grendel

Chapter 1...

I woke hungover, in a stranger's bed, in an empty house. I dressed, found the kitchen and made myself some coffee. There was a note on the table, it said, Good morning.

Well good morning to you, I thought.

Help yourself to breakfast, the note suggested.

So I did.

While I waited for the toast to brown under the grill I walked around the place to have a look. The house was a bit tatty, and barely furnished; the walls were whitewashed, and the floorboards were bare, but the kitchen had all the white goods. The living room at the back of the house was almost empty - an Ikea sofa, a hi-fi, a lowtable; bare boards again, but with a rug.

I'll go back; the night before. I was at a party at some student dive when I met him. I wasn't looking for love or anything – the opposite, probably. But we talked over a bottle of wine that he stole from some muscled-up pretty boy, and we laughed together at the rubbish band that playing in the back room.

‘Are you a student?' he asked me, getting his face close to mine when he talked, not like he was invading my space or anything, more like he was short-sighted; should be wearing glasses.

‘No, I work.' I told him. ‘I'm an apprentice,' wincing as someone turned up the music.

‘I'm on a pension,' he replied, louder, and I thought he was a smart-arse.

Then he asked, ‘What's your name?'

‘April.'

‘Angel?' he peered.

Deaf as well as blind.

Then he smiled, leaned forward, kissed my neck and said quietly in my ear, ‘ non angel, sed angeli .'

Huh. A scholar.

But he was sort of cute in an off-beat way.

I walked around the house; it was large, full of empty rooms. I looked out of upstairs windows; it had gardens front and back. I went back downstairs, sat in the kitchen, ate toast and drank more coffee.

‘I'm drunk,' I said. ‘I can't walk far.' I told him, shivering against the wind.

‘We're nearly there,' he told me, then took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I've read about this. It's called gallantry. Or chivalry, or something. I remember reading poems and stuff at school – courtly love, they call it. Anyway, I didn't argue, just clutched his coat tightly around me.

Then he said, ‘I'm drunk too,' and I'm not sure what I felt about that.

On the back door he'd pinned a note, ‘If you read this, can you feed the dog?'

But I couldn't see a dog. There was no one else around, the house had that cold feeling they do when you're in on your own. I sat quietly for a while, nursing my hangover, taking sips from my mug of coffee, until I heard noises in the back garden and guessed that's where I'd find the mutt.

I stood up and began to look around, beneath the sink and in the cupboards, until I found tins of dog food. I opened one and then went to unlock the back door, a touch warily, but I don't like big dogs. Nothing appeared, but then the garden was large and overgrown, so it could have been hiding somewhere. I forked the dog-food onto a plastic plate that was lying on the outside step. There was a tin bowl beside it I refreshed the water from an outside tap. I shivered, realised my feet were bare, laid down the bowl, put the empty dog-food tin into the wheely bin by the back door and went back inside. As I shut the door I heard a short bark.

You're welcome.

‘This is it,' he told me, and we piled laughing into the doorway.

He kissed me for a moment. Then I kissed him back. We stood for a while kissing and I thought, well this is good, maybe we'll start having sex. ‘I need to pee,' I said, and he pointed me upstairs toward the bathroom, where I cleaned off my make-up, such as it was, and gave myself a quick wash. I found his bedroom, undressed, and climbed under the quilt. If he wanted me he could have me; otherwise I wasn't moving until morning.

Some time during the night, I have a vague memory of him coming into the room, silhouetted in the pale hall light; he sat on the bed for a few moments and looked at me. Then he left the room.

I washed up the cup and plate, went back upstairs and made the bed. Pulled back the curtains. I felt a bit blank, like you should when someone doesn't take advantage of you. What was wrong with him? With me? I didn't know, though looking back, I think it was all part of a longer game and I suppose, by not having me, he got me.

I met him at a party; strange to meet a killer like that, though I doubt they all hang out in desperate bars.

Chapter 2 ...

There was a note pinned to the inside of the front door, it said, ‘Come and see me again,' and there was a key taped to the note.

What was with the notes?

I stepped out of the house and slammed shut the door. Nothing is less cool than being out early in the morning wearing the same clothes you had on the previous night; we used to laugh at girls you'd see like that; faded flowers pinned forlornly to bus stops at ten on a Saturday morning.

But I'd phoned a taxi and it was waiting at the corner of his street; I got home in about twenty minutes. Mum was at work, my brother was either out or in bed; I was still hung-over. I poured out a large glass of soda water and fresh orange juice, drank it off and then went back to bed.

I slept until late morning.

I was woken by the buzz of my phone beneath my pillow, answered it, ‘Yeah? What?'

‘Did I wake you?'

It was Sian .

‘Yes.'

Sian 's a shopgirl; she works Saturday mornings. She sounded bright and fresh; she said, ‘What happened to you last night?'

‘I went home with a complete stranger,' I told her.

‘Ooh,' she said, with a touch of mockery in her voice, ‘I didn't think you did that sort of thing.'

I thought about telling her more but I could tell she wanted to tell me stuff so I asked, ‘What happened to you?'

She giggled; she was speaking in a mock whisper, so I knew she was probably standing at her counter, avoiding the customers, ‘Guess who I was with?' she asked me.

‘I can't'

‘Steven Wales! Can you believe it?'

‘No!'

Steven who?

‘Yes! Really! He took me for a drive in his car. It's a Porsche you know. Less than six months old.'

Him? Or the car?

I still didn't know who he was, but he must have been someone beautiful, or famous; a footballer or something. ‘Sounds great,' I lied.

‘We parked up at the promenade, overlooking the beach. And we just talked for ages. Really talked, you know. We had such a laugh. It began to rain outside, but the heater was on, and he had great music….'

I'd switched off at this point, was just mumbling …yeah …really …excellent …etc. at intervals but Sian was really excited though. I forget what else she told me but somewhere along the line they got biblical and then later he dropped her off at home. I remember her saying ‘We watched the sunrise together. It was really … you know.'

Yeah, Yeah. Wha'ever .

‘Look, I can hear my brother,' I told her, ‘He's whinging on about something, I'll have to go.'

‘Oh, alright then.'

We arranged to meet at her shop at two, when she would treat me to a staff discount lunch and tell me more.

Shoving my phone on the charger, I got out of bed and went downstairs and made myself breakfast.

Listen, here's a thing. I eat loads. Really. I eat so much, all my girlfriends are jealous, they think it's unnatural, they think it will make me die or something. And what is really good is that I'm not fat. And I have some muscles. But there's no secret; I just work hard. I'm busy all day and it's a physical job and it keeps me on the go. And during the day I'm not usually near a staff canteen or anything, just my flask of coffee and some sandwiches and an apple, or I'll take two or three bananas.

And at weekends I catch up on all the food I missed from Monday to Friday. And three evenings a week I go for a run. I've been running for years; since I started secondary school, so that must be eight or nine years ago – I do about forty minutes, more or less. I'm not in a club and I don't do charity fund-raising fun runs or serious races or anything. I just get out on the street and leg it until I'm tired.

After breakfast, I got dressed, tied my hair back, checked my bag. The key was still attached to the note by sellotape and I left it there. My purse contained some cash, two tampons and my visa card. My phone was almost empty and I still had two pieces of sugar free gum. The street was empty and quiet. The truck started first time.

It felt like a good morning.

*

Ring a ring a roses?

Dunno.

What they doing Sarge?

Dancing.

Looks like they're playing Ring a Roses.

Something like that.

The street was deserted but for the five children, holding hands, swinging around laughing, falling over, getting up, swinging round again. Three girls, a boy and a toddler; black-haired, dark-eyed.

I don't get it, the place stinks, filth all over, it's a war-zone and they're all fucking dancing.

Walker , stay on point!

K, Sarge.

And everybody spread out. I'm not your mother. And I'm not bullet proof.

And Gabriel?

Yeah Sarge?

Stop asking questions and keep your eyes open.

Patrol.

Dust.

Rifles at port.

Sumeria.

The cradle of civilisation.

Kids dancing in the street. Ring a ring a roses.

Walker on point.

About to earn some medals.

Chapter 3 ...

Saturday afternoon it began raining, and it rained for the rest of the weekend. Keith rang me late on Sunday evening to tell me that if the weather kept up I shouldn’t bother turning in for work the next morning. We were doing some work on a roof. Rain and roofing don’t mix. Too slippy; too open to the elements. Too cold and wet.

I don’t mind weather days, except that I don’t get paid. And I get bored.

So when Monday arrived, even wetter than Sunday had been, and I was sort of obliged to mooch around the house all morning, unemployed, I got a bit moody. I’m a creature of habit, I like structure to my day, and sitting watching morning telly, drinking coffee and eating chocolate digestives mad me feel listless, and a bit unwell, so about eleven I rang Bobby Earl.

‘Hey Bobby Earl!’

‘April? How are you?’

‘Bored. No work today, stuck in the house getting fat.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘Want to meet up?’

There was a few moments silence, I imagined him checking his crackberry, then he said, ‘Yeah. Meet me in the park. We’ll share my packed lunch.’

I sighed, ‘How’s about a café or something? It’s raining outside.’

Bobby laughed, ‘I need some fresh air. Anyway it’ll cheer you up.’

True, I thought. On top of the five coffees already in my system, I didn’t really need to add two or three lattes. ‘Fine.’ I said. ‘What time?’

‘An hour?’

I got dressed, borrowed my brother’s coat and mum’s brolly. Then I walked the two miles to the park.

Bobby was there ahead of me, sitting in the bandstand, eating a sandwich from a box.

‘Hey, fat boy,’ I said.

‘Good afternoon, you thing of wondrous beauty,’ he replied, a touch insincerely, I thought.

I sat down beside him, picked a sandwich from the box, asked him, ‘What’s in this?’

‘Ham and cheese.’

‘Good,’ I said, munching down, ‘I like meat; I can’t eat a meal unless there’s something dead on the plate’.

‘So you braved the rain,’ he said as I chewed my share of his sandwiches, adding, ‘By the way, help yourself.’

‘Got any tea?’ I said, between mouthfuls.

‘In my briefcase,’ he leaned over and dipped a hand into his briefcase and pulled out a two litre flask.

‘That’s a satchel,’ I told him.

‘It’s a briefcase,’ he told me, a little huffed, ‘deconstructed.’

‘Looks like a schoolgirl’s handbag.’

‘Hey, you eat my food, insult me, and expect tea too?’

‘Got any sugar?’

He nodded, ‘Premixed; tea, milk, sugar.’

I took the flask from him and shook it. I asked him, ‘How does gravity work, in a vacuum?’

He frowned.

‘I mean, how come a vacuum stops energy transfer but allows gravity to work, huh?’

He ignored me so I shoved him, ‘Bobby? Bobby? Huh?’ laughing.

He shrugged away my arm and looked at me, half frowning, took the flask from my hands, opened the lid and with a solemn expression he poured out a cupful. ‘April, how the fuck should I know that?’ he asked, taking the first sip and then passing it to me saying, ‘You’re like a puppy, you get fretful when you’re not exercised.’

Having successfully wound him up to the point of mild irritation I relaxed, sat back on the wooden bench and listened to the rain hammering on the bandstand.

We sat in silence for a while.

Then I asked him, ‘How’s business?’

He nodded, ‘Fine. You?’

‘Yeah, alright.’

‘Still working for your uncle Keith?’

‘Not all the time. I do some stuff on my own too.’

‘I know,’ but he pursed his mouth, as though to say, Oh Yeah? 

‘Got your first million yet?’ I asked.

He surprised me by saying, ‘Well, yeah, probably, but it depends if you mean profit or turnover. Or assets.’

Bobby buys and sells property. I remember him four years ago, that’s how we met, I was a new apprentice and Keith was giving him a quote for some work on a house he’d bought. It was his first house, he was about nineteen or twenty; I was almost sixteen, it was July and I’d left school about three weeks earlier, after finishing my exams.

I drank some tea, quiet for a few moments, then asked him, ‘How many houses have you gone through now?’

He said, ‘I’m not sure, seventeen I think. I still own two apartments on the quay. Plus the one I’m doing up. Why, want some business?’

‘Why do you always think I want something?’

‘I know when you want something, because you call me.’

‘I was just bored. That’s all.’

‘What am I, your court jester?’

I shook my head, reached over and rubbed his hair a bit. ‘No.’

That first house he bought, Keith’s quote was too high but I offered to do some work for him myself, and I did a good job, for a complete beginner, but we bickered all the way through and in the end we had a massive row. So even though we became just about best friends, I decided to never work for him again.

‘Give me that sandwich,’ I said.

‘It’s the last one.’

‘Let’s share it.’

‘Ok,’ he said.

The rain beat on the roof of the bandstand, and we sat together eating.

Chapter 4 ...

Tuesday I was at college; final year of my four year building and maintenance apprenticeship. In the first couple of years you get to do a lot of different stuff, like how to build a plum wall, hang doors, lay foundations, insulate a loft, rewire a house and stuff like that. In the third year you specialise in two skills, in the last year you do choose one. And that’s your trade. The course is supposed to give you a good grounding in the building trade and I suppose it does.

At the beginning of the third year I asked my uncle Keith for advice on what the best specialisation choices were and he told me that carpenters and electricians are generally the smartest but they have to cart around the most equipment; bricklayers only need a trowel and a hammer, plasterers only need a trowel and a board and they work mostly indoors. Bricklayers and roofers work outdoors all of the time. Plus, he added, carpenters like to drink the most, but no one knows why.

So, in the third year, after some thought, I chose stone masonry and plastering. Not too much to carry, and you can work indoors and out. I figured I could build, repair and skin walls, build a whole house if I had to. At first Keith encouraged me to look at new construction technologies but then he said if I was going to attempt real stone-mason stuff I should look at old techniques instead, lime plastering, carving gargoyles and stuff, said that a lot of rich people pay for that kind of knowledge.     

There are three other girls and eleven boys on my course. Mum cried when I told her I wasn’t going to sixth form. When I told her I was going to be a builder she left home for two days. She didn’t speak to Uncle Keith for six months.

But now she can see I will earn good money, not have any huge debts like most of my friends who went to university, though to be fair she said she would have funded me if I’d wanted to go. But I’m independent. Have been for years, to be honest.

I need no one.

Mum had me go to Dame Edith’s Grammar School from the age of eleven, but dad’s insurance paid the fees. I was in the hockey team, did all the after school stuff and really enjoyed most of it; I can analyse texts, cook Thai, speak German, play alto sax to grade 3. I have nine GCSE’s, grades A and A*.

At school, I learned to bitch, I learned to wear clothes that didn’t single me out, I learned how to pick on those weaker than me, I learned that popular was everything. Then I got tired of all that and I learned to wear clothes that did single me out and I learned not to care what other girls thought, I learned that my friends would seek me out, I learned that boys weren’t alien creatures, I learned that mum was just a person, that my dad wasn’t perfect and I learned to avoid Ms Rice, the lesbian science teacher.

Then I learned not to avoid her. 

And so on.

Mum’s a deputy head teacher. Dad was a naval diver. A Marine. I keep a picture of him inside my pillow case.  My brother Paul is seventeen and still at college, he works part-time collecting glasses at Liquid, a club in town. He’s really handsome, though not any taller than me, he’s got cropped fair-ish strawberry hair and he likes to get in fights.

But I hate violence. It always goes wrong.

Paul is very handsome and my girlfriends all like him. He’s fit I suppose, he has a good physique and he’s funny. But they also like him because he has a little rep for being tough. I’ve seen some fights. On nights out I’ve seen a doorman clip a bad boy and I’ve seen some drunken battles outside of a club, usually more pushing than punching, but to be fair, there’s more trouble at college than in the clubs, when the brickies or the plumbers have a row. And they’re all strong fit boys. I hate violence and I always walk away from it.

I saw Paul have a fight once, we were both in Liquid, he was working, collecting glasses, I was dancing; it only lasted as long as it took for him to pop some fat lad’s nose but I went home and cried for an hour after.  If he’s in trouble or has a black eye or something he always asks me to make an excuse to mum, ‘Paul was playing rugby last night’ or ‘I think he did it football training, clash of heads’ or something.  And he’ll be hiding in his room, trying to avoid her. My kid brother, the pretty hitman who hides from his mum.

I worry he’ll lose his teeth or get badly injured.

Chapter 5 ...

‘Pass me the cold chisel.’

Keith was sprawled across the apex of the roof, fitting the last of the slates. He took the chisel and tapped off a little corner of the tile. Slotted it into place. He pushed himself up on his arms to have a look at it, ‘There.’

We were working on the roof of an old children’s home, it was being converted into flats for young professionals. He’d got the contract for fixing the roof, but it’s Grade Two listed, so that meant keeping as many of the originals as possible and find replacements from a dealer. Everything we did, it had to be in keeping with the look of the house, and we had to use old or reclaimed materials.

‘Hey, mason,’ he shouted down to me, ‘shouldn’t you be doing this?’

‘I’m just fine watching the master at work.’

‘Call me Yoda.’

He patted the tile to see if there was movement and, finding none he climbed down the latter to where I was. ‘A bit windy,’ he commented.

It was almost gale force. The ladders vibrated as the wind swept across them. We stepped down onto the scaffolding. I picked up the tools, put them into Keith’s bag and lowered the bag on a rope to the ground. The scaffolding rocked as the wind gusted. Keith said, ‘I hope those fucking tinkers put this scaffolding up right.’

Keith calls all scaffolders Tinkers, or Pikeys. Or Gyppos. I’ve never met a scaffolder who was born more than twenty five miles away from where I live  but Keith reckons they’re all third generation Irish. 

Maybe.

But anyway, we were done; three weeks detailed work and Keith hadn’t kept all the good stuff to himself, he was letting me do some of it, I was almost not his apprentice any more. We climbed down the ladders to the ground. It was almost three. ‘Let’s pack up and finish early,’ Keith muttered.

Not bad for a Wednesday.

The general rule is an early finish only on a Friday but we had nothing else to do that day.

‘I’ll come back first thing tomorrow to check it out,’ I told him, ‘Just in case the wind dislodges anything.’

‘Are you casting a slur on my craftsmanship?’

‘Well,’ I thought for a moment, ‘You’re not a bad roofer, for a carpenter. But you should let the expert do it.’

He took me by the forearm, wrapped his thick fingers around my wrist and then held up his own arm to compare. ‘Too girly,’ he judged.

‘Fuck off, Keith,’ I told him, but laughing too; he’d been winding me up about my lack of guy-strength for four years.

He smiled, ‘Language, niece.’

Then he said, ‘I’ll load the van, you can go and get the paperwork from the office.’

Volunteering to load the van was a rare compliment. It meant he thought I was his equal. I went to get the papers signed off.

The site office was just a container with a big desk, calor gas fire and some cabinets. The secretary, Marion, dug out the paperwork, ‘Sign here,’ she told me.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow to give it another look.’

‘Is there a problem?’

I shook my head, ‘No problem.’

‘Then you don’t need to come back. If anything crops up we’ll call you.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

But I drove round the next morning, parked at the end of the gravel drive, got out and stood for ten minutes looking at the roof we’d done. The tiles looked beautiful; dull weathered red; the lead work at the base of the roof a humourless grey, the ridge tiles sitting curved and neat.

Keith says that I build like a girl. I get emotional. He says it’s just the nesting instinct gone wrong. But I love to go and see the work I’ve done.

Keith never looks twice. Do the job. Get paid. Move on.

Me? I love the work I do. Building new things, making old things right, improving and repairing.

I get paid decent money. No one can take away my skills. And I’m going to do this work for the rest of my life, and get better at it every day.

How good is that?

Chapter 6 ...

I’d almost forgot him. All that remained was the nagging thought that he’d left me alone and vulnerable and hadn’t wanted to ravish me. Sort of nice in retrospect but still, a blow to the ego. But I hadn’t really thought of him for a week or two.

It was Mel who brought him up; she’s a friend from school, and she’s studying some crappy course at the local uni. I was sitting in my room when she rang.

‘Guess who I’ve just seen?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Oh go on.’

‘Nelson Mandela?’

‘Who is he?’

‘A lecturer at the college.’

‘No. Listen, him! The boy who you slept with after that party.’

‘I didn’t sleep with him.’ I told her, but my heart lurched

‘Whatever.’

For a moment I thought I’d act cool, then decided against it; ‘Did you speak to him?  What did he say?’

‘He spoke to me; he came up to me and asked if I was your friend. He called you Angel,’ she giggled, ‘So sweet!’

‘What did you say?’

‘I gave him your number.’

Mel, you shouldn’t have.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘No Mel, you really should not have given him my number.’

‘Don’t get moody. He’s just your type.’ She paused; I could tell there was more. She said, ‘Come over and I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Why not tell me now?’ But I knew she’d have other stuff to tell me. Mostly about her and whichever rock musician she was in love with this week. I said, ‘I’m going for a run, I’ll come over yours about eight.’

‘You still doing that fitness stuff?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well OK, Wonder Woman, I’ll see you about eight.’

I pulled on my old running shoes, then my tracksters, vest top, sweatshirt. Tied my hair back.

Downstairs Mum was making tea, ‘Want some?’ I shook my head and she clocked my running outfit and asked, ‘Are you wearing a sports bra?’

‘Mum!’

‘April, love, I know you think it won’t happen but gravity affects us all eventually.’

I left the house with her words ringing in my ears. Mum is quite voluptuous but I’m flat-chested. Bobby Earl has bigger breasts than me.

I took it easy for the first half mile or so and then gradually my feet found their groove, my lungs opened, my arms were pumping, and I was running, which is a thing I love to do. I ran down to the promenade that runs above the beach and followed it as far as the windmill, turned inland and found the bridle path, ran this for a mile, turned off along the old railway line. I got my second wind and shifted up a gear, pulling off my sweatshirt and wrapping it around my waist as I ran. Leaving the railway line I ran back up the hill toward home, slowed down a little and grooved back into our street. Walked the last fifty yards to cool down.

About four miles, I guessed.

I stretched, went inside, upstairs, stripped off and took a shower.

‘Well,’ she said, leaning closer to me, ‘He’s a student.’

I poured more wine into both our glasses, Mel prefers white but I’m not bothered so I’d brought red. I added some 7-Up to her glass.

‘Go on.’

‘He’s doing a degree. Philosophy, I think he said.’

Wow. A thinker.

I said, ‘What does he look like?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Yeah but, what do you think? In the daylight? Is he, you know, alright?’

‘Well, he’s perfect for you; a bit taller than you, black hair, needs a cut by the way, a cute nose, sort of broken but in a nice way, he speaks quietly but not, you know, like a wuss or anything.’

‘How does that make him perfect for me?’

‘No, the way he dresses, that’s what you like. That’s what makes him perfect.’

‘How does he dress? Why will I like him?’

She knitted her brows, ‘Sort of trampy, like really old stuff, but in a cool way. And his boots, you’ll like his boots.’

‘I will?

‘So he’s a badly dressed philosophy student who needs a haircut. And that makes him perfect for me. Huh.’

She frowned, ‘You think I’m being snidey but you’ll know when you see him again.’

‘I don’t think I want to.’

‘Oh, and he’s a bit old.’

A bit of fear touched me, an old badly dressed philosophy student? ‘I’m not going out with some fucking ancient Kerouac throwback,’ I told her, ‘No way.’

‘He’s about twenty three, or four I think.’

I raised my eyebrows, ‘That old. That’s ancient.’

‘There’s more though. I spoke to someone about him, listen to this,’ she paused dramatically. I waited. She said, almost whispering, ‘He’s a war hero. Or something.’

‘Which one?’ I asked.

‘Huh?’

‘War hero? Or something?’

She shook her head, ‘No really, he was in the army and he left and began this course. He’s a second year.’

‘Can’t have been in the army long then.’

‘April, stop being snidey for a moment. I thought you’d be pleased.’

I paused, ‘Sorry Mel. You’re right. Sarcasm mode switched to mute, honest.’

She nodded, seriously, ‘You’ll never get a proper boyfriend if you act snidey all the time,’ and, looking quickly at me, added, ‘And just ‘cos you’re bi sometimes, that’s no excuse.’

‘I’m not ‘bi sometimes,’ Mel. It’s a bit like saying you’re left-handed sometimes.’

‘He is.’

‘What, bisexual?’ I was stunned at this, but thought that maybe that’s why he hadn’t tried to jump me when he had the chance. Not that he would ever get the chance again.

‘No, silly. Left-handed,’ Mel said, ‘I saw him writing something at the library desk. Anyway, I don’t even think you’re bisexual, it’s all a bit of a show, if you ask me.’

‘Drink some wine,’ I told her.

We drank some wine. She said, ‘Well if you are really a skirt chaser, have you got a girlfriend?’

‘Yes. Deepa.’

‘Really? Tell me.’

Here’s the thing, I like male company but, by a small margin, by the merest fold of skin, I prefer female anatomy. Most of the time. I’m nineteen. I’ve had four lovers. Three of them, including Deepa, were girls.

So I tell Mel about her and she’s half laughing and half yeuch and half fascinated. And we drink more wine until she gets round to the inevitable question, ‘Could you fancy me?’

I look at her, lying across the bed in a would-be provocative way, ‘No. You’re not my type.’

She pouts, ‘Why not?’

‘Not trampy enough,’ I say, and we both laugh. Then I get her to describe him in more detail and we speculate about him being a war hero and discuss his philosophy and his lack of dress sense.  And we drink more wine until the bottles are empty and we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Chapter 7 ...

Sumeria.

The cradle of civilisation.

Smoke rising from a burnt out car.

Boarded up windows.

Dusty boots.

Heavy packs.

Berets.

Rifles at port.

 

Snug behind a pile of rubble someone is sliding the first round of a belt of .776 hollow point into a Chinese-built light machine gun.

Taking aim.

Private Katie Durham carries her medic bag and personal side-arm.

 

The children whirl and dance and then fall.

Whirl, dance, fall.

The troopers walk slowly, picking their way through the rubble-filled street.

An insurgent cocks an AK47 assault rifle and rises ghost-like from his prone position to kneel amongst the shadows.

The children whirl.

Dance.

Fall

.Private Pierce’s beret has the word Renegotiate tippexed onto the back.

What they doing Sarge?

Dancing.

Walker is on point.

 

The children fall. One looks up at Walker and he winks at her. She smiles back at him but lies still. They all do, looking up at him intently, but not moving.

Not rising now.

The toddler tries to stand but the girl hisses a warning at him and he collapses back down onto the ground.

She whispers something and nods towards Walker and then calmly rolls her small body over that of the toddler, to protect him.

And Walker is already turning to shout a warning as hell breaks loose.

 

 

Chapter 8 ...

Deepa. 

‘Don't be nervous,' she said, reaching out and touching my arm.

This is how it begins though; I get off the train and walk after her and she half-turns as though she is looking for me, and I say ‘Hello.'

She smiles, quizzical, but not uninviting. Her eyes are large, and the deepest of brown. She looks directly at me, in a way that most people avoid doing; she makes me welcome in her gaze.

I say, ‘I saw you on the train, a few times, I'm April, that's my name, I dunno…and I thought that we, ah,' and I shudder to a halt as I draw breath, a gulp of air so that I can plough on but she reaches out and touches my arm and tells me ‘don't be nervous,' which is either very kind and generous, or as I mulled it over later, just very confident, very self-contained.

And really it begins long before then, when I’m on a three month day-release course which involves an hour’s each way train travel. Most mornings I spend the journey sleeping, and the return journeys are spent the same way. It's February and the days are still short.

 

I begin to see her on the train on the return journey.

I begin to look for her.

She is dark, south Indian, slight of build but, as I notice when she stands to alight at the station, she has hips that jut; hips could carry a tray without aid or spillage. She has fine bones and soft lips. Black hair. She wears a middle-management suit and carries a briefcase and, as I discover later, she smells of lemon and musk. I'm just a saxon girl with dirty blonde hair and dirty work clothes. I smell of dust. I carry a rucksack that contains a flask and a sandwich box and other stuff.

She is perfect and, once or twice over the three months that I make the journey, she catches my eye, or I catch hers.

This is the last week I will make the journey. It is Tuesday, and as the train arrives at the platform she rises from her seat and catches me with a glance, more a pause, before she turns and steps into the aisle. Her eyes don't sparkle or shine; they glitter, leaving me alone with the image of her back, and a desire that makes my mouth water, as she walks along the carriage.

So I walk after her, and catch her attention, and I babble stupidly until she says ‘Don't be nervous,' reaching out to touch my arm.

We talk briefly. Her name is Deepa. She wears a man's watch on her slender wrist. She ties her hair with a black ribbon. She has a plain gold band on her wedding ring finger; a detail that makes me feel no less excited and, oddly, adds to the intimacy of our words. She asks for my telephone number, writes it in a small black book, and tells me that she will call before the weekend.

She leaves me standing alone. I am elated. I go into the toilets and find an empty cubicle, lock the door.

Vomit.

Then I go home.

 

The bath is almost full, and hot, bubbly water covers me like a quilt as I step in, kneel down, and plunge my face into the water so that my nose grazes the bottom. I relax, my pulse slows and I stay there for a full thirty seconds, feeling my spine cool as it lies in a damp ridge above the water. Then I rise like a Phoenix, push my hair back and rub the dirt out of my pores.

I'm physically exhausted, mentally drained, and yet, after speaking to Deep, I’m benignly happy. Mmm, I think, and lean over to look at the clock on the windowsill. It's five to seven and I have no plans for the whole evening. I lie there and enjoy everything.

About forty five minutes later I'm in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel wrapped around, drying my hair, when the phone rings.

I think of her words; ‘don't be nervous,' and I feel the touch of her hand on my arm.

 

I say rituals are important, habits are important; they clothe my life, give it a timetable, an orbit. Day and night. Independence is nothing unless you define what it is independent of . Values are important too. They allow me to see things clearly, to focus. Put things into context. These are my reasons, are my excuses at least, for doing what I have to do and also for doing what I want, at given intervals and without fail. You know? Like “weekdays I work, weekends I party. I never go to bed wearing makeup. I like male company and female anatomy. Thursday evenings I go to the library. I watch TV, I don't smoke dope, I don't own a cat. ”

And she replies, ‘come back to bed. Let me hold you,' and she pulls back the quilt. I see the light that slides between the curtains glance off the angle of her hip. Even from here I can smell the lemon and the musk. The wine has me dim and her presence makes me shudder.

The bed is soft and springy and warmed by her body.

She touches my arm. Shyly, but confident.

‘See?' She says.