Anu Kindle Text Flipbook version

that evening, already disturbed by the silence. Time to be the resolute, irreproachable father. He knocked, and opened the door. They were sprawled around the room in semi- darkness. Andie had simply not bothered to put on a light when the sun set. They were lurking in corners, faces lit eerily by their phone-screens as they communicated silently with those far away, or even with each other. It was a cave of predators. “Girls, your lift is here.” They sprang into action, and he left quickly, going outside to meet Sarita’s father who was standing, admiring the house in the chill air. “They’re just coming.” Narayana nodded. They had met before, when he came the previous time. “No trouble I hope.” “Not at all. Just did their homework and listened to loud music. The usual.” Narayana smiled, wondering. The way Sarita had described it, Andie was pretty much a house-prisoner thanks to her mother’s restrictions. Hugo didn’t look as if he could stand up to his wife either. He didn’t pursue any inquiries, partly because he was too nice a person to intrude; but mostly because the girls actually seemed to relish visiting, treating it like sacred ground. It must be the novelty of it all. It did look like a nice house and the garden was beautifully kept, what he could see of it. Hugo kicked the gravel idly. 93

He had nothing in common with this man, not enough ground even to ask him what work he did. The girls emerged briskly. Both men ceased shuffling and looked at them, grateful for the distraction. There was a bustle as they arranged their next meeting, and who would sit where in the car. “Is that your dad’s car?” Mary asked Andie, amused at its homogeneousness. She hadn’t noticed it before. “Yeah,” was the answer, as Andie slapped the boot-lid, “and this is where he stuffs the bodies.” The Greek chorus of laughter resounded in Hugo’s ears as he returned to the house without saying goodbye to anyone. The bibulous Cassie was in her corner of the dining room, glass in one hand while she brushed the screen of the iPad in her lap with the other, window-shopping. She didn’t notice him standing in the doorway at first, didn’t notice what was actually on the screen, bleary eyes seeing only what was in her mind – the increasing challenges of feeding an ungrateful family on a limited budget, doing their laundry, all the cleaning, managing their emotional obfuscations. Her eyes raise slowly now to meet those of her foolish husband, someone who always denigrated her esoteric interests, yet now threatened her with this Lizzie Borden nonsense whilst never giving her money for clothes. He turns from her in disgust, and goes back to the office, headphones on. Nothing has been proved. Andie waits till the car reaches the main road and its lights and engine fade into the still night. She takes a deep breath. The night is her friend, she reminds herself. She looks over to the supine house, lights dim in the dining room, 94

office and her empty room where she discovers herself, so secretly in the loneliest of feasts, so silently, no-one must ever know. Mum drunk again, Dad wanting to watch porn and too afraid to, Alex asleep in his stupid dream world. She takes another breath, and resigns herself to the next twelve hours of the hell house, and to whatever demons may surface in her sleep. With her coal-black eyes and ghost-face, she looks quite infernal herself as she stomps back into the house and her room, each foot-fall a summons for the dead. She leaves the front door wide open, slamming her own to let the world know exactly where she is not to be disturbed. 95

Chapter 4 Beautiful Commerce Once upon a time there was a princess who had been treated all her life as a princess should be treated. Her mother had almost died whilst giving birth. That both of them survived was seen as something of a miracle. The princess was fawned upon, she was told every day how beautiful she was, she was given presents; all the while her father chased women other than his wife the queen, and her older brother fought bitterly with anyone passing, to prove his mettle. She could have felt sorry for her mother but found that as long as she herself was loved by everyone, which she made sure of, the world couldn’t be entirely unkind. The princess was no fool, and remained aloof and aware – of the men blinding themselves through drink, and the women keeping their pace, focusing on housework or, as in her mother’s situation, on their career. The princess herself would remain above all the sordidness only if she danced, and she was a wonderful dancer. She was also truly beautiful, so she secured a prince with no difficulty whatsoever, and managed to leave the palace as a teenager. Now barely twenty, she retained a fondness for her family in Torquay despite all their faults. She often visited them, and they her, visits both ways always commemorated with lavish feasts. She danced from the oven where she made cakes, to a table which she cleared, to the utility room where she folded the laundry, to bedrooms 96

where she made beds, always entertaining her new family and friends, always with a captivating smile on her face. The entertainment was taken care of mostly by television, so she didn’t have to work all the time, her role merely to supply the food and drink, make appropriate commentary, as she did now whilst preparing tea with the matriarch. The ritual itself, one they both knew very well, was now a mere framework for deeper issues, few of which required iteration. The older woman knew the time would come when she would struggle to keep the family in unity. Girls had come and gone over recent years, without the required mettle. This one was different. Her beauty was the mere lure, and could only go so far despite its obvious uses. One of their wittier visitors had remarked that Marina’s grace was like a weapon of mass creation, to be met by riotous, ubiquitous laughter from the ranks assembled; even from the other young women who were in awful love with her themselves, jealousy impotent in the magnitude of such respect. Marina at the time had only smiled faintly, quietly embarrassed at least for show, dancing as she did in an endless sky of admiration. Elsie Milton had noticed then what she understood to be a mercenary aloofness in the girl, and had approved, having found her successor. The kitchen door was open because of the humidity and smell from the deep-fat fryer as the chips sizzled. Marina opened several cans of beans, emptied their contents into a saucepan on the electric stove, then set another pan of water to boil for the frozen peas. Elsie was on frying duties. 97

When the sausages were done, she put them in the oven to keep warm, and went on to the burgers. The women worked side-by-side in silence over the four-ringed little stove, Marina in tight black jeans and t-shirt, the other a blue flowery dress dulled with age, both in green plastic pinnies, their hair tied back. Elsie wore black loafers, Marina pristine white trainers They took turns to dart around the kitchen, arranging trays, cutlery, plates and a selection of condiments, namely tomato ketchup, HP sauce, malt vinegar, mayonnaise, salt and pepper. “Better take orders,” said Elsie eventually, eyes fixed on the burgers. “See if there are any deviations.” Marina glided through to the sitting room. Everyone was watching the television or smaller screens, in hunched obeisance to distant lands and strangers. She almost collided with Geoff who was headed towards the stairs while touching his phone screen. They side-stepped each other just in time, elegantly, playfully. “Sorry, Marina.” “What do you want for your tea, Geoff?” she laughed, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. “He’ll have some foy de grass and caviar!” came a shout from the settee. “Oh fuck you, Chuck.” “You wish!” “Is that Ally you’re writing to?” Marina asked softly, for Geoff’s ears only, nodding at the phone. “Yes,” he blushed slightly. “We’re trying to meet up Saturday.” 98

“Good luck. What do you want for tea?” “Oh the usual will be fine, thanks, Marina.” “I’ll give you extra chips,” she smiled. Ed her boyfriend overheard. With René gone he had felt relieved, that only he now had a place in her heart; that if there were to be places he could not reach, they would remain barren. He would never admit any insecurity regarding lesser men, even to himself. Yet to his private disgust, she had started grooming a new pet in addition to that stupid cat. He turned in his chair from a screen of sunshine, beaches and interminable melodramas, to face his lover. “If you fatten him up anymore he really will become a woman.” Marina’s proximity was allaying Geoff, denying him even a sharp rebuke. He was also afraid of Ed. He stormed up the stairs, tossing the kitten off the bottom step with his foot. “Geoff kicked Lilo!” cried one of the kids, echoed by a chorus of other grandchildren and friends, in hope of kind intervention, to no avail. “Wanker,” said Ed. “I’ll have extra chips and an extra burger please, Marina.” He turned back to the screen. “Hey, d’ya think Matt will hook up with Maddy?” he asked no-one in particular. As Marina sashayed amongst the throng, one of Chuck’s biker friends lit up on her approach. “You were at Gina’s party last week. I saw you dance. You were amazing.” 99

“Oh this is the same thing,” she laughed, then in unusual explicitness added: “I don’t dance. It’s more like a ricochet in this chaos! What would you like for your tea?” So she continued. Yet for all her grace, her diplomatic softness, her compassion, mellifluous voice, the scent of gardenias and spring emerging triumphantly through those of deep-fat and male body odours, a fight erupted. “You’ll get what your sister gets and no more,” Mr Milton chastised a grandchild. “But he got more last time!” protested the sister. “It’s my turn to have extra!” “The same goes for you,” was the elder’s reply. Everyone could have seconds, there was plenty, but the ritual had to be gone through. Shouting ensued from all quarters. Only the smallest child, a girl of six, remained silent, eyes and mouth open wide in nervous despair. Marina wished to reach her, to protect her, but the mass of writhing, flexing bodies as the younger members exchanged blows, proved too great a barrier. The tumult died down. Marina took the last of the orders. “Have you got all that?” Mr Milton asked amicably. The walk back to the kitchen crosses eternity, a familiar tread. Her life is mainly conducted in the lulls after violence of some kind or another. As long as she keeps to the path everything will be fine. There are entire areas in which one must not trespass. She always remembers orders perfectly. Alex didn’t go on family outings anymore unless he were forced to. He remembers one now, he’s not sure why. It was a trip to a glass-blower’s studio, the artist a small goat- like man with a neat black beard, turning baubles of light 100

over a flame. They left like the other visitors with samples of the man’s work, frozen translucent seeds to be dispersed over the landscape. Alex had bought a tiny glass ball that was now placed next to the board games on the shelf, held in place with Blutack. Behind it was a picture of reef fish, given to him when he was seven because he wasn’t allowed an aquarium. He hears the kitchen door open. He hurriedly pushes the comic under his mattress and picks up a maths book. It is his sister. She doesn’t knock. “Come on, you freaking zygote. Your turn to lay the table.” She pauses to consider him prostrate, his nose in a school book as usual. How could they possibly be related? Her revulsion slows her so that, driven by hunger, he has almost overtaken by the time they reach the kitchen. Jammed in the door, they squabble for supremacy. “Let me in, you freak!” she yells, appalled and humiliated. “I was here first!” “Like hell!” But then she has relented to retain a modicum of dignity and he has shot through. Cassie, too exhausted to intervene, knew the situation always sorted itself out one way or another. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of Fleetwood Mac and heavily scented steam from the roasting organic chicken. It was almost done, they were only awaiting Hugo’s return from dropping off her milk, and picking up tarragon and extra vegetables in Totnes. 101

He’d volunteered to do so, which was odd. Such eagerness was to be questioned. It was the night to eat in the dining room. Alex went to the dish rack to pull down some crockery, only to clash with Andie again who was putting on the kettle. With tea and coffee, the sink, kettle and bread bin all located at the one place, congestion was frequent. Andie decided to deal with it by exhibiting rare humour. “Ha. Conflict on the Gaza Strip once again.” “Don’t use that term!” Cassie snapped. “That’s your father’s idea of a joke, and it’s not funny.” “I just want a fucking tea while we wait.” “Don’t use that language in front of your brother. It sets a bad example.” “What planet are you on, Mum? Do you think he hasn’t heard worse?” She charged off without making her drink. Alex got on quietly with setting the table next door. There was a minefield of memories here, like when they had company and the brussel sprouts were making him want to retch and his parents forced him to eat every one, putting a show on of waiting in front of the guests. He didn’t like the melancholy room nor his role but was resigned. His mother had told him in her house growing up the dining room was always cold, even the linen, warmed by a fire only on special occasions like when the vicar came round. So this was important to her, and he almost sympathised. He got through it using a familiar strategy, that he was the hero Xela having to go undercover in order to infiltrate hostile territory. 102

Andie’s scraps of music thundered through the kitchen ceiling. “Sounds like a storm’s on its way,” Cassie forced a smile and turned Fleetwood Mac off as Alex returned for condiments. “The weather’s been awful this week so I hope not.” As she cleaned around the sink, she resigned herself to what came from above, telling herself it wasn’t as bad as when Andie was learning the piano, the howling from abused keys triumphing over everything. Alex hadn’t even been allowed to wear head phones during her practices as that was deemed insulting. Things had got better since those inchoate volatile days. Twenty minutes passed and Hugo still hadn’t returned, his phone unresponsive. Andie stormed into the kitchen. “If Dad’s not back yet, I’m gonna have a banana.” “Alex just had the last one.” “Why? Why’d you give it to him? He had one for lunch.” “You weren’t here.” “Agghhh!” “Have some sunflower seeds. They’re good for you. I’m sure your father will be back any minute.” Hugo, off the straight and narrow path after doing the Dartington drop-off, was being diverted to Totnes Library. He had an hour before it closed, and was hoping he could further research begun in Newton Abbot. He was even less comfortable than usual in Totnes, the close sunless heat 103

pressing down on him. He crossed The Plains, aware of people of different ethnicities in colourful strange clothes, some of them actually talking to the homeless, also often brightly dressed. He preferred the black-and-grey fashion prevalent everywhere else in the UK, people not feeling the need to show off. You knew where you were with them. He headed up the street. His mission allayed any sense of guilt he usually had when going astray, even for a cup of tea, further calmed by switching off his phone. He followed the sign along an alleyway that opened up to reveal a modern building with plenty of glass, including the doors which opened as he approached. He entered the welcome coolth, progressing up the stairs past a rainbow with a nonsensical spectrum, containing all the wrong colours. The librarian was a young black woman typing into a computer. She looked very intelligent, he thought. How did he fit into this world? If it hadn’t been for his neat attire, the librarian might have been more wary of his sweaty face, his cold piercing eyes, and gorged red lips. Even the books he’d asked for over the phone, to be put aside, could raise an eyebrow or two. She retrieved them for him, he thanked her, and found a seat to devour the contents rapaciously. What he knew already, he raced through. The first series of shocks he had already experienced at Newton Abbot library thanks to the one book they could offer him there: First, that Lizzie Borden’s middle name was Andrew, after her father. Andie’s name had come from the actress in 104

‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’, a film of which he and Cassie had been very fond whilst courting. Second, Lizzie’s behaviour was often very similar to Andie’s – the stubbornness, the issues with her mother, the selfishness, the avarice, the shoddy deceit, and petty thievery. Twice they’d had to deal with indignant shop staff in Totnes. The final shock came at the end of the book when Lizzie had been acquitted. Now a free and rich woman, she moved to her new home which she named ‘Maplecroft’. Sitting in Newton Abbot library, Hugo couldn’t believe it. If there were a God, he wasn’t even being subtle. If he’d had the mind for it, he could have questioned further. For instance, was it possible that woman Donna subconsciously knew the name from having read it before, which had triggered a series of associations? He didn’t have the mind for it. Instead he had pondered the possibility of him having been Lizzie’s father Andrew, and Cassie the step-mother Abby. If so, who had Alex been? He had brushed these thoughts away as soon as they had arrived. His intuitive intellect may not have been any further developed than his logical, but he knew instinctively this particular past belonged solely to Andie. The new Maplecroft was a new beginning. Having had a week to process the implications of his clandestine research, he was quick to unearth new findings in the current tomes where other theories were presented. Essentially it was a locked-house mystery, and he used to love those: Lizzie’s parents hacked brutally to death by an 105

axe that was never found; Lizzie and Bridget the maid the only others seemingly present; and only a tiny spot of blood on Lizzie’s petticoat, that she explained with ‘fleas’, perhaps meaning menstruation with uncharacteristic subtlety. That Lizzie had done it, and paid off Bridget, was the most popular assumption, the lack of blood explained by the later burning of a dress, or her committing the crimes denuded. Other theories implicated the maid, Lizzie’s sister, her uncle, or an illegitimate son. The latter was new to Hugo. There were numerous stories of other suspects, all quite ridiculous. This was different, the alleged son deranged and an expert in slaughtering animals. He’d have to come back to this. Meanwhile he was intrigued that what nobody seemed able to explain, is that before Abby the mother died she ordered a very sick Bridget outside to clean windows on an unbearably hot day. This was out of character, and didn’t make sense. What, Hugo wondered, if it hadn’t been Abby who gave the orders, but Lizzie instead? That would definitely point the finger at her. If Bridget had been paid off, she could have lied on the stand regarding this. Hugo read on, drinking in the detailed gore, the cold horrors of forensics, the various suspects, the nuances of New England values. The place names were conspicuous: Taunton, Tiverton, Bristol… Geography extracted from South West England. He was mulling this over rather mechanically when a salient, totally different fact shook him awake: A New York Times poll reported at the time that arguments over the Borden case had resulted in nineteen 106

hundred divorces. He suddenly, abnormally, felt a concern for his family, habitual guilt reasserting itself. He was possessed with the thought: if Abby had sent Bridget outside to clean windows, was that like the sick caribou separating itself from the herd, to fall prey to wolves? Was she subconsciously setting things up for her own murder? Short, fat, unloved Abby preparing to end her life, by making it easy for a homicidal daughter? Panic gripped his heart. It would be a heck of a mess to clean up. Leaving the books at the desk, he exited hurriedly, switching on his phone as he went down the stairs. A message from Cassie. There was never one from anyone else. Half-an-hour ago. A client had asked why the milk was late. Where was he? And where was the shopping? She was clearly all right, everything normal. The library doors opened, ushering him out with a whisper, unwanted refuse. He had parked at Morrisons. Cassie would give him a hard time for shopping there. This was the least of his worries, and in fact was part of the plan, over and above his need to be thrifty in the face of his wife’s weekly budget. He made the mistake of going up the High Street, slow at the best of times. At peak hour it was worse, like crawling up through an arduous gauntlet of smiles and cloying affection. He then had to turn south, heading downstreet to St Katharine’s Way. The house, easily found from his instructions, was under the hill, catty-cornered to the car park, tell-tale corbels supporting stone women with foliage spewing out their mouths. He parked, deposited the milk boxes, and apologised to the elderly couple for being late. 107

At the car park a young man with braids and a rainbow hat thought Hugo was headed to the machine, and stopped his car to offer his ticket. “There’s two hours left,” he said. “This is one form of community support they haven’t shot in the knee-caps yet. Not here anyway.” At Hugo’s disdainful stare, the Rastafarian shrugged and drove off. Hugo returned to his car, and joined the heavy traffic heading out of town. Inching along, towards the A381 turn- off, he reached into the plastic shopping bag on the passenger seat, then threw the receipt out the left window. There was a bottle of beer and an opener bought solely for the purpose. Fumbling, he managed to open the bottle with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel. Scattering some of the contents on his shirt and trousers, he then threw the mostly-full bottle, opener and top out the window onto the verge. The driver behind admonished him by sounding his horn. Hugo shot him an ice-cold glance in the mirror, then was turning onto the 381, leaving the scene behind. “You went to Morrisons?!” Cassie exclaimed in horror at the plastic bag presented to her. “That’s unethical, and poor quality. There are much better, local shops. We don’t have time now to make fresh vegetables, you took so long. And… My God! Have you been to the pub? You smell like a brewery! Is that why you’re late? Andie’s really hungry. When did you start to drink? “ “I just fancied a pint. I hardly ever do that anymore.” He was prepared, even for the stifling heat, humidity and 108

smell, and the bass notes pounding through the ceiling. It was hard to breathe. “Which pub did you go to?” “The Seven Stars. At The Plains.” “Did you meet anyone?” She started preparing the sauce. “No. But I heard a joke.” She was tense, expecting the worst. “What is a woman’s equivalent of a man-cave? …The kitchen.” “That is so unbelievably sexist! Women need to be protected, not laughed at.” “It was the barmaid who told it.” This was true, only it was another barmaid in another pub long ago. The ruse was working. Jealousy, suspicion and rage were swamping any further attempts at intelligent inquiry. To further calm the waters, he presented a handful of red and white chrysanthemums from behind his back, obols for Charon. She glanced at them. “Put them in a vase, and stir the sauce. I’ve just remembered I need to talk to Alex.” Hugo smiled to himself. The flowers had worked more as distraction than appeasement, yet had still paid his way. Alex heard her coming and put the comic aside, picking up the maths book. “Are we going to eat yet?” he asked the large figure in the door. “In a minute.” To his surprise and unease, she came and sat on the bed, patting his leg. “Alex. I need to talk with you about something, because heaven knows your father 109

won’t…” She faltered. “Well. You are at a certain stage in your life. Feelings inevitably rise because of new chemicals moving in your body that weren’t there before. Not all of those feelings are good. Sometimes you just have to press them down, or ignore them. They’re not good for the soul, do you understand? I know there must be pretty girls at school. You’re too young to have a girlfriend.” “I don’t have a girlfriend, Mum.” “I know… I washed your sheets today. You may have noticed,” she said, getting up. “Come and have dinner.” She had gone but the room was not empty. She was everywhere, casting shame upon him, a cloak of disapprobation. He rallied valiantly, steeling himself to go and have dinner with his family, pushing through the darkness. He was very hungry. “Get your elbows off the table, Alex. And use the coasters everyone. We’re not the McCoys.” She viewed her kingdom with pride. Everyone is in place, she at the head by the kitchen door, her daughter scowling on her right, Alex fixated on the food to her left, and her husband in a clean shirt – almost identical to his work shirt – opposite. They are a family. “I think we should give thanks.” “God, not this again, Mum.” “Exactly. Everyone hold hands.” “I’m not doing it.” “In which case you will go to your room, young lady.” Hunger was always the bottom line, so Andie relented, hating the feel of her mother’s plump sweaty fingers, her father’s cold scaly palm. Alex was no less mortified. He 110

had just washed his hands. He couldn’t trust his parents to have done the same, his father in particular who always gave the impression of having been somewhere unknown, unsavoury. “Thank you for the meal,” Cassie said simply, aware she wouldn’t get away with more this evening. Hands were dropped rapidly. Alex quickly spooned roast potatoes onto his plate, even before Hugo stood up to carve the chicken ceremoniously. Cassie was also out of her seat, selecting a CD. Andie rolled her eyes as a synthesiser’s notes dominated the room insipidly. She knew not to say anything. After legs and breasts were carved and distributed, and upmarket peas from a frozen packet were assembled with the potatoes dripping in chicken juice and lashings of gravy – not forgetting the tarragon sauce – the family tucked in as one with a desperate air. Once the frenetic pace of consumption slowed, Cassie took a moment or two to glance around. Suppressing a belch by converting it into a cough that fooled nobody, she wondered if she could spruce things up a bit, work on the dining room to get another feature in a Sunday supplement. She might even change the tasteful chestnut wallpaper. Hugo, meanwhile less deluded, was also remembering the past charade, and comparing it with the current one: the sanctimonious music, the moribund light doing its best to reflect off the mushroom-coloured walls, everyone in place, rigid faces struggling with conformity. Cassie’s face in particular reminded him subtly of an American political aide he’d seen on television, face governed by work, 111

perambulation conducted in small tight steps, emotions frozen by chemicals. The petty papers, pulp friction, didn’t care what was inside the person, only the stage-show inside the house; suburbs a triumph of individualism, everyone with a cellar where anything could happen to anyone; only a mob’s violence capable of penetrating the hallowed walls of a solitary, usually wrong, suspect. Funny how magazines always featured homes in isolation from their communities. His clandestine research was having a discomforting effect on him, giving rein to excessive, untamed thoughts. As a placatory measure, he strained to recall a family seated at a table on a train leaving York on one of his work-related trips: the mother in her thirties with a lean face, long blonde hair, kind eyes and gentle movements of her hands as she distributes sandwiches wrapped in tin foil to her daughters of about ten and eight years, with hair and demeanour much like their mother’s; then to her husband, dark-haired, rough- featured, smiling benignly at his family as they sit upright with ease, listening to what each other says, in their soft Yorkshire voices, delightfully truncating ‘the’ in every sentence. Hugo looked across at his splenetic daughter almost snarling between bites, his wife smiling with a madness he couldn’t fathom, and a son who was not much good for anything. It was hard to believe he felt protective towards any of them little more than half-an-hour ago. There was a gravy stain on the white tablecloth, which Cassie had also just noticed. Her distracted smile vanished. 112

“Who did that?” she demanded. Alex ignored her while he grabbed more potatoes, Andie only scrunching her nose disinterestedly. The stain was in the middle so it could have been anyone. “That’s what tablecloths are for,” Hugo dared. “I’ve done enough washing today!” she proclaimed with a meaningful glance at Alex. “I’m just a slave, is that it?!” There was silence as everyone continued eating. “The weather’s been very close today.” Hugo thought he’d attempt more evasion. “Stop being so negative,” Cassie snapped. “It’s been lovely this year.” “You said…” Alex ventured, before another mouthful. “It’s all right, dear,” she said, hand on his shoulder. “Your father’s not a humanitarian like I am.” “Is this about the stain?” Andie now plunged despite herself. “No, but I wish someone would own up. It’s not such a terrible thing. There are no angels here.” “Okay. I did it,” Andie declared, gnawing on a drum- stick. “I just didn’t think it was that big a deal.” Cassie, smelling a rat, was silent. In fact, Andie hadn’t done it. The culprit was Alex, from the other side of the bowl, already mortified, now terrified. Andie simply wanted an end to the nonsense. She ignored her mother’s eventual, and inevitable, “Now was that so hard?” and started talking about school. Alex, exculpated, was no happier. 113

“I had a really good day today. The teachers all seemed to like me, except for Mrs Fosse, and she’s a cow so no-one cares. Mr Fathingay, despite having a stupid name, said I have potential to be a gymnast, or maybe a dancer. And I got an A in Design which made Christina really jealous! Lunch was awful but I managed to get extra salad for me, Sarita and Becky. It was actually not that good but nicer than the other stuff. I don’t like that fake chicken they serve. After lunch…” Nobody was that interested in the monologue, which didn’t deter her. When Alex attempted a remark about the art teacher they shared, she told him it was rude to interrupt, and continued. As Cassie cleared the plates and took them to the kitchen, Andie followed, still talking, her mother the preferred audience, her father’s icy presence always perturbing, and Alex beneath consideration. It suited her to help carry the bowls through when Cassie brought the dessert. Only when she launched into the profiteroles did Cassie, eager to shift subjects and emerge out of the residual whirlpool of anger and guilt, manage a comment. “Was it all right leaving work so early again?” she questioned Hugo. Fooled by the innocuousness, the normalcy of the sentence, he proffered a straightforward answer. “Yes, I’ve been there at six most days this month, so my hours are still good. I would have been even earlier if I hadn’t given a lift.” A lull, a lare, too late he realised his error and had fallen completely into the trap. 114

“A lift? To whom?” It had been pleasant, he recalled, harmless conversation about the weather, but there was no way out. “Sheila Tabram. She goes to school at Newton Abbot.” The inevitable tirade of questions followed: “Have you given her a lift before? To where? How many times? Why? Why were you on that road instead of coming straight home? Do her parents know? Do you think you’re going to do it again?” Andie was only mildly amused by the melodrama, watching her parents’ faces in turn whilst continuing eating. The interrogation moved on to Alex, who was also eating but had an air of prior knowledge, a lack of surprise. “Did you know, Alex? Why didn’t you tell me something was going on?” This last puzzled him. There was always something going on. He never understood the weight assigned to things. He remembered all the fuss about the expensive white chocolate that tasted just like a Milky Bar, which he’d tasted just before having it snatched away by his mother. “Who gave you this? Who?” There was always plenty going on, little of which ever made sense: other people running, other people shooting; imaginary people, not him. His silence gave Cassie lease to raise her voice about the state of the world as reflected in her family. Dinner was coming to a close, nobody listening, and Hugo, so adept at tuning her out, was thinking about the daughter on his left; sullen, impenetrable, dangerous. His non-comprehension of her moods was flowering now towards even more insidious inferences. She shoves her chair back and stomps to her 115

room. There is an axe in the shed at the back, hardly used. He will, before work the next day, do something about it. The past does not have to impose destiny unless we give it permission, Jules was musing as she sat in the embrasure upstairs, one of her favourite places. Even in the cold of winter she would love to sit on the sill of the bay window, listening to it rattle, the wind touching her face, radiator warm under her legs and a storm visible through rain-splattered glass, racing cloud and tossing trees to and fro. Now it was summer, and she looked out over the farm struggling to survive in the midst of wildflower meadows, oaks and beech. Funny, only fifty years ago, according to her mother’s stories, the entire country was fed almost exclusively by animal carcases and vegetables boiled to a pallor. It was a tale from bleak olden times, like Totnes castle that she had never visited; ruined walls once defending that which no-one cared about any longer, the simplicity and limitations of beef, mutton, turnips and potatoes surpassed. She liked where she lived and had to admit it was the proximity to the alternative hub that first drew her to the area and enticed her to stay. When she first arrived, there was an immediate delight that she had come to a place where someone cared so much they put a box of herbs on the station platform for people to help themselves – she had improved many a sandwich accordingly. (In similar fashion, listening to Radio 4 one morning and hearing women discuss clitoral stroking in educated voices, she knew she was in the right country.) People made fun of the place and she herself was critical, but that transport staff got ruder east of Bristol was 116

a phenomenon others beside herself had noted. The ability to take care of oneself and neighbours was too precious a quality to neglect. On the train to Bath one day, seeing a table opposite littered with e-numbers, screens, colourful plastic toys, insatiable children and peevish parents, pink and lilac refuse spilling across the aisle, reminded her, finally, she did not need to go anywhere very far, she was actually happy where she was despite her habitual scepticism. Her care of the recent waif was a case in point, that there were still surprises to be had in the vicinity, a world in which she was engaged. He thought he was parking on the land for free, whereas she had made a secret deal with the farmer – whom she was perpetually encouraging to diversify – that she would pay rent of fifty pounds a month. Thus, she was helping two people with little effort from herself. The unsung spirit of the age. Kindness was not a panacea, she had known it used as a weapon by various groups and individuals, or abused by those in receipt; nor was it esoteric and complicated. She still felt it was the one thing that could transform the world if people, on the whole, aspired to it more. To her landlord’s gentle derision once she expressed such to him, she merely pointed out she was being pragmatic, as was he by feeding the local badgers the same mineral supplements as his cows. His herd had not been infected by bovine tuberculosis for over fifteen years. Her attention was caught by a double-flash of white at the edge of the woods. She narrowed her eyes and smiled. It was a pair of jays. “Hello?” 117

She stirred from her reverie at the sound of the voice. “Hey, René,” she went to the banister and called down. “Is it all right to use the bathroom?” “I said you could,” she smiled again, gliding down the stairs, one hand caressing the railing. “You don’t have to ask. I have my own one upstairs.” He closed the door behind him. They stood at opposite ends of the reception hall, empty but for a suite near the stairs with a chest of drawers serving as a coffee-table upon a sizeable Moroccan rug. On the walls were some oil paintings of landscapes, with an oval mirror and a shelf opposite the suite and adjacent to a corridor leading to the extra bathroom and a sealed door separating the main bulk of the house. Jules, doing most of her living upstairs in this annexed part, had never bothered to decorate what was beneath. The one area she did use was the stairwell where thrived a forest of jade plants under a south-facing window. “I still feel…” he started. “That you’re intruding? You’re not. If I ever feel the need for that much seclusion, I’ll lock the door. Sebastian left those for you,” she nodded at a pile of books on the erstwhile coffee-table, simultaneously adjusting an earring. Why the farmer had left the books with her rather than René who was only one field away, wasn’t clear. “Oh cool!” René loped over and fell into the couch, grabbing the books eagerly. “They’re about tree maintenance.” “You two get on well, don’t you,” she said, still from the bottom step, still fiddling with the earring. 118

“Yeah. As a traveller you often feel you have to be nice, charming, to pay your way, kind of. With Seb it’s nothing like that. I’ve been doing a bit of weeding, yet he doesn’t seem too bothered if I do anything.” “You don’t have to be charming with me, René.” “I know.” He faltered. “You look nice by the way.” “Thank you. If only I could get this blasted earring to work.” She went over to the mirror. The shelf held various tools of a woman’s trade. Satisfied with the earring, she reached for a pair of tweezers and proceeded to pluck her eyebrows. “Are you going out?” “Yes. To Exeter to see some friends. I usually stay most of the night.” “Ahh.” He eyed the black holdall at the bottom of the stairs, then his gaze returned magnetically to her, an irresistible force. He tried to be discreet, which was hard. She was dressed more revealingly than he’d yet known from her, with a bare mid-riff, black lycra-slacks wrapping neatly two very round firm buttocks above long slender legs, and a light sage-green woollen top. Her black hair traipsed lazily upon part-bare shoulders. “No nose-stud,” he observed. “Different territory,” she replied to his reflection, whilst continuing to examine her appearance carefully. She was well-aware of his gaze, that she had him, as it were. Whether it would be ethical to pull him further was questionable. It was too easy. But then, what man wasn’t? If she stuck to that principle, a life of spinsterhood awaited. 119

Past conquests were nothing, they mostly didn’t count. Then why did this one? She could have dreaded the query, inevitable with any other man, whether she was seeing a boyfriend this night. With René she was safe, he wouldn’t intrude no matter how much he wondered. “Do you like it here, René?” she asked, now applying some lipstick of a delicate mauve. This was not necessary. She was merely lingering, she couldn’t help herself. Whether it were force of habit, compassion to his needs, or her own, she could not rightly say. “Very much. I love the quiet.” “Yes, in Totnes there is silence even in the library. Hey, do you see a gummy on the table in front of you?” “A ‘gummy’?” “An elastic for hair. Yes, that’s it. Could you bring it over?” He was there instantly. “Now hold my hair here, while I work this.” Her fingers momentarily entwined with his while she took the pink band. The scent of her hair mingled with her perfume in a harmony of seduction. He was completely helpless. It was the first time they had touched and he was actually gripping her beautiful, luxurious, ebony hair as she worked its layers. He could feel the warmth of her neck on his hand, and his hips were an inch away from her rear, the lycra seeming to have an electric effect. 120

“Don’t forget to breathe,” she laughed gently, compassionate cruelty drawing to an end. “You can let go now.” He retreated to his books. Her hair was now composed of sheening wavelets. “I hope I look okay,” she said, facing him directly. “You look very nice.” Only understatement was possible. “Don’t do anything I would.” She swept up the holdall in her fist, and was gone, slamming the door harder than intended. Later René sat in the side-entrance of his van, eating lentil stew out of a pot, his mind – whilst lost to other things – soothed by his music and the lulling sounds and view of approaching twilight. Thinking of Jules, he inevitably thought of himself. He knew he wasn’t as smart as her but people had told him he absorbed things wisely, whatever that meant. He also knew he wasn’t anywhere near as smart as her sartorially no matter how much she dressed down. Tonight she had shown her true form. He was hopelessly out of his league, which in itself didn’t matter if the strength of mutual feelings out-rode such considerations. What did matter, was that what he knew of dating, the man bought the woman dinner, whereas he couldn’t afford to buy himself dinner, or even go to a pub. He was also puritanically averse to intoxication, denying himself that sweet spot between hard day and unconscious night. He was supposed to make a move but didn’t have the material for such a task. The general ignorance with which he felt he was cursed, extended 121

glaringly to sex. He had seen a porn film at the McCoys, which hadn’t helped at all – a lot of gymnastics and performing, guttural sounds echoing hollowly off naked walls, sex apparently not worth an enriched landscape. The actors hadn’t even seemed to be enjoying themselves. Marina had removed herself quietly upstairs while this had been going on. He had been concerned and unable to do anything about it, her boyfriend watching everyone like a hawk. Now what was she to him? He had believed himself to be in love, and he could no longer access those feelings. What had happened to them? Where had they gone? He knew he still cared about her. A Tribe Called Quest continued from within with ‘Stakes Is High’, meeting the outer melodies of nature while he sat lugubriously in-between. Jules walked through the Exeter streets, holdall swinging from her fist, a hooded cape over her head and shoulders. Through her ability to dress chameleon-like, she had achieved a liberation not accessible to those who remained trapped by their looks and behaviour. The lights were switching on feebly in anticipation of dark, the twilight revealing her in her current guise, that of urban waif. For the ten minute walk between car park and club, she blended in perfectly. Her thoughts were back at the farm. She felt increasingly uncertain about René. What was going to happen between them? What was supposed to happen? Having witnessed countless friends sabotage present chances, by the false intrusion of future expectations, and the 122

emotional flurry that came with, she was sure to always keep her cool. Where did that word ‘supposed’ come from anyway? Tenses had an innate clumsiness – ‘was’, ‘is’, ‘will’, errors of perception. A better, more inclusive tense, could surely be invented. Having just grabbed what amused her in the past, the romance of courtship had proven elusive at best. There was one guy who haunted her still. At twenty years old he had wanted marriage and kids, which to her was akin to putting the carriage before the horses. She still thought of him sometimes with his office job, wife and two babies in Bristol. Who could she talk to about this? No-one knew her whole story, they knew the bits with which they would be comfortable, and even in that limited arena often proved wanting. For instance, there was a couple from a tantric sect in Dorset who were risible in their feedback, thinking they were being ‘real’ when in fact they sounded like actors from ‘Carry On’ films. The exception, sadly, was her mother whom, it was clear now, she would call at the weekend. What kind of fragmented life was she leading? Other women formed groups to process things. She had never liked these gatherings because of the way they often talked about their men, sharing personal details in a derogatory way. The one time she had been impressed was when attending a menopause group – nothing like being prepared, she always insisted – and a bunch of older women had joined them; that is, those who had actually been through the changes. Their presence and silence swept all dialogue aside. Nothing had to be said, nothing could be said. She 123

herself was a nubile maiden, and mostly relishing it, all the time knowing crone-hood awaited. She looked forward to the silence. There was little silence after she entered via the side- door, nodded at the guard who knew her by sight, and plonked herself down once in the colourful mayhem of the changing room. Greetings were exchanged boisterously. As usual, she was the last to arrive. The sweet spicy odours of Mugler Angel mixed with vanilla body spray were already all-pervading. “Hey, Santara,” said the blonde curly-haired girl plucking her eye-brows in the adjacent mirror. “Hey, Victoria. How’s it going?” “Not bad.” “Last night?” “Snoozeville. Six of us and three guys at the start. Warmed up a bit later. Not much.” “Once in Bristol there were twelve of us staring at an empty room. Nothing sadder. Makes it all seem kinda pointless.” “Yeah. You did well to not sign a contract. Just come in twice a week.” “Well, I don’t have your stability,” Jules observed, as she started to remove the make-up she had applied earlier. “Like that exists in this game. Mind you, it’s better than nursing.” “I’m friggin’ starved.” A girl with short black hair and long limbs, sprawled in the seat to Jules’s right. She put a 124

tupperware container down in front of her, opened it, stuck a fork in and commenced devouring the contents. “Quinoa salad again, Penelope?” Jules smiled. “Uh-huh.” “I’ve got some falafels if you’re still hungry.” Penelope swallowed, laughing. “When I was in ballet, the dancers only ever ate crap, Burger King and KFC their favourite patronages. Everyone here seems to eat balanced diets.” “We value our bodies.” “As do the punters hopefully.” “The ballet’s given you some moves. You have an edge.” “Says the girl with seven veils.” “So who’s the fella?” Victoria asked unexpectedly, still plucking her brows. The other two looked at her for further elucidation which followed immediately. “Come on, Santara. You arrived with make-up on for the first time ever, which you are now about to replace with something less subtle.” “Santara!” Penelope exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to fix you up for months, and you’re seeing someone on the sly?” Jules shrugged. “It’s no big deal.” The conversation ebbed and flowed in different directions as other girls in various stages of undress and maquillage came and went, topics shifting from childcare to 125

clothes to nutrition and, finally, to the threat of a cashless society. Having worked in a strip club in Bristol, Jules was grateful for having found a niche in the Tropical Belles Club, which whilst on the seedy side of burlesque, was essentially a go-go bar with artistic and erotic aspirations. The girls were generally supportive of each other, competitiveness not a major factor, and management looked out for them, not even demanding stage fees. The camaraderie was reflected in the girls’ names, none particularly adventurous or exotic. One girl was even called Devon. Jules had chosen ‘Santara’ because it sounded both familiar and mysterious. It was Hindi for ‘orange’. In Bristol she had been Lili, after a trail- blazing, elegant stripper from the 1950s. Only her mother understood the reference, which was fitting as it was she who had influenced Jules in her chosen path. Jules had been eighteen, pondering her options. She had done well at school, but was bored by the mechanical rote of learning. Getting into heavy debt through more of the same was decidedly unattractive. She was intrigued that her mother – who hid no secrets from her – had financed several world-trips by taking off her clothes in public. At first not entirely comfortable about her daughter following in her footsteps, she had eventually relented, even becoming pleased, vindicated, and had offered plenty of advice, such as never performing for more than six months, and only going as far as was comfortable. Tropical Belles, consequently, as her chosen venue was limited to topless, 126

despite which it had more of a thriving business than the full- nude shows available elsewhere in the area. She was happy here. She may have had doubts about her chosen path, wondering if all pornography – if it were such – were not some type of gelding process, as watching sport was voyeurism. Her doubts were fiercer in regard to those attempting to close down the club in the name of decency, citing spurious statistics to make their point; or those women who decried her trade whilst whooping with laughter at films of impoverished male strippers. She loved and trusted the female form – the curve of beauty within space – more than its mind; she loved all its aspects; the softness, the mystery, the underlying resilience, a true, multi- faceted intelligence. How this related to men exactly, she had no idea. The two sexes were like Shakespeare and history, any connection tenuous. They had something in common, she just wasn’t sure what. There was a rap on the door. “Five minutes, ladies!” “Thanks, Dave! Got it!” Victoria yelled as Jules helped her zip up her black evening gown. “Hey, Jasmine, the horrors of credit card tipping put a downer on us all. You got one for tonight? Give us a buzz.” “Maybe.” A short girl with thick rich wavy brown hair in ringlets, gave a mischievous, sly grin. Her breasts were spilling out of her red dress, and would have been the envy of the others if they hadn’t been well-aware of their own assets, and frequently reminding each other of such. “Well, don’t hold back. Shoot.” 127

“Okay. An Italian guy gets arrested for fucking a dead woman on the beach. In court, he pleads to the judge, ‘Ahma sorry your honour! I dida not know she wasa dead. I thoughta she wasa Eenglish!’” There was an uproar as they protested in unison, two of the girls throwing cushions at the culprit. “Where’s that Italian?” yelled Scarlett, a tall pale girl with a beehive of crimson hair, as she rocked her hips in a shimmering silver-grey dress. “I’ll show the bastard!” “Well done,” Victoria said to Jasmine. “We’re on, girls!” Their exuberance took them up the stairs where the avuncular manager Jack stood by the entrance. “Looking good, girls. Jasmine, Cyndi, Scarlett, you take point tonight.” The brightly lit stage was a runway going deep into the room, with two smaller stages as wings part-way along. In the mirrored ceiling it looked like a cross, with a brass pole in the middle of the leg and two more on the wings. To the accompaniment of ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ and loud cheers from the sizeable crowd of mostly men, the nine girls cheerfully spilled three ways, the named girls each grasping one of the poles, two of the others flanking her. As the MC introduced a girl, she would step forward in her evening gown and stilettos and do some moves, showing some bust and plenty of leg. The atmosphere was electric, men already rushing forward to the tipping rail, rewarded by the opportunity to stuff bank notes under a garter, all the dresses having slits up the sides. Jules, stage right, and flanking Jasmine, had forty pounds within two minutes 128

flowering from her leg. All in white, a parody of virtue, she would have stood out if the others weren’t also powerfully dressed. Penelope had a hunting knife strapped to her thigh, as some men apparently found women threatening to kill them a turn-on. The song drew to a close, the audience were bid to say temporary farewell to six of the girls as the three chosen to remain prepared to work the poles and disrobe. Jules and the other five filed off to the opening chords of ‘Whole Lotta Love’. The intro had been raucous fun as usual, the audience responsive and appreciative. The girls on temporary reprieve laughed and chatted as they changed clothes. Only Jules became pensive. “You all right, Santara?” Devon had put on her cheerleader’s outfit, and was tying her blonde hair into pig- tails. Perpetually chewing bubble-gum, she was perhaps alone amongst the girls, in that she believed in each persona. “I’m fine,” Jules said, a bit curtly. “We made good already,” Devon said, putting a wad of cash into her bag. “Yeah.” Devon’s interest in Jules’s well-being was only perfunctory. She sat down to focus on pulling up her knee- high white socks. A sense of ennui followed Jules around for the night. The music sounded jaded. It was always the same: soft or heavy metal, with the occasional gentler tunes that, too, felt tired. For her second solo well after midnight she did what Penelope called her seven veils number. There were only 129

three veils, but Penelope was correct in that there were seven items of clothing if one discounted the black stockings, high heels and g-string, all of which remained on her body. She had always felt archetypal with most of her numbers, and this one hit the spot each and every time, devoid of individuality and ripe with significance. Girls like Devon and Jasmine by skilfully appearing more attainable, more likely, made more money than her. She didn’t care. She was comfortable with her various enterprises, and a steadily accruing savings account, her disguises worked well, and the various aspects of her life never collided. She knew every move, every note as the mix – supplied by her – shifted to Sade’s ‘No Ordinary Love’, and she sat on the central stage, back snaking up, twisting around the pole, then down again, legs opening wide. Wound into the routine were the crawls to the tipping rail, distributions of capital rewarded each time with the discarding of another item. An admirer of Victoria’s Secret, she had studied the model Adriana Lima’s portfolio considerably, after people had compared their looks. She valued and replicated her style, particularly with this number, the white ruff and fish- net top revealing her plump breasts, and mimicked the occasional pout and rebellious spark in the eyes. She befriended the audience, made every one of them realise she would always be out of reach, yet maybe, maybe, there was a chance. A trick her mother had taught her, was that when a room full of people was staring at you, stare back. Thus she remained empowered, playful, seductive, the DJ always playing the same song. 130

Chapter 5 Possibilities There are vagabonds looking in through the windows. Once he was bounding on all fours across a verdant landscape, closing in on a young woman in filthy rags. Now he is incapacitated by the summer grippe so can’t move, do anything about it. They are inside, in every room, intent on doing harm. Lizzie, in Sunday best, is on her hands and knees, leather collar tight around her neck. Come on, Lizzie – tugging on the lead – learn to stand upright. Her sister Emma enters clutching a shiny knife, smiling salaciously. Slash and burn the dress. The brother-who-does-not-exist is playing the piano madly, not one note relating to another. The other men with blank faces and blood on their raincoats are almost recognisable. Thuds and screams. He gets to the window which doesn’t open. His sister-in-law is throwing her children down the well next door, followed by herself, screaming. A snarling herd of fawns eat a dead bear on the lawn, blood on their snouts. His bed is the only refuge. He is in it voluntarily now as a cell. He can hear his wife banging her fists on the ceiling above and crying for help. Andie has got hold of another axe and is naked, bludgeoning her mother to death, blood spraying on her nubile flesh. He turns to another: Bridget in a maid’s costume that is too small, black hair traipsing over her bare shoulders. She holds a knife to his mouth as she mounts him. He can see outside, through the brown wall and time, into the dusty 131

street where Uncle John is taking Lizzie for a walk, still on a lead, still not walking upright. Bridget slaps his face to get him to focus. She rides him faster and his attention is drawn to the warm relief in his loins. He has ejaculated too soon so she whisks the knife from his mouth and stabs it in his heart. She is going to be a rich woman. He panicked as he woke, knowing he had to act quickly. He grasped some tissues and mopped up. Peering in the early light he could see only a small stain on the duvet. Cassie’s leaden form was snoring. He could get away with this. It was possible she might not notice when doing the washing. He has come to rescue Cassie from the pirate ship. He has long golden curly hair. He walks confidently across jagged rocks on the shore to where she lies weak and helpless. After giving her some water and bits of coconut, he lies down next to her, holding her in his arms. She never wants to leave. This is where she belongs. At the other end of the landing, Andie hops on the back of the bike gleefully. She wraps her arms around the boy’s waist. She assumes it is Chuck. He is wearing a top-hat and monkey-jacket. They shoot down the lane together. She doesn’t have a helmet on. Her hair is blowing wildly in the wind. It’s a bright summer’s day when they leave Maplecroft, it’s night at the bottom of the lane. They cross the main road and are back at Maplecroft. She is extremely sad as he leaves her there, but Sarita and the Goth singer Annalisa are waiting. Annalisa is holding Lilo. “Can we use her?” Annalisa asks. “No,” says Andie, pleased with 132

Annalisa’s deference, “we are kind to animals.” They are in the cellar, the five girls all in night-dresses and holding the latest iPhones, granting the air a votive light. Annalisa is no longer with them, she has disappeared somewhere. Alex is strapped to a stone table. Andie steps forward with an ogival grin, propelled by insusurration. She is the first to drip hot wax from the phone onto his spindly naked leg. Hugo went downstairs clutching the wet tissue paper guiltily. He was so early it was unlikely he would meet anyone. Ablutions would take care of everything. He was going to defy Cassie’s decree that only toilet-paper could go down the waste-pipe. She wouldn’t find out. Alex is on the rugby field at school. There doesn’t seem to be a ball. The other boys are chasing him nonetheless. He is desperate to escape and knows he can’t. There are spectators lining the field, more severe, less compromising than those chasing him. It is not so much a fight, as a sacrifice. It is a team sport, but the team is always against him. The dentist is there, and she has a cold. They won’t let him through. He is woken partially by the sound of the toilet being flushed next door. They know it wakes him up. How early is it? He is back on the playing field, trying to get through the unrelenting crowd who are enjoying his plight. There is an older girl in front of him chewing gum, her face blank, expressionless. Her name is Elizabeth. He knows her from somewhere. “Of course you do!” she laughs grimly, her eyes bright like a dog’s. “I am the Queen!” Her friends all around echo her laughter. “Do we come from England?” asks Elizabeth blankly, masticating. 133

“You can’t get away, you know.” “Can’t! Can’t! Can’t!” come the echoes. A boy catches up with him and slams him brutally to the ground. “Cunt!” Alex woke up, unaccountably terrified – for he had had much scarier dreams. The tackle felt real. He could still feel the blow on his hip. He looked down to check for a bruise. There wasn’t one. There was, however, a morning erection. He knew he could feel better quickly with the right administration, but there was someone in the bathroom taking a shower. He glanced at the analogue clock above the door. It wasn’t even six. His dad sometimes got up this early. Whoever it was, Alex couldn’t do what he wanted to do there. He would have to do it in his bed, taking extra care not to spill. It was wrong, he knew, but wanted to do it. He reached for the comic under his pillow and opened to where the ninja woman was reclining in bed, naked but for a thin sheet through which you could see her shape clearly. Next to her were her weapons, like a sleeping lover. He reached down between his legs. He wished there were a lock on the door. He couldn’t, he couldn’t. (“Can’t!”) Guilt stayed his hand, and he lay still wishing he could relax, wondering what to do, what he could ever do. Hugo went upstairs to the office where he kept his work clothes in order to change without disturbing his wife. In order to take advantage of the flexi-hours at work and return home early, he would be up long before the kids had to go to school, but this wasn’t meant to be one of those days. He crept back downstairs, ate wheatgerm toast with marmite, drank tea. At a loss how to use the extra hour, whether to 134

just go or not, he went outside to his car, carrying his briefcase and the mug of tea which he placed on the car roof. After taking off his jacket and putting it and the case inside on the passenger seat, he squinted at the pitilessly rising sun. He would see the girl later in the afternoon. That gave him cause for hope. His thoughts then turned a darker hue regarding his daughter. He wandered away from the car, leaving its door open, refusing to glance at the window above the kitchen from which he could sense a great darkness. He thought hard about the Lizzie Borden case, questioning where culpability truly lay. Perfectly innocent people had been accused in the process. What if Lizzie herself were innocent, as she seemed to be in the Maplecroft years? The human being was fond of assigning blame, which was easy, a downward ride; a sustained innocence, of unknowing, not so much. He fumbled amongst the discarded remnants of his dream, remembering dimly the presence of builders, Lizzie barking like a dog, and that it was like he was actually in that house on Second Street in Fall River. Ashamed, the encounter with his vision of Bridget was the one thing he recalled vividly. Lost in his maunderings, he found himself by the road, back heated through his shirt by the rapidly accreting heat of the sun. A dog was barking at him. He blinked. He had never seen this dog before. It was a Pomeranian, so its bark was, more accurately, a yelp. The point of such creatures always eluded him, unless it were to annoy people. 135

“Ahh! There you are!” came a breathless voice as Gail Raymond rustled down the lane in a green velvet skirt and white blouse with cornflowers, pressing down a straw bonnet onto her grey locks with one hand. “It’s because you were standing still,” she explained, clipping a lead onto the animal’s collar, “not moving. You shouldn’t stand still. He finds that suspicious.” “I didn’t know you had a dog, Miss Raymond.” “He’s not mine, heaven forbid!” She blinked at him with her perspicacious blue eyes. “He belongs to my sister. I’m looking after him while she’s visiting friends in Canada or somewhere in the colonies. I forget where. He’s just been done so may be acting a bit strange. Men are insecure enough about themselves as it is.” Her gaze had hardened as she looked up at him, screwing her eyes against the sun. He felt pinned to the landscape. He couldn’t escape. “Of course,” she persevered despite his solidity, “you of all people know how difficult it is to have a pet. We wouldn’t want yet another repeat performance of all that, would we?” “No. We wouldn’t.” He managed to get out. Something of the man always unnerved her subtly. It wasn’t as overt as with his daughter. “Good day to you, Mr Munby. Come on, Asclepius.” “Hugo! Hugo!” He turned. Cassie was standing at the front door in her blue slippers and paisley dressing gown. He approached gingerly, picking up his tea en route. 136

“What are you doing? Haven’t you left yet? Do you know you left your alarm on? It woke me up, it rang for ages before I turned it off.” Alex entered the kitchen to the familiar sight of his parents squabbling. “Don’t just leave your cup there for me to wash,” his mother was saying. “The dishwasher is still broken or haven’t you noticed.” “If you get it fixed I can pay the man next week,” Hugo said quietly whilst washing the mug. He wanted to add, “If you didn’t insist on deliveries from Waitrose, we could pay him this week.” Discretion proved the better part of valour. “He wants it paid up front. I told you.” “Give him a cheque.” “And if he comes before Friday? It might bounce.” “We can get a cleaner for a few days,” Alex said. “That’s what Tommy’s mum does.” His parents looked at him standing in his Star Wars pyjamas by the doorway, hair in disarray, eyes bright with sleep. “Don’t interfere,” Hugo glared, “with things that don’t concern you, Alex. Wait until you’re older and less naïve.” “That’s mean, Dad.” Andie, unnoticed except by Alex, having been woken by the raised voices, had entered the room. “And you can cease butting in too, madam,” said Cassie, her face fixed. Andie, disgusted, pushed past towards the bathroom. 137

“All I wanted was a quiet breakfast and to get to work,” Hugo declared. He headed for the front door, pursued by his wife. He was delayed by the necessity of having to put his shoes back on. “It’s all right for you,” she continued to berate. “You get to go off.” “Yes. To work.” “And your work trips.” “When did that last happen?” “I’m stuck here, having to deal with the plumber, cleaning, washing, the shopping, and all manner of nonsense from the kids.” “You go to work then,” he muttered, tying the second lace hurriedly. “And they’ve messed up the tax credits again. I’m going to have to phone them, and you know what that’s like. Well, actually you don’t! Even if you were here you wouldn’t have the guts to stand up for yourself.” But he was away, in the car, and driving off to his office, a place she had never been. Two hours later she was in the kitchen. After negotiating a labyrinth of numbers, she had waited thirty minutes. Eventually, having listened to hideously distorted versions of classical music for far too long, surrendering to the futility of contact with anyone, she gave up. Her greatest indulgence is about to be revealed to us. She gets up from the table and goes to the top shelf where the ceramic jars of flour are kept, somewhere no-one else would ever go. She reaches behind, and pulls out a small 138

blue plastic pot. Inside it are loose menthol cigarettes, as she would smoke with friends at school. She extracts one, replaces the pot, and returns to the table, after switching on the radio to catch the tail-end of Melvyn Bragg. She feels part of the intelligentsia when she listens to his show. In a thickening haze, she thinks not of the discussed topic, nor her family, having abandoned all hope, but of her women’s group, soon to follow the same route. She knows they don’t want her. What is more, she doesn’t want them. She had joined under false premises, that they would talk about men, what to do with them, how to handle kids etcetera. Instead they kept focusing on themselves, and something they called ‘metaphysics’. The group was going into areas she believed irrelevant, indulgent, even intrusive. Haunted by a sense of loss, of dissipation, she draws the smoke deeply into her lungs, the only source of nourishment she is likely to receive for some time. “Do you like it?” she asked, as they lie together watching the pools of smoke eddy and curl on the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he said, handing the joint back to her. “I’ve tried before, but I don’t think I need it really.” “I don’t need it,” she insisted, taking a long deep drag. René rested his head on his hand, admiring her naked form discreetly hinted at by the lilac sheet over it. This is where my life begins, he was thinking. She is like a Renaissance woman, redolent of the free-entry galleries he would visit when alone and friendless in a city, nurturing his spirit in a landscape bereft. 139

He didn’t have the van then, and relied on the public spirit of hitch-hiking and the vagaries of trains and buses in his quest to belong. Looking out a window at the mesmeric landscape, shrunk into his seat to avoid people, they plunge into a tunnel and the window reflects in the golden light of the interior a young blonde woman nearby. Their eyes lock, an unexpected intimacy in darkness, shades of what could be. “What are you thinking?” she asked, turning to see him basking in his glow. “Just wondering,” he said, shrugging slightly, “what it’s like to get older. I mean, I don’t know, but I thought this was really good…” “Do you have to get technical?” she laughed. “No, I mean, I wonder – how can it be like this when people are old? A transmutation must be unavoidable to other cares, another flowering…” “That’s it!” She stubbed the joint out in the ashtray on the floor beside her. The bed was a futon and only inches high. She turned back to kiss him, a long drawn out kiss. He passed his fingers through her rich hair. “No more drugs for you, mister. They take you too far away. This bed the centre is. But, hey, look…” She knew it was his first and second times and didn’t wish to say so directly. Men were sensitive around that area. “You’re a natural. Normally with guys you have to tell them things, give them instructions. I felt like I was one of your plants.” 140

It was his turn to laugh. “I don’t do that with my plants!” “It’s a compliment. Take it.” She sat up, the sheet cascading from her shoulders. Her breasts – that seemed to him ideally round, with mauve nipples right in the centre – wobbling as she perused him. She reached down and grasped his genitals softly. And before, before, when he rose from the forest of jade. “You take care of this till I see you next.” “You have to go again? To see your friends?” He had felt for once that destiny was working in his favour; now that sensibility was threatened. “That’s right. Here, one last lamenting kiss.” It wasn’t the last. They both had their clothes on when they bustled about downstairs a bit later. Jules was giving him her old grey laptop. “You can use this down here. There’s an outlet, and the wi-fi’s always on. Are you familiar with computers? Good. I’m really grateful for the music you’ve been sharing with me and I wanted to show you something.” They sat side-by-side on the couch as the computer sprang into life. René, whilst slightly bewildered by the juxtaposition of what they had just been doing and the mundanity of the present moment, felt more relaxed than he could ever remember being. Even the depth of connection he surrendered to whilst tending to a garden, lessened in comparison. He wasn’t aware of it, but through proximity to women he always lost a need to go anywhere, content without a goal in a timeless hidden sensuality. 141

“Here.” Jules typed a few commands. She was fast, using press-ons only for work. Nonetheless, her dark green nails were the brightest things on the board as they darted around like magical beetles. “This is that song you played me. The video for it is made by some famous Chinese director. Did you know that?” “No. No I didn’t.” They were silent as the first images and notes met their senses. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He nodded, drawn in. “Have fun.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek, got up before he could respond, and grabbed her bag. “I’ll come and see you in your van when I return.” She was gone, this time without make-up. He didn’t know what to think and returned to the computer for solace. The sun was setting as she headed to Exeter in the sedate green Tara, and she had to keep adjusting the rear- view mirror so as not to be bedazzled. There is no future nor past, she always insisted, and a scene out of time was unconsciously blinding her, a monologue uncharacteristic for its seriousness: “It strikes me the hidden artist gives most of all. She may be vilified, downtrodden, considered useless to society, dependent on others; only to be revered long after her death, making millions in revenue. Yet she lives independent of success or failure, the burning flame of pure desire the only thing of importance.” Then the wry smile, leaning across him, staring into his gentle inviting eyes. “Have you ever heard of tirthas?” she asks. 142