cool and empty.

She stepped back out, flicking off the porch lamp as she did so. She hated moths. The woman was still on the jetty, staring up towards the cabin, though there was no way she’d have been able to see Ellen in the half-light.

A scratching to her left, and she knew what Jack was doing, same thing she’d done so many times as a kid, drawn to the concrete sides and the thick slab of a door. “Hey babe,” he said. “What’s in here?”

No padlock, hardly a surprise, since the house it belonged to had stood empty all these years. You could tell by the cobwebs, and the rot of the porch. He might think it was empty because it was winter, that the family would return for summer, but it wasn’t that kind of emptiness.

He pulled on the handle, and she wanted to shout, but. And it was empty, of course.

“Looks like an abattoir,” he said, with a half-step inside.

“Don’t,” came a voice, but it wasn’t Ellen’s, though her mouth was open to say the same. Black eyes, grey hair, a bit too close behind them both. You could do that with bare feet. “No one goes near this place anymore.”

Jack stepped out, interest all over his face. “Why’s that?”

“Girl died, stuck in here, one summer. Stupid game of hide and seek. Had some sort of fit, threw her head up against the wall. Her mates found her later. Bit of a shock to the community.” She nodded her head twice. “Bit of a shock”.

Jack’s eyes were wide. “Wow.” He turned to Ellen, took her hand, as she knew he would. “Must have been horrible. Did you know her?”

She opened her mouth, but another voice filled the gap again. “Nah. After your time, wouldn’t it be, girly?”

Ellen nodded. “Yes. Later, I think.” The door was still open, white walls, pink stains.

“Anyway. You’re brave, staying here. We’re superstitious folk, round here. Not interested in trying our luck, if you know what I mean. It’ll be bowled over one day soon, prices going up like they are.”

She was already turning away, but she spoke directly to Jack, who was hanging on every deliciously dark word. “Shut that door, boy. Don’t need to invite anything out, do you?”

But it was Ellen who caught the lip of the door with her fingers and swung it shut, hard, making a noise that rang out across the lake. Jack looked at her crossly, but the local woman nodded her head, approving.

“Don’t try catching the koura, will you? Not yours to take.” She walked down the gravel driveway, fading quickly into shadow. Just the sound of the lake, warm against the sand, thick with black cray, bigger than a child’s foot.

Imogen – Chapter 17

A work in progress, currently at 60K words. 

If Imogen was being honest, which wasn’t her preferred approach, she would have to confess that things were a bit fucked. Not as fucked as they had been, for sure, but she wasn’t handling things well. Standard. Good. As expected.

She wanted to blame Chris. She really really wanted to, all beard and big dick and sexual appetite. He could cook too, which was a bit lethal. He could make curry from scratch.

She wasn’t interested in him, really, the same way he wasn’t interested in her. What they were doing for each other was gap-filling, caulking emotional fuck-ups, making do. Which was maybe a bit unfair, since he was strong and funny and had a big sexy scar down his abdomen – she’d always wanted to have sex with someone with a big scar – but she did a lot of comparing. Andre. Chris. Taller, fatter, lasted longer in bed, paid her more compliments.

She didn’t know what his fiancee had looked like. Her name was Sophie, she worked as an accountant, she liked oranges a lot and always had bits in her teeth. The bits in the teeth thing sounded disgusting, but he said it with this smile, like it was a charming quirk. That’s how she knew he had to still be in love with her. The orange bits. There was no other explanation.

The whole being in love with other people hadn’t stopped them from falling into each other’s lives, hard. It didn’t hurt that Imogen’s life had been made up of work, gym, Shane and home. That was her routine, that was her schedule. And it meant it was easy for him to slot in.

He worked contracts so he was busy most weekends, but free in the evenings. He’d taken to meeting her outside work, standing with his back pressed against the hot concrete. At first it had freaked her out – too much, too soon, too stalkery – but she decided it was better than being alone. And it was, much better, better than getting home at 6:30 and eating toast for dinner and going to bed at 9:30.

He’d even met Nancy. She hadn’t been sure. There’s a big difference between telling your tenant that she can have people to stay and it actually happening, and Imogen could see her stiffening up like a cat, all curled and taut. He was so easy though, and then it transpired that he’d heard of her, his mother liked her books, and that calmed her down, like being patted. She backed off, smiled at him a lot.

The books had moved, recently, the dust shifted around, drifted to the floor. She’d been reading again, and touching her own books. Imogen knew better than to ask.

He’d cooked them both curry, which must have been a bit weird for him. The kitchen wasn’t a mess exactly, but it wasn’t the kitchen of someone who cooked. Nancy would have sporadic cooking binges, where she made four things, a pie and homemade pasta and a cake and something else, then froze most of it and tried to make Imogen eat the rest. And Imogen ate avocado on toast, which she liked.

It had been like playing houses. He even put on an apron, which barely went over his big head, and they’d all laughed. And he’d cooked for two hours while they sat in the lounge and drank beer and watched television, like some sort of functional family with too many cats.

The food was delicious. Imogen didn’t know what Sophie could have been thinking.

Nancy went upstairs before the dishes were done, avoiding, Imogen thought, the question of whether he would stay or not. He could, she was an adult, but there was something in the decision of it that was better made just between the two of them.

He was a relationship guy, she knew. She was just a necessary half, it didn’t really matter what she was made up of, as long as she was content to exist next to him. This was the pushing away moment, this was the time at which she should have shoved. But she was too damn tired. And besides, when he was there, the little Andre voices that moved inside her skull at all times shut up a little bit. She assumed he was doing the same.

“I love you,” he said that night, turning to her in her bed and throwing a warm heavy arm over her. “I love you Imogen.”

She pretended to be asleep, holding still, keeping her breaths even. What a fucking idiot. His skin smelled of curry, and she could feel his breath on her face as he waited for an answer, waited a bit longer, then rolled over and fell asleep.

There was no excuse for that if he wasn’t drunk. She’d rather he called her Sophie when they had sex, which they did a lot, because the talking thing wasn’t as good between them as the sex thing was.

A little bit boring, that’s what it was. Maybe that’s why Sophie had done it.

She hadn’t told Shane about him, because Shane was way too sensible. “You’ll get yourself hurt,” Imogen could hear her saying, in that slightly judgmental voice. “Why don’t you just be alone for a bit?”

The thing was, she still felt alone when she was with him, because he wasn’t inside her head yet.

She was lying to her mother, too, of course. She’d rung a few times recently, just wanting to talk, for whatever reason. About the church, about the house, about her Dad. He was sick with the flu and not coping well, man flu made 1000 times worse by the fact he was always convinced he was dying when he got ill.

“How’s Andre?” she’d asked, every time, her voice warm with affection for the man she’d only met once. “Hope you’re cooking for him.”

“I’m not, Mum, but he’s good,” she’d replied, wondering, like she always did, whether someone else was cooking for him.

“You two should come back up soon. Come see your father. He’d like that.”

Her father had almost certainly forgotten that Andre existed, that they’d ever met. “Sure Mum, that sounds nice. We’re pretty busy at work at the moment, but as soon as we’ve got a few days.

“What about the end of August?” she’d pressed. “Bank holiday, you could come for a couple of nights. We could show him the sights! He doesn’t know Manchester, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t”, she’d said, wondering what excuse she could come up with.

“We’ll show him round then!”

“That sounds nice,” she’d repeated. It did sound nice. She tried to substitute Chris in instead, whether he’d manage her parents like Andre had. Probably, she thought. Everyone was good with them except for her.

He never invited her to his house, which was good, since he lived in Clapham, and she didn’t know how she’d manage it. He liked the cats, he said, he liked being away from his flatmates. He liked Nancy too, even though she was offbeat. He’d told his mother and she’d been ecstatic, like her son had met a real celebrity.

Imogen had been interested in that, and taken one of the books up to her room to read. She didn’t read much but the novel was easy-going, the tale of a man and wife raising their three children, a novel of family intimacy, and it was light and soft and good, until the mother got cancer and then the father too, and then the father died.

It was one of those stories, Imogen realised too late, which made you care and sucked you in and then spat you out. Books that made you cry. She didn’t finish it. She didn’t need to cry.

She’d told Rose about Chris, since she’d spotted him outside the building once, and asked about him. She didn’t know about Andre, so it was easier. She’d been pleased for Imogen, touchingly so. “Didn’t know you had any mates until I met that Shane. And now a man too. Doing alright, aren’t ya?”

Rose’s personal life was everywhere right now, splashed across the Daily Mail and The Sun. She’d been snapped with one of her directors, a married man with a filthy rep. At least two of the pictures appeared to show her receiving oral sex from him in a car. Imogen wished she could ask about it, wanted to go out and get drunk with her so she was brave enough to ask the question. But Rose had just signed on for a movie to play an anorexic and had dropped the booze to lose some weight for the part, though Imogen didn’t know where it would come off her. It made her sharper than usual, and ruder.

“What’s he like in bed?” she asked, during one of their bi-weekly catch up sessions. “He looks like he’d be rough”.

He wasn’t rough, hadn’t been since the first few goes, where he’d been getting something out of his system. Now it was loving sex, girlfriend sex, the kind of sex you have when you’re knocked up and don’t want to hurt the baby.

“I’m not telling,” Imogen said. Rose didn’t like it when she didn’t open up to her.

“That means it’s bad,” she said coolly, lighting up a cigarette. She wasn’t allowed to smoke in the firm, obviously, but it didn’t stop her.

The shine had gone off her a bit in recent weeks, Imogen noticed. Maybe because she was getting to know her so well, see underneath the Hollywood face. She was knackered all the time, and catty, and unwilling to agree to small changes to her contract. Now, she was refusing to cut or dye her hair for a role. Because she could.

“Jennifer Lawrence does it,” she said.

In private, Imogen had gone to Chris (too many Chris’, in her life, now – Christopher), requesting a meeting. He sat behind her desk, tall and wide, while she told him she’d been considering quitting her job as paralegal, and trying again for her training contract.

“Why’d you stop the first time?” he asked, half interested.

“Personal reasons,” she said, fudging.

“Well,” he said, “it’s something to consider. But we wouldn’t be able to take you on at the moment, so you’d have to go elsewhere. And of course, we’d have to find someone to replace you with Rose.”

She nodded, too tired to fight. She stood to go. “Maybe in a few years?” he suggested.
At least she’d tried.

Telling Her Stories – Chapter 32

This is a chapter from my second completed novel, Telling Her Stories. If you wanna publish it, you know, call me. This is a second draft, and full of errors, of course. Mind your step. 

There’s not a chance that she knows; no chance at all.

If she knew, I don’t think there’s any way she’d be able to avoid asking me, even if she knew she could never have answer. She would ask me all the questions that I ask of myself, all the time. How did you let it happen? Why didn’t you leave? Why didn’t you tell anybody? Even selfish people want those kinds of questions answered. When the questions are that big.

The answers to those questions have changed over the years.

When I’m lying to myself, it’s easy enough to say, “I don’t know”. Plenty of women in abusive partnerships manage to trick themselves into believing that things will change, or that things aren’t that bad. That their partner doesn’t know what they’re doing. That they want to be different. That things will only be worse if they leave.

That’s not the truth for me, though. I knew exactly who he was, and what he was capable of. The war changed a great deal of men in my generation, and did it in differently insidious ways. Some came home physically scarred but mentally unchanged, and I suspect they had no idea that they were the lucky ones. Others came looking much the same, but with a look in their eye that had shifted; something almost like suspicion, that came of having seen the worst that the human race was capable of, and the subsequent belief that it must be watched for, and quelled.

Joe was never someone who would be described as kind, but that was not a fault, exactly. Kindness is not everything, though I suppose it’s a good starting point. It’s never mattered all that much to me because I was always able to be kind enough for the both of us. It sounds ridiculous, but then in a partnership, if you’ve both got all the same characteristics, it gets boring. Someone has to be a bit worse, don’t they?

Or that’s what I thought. Anyway, he was smart, and he was curious and he asked a lot of questions. I like people who ask questions. He always wanted to know how things worked, which was a bit like how I was, but he took it much further than me, taking things apart. When I cooked for him, he would sometimes question the science, or what made this rise or this flat, and I had no idea of the answer to any of it, I just knew that it did. I realize I’m making him sound a little like one of the men off The Big Bang Theory – I watch a lot of TV – but it wasn’t like that. It was just living his life with his eyes wide open. I liked that.

After the war a lot of people stopped living like that, even if they might have been that way before.

It just started to seem like a way to get in trouble, I think, like asking too many questions had got us there in the first place. And, of course, when you’ve made it back from something that so many people didn’t, where you never expected to come back from, it does change you. Most people I knew, it closed them down a bit.

So that was a good thing, about him. But with questioning things like that comes a degree of expectation, and it also meant that he always thought there were answers he hadn’t been given yet, like I was keeping things from him.

And that’s where it all starts to fall in together in my head, when his curiosity became cruelty. I know it seems like a big leap.

One thing I remember: I’d been out, across the park, where I’d stopped for a bit to sit and read, because it was warm and dry and because I wasn’t in any particular hurry. I was a housewife, you see, after the war, which I’d never particularly thought I would be. Before the war, I was at school, and working in the store. And during the war I was a nurse, thrust into it, like so many others left behind. And while I didn’t love it, the sudden housewife thing, I must confess that the amount of time I had to myself was something. This is pre-Elizabeth, pre-all of it, pre-everything, and everything was wide open, including my days. Or I suppose, thinking about it, it wasn’t exactly pre-Elizabeth. She was in there, tucked away. I just didn’t know it yet.

And then, after I was finished reading, I went to the market and picked up meat and vegetables, talked to a few people, and headed home. It was warm and quiet and I walked slowly, because I could.

I got home and started to cook, and he came into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway in that way he had, blocking out the light from the hall. I knew from his tread that something wasn’t quite right, and so I didn’t turn around, staring out the window into my little garden and kneading the pastry with a little more energy than it needed. My heart rate went up.

It’s silly isn’t. Here I am telling the story of when I first realized, when I first thought, but it’s all wrong. It’s full of flaws, like the fact that I didn’t turn around. Why not, to face my young husband? Why not, to tell him what’s for the dinner? Why didn’t I smile? It couldn’t have been the start. It doesn’t make sense.

The fact is that trying to point out one moment when something switches, when you look into a face and see someone different: that moment doesn’t exist. It’s not a gun being fired or a punch being thrown. It’s a leak. It’s a crack. Things come through slowly.

“You were gone for a long time”, he said.

“It was such a lovely day,” I replied, still looking out into the garden where the last of the sun was playing in a large square on the bench, and where I wished I was sitting, instead of hewing a large piece of meat into chunks for stewing, the smell of flesh rising to my nose and working into my fingers. “I sat in the park and read for a while”.

“What did you read?”

“Oh, something I borrowed from Sally. I don’t even remember the title, it’s in my bag. It’s alright, she really liked it but I…”

“There’s no book in your bag”, he said, and then I did turn around, holding my hands in front of me, to where he held my bag wide, and where there was no book.

“Oh,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “I might have put it in the bedroom. I hope I didn’t leave it in the market”.

He slapped my bag onto the table, so that my purse slid out, along with my diary, and with a lipstick.

“Where were you really?” he asked, his nose pinching up and his chin pinching forward, so that he looked like himself only older.

“Don’t be silly, Joe! I can find the book. I don’t know why you’d think I’d lie”.

He moved around behind me, not quite touching me, but close enough that I could feel his warmth. “It’s not warm enough to read anyway. You’d have mud on your dress. There’s nothing here”. His palm on my thigh, hard. Not a caress.

My fingers in the meat, the pastry to the side, the bloody strings. “It’s dry in the park, we should go there tomorrow and read the paper, you’ll see. It’s quite lovely, on the right day.”

“You were seeing him.” Not even a question this time, not even a chance at a denial. “You were seeing him, and you didn’t think that I’d figure it out”.

“Seeing who?” I asked, and this time I washed my fingers and dried my hands because I couldn’t fight with bloodied palms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about Joe, why are you so angry?”

“I don’t like being lied to,” he said, and he was so close, his face above mine like a moon, close and far, not even looking at me, but above my head and through the garden and further.

“I’m not lying,” I said, and I put a hand on his arm, damp against the white cotton. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I promise I wouldn’t lie.”

He took his hand and lifted mine, dropping it like a tea towel. He looked down at me then, but it was still like the garden, there was no focus. “Don’t lie to me again,” he said, and he left the kitchen and left the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

I followed him to the doorway and watched him walk down the street, briskly. He might have been going anywhere, but I thought probably to the pub, where he could hunch up to the brown bar and talk about sport, or not talk, and certainly not think about his wife. I locked the door. I threw the meat in the bin. I went and sat in the sun. That was the first time, that I remember.

A Bank Holiday BBQ

They went to the corner store for beer and came back with purloined wood for the bonfire: a dead Christmas tree, a plywood square, a stump from a garden. So we had to have a bonfire, pulling down bits of fence for kindling and building up the bricks around the barbeque. It’s a smoke-free zone, he said, watching the smoke curl up through the purple flowers, around the bird feeder.

Cold sausages eaten with fingers and a potato salad thick with mayonnaise and egg. A beer from Belgium opened as a treat, citrusy and surprising and ultimately abandoned in favour of familiar blue cans and cold white wine. Card games and manufactured drinking games. Have you played this one: pick a book from a shelf, pick a sentence and make the players around the table guess the final word. “Stevie turned, and saw the…”. “Murderer”. “Door”. “Wanking.” Wanking is always an acceptable answer. Wanking always wins the game.

You’d have thought they might complain, all the neighbours packed tightly in their brick houses, three families to a structure, in the smoke-free area with the air blue with smoke, but they don’t, maybe because it’s a Bank Holiday and maybe because laughter is intimidating but probably because everyone likes the smell of a bonfire, and because they can look down on the tidy brick square and be reassured, of heat and safety and that thing that fire does: security.

It’s not cold but it feels cold when the wind flicks the flames away, because a 19 degree evening can’t compete with that roaring heat, and we’re as close as we dare, so that ash burns holes in tights and eyes stream with smoke, and still we’re closer. There’s something about a fire.

The Christmas tree burns the best, the wood crisped and dry and dead, each spiny offshoot glowing orange as anything, as a sunset, as the lights that were amongst the needles only months ago, now packed away, and never as bright as the fire. It smells like pine, and heat.

The next day, with a sour stomach, your hair smells like a bonfire. You are, for a minute, back in the evening, and the heat, and the looming purple dark, with the partly-torn down fence providing a peep-hole into another life, where the backyard is bigger but the grass is as tall as your knees and growing everyday. If you could have what so many others lack – a backyard in London – why would you let it go to waste, grass to knees and a big empty square of swaying green?

Maybe for the same reason you don’t interrupt when your neighbours laugh in the dark night, even if you hear glass shatter; maybe for the same reason you sit too close to the fire even when you’re burning. Because some things are best left a small bit wild, a little bit bad. Smoke in your hair the next day isn’t the best smell but you didn’t shower until late evening anyway, and your pillows still hold the scent the next day, and the day after.

Apples

Picking her apple isn’t the hardest part of her day, she’d never say that, but it’s not as easy as you’d hope. She likes her apples a certain way, as most people do: tart, and crisp. None of the floury stuff, those bites that crumble on the tongue like styrofoam on am Amazon package. That makes her feel ill, when that happens, though she’ll still finish the apple. You don’t waste apples.

Honestly, if she had a choice, it’s not what she would be eating at all. Apples might be at the front and centre of things, in dentist’s chairs and fairy tales and big cities, but they’re not the most exciting fruit. They’re not the only fruit. There are so many better ones to choose from: passion fruit, or mandarins, or grapes, or raspberries. In fact, just about all fruits are better than apples, which too often come bruised, or floury, or with those holes that you should just cut out, but which you can’t ignore. Even once you’ve cut away the brown bits, you still think, don’t you, of what touched it already. The inside of a fruit shouldn’t be like that.

Still, the best fruits are obviously the ones that can’t come with the delivery man, since he hefts big boxes of fruit and nuts and other things, and the best fruits wouldn’t be able to handle it. Those are the fruits that are more candy that fruit, the berries and the grapes. The bright soft ones that don’t need peeling, just plucking, like pick and mix from a sweet shop. Pomegranate fits that description too, but not if you have to do the cutting and the pulling apart yourself. That takes away from the sweetness, that work. Plus, you can only ever eat six seeds, just in case, just because you never know.

Even raspberries, though: the bits. Whoever came up with raspberries as a concept hadn’t thought it all the way through, making them so delicious that you want them by the handful, and then peppering them with those sharp little seeds, the ones that stick behind your teeth, and wedge into your gums. A mouthful of raspberries comes with a mouthful of blood, later.

She’s not going to complain about the apples, obviously. Free food is free food, even if it’s not what she would have chosen, so the only important thing is to make sure she’s first to the table, first to choose from the apples. Otherwise by the time she gets there, only the Granny Smiths are left, the ones with browning finger prints, and there’s something about the waxy skin of a Granny Smith that makes her want to bite her own tongue, if you want to know.

You can make an apple more like a gift, if you want to. You can do it yourself, and it’s not in the crunch like you might expect. In the movies, when they eat apples, they never cut it up first, just clenching it in a tight fish and then biting wide, but if you’ve done that you know that the skin slips up into your tooth gaps, and the juice slides down your chin, and it’s too much like work. What you have to do it cut it up, in slices, and put it on a plate, and sit down. Don’t leave it too long, because of the browning, the beginnings of rotting that happen too fast. And eat your apple piece by piece, remembering that free fruit is better than no fruit, and that some people have no fruit and that New York isn’t the Big Apple for no reason, the fruit of someone’s labour.