The Sin Eater ...
Baby needs new boots.
We're down at the river on a market day. A hard sun is shining down on the crowds, on the stalls, the polis , more people, parked vans, buskers, the glistening river. I count four Big Issue sellers in less than five minutes:
‘Big Issue?'
No thanks.
‘Big Issue! Help the Homeless?'
No thanks .
Men in ponchos are banging out Chilean folk music on leather drums and electric pan pipes.
I've just been paid and Babe needs new boots, though he denies it, so I'm going to buy him a pair. We stroll with linked arms, enjoying the sun and the crowds and the day.
I stop at a barrow to check out some pirate c.d.'s but Babe's attention is drawn to a beggar sitting against a wall at the edge of the Quay. Next to the beggar is a sign propped up behind a cardboard box that is half-full of fruit; the kind of fruit that was probably thrown away yesterday by the nearby stalls. Babe walks over to the seated figure, points at the sign and says, ‘What's this?'
The beggar, just a bearded kid really, smiles, and acknowledges the board with a nod, ‘read it.'
‘I've read it.'
‘Read it again.'
The sign says - I Eat Your Sins -
I've left the music stall to follow Babe over and I ask the beggar, ‘How much?'
‘Two quid to you,' he says, with a grin. Babe looks at me strangely as I rake in my bag for two pound coins and then drop them into his tin.
I look at the tramp and I think; just some sun-burned nutter with a taste for grime. A kid, with a pleasant smile though.
And then I think; ‘where's the wine?' but this is unfair, as he doesn't really look like a drinker.
And it's a living, I suppose.
‘Angel, he can't eat your sins.' Babe tells me.
‘Yes I can,' he replies calmly.
‘How?' Babe asks, ‘You don't even know what they are.'
He points at the box of fruit, ‘They choose their own sinner, man. They know . So don't try and buck the trend, huh?'
He is unafraid, he has attitude, and if I didn't love Babe then I might have found myself attracted to him.
I pick an apple from the box.
‘Now what?' I ask.
‘Well, you put that apple against the source of your pain, or of your bad thoughts. That usually works OK, I don't need to know details,' adding; ‘best that I don't, maybe.'
I place the apple against my head. Babe shakes his head in exasperation. I place it against my heart. My womb.
‘An all-rounder,' the kid comments with a cheeky smile and reaches up and takes the apple from me. He bites into the soft flesh, devours it whole in about thirty seconds. Then he wipes his mouth with a sleeve. A spit-trail hangs for a moment between his mouth and his wrist.
‘That it?' I ask.
He nods. He has pale blue eyes.
I feel refreshed, lightened. I smile.
‘Gone,' he says, ‘Forgotten, over.'
Babe butts into the moment, breaking the spell, ‘You can't absolve people,' he says, adding stupidly ‘what if someone picks the wrong fruit?'
The tramp shrugs, ‘Doesn't matter man, a moment of guilt, a lifetime of innocence.'
‘What does that mean?' Babe hisses.
‘Calm down, bloke. Choose an apple.'
Babe is taking this very seriously. He is hooked, like a rat smelling the cheese, but sensing the trap.
‘What about really bad things,' he asks quietly.
‘I eat all sins. Two quid.'
‘But you don't care about them!'
‘Look mate, I don't need to know, better that I don't. Right?'
‘You can't just eat your fill of evil.' Babe says, but it's more of a question than a fact.
The kid shrugs and says, ‘If get a bad belly, I pack in for the day.'
I am getting impatient, suddenly remembering that there's a stall that sells brand new parachute boots for little more than the usual second-hand price. ‘Come on Babe, leave him be.' I tug his arm.
Babe ignores me and asks, ‘What if someone, me for instance, comes back the next day?'
‘Then you haven't learned, man. But your welcome anyway.'
Babe chucks two coins into the tin, ‘give me an apple.'
A shake of the head, ‘you choose.'
Babe picks up an apple, stares at it for a moment or two and then puts it back for a peach that is nestling in the corner. The blackest, oldest fruit in the box.
‘You must do bad things,' the kid observes.
‘I do.' Babe tells him.
‘Put it to the source of your pain, or the evil in your heart.'
Babe rolls the soft mass in his hands, juice running out between his fingers.
‘Sins come from the heart, not the hands.'
‘Mine come straight from the hand.' Babe says.
‘OK.' He takes the peach from him, tears at it with his teeth, chews it lump by lump. Devours it. Babe chews his bottom lip, impatiently. When the fruit is gone Babe says, ‘Now what?'
‘All gone. Forget evil, be happy.'
‘Let's go.' I say, bored by all this now. As we turn to walk away the kid says, ‘see you later then, man.'
Babe looks at him, his eyes shine, then he nods.
Zippo...
John said; 'I had this dream. I'll tell you about it: I'm standing in a bar with some friends and we're talking, drinking, it's Friday night and the bar is pretty full, there's loud music playing. The beer is making me feel good, but not falling-down good, and the vibe is there and all the girls look pretty. I have enough money in my pocket to keep it going like this all night so, you know, everything is fine.'
He wound down the window and took a deep breath before continuing.
'It's my round and I go to the bar and there's a huge crowd but I get served right away. As I pass out the drinks and turn back to get my own beer I brush against this girl, I mean, she brushes against me. And smiles. Real eye contact. I think to myself, "This is going to be a really good night" and if I'd woke then I would have woke up laughing. You know how it is with dreams, good dreams, part of you knows it's all fake but if you are really lucky you don't wake up. Everything works alright.
'Then this kid walks into the bar, I don't see him first, but my dream sees him or maybe I just remember it afterwards. He's just a skinny kid, wired up though, real angry looking, and in his hand he is carrying a bucket full of petrol. It sloshes about as he pushes through the crowd.
'I look up to see him standing in front of me just as he throws this bucket of petrol in my face. Next thing I'm standing in a crowd of one as everybody backs away, except the kid who is grinning at me, and I am soaked in petrol. My eyes sting as it runs down my face. It is clotting in my beer.'
John looked at me and smiled, a wry smile.
'There I am, standing alone in a puddle of flammable liquid, the stuff is seeping through my clothes; it feels clammy and scratchy. I know what is about to happen and I think to myself, "Why me? What have I done to deserve this?" Like it just isn't part of any of my plans to be burned alive in a pub on a Friday night.
'The kid reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Zippo, holds it toward me and smiles. He has nice even teeth, I notice. I think to myself, "I haven't had time to think this through and I'm not prepared. I'm not ready yet."
'I'm still waiting for my life to flash before my eyes when he snaps open the Zippo. And it fails. It won't spark. He clicks it again. It fails again. He says to me, almost apologetically, "Just hold on, Rufus , it'll work in a moment." He really concentrates on getting this thing to work.
'Then I woke up so fast. I'd wet my shorts. I was more scared than I'd ever been.'
John shrugged, played with the air vent, 'I've had this dream four times,' and then he wound down the window again, and spat into the fresh damp air.
'The first twice it was like a shock to my system, I was so upset by it, I couldn't sleep for days afterwards. The third time it happened I couldn't sleep for days before. And I was ready for it when it came. So ready. I shot out of that dream so quickly he didn't even have time to reach into his pocket.
'The last time I had the dream, I'd almost forgotten, it had been so long since the last one. I was just standing with some friends, in a pub, you know, having a really good time, and this girl brushes past me. She is wearing a thin top and no bra. I can feel her breast as it grazes past my arm and her nipple is hard even though the room is warm. She looks up and smiles at me, a really warm smile. Comfort and joy. You know, I've never met a girl I couldn't learn to dislike, but this one and me, we have this immediate depth . I can tell it's going to be a good night.
'But the kid hadn't forgot and he took me from behind, and when I turned to him the petrol was already dripping out of my hair and the girl wasn't there anymore.'
'Maybe she knew the plot,' I say to him, 'maybe she was in on it,' but he ignores me and continues:
'I can feel this liquid soaking through my t-shirt and my jeans, running down inside my underpants; following the crease of my arse and collecting behind my balls. And this time the Zippo was working, he must have got it fixed, and his hand was moving toward me with this little machine with a small blue flame coming out of it.
'As I woke up I heard a 'whoomp' sound, but that might have been my heart, or my stomach 'cos I was sick on the floor next to my bed.
'The first couple of times really pissed me off because I was so unprepared, and I hate that, the feeling of being caught out. But the last time it happened I realised that what I was really scared of was knowing that the petrol would burn me until I died, that sooner or later the Zippo would work and I would not be quick enough.'
He stopped talking and spent a few moments deep in thought.
'And then what?' I asked.
'Then I won't wake up,' he turned to face me, 'Because I can't always be fast enough, can I?'
For a moment I felt a surge of some emotion toward him but this was extinguished as his hazel eyes hooded over and a lazy serpent smile spread across his face, masking the brief show of fear.
He took the revolver from the document rack beneath his seat. 'Let's do it then,' he said to me.
We got out of the car.
"Zippo - a film short - is currently in post-production"
Rapunzel...
‘Wow,' she said, turning quietly.
‘Wowww,' craning her head, taking it all in.
‘Wow,' she repeated.
Buildings reared. The wind breathed coldly and fresh on her skin.
Traffic rumbled.
Wow.
Everything had changed.
She stood alone, the breeze tugged at her skirt, whipped her hair across her face, chilled her arms, brought out her tears.
I've been in that tower so long, she told herself, that this breeze, and these sights … her thoughts became manifest as an exhalation, Wow.
She walked around the square, looking into windows, reading signs, reading graffiti, seeing everything anew.
‘First edition?' a newspaper seller asked her from his stand, and the shock of this unbidden conversation made her jump a little; she controlled herself, told him ‘No, thankyou' and walked on, exhilarated. She felt could have kissed him.
7.04 am .
Glancing up from her watch, she saw herself reflected in the blacked out windows of a wine bar. No longer the raky 19 year old that she remembered standing in this very street a decade earlier; little more than a child then, in her heels and slip dress. The person she saw reflected now was a woman with curves and experience, pale skin and waist length hair, with a smile that grew wider as she greeted herself.
‘Hello you,' she told the reflection, asking, ‘Where you been?' and laughing out loud as she mouthed a whispered reply to herself. Inside .
Elated, she took out her phone and rang Michael.
‘I'm out,' she told him, glancing around her as she spoke.
‘Righteous,' he murmured, sleep and a heavy night making his voice drop an octave. ‘And it's great,' she confirmed.
‘Finally did it, huh? Beat the little demon.'
He was genuinely pleased, though understandably a little cautious. He wanted to say, ‘Take it easy, huh?' but he held his counsel.
No negatives. Not now.
She, on the other hand, was reckless and calm and strong. ‘You got someone with you?'
‘Hmmm,' he acknowledged, straightening up in his bed, trying not to wake his partner. ‘Do you want to meet up later?' he asked her quietly. ‘We can meet before I go to work.'
‘No. I want to meet other people,' she told him, ‘People who don't make appointments. People who aren't on salaries.'
But then she felt bad, he'd never turned her away, ‘Well, ok, maybe you're right,' she relented, ‘Why don't we meet for a coffee?'
‘Phone me in an hour, after I've showered, and when you've had some more fun.'
‘And you,' she challenged, the smile clear in her voice.
‘Let me know where you are, and we can meet up,' he said.
She laughed again, laughed out loud, looking around as she did, ‘I don't really know where I am.'
Michael chuckled, softly, ‘Hey, I've got news, that's how most people are, most of the time.'
His tone echoed her happiness, ‘You've had it easy. See you in an hour.'
She rang off.
She felt like she wanted to speak to someone new. And questions of human interaction began to clamour for her attention; amongst these was vanity. The desire to attract .
That would be nice.
She looked back at her reflection one more time; loose skirt and sleeveless top, running shoes. She'd worn running shoes for ten years. And ever been anywhere.
I should work on my appearance, she concluded.
She looked through her phone numbers. Who can I speak to about clothes, she thought. And about my hair.
I need to cut it.
Cut it short.
She walked around until she found a café. Her legs were feeling heavy and tired now. Her lungs were burning with exertion, her heart beating inside her once more. And I thought I'd lost you a long time ago, she told it.
She pushed the door and went inside.
Behind the counter a young man turned at the sound of the door; she saw that he was wearing a badge that told her his name was Sam and he was a barrista .
This café smells gorgeous, she thought, her heart slowing a little.
‘Hello Sam ,' she said, studying the menu, saying, ‘I haven't drank good coffee in ten years. What would you recommend?'
Sam smiled, ‘That long, eh? You've been away?'
‘All locked away.'
‘You must be thirsty;' he said. ‘Ten years without good coffee can do that.'
‘It can.'
‘We'll start you easy,' he said, kindly. ‘A latte.'
She thought for a moment ‘Latte?'
‘And it's on the house,' he told her, motioning toward the clock, ‘We're not even open yet.'
She blushed, apologetically, ‘You're very kind, Sam . '
‘Well, welcome back,' Sam said, as though it was obvious thing; to be kind.
‘I'm glad to be here,' she replied.
Sam switched on the radio as he prepared her drink. ‘What's your name, by the way?'
‘Rapunzel,' she said.
‘Aah,' he said, understanding dawning on him. ‘The tower, right?'
She nodded.
‘Your hair,' he said, ‘I should have guessed.'
‘I'm going to cut it short,' she said, tugging at it dismissively. ‘Now that I've escaped.'
‘Well, that's right. You don't need it now, do you?'
She shook her head. ‘No. I don't need it.'
Plot...
Hannah asked me if I'd do a job for her brother and his boyfriend. They had bought a garden flat on Bede Street . But the garden hadn't been looked at in ten years and it needed some work to fix it up. So I said, alright, I'll take a look.
I knew Tim, her brother, a little bit, and when I knocked on the door the following Saturday he invited me in and said I should look at the garden.
I wandered around the wilderness that the back garden had become, kicked a few stones, bent back some branches, found an old pond, full of frogspawn.
Tim's Saluki, Milla, trotted out and took a curious sniff of me. Then she went over to the back door and curled up on the step to watch. After twenty minutes or so Tim came out and asked me, ‘What do you think?'
I shook my head, ‘There's a lot of stuff here.'
‘The old girl who lived here before us was a mad gardener but she got arthritis and couldn't work on it. So it went to seed.'
‘Literally,' I said.
‘Yes.' He added, ‘That's how we got the place cheap. She was moving into a home and she needed money to pay her bills.'
I said, ‘This could be a nice garden. There's still a bit of lawn under all this, and if the shrubs were cut back to let more light in …'
‘So you'll do it?'
I nodded.
‘How long will it take?'
I shrugged, ‘About a week.'
Tim nodded, enthusiastic now, ‘So when can you start?'
He knew the answer; I wasn't working. He didn't ask me how much either; Hannah and me had already talked about it, and I was sure she'd have spoken to him already.
‘I'll start on Monday.'
I patted the dog on the way out.'
A Sunday night session with bootleg wine and strong cider meant that I woke the next morning with a thick head and a mild case of the horrors. When I got out of bed and stood up I had the sensation of being able to feel every beat of my pulse as the thin-walled blood hoses bounced around inside my skull. It was an uncomfortable feeling, made worse every time I moved.
Leaving Hannah snoring softly in my bed I got washed and, while I waited for the kettle to boil, I put on some old jeans and a t-shirt, pulled on my workboots and went into the shed for tools. I loaded these into the back of my van and when I went back into the kitchen the kettle was steaming.
I made myself a black coffee; I was out of milk. Then I drove over to Bede Street .
Tim was on his way out as I arrived. ‘Coffee,' he said, ‘Tea, pop, food,' dropping a set of door keys into my hand, ‘help yourself.' And he went off in a hurry, shouting, ‘Help yourself,' again as he walked down the path.
‘See ya.' I said.
Milla came to the front door and looked around. ‘Hiya girl,' I said, and she ignored me as she sniffed the morning air.
I got back into the van and drove around to the back lane. As I unloaded my tools the skip lorry arrived and I showed the driver where I wanted the skip dropping. When he'd done that he asked me to sign his docket and as I did he looked at the garden and said to me, ‘Bit of a job there.'
I said, ‘Yeah.'
He went off and I got to work.
That first morning all I did was chop, shear, rake, lift and generally gather all the rubbish and excess greenery. It was getting hot and I'd filled most of the skip by eleven, so I stopped for a break. I went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Milla followed me outside and sat next to me as I sipped the water. I put down the glass and pulled off my t-shirt. Milla licked at the tattoo scab on my shoulder.
‘Get off.' I said.
‘Hello.'
I turned to see Tim's boyfriend, Bobby, standing at the door; still sleepy, damp blonde hair standing almost on end. Dressed in t-shirt and shorts.
‘It's too hot,' he said. ‘I can't sleep.'
He stroked the dog's head.
I nodded.
‘Want a coffee?'
‘That would be nice,' I said.
‘I'll make some,' he said.
While he was doing that I finished loading the skip. He came out and handed me a mug.
‘I put two sugars in,' he said. ‘For energy.'
‘Thanks.'
I drank it off and he went back inside and brought out a radio. He tuned it to a station and left me alone with the music.
I got back to the job, spent two hours hacking down an eighteen foot Sycamore that had a trunk a foot wide, cutting it into bite-sized chunks with the bow-saw and throwing the pieces onto the skip.
I found a hose and plugged it into an outside tap, dropped the end into the old pond and pumped some fresh water into it, taking care not to flush away the frogspawn. I left the water flowing, pulled on my t-shirt and got into the van, then drove into town for some food.
When I got back I found two bottles of beer on the step with a note from Bobby to say that he'd gone out and could I lock up when I'd finished? Back in the van was a bag of XL crisps and I opened the bag, crunched the contents and poured the salty powder down my throat. I walked to the back door, opened the beer and drank off both bottles in turn. Then I turned back to the bow-saw and the tree trunk.
The next day went pretty much the same, the garden was looking much neater, cropped even. Bare. I almost felt a little sad for the garden.
I spent three hours lifting old roots, and that's hard work. When I'd finished doing that there was a lattice of grooves across the lawn that I'd have to repair, but at least now I could see the shape of the garden re-forming under my hands and my gaze.
The skip man came and swapped the full one for an empty one and, as I signed another docket, he looked at the garden; ‘It's coming on,' he said.
‘I'm going to have to repair that lawn,' I said.
‘Try Thompson's. They've got a good selection of seed.'
‘Thanks.' I gave him back the form.
He got back into the lorry and with a blast of diesel smoke he revved the engine, clacked the motor into gear and drove off.
Then I cut back an old, sprawling cherry tree, found a dead cat hiding beneath the branches.
I buried it in the loose soil.
I didn't see Tim or Bobby that day. Milla came out to say hello a few times, and she drank from the pond before trying to lick my face.
When I came back from the sandwich shop at about half-past one I found four cans of lager on the step.
Hannah came over and stayed on Tuesday night and, when I woke on Wednesday morning, she didn't want me to leave the bed.
‘I have to go to work,' I said.
‘Aw,' she said. ‘It's not real work. It's just Tim and Bobby's garden.'
I looked up at her, hair hanging across my face, breasts grazing my chest.
‘Just an hour,' she pleaded softly.
‘A half hour.'
‘Alright,' she said.
I rolled her onto her back and raised her legs high, hooking them over my shoulders.
I got to the garden just before eleven, Hannah's laughter still ringing in my ears, giggling, shrieking at me, ‘You're not putting it in there !' And cackling like a witch, writhing but not struggling, as I did.
Afterwards, as we ate breakfast, she offered to cut my hair before I went out. I got the clippers from a cupboard and sat down as she wrapped a towel around my shoulders, set the dial to number 2 and cut my hair back to the wood.
‘That's better,' she said, looking me all over.
The garden was taking shape. I sat back on the wall for a good fifteen minutes just thinking of what I was going to do next. Then I dropped down and started work again.
Finishing late I went to the Albion for a beer and then got a kebab on the way home. I saw my neighbour, Foz, standing at his door talking to a girl so pretty it made my mouth water.
‘Hey Foz,' I said.
He squinted at me through his thick lenses, ‘Hey there,' he replied. ‘Working again?'
I nodded.
He hooked his arm around the girl's waist. I stood there for a moment and then, finding nothing else to say, said, ‘See ya,' smiled at them both and went inside.
‘Later,' I heard him say as I shut the door.
Friday was the last day; I needed to finish off, tidy up, get rid of the rubbish into a mini-skip. Having done that I mowed the lawn, trimmed the edges and then laid down some fresh see where the roots had scarred the turf when I'd lifted them. I spent some time oiling an old roller that was propped in the corner and I used this to flatter down the watered soil I'd poured over the seeds. The garden was looking bare, severe, but the summer would fix that. It was looking better.
Milla trotted out to see me, followed a few minutes later by Bobby. He said, ‘I've made you some sandwiches.'
‘Great,' I said.
He paused and we stood to survey the garden. ‘It's looking very good,' he told me.
‘I know.'
He patted my arm and then went inside to fetch the sandwiches. We ate them together, sitting at a plastic table in the kitchen.
I drank beer and Bobby drank some too.
‘Is there much left to do?' he asked me.
I shook my head, No, but you'll need to look after it or it will go crazy again.'
Bobby took a bite of his sandwich, chewed for a minute and said, ‘Well I'm no gardener. But thanks. You've done great.'
I finished my sandwich and stood up, ‘I need to clear up and then I'll be away.'
Bobby said, ‘I'll get your money.'
The skip man came for the mini-skip. I signed his docket, paid him off, and he asked, ‘Finished then?'
‘Yeah.'
‘Good job,' he said, getting back into the truck.
I put my tools in the back of the van, dropped the door keys on the kitchen table, said goodbye to Milla and left the good garden. I drove home.
That night Hannah came around and, it being Friday, we got drunk. The next morning, as we lay in bed, hung-over, she asked me, ‘Did you enjoy doing the garden?'
‘Yeah.'
Tim says it's really nice. And Bobby has taken a shine to you.' She giggled and moved closer to me. ‘I think you've scored there.'
I leaned out of bed and reached for a glass of water that stood on the floor.
‘So what do you think of Bobby?' She asked.
I thought for a moment, pictured his long, lean body and his thick, golden hair, his calm, sleepy expression. The way he sucked beer from the bottle.
‘He's sexy as fuck.' I said.
Magic Smile ...
Oriel discovered a new clothes shop called ShootUp!
She pushed through the hand-painted red doors and went inside to look at the goods. There was a café at the back where a few people sat drinking lattes but clothes-wise there wasn't much to look at. Then, on a rack, she found a T-shirt she liked and she slipped it into her shoulder bag. Then she went and ordered a coffee and, while it was being served, she went into the toilet. She opened her bag. The message on the T-shirt said:
- A Moment of Guilt
A Lifetime of Innocence -
She took off her old top and dumped it in the toilet pan, and then flushed twice, so that the toilet blocked and the water was brimming over and spilling onto the floor.
Then she left without drinking the coffee.
Lishman was sitting on the step of Grey's monument staring into the dull sky from behind sunglasses. She thought that, perhaps, he had been waiting for her. A busker was playing sax, standing at the corner of the plinth. 'All that sunlight, you'll age your skin,' she said, sitting down beside him.
'I'm ageless.' he said, still staring at the sky.
‘Sackless,' she replied.
He turned and smiled broadly, shuffling along an inch or two, closing the gap between them.
'Get off,' she said, with practiced irritability.
'Just Chill, Ory,' he told her, ‘and shift along a bit. I'm sitting on a pigeon's toilet here.'
She did. Then, after a while, she asked him, 'Do you like my new top?'
He nodded absently, and continued watching people go by; old ladies with shopping trolleys, office workers going to and from lunch, men in suits, women in swishing skirts and smart coats and court shoes with small, sharp heels.
The busker paused to wipe his mouthpiece.
Lishman glanced down at Oriel's scuffed boots. Looking up again he saw two drunks ambling by. Deep sun brown tanned skin, ragged sportswear and loud voices, both were carrying bottles of fortified wine.
'Hey, Ory,' he said, pointing.
She followed the direction of his hand with her gaze. Then she spied the bottles, smiled and repeated the old mantra: 'Buckfast! Brewed by Monks, drunk by drunks.'
'Me and you in twenty years,' he told her.
'Huh. You say,' and she reached over, took off his sunglasses and put them on her own face.
As she turned away again and looked toward the sky, a strange thing happened; the whole world lost it's colour and slipped into a rainbow of black and white and grey, and then, even as she quickly grew comfortable with this the light began to fold and separate into a half-tones of pure black and pure white; without depth or perspective; shadows slipping into and out of each other. Shapes merging. The world became incredibly new and strange. She gazed around as the pleats of light and dark spun together like rope; dappling, strobing.
A voice told her ‘you can't see from light into dark' and then giggled.
She twisted to peer at the source of the voice, and as she did so everything began to speed up, just a fraction so that she'd notice, except her heartbeat, which got slower.
'Wha?'
Bebop sax floated visibly before her in a string of cartoon musical notes.
She focused her eyes in Lishman's direction and gradually his shape made itself known, carved from and rising out of the soup of flattened shapes, like a printers plate rising from a pool of black and white ink. He was looking fixedly at something just over her shoulder. But she knew that he was spying on her. His face kept merging with and then returning from the background, against which he had no real separation, but at those moments when she fixed his image onto her memory she could see that his lips were moving. Silently.
‘Bring it back,' she said, still staring at Lishman, and suddenly the colour ran back into him as if poured from a bottle, until his face flushed blood red, and his hair corn yellow; his eyes became so brown that she could see the grain of the bark from which they were carved. The colour spread outward from him until the whole world became rich and saturated. Only the shop front signs seemed to remain normal as the colour from the sky and the buildings and the people crowded her mind.
Then she re calibrated, and it was normal.
As she did so Lishman's gaze sped back quickly, guiltily, from over her shoulder to her eyes and he frowned, patted her arm, saying; 'Wring it out, Oriel. Where you been?'
'Uh? Oh, uh, Lish, flashback,' she shrugged away his hand, embarrassed, ‘or magic glasses,'
‘They go with your magic smile,' he said.
She shrugged.
The sax player had stopped playing and was packing away his instrument.
Lishman pursed his lips, frowning, and then said, 'I know this guy called Cass, he's a real old punk rocker, with a Mohican and everything. Bondage pants. He's got a dog on a string and he's a vegetarian. A real an-ar-chist! He can get some serious Nineteen Seventies-style acid, and he gets Fly Agarics too, but I think it's the wrong time of year, or something. Every August he drives to a secret spot in the Lakes and picks these big Fly's, and he keeps them in his freezer. One time he swallowed two, whole, and then he shrank to the size of a spider and spent a week living in his carpet.'
Lishman laughed to himself, ‘He had adventures in his Axminster!'
Then he looked at Oriel and could see that she didn't quite follow his point, so he told her, ‘There's a whole world of flashbacks there, Ory, if you want.'
'Get some for this weekend, huh?' she said.
He nodded.
Then she stood up suddenly, said to no-one in particular, 'I'm tired, I think I'll go crash out. I'm totally worn.'
She asked him, ‘Do you want to come back with me?' adding, almost in explanation, 'I've got a new place.'
He nodded, rose and followed her back through town, a few paces back, like a Moslem bride, quiet and obedient.
Once, as they walked past the railway station, he saw her shiver, hard, all the way down her spine, and his heart skipped a beat. She high steps, he thought.
She high steps like a pony.
She took him straight into the bedroom. He drew the curtains as she pulled back the quilt. He took off his jeans.
She teased him, 'You still can't afford underwear?'
As she peeled off her skirt and pants he looked at the dark hair between her legs. She paused and looked at him, then she sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced her boots, kicking them away, but as she lay back she still wore her new T-shirt.
They lay together, face to face, legs twining, hands running around gathering skin and goose pimples.
She stretched over and lifted Lishman's sunglasses from the table and put them on. Then she reached down and took hold of him saying, ‘Let's try not to make a mess.' She shifted beneath him to accommodate him, stretched out her legs, pointing her toes, feet raised just above the mattress. Then she curled her heels around his waist and locked them together at the base of his spine.
He entered her.
They kissed some more. They licked tongues and drank each others saliva.
He raised himself up on his elbows and looked down at her; lank hair, sunglasses, a wide mouth breathing sweet shallow breaths.
He looked at her breasts rolling lazily beneath her T-shirt, the nipples were hard points that he gnawed in turn through the cheap cotton.
He looked at the logo on her T-shirt.
It said,
- A Moment of Guilt,
A Lifetime of Innocence -
He whispered to her, Ory, but she didn't notice. 'Oriel ,' he repeated louder, as they rocked together.
She looked up at him through knitted brows, 'What?'
'Can I shoot on your T-shirt?'
She nodded.
Aphrodite...
‘Helen of Troy,' she said between mouthfuls, adding, dismissively, ‘Well that's just a play on words. Hellene just means Greek. The Greek of Troy . That's all. An insult to Greeks.'
He nodded, chewing as he listened.
The sun dappled across their laps.
‘I thought I'd come and feed you up,' she told him, ‘But I'm eating most of it.'
He shrugged, gave a little smile. ‘I'm not hungry.'
She looked up at the trees, ‘You'll need to stay strong, if you're cutting these down.'
‘I'm not cutting them down, just trimming them.'
‘Yeah.'
Whatever .
Then she said, ‘The Professor told me you're an opium addict? So I thought, maybe that's why you're not eating.'
‘Heroin,' he corrected. ‘And I might come off it.'
She smiled. ‘No you won't.' Then she said, ‘But try and eat more food, the work will give you an appetite.'
He ate slowly, in silence.
She continued to eat quickly, and with pleasure.
She told him, ‘And the face that launched a thousand ships? Huh! Maybe seventeen ships,' she was on a roll, ‘And Odysseus? He wasn't even Greek!'
She shook her head vehemently to underline this statement. ‘And he wasn't even called Odysseus. He was just a Phoenician. A chancer. On the make, like they all are.'
She nodded to herself at this memory.
‘You're nuts,' he told her, ‘That must have been thirty five hundred years ago. Do you always make stuff up?'
She furrowed her brow, ‘Thirty five hundred years ago? Nearer five thousand.' Then she looked up slyly through her long hair saying, ‘Yeah, I make stuff up. All the time. Absolutely.'
‘Well,' he said, and stood, brushed the crumbs from his t-shirt, clipped on his tool belt, said, ‘I have to get back to what I'm doing' and looked up at the trees. She nodded, packed away the picnic in a small wicker basket, fastened the straps and prepared to leave him.
She looked up at him, shading her eyes; he was already twenty feet up, deep into the branches.
‘You haven't listened, have you?' she shouted up.
‘What?'
‘You haven't listened !'
Hotelistas...
She got out of bed and dressed.
He woke as she was making coffee, ‘Oriel,' he slurred through half-open eyes.
‘What?'
He gestured with a shake of his hand, and she went to pour him a coffee too.
She sat on the bed beside him and they drank coffee in silence. Finally she said, ‘I have to go now.'
‘Working?' And when she nodded, he smiled and asked, ‘Time for a quickie?'
She shook her head, expression somewhere between disdain and blank, stood again and walked over to the window, opened the curtains and peeled back the clear plastic sheet that covered the glass to look out into the street.
She had a compact, sloping face, sallow skin. Her face composed she turned to him and said, ‘Why do I keep ending up with you, here, in this place, Fozz?'
Fozz grinned lazily, pulled on his thick spectacles, raised his pale brows in a leer.
She smiled a small, tight smile, and then said, ‘There are a couple of guys looking up at the window from outside.'
Swiftly, suddenly wide-awake, Fozz rolled out of bed and stepped over to the window asking, ‘Where? Where?'
She let the curtain fall back, ‘I think they're on their way up now,' looking with a smear of pleasure at his panicked expression, glancing at his pale, slack-bellied frame, shaking her head in wonder at her own , inevitably bad, choice.
She sat down on the bed, pulling on her shoes, ‘I was going to have a shower,' she told him, ‘But it doesn't work.'
‘Who were they?' He asked, ignoring her comment.
She shrugged, checked the contents of her bag.
He said, ‘It hasn't worked since January. The shower. This place is so cold, and the heating broke down, I spent four days living under a hot shower. Just trying to keep warm.'
She fastened the buckle on her left foot. Then the right foot.
‘I had skin like whipped cream, puffed up and wrinkly, and when I needed a piss or a shit I just did it in the shower.'
‘Classy.'
‘Yeah. I pushed it through the drain grate with a pencil, bit by bit. The water flushed the bits away.'
A knock sounded at the door.
‘Ignore it,' he told her, and then said, ‘After a month, I burned out the electric motor on the shower. Probably just as well. And it hasn't worked since.'
He quickly pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, ‘That's why I put the plastic over the windows, for double-glazing.'
‘Does it work?'
‘If you see me next winter,' he pulled on his faded plimsolls, straightened his thick-lensed spectacles, ‘And I'm not looking like a bowl of instant whip,' he rubbed his bent nose, ‘Then it's probably worked.'
Another, heavier, knock, followed by a voice, ‘Fozz! Open up!'
Fozz took a sharp intake of breath, sighed out as he bit a fingernail, and said to her, ‘I'm going to hide. The panel on my bath has a hinge. Tell them you never heard of me.'
She pulled on her jacket, picked up her bag, ‘Go on then,' she told him and walked over to the door.
‘Who is it?' She asked.
‘Where's Fozz?'
‘Who?'
‘He's the spenk who owes me money. Open the door.'
She pulled out her phone, ‘I'm on the phone to the polis, ' she said, and opened the door to the two men.
‘Where is he?'
‘Look,' she said, impatiently, ‘I'm on my way to work, and I don't know you or this Fozz or even why you want him …'
But one of them had recognised her, ‘Hey Oriel, don't give us that. We know he's in, and you're not phoning the flatties either, they've more chance to arrest you than us.'
She looked at him for a moment, ‘Oh, hey Stan.' Then she said, ‘I don't have my glasses on.'
Her phone, still in her hand, rang. She looked at it, ignored it and asked, ‘What do you want him for?'
Stan looked at the phone and asked her, ‘Aren't you going to answer that?'
‘No.'
He nodded, ‘Ok. But it might be important,' and he glanced at the short, thin-necked youth beside him, who coughed and then repeated, almost apologetically, ‘He owes me money.'
‘That's right,' Stan agreed.
‘He owes everyone money,' she countered.
‘Don't protect him, Ory.'
‘Why not?' She countered, ‘Someone has to.'
He looked at her, evenly, with a faint smile, ‘If he's getting out of a back window we'll only trash his place now, and him later.'
Her phone stopped ringing. She pressed a button, then another, ‘Hold on,' she said to Stan as she listened to the message, the smear of a smile on her face again.
Absently she stepped aside and let them into Fozz's apartment.
Stan walked to the bed and turned it over, then kicked the portable stereo across the bare room. He growled, ‘This place totally skeffs,' as he booted the stereo into pieces. The other one had walked into the kitchen to begin throwing things around as Oriel walked down the stairs listening to her message.
‘Hi,' she whispered to the recorded message, reaching the front door, ‘Where you been?'
She stepped into the street.
It was almost Spring and the clarid morning light lifted her spirits.
Soda...
Ella tried to make it all right by drinking bleach from a bottle. But putting her mouth to the rim made her gag violently, and the few drops that landed on her tongue caused her to be sick. She dropped the bottle onto the floor and ran to the toilet where she emptied up the contents of her stomach, like so much refuse, into the pan. Billy found her a while later. She was gargling with milk to try and take away the burning sensation on her tongue.
‘Use soda water,' he told her. ‘It'll neutralise the ph level of the bleach.'
‘Where did you learn about ph levels?' she asked him, trying to speak without touching her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
‘A shampoo advert on the telly.'
‘Hardly a degree in chemistry,' she commented thickly, adding, ‘What shampoo?'
‘I don't know.'
‘The advert wasn't too successful then?' she said.
Back in the kitchen he asked her, ‘Have you told Angie yet? About us?'
But she was staring at the white splatter marks on the carpet, where the cheap corner-shop bleach had burned the colour from the carpet, and in some places had burned away the carpet.
‘She's still with Goldstein.'
Billy poked at a hole in the carpet with the toe of his boot.
The following day Billy decided to fix the carpet, and he started by trying to fill the gaps and ragged holes caused by the bleach with off-cuts he'd found in a pile behind the back of a Discount-Décor store.
After an hour he gave this up and decided to lift what was left and just polish the floorboards.
But the bleach had left white patches in the boards so he decided to paint the boards instead. He went back to the Discount-Décor store, where the staff wore t-shirts bearing the logo ‘MDF ‘R US' and orange baseball caps with the same. He bought a four gallon tin of paint; ‘White with a touch of pink' and a large emulsion brush.
Angie found him at about four o' clock, finishing off what was left of the paint by giving the walls a coat of ‘White with a touch of pink' too.
Her eyes were red and a little swollen and she had that broken, vulnerable, available look that made him want to sex her right there.
‘Hi,' he said, looking down from the table on which he stood.
She said, ‘Hello,' quietly, dropping her satchel onto a chair and, keeping her feet off the painted floor, leaned a little into the room to watch him.
Then, after a minute or two, she asked, ‘What about you two, huh?'
He painted a few more strokes and then looked down at her with an even expression, saying, ‘Right. Like you and Goldstein never happened.'
‘That's over now,' she told him, ‘It has been for weeks,' adding, ‘or didn't Ella mention that, when she was giving it to you in my bed?'
He ignored this and said, ‘The floor's dry.'
She walked into the kitchen, picked up the kettle, took it to the sink and filled it. He turned back to the painting. She lit the gas and placed the kettle over it. Blue and red flames licked up one side.
She opened the cupboard and took out two mugs. Then she opened a jar of instant coffee and spooned some into each cup.
‘That's Ella's coffee,' Billy told her.
Angie responded by picking up the jar and throwing it through the kitchen window. Then she picked up the kettle and threw this through the window as well, taking away most of what was left of the windowpane.
Then she simply stood and cried.
Billy stepped down of the table and, at a loss for an appropriate response, kissed her. When she kissed him back, ferociously, hungrily, with love, he slipped his hand up her skirt.
She was already unzipping him.
An hour later she got out of bed, dressed and said ‘I'm going away for a couple of days. Get rid of Ella before I return.'
She kissed him again and then left.
‘What happened to the window?' Ella asked.
Billy was standing over the sink, washing putty oil from his fingers. Ella asked again and he said, ‘Angie. Angie came over.'
‘Great.' Ella said with some sarcasm. She turned to leave the room but paused, hand against the doorframe, turned and asked, ‘And you fucked her. Right?'
He said nothing.
‘Are you leaving me?' She asked.
He remained quiet.
‘Are you leaving me so soon?' She repeated.
Just This...
‘You do bad things,’ she murmured.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’
‘But here,’ she told him, ‘you’re a good man.’
They spoke in whispers.
‘I know you are,’ she told him.
He ran a fingertip along the course of her spine, watching the goose-bumps rise, and when she shivered he nuzzled the nape of her neck, his tongue brushing the raised downy hairs. He kissed her shoulder and she sighed, released a slow deep shudder and pushed her back against him.
‘I couldn’t do this with anyone else but you,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘What we’ve done,’ she said, ‘I’ve never done with anyone else.’
He nodded, breathed slowly, brushed the loose hair back from her cheek
‘Is this a bad thing we do?’ she asked.
His lips had reached her ear-lobe; he paused, ‘You belong to someone else.’
‘But here,’ she said, ‘here there’s just this. Just us. A portal.’
She rolled over to face him, ‘Here is somewhere I don’t belong to someone else; here is somewhere you don’t do bad things,’ and she smiled, brighter now, for establishing a truth, and kissed his lips, ‘Here is just this.’
He kissed her in return; kissed her lips, took her face in the spread of his fingertips, kissed her jaw, her throat.
He slid the black spaghetti-silken straps back up onto her shoulder, just so that he could watch them slip back off again.
They lay face to face, mouth to mouth, breathing in unison. Her eyes opened, and then closed. ‘Just this,’ she murmured.
‘Just this,’ he repeated, and he kissed her eyelids, in turn.
Sighing, she whispered to herself, ‘And we can’t use the word love.’
Bus Stop...
She was speaking fast - so much to say: ‘When I first saw you, you were at the home, after I just arrived, and I was really pleased. Really pleased to see you. And I hoped you would remember me and be pleased to see me too.’
‘I was,’ he said, ‘I was.’
She nodded, and dragged her hair behind her ears. ‘I know, I know.’ She said, ‘This has been the best two years of my life,’ and she shivered with the pleasure of it.
They sat together on a wall, his rucksack lying against the glass wall of the bus stop. She was in a summer dress and pumps and a zipped hoody pulled right up against the wind. ‘You said we could be family,’ she told him. ‘You said we’d be family.’
‘We are, Mel. We are.’
‘Will you come back?’
He shook his head. ‘This isn’t just a runaway, like we do for attention or for a bit of fun. I’m leaving for ever. If they ask you, tell them that. For ever.’
‘And you’re going to join the army?’
‘I will when I’m sixteen and a half. I’ll join up then.’
‘That’s not until next year.’
‘I know, but I can’t stay their anymore.’ He put his arm around her shoulders, thin beneath the sweatshirt, and dragged her close. ‘We’ll always be family Mel. Always.’
‘Can I live with you? When we’re older, and you leave the army? Maybe you’ll leave the army, when you’re about twenty five, and we’ll get a house together.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. Then he nodded and said, ‘Yeah, I’ll leave the army after nine years, when I’m twenty five, and we’ll buy a house and live in it together.’
She shivered again, satisfied, smiled; rested her head on his shoulders. She said, ‘I could be your girlfriend you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Now, I mean. I could be your girlfriend now.’
He squeezed her shoulders, ‘you’re too young now, Mel.’
‘Only by a couple of years.’
‘Thirteen’s too young.’
‘Ok,’ she said, snuggling up to him. Then she looked up, ‘But will you write?’
He nodded, ‘I will, but not until after I join up and everything is official and I can’t be sent back.’
‘That’s ok. I can wait. But what should I do when you’re gone?’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘What’s rule number one?’ he asked her, smiling at their conspiracy.
She looked up, smiling back, ‘Don’t get caught.’
‘And what’s rule number two?’
She grinned, ‘Break every rule.’
He hugged her tight, ‘Yeah, except for rule number one, remember.’
‘Except for rule number one, I know.’
She reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll break every rule, and I won’t ever get caught.’
She settled down against his shoulder again. ‘I wish I was older,’ she said after a few minutes.
‘So do I,’ he told her.
‘But I’m not.’
‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘you’re not.’
‘You’ll miss the last year of school. Your GCSEs and stuff.’
‘I’ve got a job; I’ve got somewhere to stay.’
‘With the angels.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your last foster didn’t work out.’
He shook his head.
‘I thought they were a nice family.’
‘You’re my family. They meant nothing to me.’ He sat silent for a few minutes, thinking about his three month placement with a foster family, and his relationship with his social worker. He thought of Mel, remaining here.
‘Why won’t you tell me where you’re staying?’ she asked again.
‘They’ll make you tell them, and I’ll get brought back.’
‘Ok.’
She shivered and he asked, ‘You cold?’
She nodded, teeth chattering; ‘Freezing.’
‘You’re upset too. Come on, I’ll walk you back to the corner.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to see you off. Wave you goodbye and all that.’
She looked into his eyes, adoring him.
* *
He paused, carefully placing the spoon on the table next to the coffee mug; he took a slow, deep breath and closed his eyes, exhaling, opened them again, seeing the rain on the café window, seeing them sitting together on the wall, holding each other against the wind and the lives they led.
Mel and him.
Family.
He was twenty five now. He’d come for her.
and you are looking...
Hello dear Lishman,
thanks for your beautiful letter! It has been a bit of a mission to answer you back, cos i don't have an internet and have to use a library. And when i sit here, amongst lots of people, my mind goes empty! And i only have a one hour to do that!
I am so glad to hear from you again! It is so nice you are doing well and it looks that your life is very interesting!
I did miss you a lot in these two past years. I lost your number almost immediately, the one you gave everyone in spain! I tried in vain to get your number from Harriet, but she did not give it to me, or your e-mail adress! There were many times i longed for your company, your advice and so on. And just to talk to you..
I tell you about myself now.
I still live in London and i am still together with James. We live in Cricklewood but will move to a bigger place next week. The thing is, we are going to have a little girl in few months time. I was working as a full-time nanny for a year for a little boy called Sebastian and that really made me think of having my own child. I always wanted to be mom by the time i am 35. I was ready to bring up my child on my own if things go wrong. I was going to move back home as well, looking for options but it seemed much more difficult to do than i imagined. I have lived away for past 16 years.
I do still have a plan to move back to Latvia eventually.
So now when i heard from you, it made me a bit sad and anxious cos i did have some day dreams about us, even though i did not think you think the same way.
To be honest i liked you from the first day we met. You seemed very intellegent and interested in same things as well as being good-looking and having a sexy accent.
And you are looking for beautiful things in life. Just like me. You are also a restless soul, same as me. But i never new what you really think about me. Also, you left for Spain and you seemed to have so many people around you, everyone seemed to like you like mad! And i didn't want to look mad!
Did you know that i've always been mad about writing too? That i write almost every day, and my dream has been to write lots of novels! I am so glad you are writing! Would you be too shy to show me some of your work? I would really like to read it!
And me being one of your characters is very exiting! I'd like to read that story! Maybe i could find out something about myself i did'nt know!
I am also going to do some translating, just now i am practising, but when i get an internet i can start seriously. I know some publishers in Latvia and they want me to show my style and then decide if take me on. I try children's books first.
What kind of things are you translating?
I hope i did'nt put you off with my news and hope we can stay in thouch and share our thoughts about everything.Cos you know Lishman, is very hard to find someone who is actually very similar to your self!
I was just warned, i have 10 minutes left time on this thing! Please write me soon, i'll promise to answer sooner this time! And there were so many things more i wanted to write you about!
Too bad that you have flight home, but hopefully next time you will come to London!
Write me back soon! Lots of love Laimaxxxx
