SIX

As Spencer Phillips was standing in line for his ticket, and Mickey Breeze was flipping his coin, and Pat was hurtling towards them all on his final, strange journey, Clara Gallagher was feeling sick. She was sitting in the furthest corner of the McDonalds opposite the station, trying to look engrossed with a glossy magazine. Strangers sat elbow-to-elbow at the larger tables in the middle, focusing on their food. Bacon fat and coffee and the rustle of paper bags.

There were two things that worried her. One was something small. Lots of something smalls actually, and maybe that added up to something big. The other was pretty big all on its own. Someone had once told her that worrying was just praying for the worst and Clara had tried to heed this advice whenever she felt herself gnawing at things she couldn’t change. Today however, she just kept on chewing things over. She could not ignore the petty irony of this situation, because it was her eating that made part the small worry. Not the amount of food (Clara had inherited her Mother’s slim figure no matter what she ate), but the kinds of food that she had been... hankering after. Face the facts Clara, this isn’t hankering, she thought, but could not bring herself to find the mot juste for how she felt. Clara knew that putting things into words makes them true.

A waitress that looked like she applied her make-up by repeatedly headbutting her compact walked by and glanced at Clara’s tray. Clara felt the heat of embarrassment rush up to her face. She had ordered an Egg McMuffin , hash browns and a coffee. A pretty average breakfast. Nothing to cause that look of intrigue on the waitress’ pancaked face. However, scattered around the crumbs of her meal, was a smattering of ketchup packets. Clara quickly counted them. Shit. Ten packets. Things were getting bad, then.

She had first noticed her growing reliance on ketchup two weeks ago, when she had made an old family favourite- pasta with cheese and ketchup. She had ended up with more ketchup than pasta on her plate. She had just kept squeezing and squeezing, her mouth watering in anticipation of the sweet vinegar tang.

And now there she was, at 7.30 in the morning, in a shitty McDonalds in Wood Green, surrounded by office workers and single mums catching breakfast, with ten packets of ketchup on her tray. She didn’t know for sure (and it was funny how things kept slipping her mind recently) but she feared that the last two ketchups hadn’t served as condiments at all, no, those last two were the main course; she had literally slurped them down.

Clara felt her phone vibrating in her bag and went to answer it. It was Casper calling. Fucking Casper, he of the wandering prick. This was all she needed. She rejected the call, turned off her phone and stuffed it back into her handbag. Wanting to be out McDonalds, out of Wood Green, preferably out of Everywhere, Clara cleared the table and left. As she passed, the lovely young pancake-face flashed her a fake smile. Yeah well, fuck you too, Coco, Clara thought.

That wasn’t nice. But Clara had never felt so scared and alone, so consequently mean, in all her life. She passed the 99p store (yes, everything just 99p), the cinema, the off-license and a few newsagents on her way to the tube. She overcame the temptation to pop into the newsagent for a bottle of ketchup, just a small one, small enough to fit snuggly in her handbag and nobody had to know anything about it. But no. No.

Clara hurried to the station, turning her mind away from worry in her usual way: There is a path through the woods, bare brown earth under her feet, and overhead hangs a pristine sky like a curve of coloured glass. Through the trees, the sea sparkles in the sunlight. She breathed it in. This kind of self-hypnosis was to some people a hard-won skill, but it came to Clara naturally, without thinking. The woods are lovely, green and deep.

She rode down the escalator, hearing the soft rustle of leaves and sweet birdsong in her head and not once noticing the hard-faced man one step behind her, sucking at her scent.

SEVEN

“...43...10...35...76...”

Pause.

“...99...78...75...12...”

Pause.

“...10...10...”

EIGHT

I thought it was love, that feeling of weightlessness. The light reflected in your eyes. The world spinning around us. I thought it was love.

It’s after midnight and I’m driving. I’m pissed off because I had to drive us there and now back, which meant that I couldn't drink and so had to sit there sober, listening to your friends talk about new kitchens and good schools and how playing Mozart whilst pregnant practically guarantees you will spawn a genius. You had a few glasses of wine that painted a high blush on your cheeks and from across the room you gave me reassuring glances that I tried to ignore.

Now the hedgerows blur past like it’s them moving and not us. Chips of mica glitter on the road; brief counterpoints to the scattered stars overhead. You take my hand and I glance away from the road to see you smile like it all might work out between us, if we tried hard enough. If we listened.

“You look pretty” I say. You press your lips into a line, trying not to smile. “You have nice hair,” I say, “because it smells like coconut and it’s very soft.” You turn away, but I see in the reflection from the window that you are smiling at the old game. “When you brush your teeth, I can see you counting down two minutes in your head. Sometimes you tap a foot along to the beat. You clean each part of your mouth for thirty seconds and then you spit out the foam and use your hand to cup water into your mouth. I love that.”

I try to concentrate on driving. “You look kind of funny,” you say to me, after a while. This is your part of the game. “Your hair always sticks up in the morning and that Lynx shampoo you use makes it smell like a fourteen-year old boy on his first date. You never brush your teeth properly.”

You turn your smile to full-wattage and damn it brightens everything.

There’s a moment of silence, the night sounds and engine noise subdued, and I dare to hope we could do it, that we could close the gap between us. And then I look back to the road and see that the road is gone. And the feeling of weightlessness becomes a sick turning motion and when our car kisses the tarmac again our seatbelts hold against us in a crushing embrace.

That feeling of weightlessness is not love. It’s simple physics. The light in your eyes is not a new hope, it is just the lights of the jeep that has hit us.

Our little Fiat didn't have a chance and as the windscreen safetyglass falls on us in gummy clumps, I wonder why I didn't feel the initial impact. A warning bell rings in my ears and a tightness grips my abdomen. We’ve been hit, we have-

I frantically pull my seatbelt aside to check on you. I turn your head towards me, marvelling at it's curious weight now that you’re not holding it up. How did your graceful neck support such weight? And your eyes roll back into your head and I note the thin trickle of blood at your temple and I brush the hair from your brow and see the utter stillness in you and it is now that I know the gap between us will never close. It has been irrevocably widened into the chasm between life and death. Moonlight glitters in the broken glass and on the mica in the road and it spins silver in your hair. Somewhere close, an animal screams into the night.

Somewhere closer, the steady, wet, split-splat-split of petrol, dripping from the tank onto the concrete. It forms a puddle, and it spreads, and I barely hear it because I know that you are dead.

***

Letters sitting on the countertop, two months after your funeral.

They sit unopened. One is a utility bill, and probably safe to open. One is from some upstart record company (I recognise their logo from the constant emails they send, trying to get me to buy their stock, offering cut-rates and special offers which automatically means that the tunes will be shit and sit on my shelves for months). Another is from the insurance company. Royal and Sun Alliance. I've been ignoring their calls and know that I will have to talk to them eventually, but this letter only causes me a small discomfort. At some point they will send a representative round to talk about how much money I should be claiming and how they have an investment department who would just love to help me manage this newfound wealth. Oh, they won’t come right out and say it, they will use tact and guile, but they will want to give me their tainted money and then take it all back, tied up in guilds and stocks and management fees. The hell of it is, I will probably let them.

The letter I am terrified of opening, is the one that looks the most innocuous – small pastel-pink envelope, handwritten address. The postmark declares it was sent from Bristol. I know who the letter is from. The cursive, looped handwriting that echoes your hand so much it hurts. The “i’s” are dotted with a simple mark rather than the cheerful circles that you used, but in all other respects the resemblance is uncanny.

The letter is from your mother.

I stare at it for a long time. My eyes prick with tears, but I blink them back. It's common knowledge that the act of crying makes you feel better, that it is a release. But I have recently found out that common knowledge doesn't mean shit when it's four in the morning and you've cried so hard your eyes are red-raw and there are no tears left, just lurching sobs that wrack through you like convulsions. After these harsh fits of grief, I do not feel better. I do not feel release.

"You all right Andy mate?"

It's Bill Turner, a regular customer who's become a close friend through his sheer determination on his part. He’s poking his large, roundish head through the door, trying to disguise his surprise at seeing me here at the shop so soon. His clear blue eyes meet mine and he smiles. It softens his features.

"Yeah Bill, it's okay. I'm... " I pause, not wanting to lie. I've said too many automatic 'I'm fine, doing alright, getting along better' over the past two months and I'm sick of the false sound of the words. "I'm here at least" I say, "First day open in fact. And I'm glad that you're my first customer, Bill. Come in mate. It's okay."

Bill stands in the doorway, wringing his hands as if he can glean some comforting sentiment from them to offer me. He soon gives up, putting his arms awkwardly at his sides and instead of a platitude, he asks the usual question; "Kept anything back for me?"

I can't help but smile. "Of course Bill. Only the best for you." I hand him a stack of records from under the desk, removing the post-it with Bill’s name on it. In the age of 99p downloads and free delivery, this kind of personal service is the only way I can hope to make money. "There's a bit of jump-up, some pretty deep stuff from Dillinja in there. Oh, and a cheeky little samba-type thing that is surprisingly good. It’s got cowbell all over it." I hand him the headphones, which he plugs into one of the display-decks. He slips a record onto the plate, drops the needle, and listens.

Bill is a real addict. He closes his eyes and just stands there, waiting for it to kick in. When it does, the corners of his mouth twitch and he can't help but nod along. After a while he turns the volume down, opens his eyes and puts the record back into its sleeve. "Yeah, it's pretty good," he says, which is all part of the game, "Not great though. Might work as a filler. Let's see what else you've got."

But before he puts the next record on, he notices the open jar of peanut butter on the counter, next to the unopened letters. He raises his eyebrows. "On the hard stuff already mate?" he asks. I quickly move the jar underneath the counter. Bill knows something is wrong, but decides not to push it. He puts another record on and closes his eyes again.

Peanut butter straight from the jar had been your favourite. I had never gained a liking for it, despite the many, many teaspoons of the stuff you offered me. I didn't like the cloying texture, like so much wet clay in my mouth. I had often shunned the offered spoon in favour of a kiss, and there the nutty taste on your breath was delicate.

Sun-pat, Skippy, Crunch-O. You'd started eating jars at an alarming rate over our last six months and had stopped offering me a single taste. This was a change that I couldn't, or perhaps chose not to, acknowledge at the time. But last night, when no more tears would come, I had taken one of your jars (still with indentations from your little teaspoons) and ate from it. I can't say I liked it, but the claggy texture was a strange comfort.

“Come on mate, we’re leaving.”

“What?” I say, watching him lift the needle from the record.

“We’re leaving.”

I stand there, not sure if I should protest, not even sure what I’d be protesting against.

“Look, it’s nice that you’ve opened up so soon, it’s nice that you are moving on, putting on a brave face, working things out, all that crap. Okay, it’s nice. But you’re not ready.”

“I’m not,” I say, not sure if I am agreeing with him or just leading him to his point.

“You’re not. And so, as your only friend-“

“Bill, you’re not my only friend.”

“The only one that counts. The only one that’s here, anyway. So, as your only friend, I say come on, we’re going for breakfast.”

The way he said it made breakfast not sound like just a morning meal, but like a mysterious elixir, a healing ritual, a rite of food and conversation and fulfilment.

“Fine. I could close-up for half an hour,” I survey the empty shop, “I guess it’s not exactly rush-hour in here at the moment is it. Greasy Spoon then?”

“Fuck no. Have you not been listening to me?”

“What’s wrong with the Greasy Spoon? I like it.”

“Nothing’s wrong with the Grease, but I’m talking about Breakfast. Capital B. You know where we’re going, and we’re not waiting in line with the other chumps. I’m cashing in my chip.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You can’t cash in your chip, Bill. I mean, it’s your chip. You earned it. Seriously.”

“Seriously. You need eggs and bacon and tomatoes and sweet maple syrup, you need a coffee, some toast, those little potato fries they do with the herbs and the muffins and a milkshake. Fuck, remember their milkshakes? I think I cried the first time. We’re going to The Breakfast Club, and we’re not waiting. Come on, we’ll get the tube.” 

“Okay,” I said, oblivious of the trouble this one small word would cause. I held up my hands in surrender. “Okay.”

NINE

Only the boy is awake to watch the next scene with us. The others have argued themselves to exhaustion and they now lie contented, each one of them sure of their own theory’s truth. For a full hour after the event, they searched for the hidden speakers, the projector, the holographic screen inside the glass. They had found nothing, scrabbling in the dark. But that didn’t stop old man Rashid from declaring the Russians as evil puppeteers and chewing out the rim of his hat in case it had bugs woven into the very fabric. He did not look as if he enjoyed chewing his hat, but he did so methodically and with minimum effort. Perhaps he had been trained for such an event.

And now they are asleep. Huddled together for comfort and scant warmth, at the end of the carriage furthest away from the sludge of watery faeces dubbed “toilet corner”. The smell of it lies on everything like a film of grease, but that corner is the worst. The boy holds on to his mother’s hand as she sleeps and he dares not close his eyes.

This time there is no blank canvas, no outpouring of blood. The scene is no longer a widescreen presentation on the carriage’s window; it now glows solely from the face of his digital wristwatch.

Down here in the dark, this watch is the boy’s most treasured possession. The little backlight grants him a kind of power. People ask him to use it to look at their reflections in the windows, or to look at their companions. To find things. Handing it over, like he had for the recent camera/projector search, always tugged at his heart, but he felt better about the others that they should ask and not just take, and he felt better about himself to be willing to share its light. It would be a mistake to imagine the battery failing, as everyone else’s had failed before, so he doesn’t.

And besides the useful searching, there was the game they played. The boy was in charge of the game and no-one questioned this. At some point, a person would say the time they thought it must be. This was especially difficult in the dark isolation. And so the boy would decide whether enough time had passed to warrant a look, and if he felt it was so, he would feel for the small button on the side and press it. The time would be there and although it had ceased to give much meaning to them, people were always glad to know. The boy was especially pleased when someone’s guess hit close to the mark. And Clara, she was good at the game.

And so we see that on his own little screen, there is a net of light caught on water. The light on the surface quivers, as if urgent to be free of the trapping water. Porcelain smoothness underneath, curving to a flat bottom. The smallest hairline cracks in the white, and a small pink toe comes into view. The boy holds the image closer to him and we don’t trust the sickly glow that reflects onto his face.

He looks for the thing he dreads to see, and finds it; the ragged shadow, and the man. Standing over the girl in the bath, the man drops a green-blue bar of soap into the water, causing a splash and then a muffled thud. The little girl’s hair fans out like a veil and moves in the disturbed water.

The man takes something from the bathroom cabinet – swinging the mirrored door too quickly to show us his face – and fiddles with it in his hands. He works something open, and pulls out a string of dental floss. He pulls out a great length of it, and keeping the end between his fingertips, he places the spool on the edge of the bath. He plucks the girl’s hand from the water and makes it clear he wants her to hold it out to him. She does so, trembling only slightly. She does not cry.

The man ties the floss around her little finger, pulling it just tight enough to squeeze. He stands, takes the spool of floss from the bathside and puts it into his pocket. He exits the scene and the floss pulls taught and slowly unwinds with his leaving.

The girl sinks back into the water. Only her left hand is now in view, curled over the edge of the bath. The floss pulls sharply twice; some kind of signal from the man. A quiet sobbing now, and such tiny, plump fingers.