Chapter Two

The hallway the door led me into was tired, grey and neglected.  I suddenly felt the same.  To my right was a staircase and to the left a small reception desk.  A small, grey haired old man leaned on the counter.  A look of eternal disappointment appeared to have been tattoed on his face.  With complete indifference he stated “Susan Mitchum”.  It had been a long journey and I couldn’t quite fathom how someone could recognise me.  I idiotically answered “Err, yes.  How did you guess?”

“One boat each day.  One guest expected”. 

“Oh”.  I’d declared myself to be an idiot.  This wasn’t much of a welcome.  After David’s endless camp chirpiness I’d forgotten about the other options people took when choosing interpersonal styles.  I stood, bags in hand and dumbly waited for what would follow.   

The man continued in a monotone.  “Welcome to the Star Castle.  What brings you to the island? Mountaineering? Ornithology? Cetology?  Walking?”

“Distance.  I wanted a sense of distance”.

“Ahh, well we provide that above all else.  Three hours from the mainland, no internet, no cell phone signal, no television.  You write yourself a list of modern home comforts we aint got none a them”.  I was a little lost for how to respond but he clearly wasn’t expecting a response. 

“I’m Eric.  You’re in room 4. Up the stairs and turn left.  Come down and find me if you need anything”.  His left hand which held the room key motioned upwards and I followed it.  With my left hand I took the key from him and ascended the stairs.   

Like an apology I say “Thank you”.

Once inside Room 4 I release Horatio’s lead and within seconds he has explored the entire room, entered the dogbed, performed eight circles of it and settled down.  He looks expectantly up at me. “I’ve no idea” I say to him.  The room is okay but smells as if a flatulent Alsatian has been trapped in there for a week and was released moments before we arrived.  It had everything you could need though; a wardrobe from a different century, a single bed and a sink.  From the small window an overgrown garden was visible and beyond its walls mist covered mountains.  An island as small as this and I still don’t get a view of the sea.  By now Myles would be back at reception demanding a different room.

Perhaps I’d explore the mountains in the coming days.  Myles had never shown any interest in the countryside.  One field, tree or hill was the same as any other to him.  He dismissed my interests casually for his own amusement.  He didn’t realise that even if you were standing on the same hillside the view today will be different from any other day; the sunlight, the clouds, the breeze, the temperature....the entire experience is ever changing.

I drop my rucksack into a corner, heave my suitcase onto the bed and open it.  I have toiletries, enough clothes for ten days, enough medication for thirteen days and three of Darden Williams’ novels; ‘God Bless the Pretty Things’, ‘Champions of the Lunatic Fringe’ and ‘Fondness makes the Heart Grow Absent’.  I first bought one of his books in 1984 in the 'Life before Myles' period.  I was in Czechoslovakia and desperate to find something to read.  His was the only English language book I’d been able to locate.  If I ever try to think of that vacation thoughts and memories of Czechoslovakia or travelling from Liberec to Banska Bystrica are lost but I can recall every detail of ‘Champions of the Lunatic Fringe’.  I fell in love with Williams then.  His story of an isolated and socially awkward boy at Wolfville’s Acadia University being harassed by the most popular and beautiful girl there and ultimately taking his own life was my idea of literary perfection at the time.  It still is.  When Myles had seen all of the Williams books on my shelf when he first visited my apartment he asked me to describe Darden’s writing style.  I’d told him that not much would happen over hundreds of pages but how he wrote about so little happening was joyful.  I’d told Myles that “in ‘Fondness makes the Heart Grow Absent’ Archie tells his wife ‘Holding you is like trying to hold smoke’ so maybe describing Darden Williams is like trying to hold smoke”.  Myles had nodded and looked awkward and we’d both internally categorised Williams as an area of difference and incompatibility and rarely discussed him since.  In ‘Fondness makes the Heart Grow Absent’ septuagenarians Archie and Lillian had driven from Saskatoon to Calgary to visit their daughter and grandchildren and reflected on their life together, revealing the different perspectives of events each of them held.  I’d longed to make the journey they had both physically and emotionally.  I’d packed in a hurry when Myles left the house this morning and had grabbed those two books quickly.  They weren’t random choices though.  They were books about journeys and escapes.  

How would Williams have described this room? Maybe “The room was like a Gauntanamo cell with a Floral Border” or “Like a Museum for stains”.  No, he’d come up with something better.  Something unlike anyone else.  Something in five words which most writers needed two dozen to achieve.  Myles and I were like characters in a book.  For the duration of the story interesting things had happened.  There were events, there was passion, it was of interest to us and would be to others but the narrative came to an end.  The narrative came to an end and we continued to exist.  We continued to exist and co-exist only nothing more had happened.  We just lingered.  Characters without a story.  What would Darden Williams have done with us? What would he make of me being here?  Would he have written David or Eric into my story?  Would he have written Myles out of it? 

Myles had announced yesterday that he had a meeting in the city so would leave before seven.  Then after work there was a meeting at the golf club so he’d be back late.  His words had registered but I was flicking through ‘God Bless the Pretty Things’, having bought it that morning.  When I’d heard him leave this morning I grabbed the three novels, packed all of my walking gear into a rucksack, quickly packed the suitcase, grabbed Horatio and left.  When I needed to change trains at 10am I put my house key, phone and wallet into a trash can.

I think I can hear Eric downstairs.

I can hear the distant ringing of a bell.

                                                                                                       (by Patrick)

I Was Told There’d be Cake........Chapter One

I feel a bit peculiar as I step ashore. I can’t be certain whether this is because of the heaving and yawing or from the incessant chatting of the small, effeminate man who had introduced himself to me almost as soon as I’d sat down on deck. His name was David and during the two hour and forty minute crossing he’d told me, in a most exaggerated and theatrical manner, his whole life story, about his love of the theatre and in particular his adoration of the islands. His bright blue eyes twinkled with excitement and each time he mentioned the islands he had hugged himself. 

There was a heavy sea mist which obscured the horizon and by about an hour into the crossing I had started to feel quite queasy and had excused myself to find a toilet. Venturing below deck had been a seriously bad idea and I felt almost dazed with relief once back in the fresh air on deck. David had beckoned me over and patted the seat next to him, exclaiming that he’d saved it for me.  Meanwhile several passengers were retching over the side and several of the dogs were sick.  Horatio, my dog, was a picture of misery, his ears hung limply while he drooled copiously; he obviously was not as much of a sailor as his namesake.

The crossing became smoother as we slipped into the leeside of the islands but many of the regular visitors were expressing their disappointment about the view being obscured by the mist. I didn’t mind, I didn’t know what I was missing. When we docked I hung back and enjoyed the harbour scene from the deck rather than join the throng of passengers queuing by the exit.  

By the time I step onto the quay the luggage container has been lowered ashore by the crane. With Horatio pulling determinedly, I slip past the group of people surrounding the stevedores and make my way along the cobbled quay. Wheeled suitcases are being bumped along tipping first to one side then the other and imagining doing this while also trying to control the elated-to-be-back-on-shore Horatio I am very grateful for the hotel luggage service.

At the end of the quay I pause to read the Boatman’s Association boards advertising trips to the off-islands, fishing and seal watching. “Don’t worry, Horatio, we’re not going on another boat today” I tell him, “later in the week”. He looks at me disapprovingly and gives me a hard tug. Suddenly David is at my side, gasping slightly from the effort of dragging his suitcase across the cobbles.  I get the impression that he may have tried hard to catch up with me. 

“Oh the trips are just delightful, darling” he exclaims. “Where are you staying?” 

“The Star Castle Hotel” I reply.

“Oh how simply wonderful for you, it’s marvellous, I’ll show you the way”. 

I can’t help but like this funny little man in all his enthusiasm and friendliness as he trips along beside me. When we reach the right hand junction in the road that will lead me uphill, he bids me farewell: 

“Do have a most lovely time and do call in and have a cup of tea with me one day if you’d like to, I’m staying at Rose Cottage, just along here” he calls after me, “You’d be most welcome” and then he waves like he’s seeing off a friend he’s known all his life. I smile and wave back. David isn’t quite the sort of man I had imagined I may meet while travelling alone but all the same I won’t forget him or his kindness. 

The cobbled road rises very steeply towards the granite garrison wall. As I pass through the gateway I’m gripped by an almost overwhelming excitement, it’s a long time since I’ve felt like this about anything, since anywhere felt this special. Horatio tugs again and as I slip him off his lead he races away from me and then back again, he’s clearly excited too. I’m starting to breathe hard and I can feel my heart pounding from the effort of the uphill climb. I’m relieved to see the Star Castle is only about another couple of hundred meters ahead of me just beyond the colourful flowerbeds spilling red and purple fuchsias and orange montbretia towards the entrance. 

At the steps before the lichen covered archway that leads to the solid looking door beyond I clip Horatio back onto his lead and turn towards the harbour while I catch my breath. It’s almost obscured by the mist but I can make out the ship and the quay and the slate grey rooftops of the small town far below me. I can hear the clanging of a bouy marking a rock out at sea but other than that it is totally silent.  I turn towards my home for the next week and push open the door. 

(by Sally)

Chapter 8

Suddenly everybody was nice to me.

Mrs Aitken said they'd sort it don't worry and all the class were quiet though I heard the buzz when the door closed and outside the office her voice was mixed with Mr Harding's and they were both low and serious, the secretary looked at me, like she was trying not to ask what was happening and she said, Would you like a coffee, but I said, No, and then I said thank you, it was an afterthought, so Mrs Aitken said the phone calls were made and he wasn't dying at all, but they wanted the mobile. It was in my bag and I had to hide the Things when I rummaged through. It was a taxi. The taxi driver was an Asian man and he was serious like someone had told him, everyone was serious today,  Miss Wickertown who we called something else, it rhymed, well, who cares, she came with me and she said, If you need anything ask, and I said, Will they put me in care, Don't think about that now, she said, no-one will force you to do anything, and it was raining, I was hot in bed and my legs kicked and twisted, the rain was like a person asking to come in, then it was warm and wet in the bed, and rather nice, but his looked with a serious face when he put my hand on my head, and he said, You're getting better, my girl, so I slept, and I thought, My girl, I am My girl, then it was dark but with shapes in the room, the shapes were animals waiting, so I called out. A light was on, I wanted my mum, I said, he said, your mum's resting which was a funny word to use, resting, and he said, Come on then, girl, and he got my dressing gown, he helped it over my pajamas, the animals were only the drawer and the chair with Edward Bear on it, he picked me up with my dressing gown on and he said, Lord, you're getting heavy for this, my girl, he said, and I said, I want Edward Bear, so he carried me and my bear down the stairs for hot chocolate and he said You're getting heavier each day, heavier each hour, heavier each step, soon you'll be so big, and we went into the room where the people were. They stood looking at me, Here she is, they said, it was like a cheer, there was Mary who was Michael's wife, and she said, Shall I take her, but I wrapped my arms round his neck, She's still sweating a bit, he said, but she's not shivering, so I clung and I came downstairs in my father's arms. Knickersdown paid the taxi man and stopped for a receipt, it was raining a bit, I thought, I'm actually hungry. In the hospital people were going somewhere or doing things. He was on a drip, but he was awake and looked fine, there was mush on a tray, hospital food, he tried to smile and asked how I was.

What's happening.

I had an accident. I believe you had a text from your mother.

Was she there.

Then he laughed. It was a sarcastic laugh. Yes, she was there.

There was that party. They were dancing and drunk, and then it was gross they rubbed up, and the people cheered, then she put her hands on his trousers where his willy was. I went into the kitchen. They were on the floor, he was on top, and he was a pig, and I thought, Don't be so gross, he's a pig, but then he was an elephant, a baby one, but he was running around the room, knocking things, people were gripping their glasses and rescuing bottles and lamps, mum was shrieking, so I ran in to tell him to stop being elephant now, stupid ape, but he got bigger and mum was holding the table she was laughing so much, he was filling with air, getting bigger and bigger, too big for the room, so I grabbed him, but he ran through the wall, there was dust and a noise, I held on to the tusks, he whipped me onto his back with the trunk, bigger and bigger, and then he gave a jump and a great elephant fart and he went into the air so I nearly fell, but I grabbed onto his tail, up he went and I sailed into heaven on an elephant's fart. Adults and such babies, my god.

I'm so sorry, Jessica, he said. Whatever happens you'll come first.

Then the nurse came and asked if we were ready. He was, but I would not leave.

I can handle it, dad.

They said the anger would come later, but the anger has not come, not for him. Silly daddy. Mum can get fucked.

So the police came in. When they had gone I asked how it all started and he said he would trust me for once, and he said, There was Helen etc, it was so teenage, really, but he insisted he would be better to me, and nothing would happen if I refused. No, mum wouldn't go to prison, but she wouldn't get custody, unless I wanted that, and I said no, and he said, You're my girl, and I thought, Yes, I am, I bloody, am, oh well.

Philoctates?

Chapter 7

Emma stood over her husband.  Her blouse was still unbuttoned.  Her bra was twisted downwards beneath her breasts.  Jones had frantically unwrapped her like a present on Christmas morning.  Her knickers were scrunched into her right hand.  She was breathless but was breathing heavily through a huge grin.  He was breathing heavily too.  It was surprising how much blood he’d lost from what seemed an innocuous wound just minutes earlier.  She thought it was typical that he couldn’t even injure himself and die with any dignity.  Clearly still alive and conscious his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.  She straddled him and dropped her weight onto his chest.  He gasped as if winded and then shuddered.  It was similar to the ejaculatory shudder she’d just witnessed from William Jones. 

 

She leaned towards him.  Her elbows resting by his ears.  Nose to nose.  A twisted re-enactment of the intimacy they had shared decades previously.  Her breasts rested on his chest.  It certainly wasn’t the first time, although it had been many years since they were so physically close.  She had never felt so powerfully in control though.  She licked her lips.  She was close enough to lick his but could think of nothing more repellent; “My Goodness.  You wouldn’t believe the things that man can do with his cock.  His tongue too for that matter.  Never really one of your areas of expertise was it”.  She smiled and looked at him.  Really looked at him.  It had been a long time since she’d done that.  She sat up, adjusted her bra and began to button her blouse.

Jones, fastening his trousers, walked past her to the bay window at the front of the house; “They’re just parking”.  He walked to the front door, opened it and returned to Emma and her increasingly pale husband.  Jones couldn’t understand why he had been so passive.  He’d acted on a desire to fuck her but, once she’d arrived, not felt any need to help the man or give the appearance of wanting to.  Ten minutes ago it seemed like a minor injury but now it was clear this guy was seriously fucked.  He dropped to the sofa.  Whatever happened it wouldn’t impact on him.  Apart from being late for work.

Emma stood, shoved her knickers into her pocket, and turned to the door as the paramedics raced in.  “Oh, thank you for getting here so quickly”.  They seemed to have little interest in her and knelt by her husband and began work.  It was no mystery.  There was a lot of blood and it was very clearly coming from his foot. 

She sat next to Jones.  As she arrived at the house she had been listing to Matt Monro singing ‘On days like these’.  On days like these I wonder what became of you.  She truly had loved him once.  Or the idea of him.  Or the person she thought he was.  Unfortunately, she had consistently failed to add new information to her initial impression of him until it became realistic.  When it was too late she suddenly found that all of his once charming characteristics had come to be those that she loathed.  Even before Jessica was born it was apparent that they were two people uniquely ill suited to being in a relationship with each other.  Motherhood hadn’t rescued her.  Being a parent to an increasingly insightful and indifferent child was lonely and boring.  For too many years life had been grim, miserable and boring.  Boring is what it is looking at a small child all day.  She was powerless to escape him.  People refer to relationships fizzling out.  This one hadn’t.  It had become malignant and eaten its way through all three of them.  It was annoying that he had brought about its end by fucking someone younger than most of his wardrobe.

She pondered on a life with Jones who, from previous contact, she knew to be the antithesis of her husband.  Alternatively, she could use him for extensive fucking sessions.  Perhaps the sex wouldn’t be the same if it didn’t have to completed before the arrival of the emergency services.  She had no interest in becoming emotionally close to him because that may lead to a repetition of mistakes that led to the end of the marriage.       

The paramedics seemed to be increasingly anxious.  She’d imagined they’d load him in the ambulance and be on their way but his newly discovered talent for bleeding was presenting them with something of a challenge.  She turned to Jones; “He was a pleaser.  He wanted everybody to admire and adore him and say how wonderful he was.  He went to great lengths to get that but you could not criticise him in any way.  He’s got some serious, serious issues and problems that he keeps so far under wraps.  I think that’s his way of suppressing it all is by seeking approval and adulation.  He used to say ‘There’s you, my mum and Jessica and you’re the only women who’re worth anything’.  That was how he viewed the world; You’re either a worthy person or you’re absolute shit.  Wrongly he viewed himself as a wonderful person full of insight, philosophy and poetic references but in reality he was a shit full of wankery and bits of information he’d picked up from five minutes of listening to Radio4.  The girl he fucked was clearly a younger, female version of himself.  Fucked him in a moment of boredom and moved on.  We would have bumbled along for a couple more years probably both fairly miserably.  It all seems to have left me feeling very empty, emotionally empty.  It’s been so long since I’ve felt like I’m me.  I’ve felt so defined by him”.  She stopped.  She stopped because the two paramedics had also stopped.  They were listening to her.  They normally saw a little more concern, anxiety and empathy from the loved ones of the patient.     

“He doesn’t seem to be dead yet” said Jones.  “You’re referring to him in the past tense”.

Then the bleeder spoke.  Not a word since she’d left him to enjoy coitus fantasticus with Jones and suddenly he croaked “Everything that I am and everything that I have I owe to you”.  His voice sounded like he was gargling sawdust. 

The paramedics looked at Emma.

 “Oh do fuck off.  Even now you can’t just talk like a normal person”.

His face relaxed and he turned and looked at Jones; “Good luck mate.  Now that you’ve swapped spit with her you’ll never shake her off”.

Jones was stunned.  This was too weird; you’re heading to work, some wanker blocks your car in, he appears in his undies, cuts his foot to shreds, you break into a house, his ex-wife appears, you fuck her against the neighbour’s banister and then sit and watch him die while she daydreams and they exchange insults.  He shot up from the sofa, “Jesus.  Your daughter must be seriously fucked up with you two as parents”.  He headed for the door as one of the paramedics said “She must be in shock, sir.  I don’t think comments like that will help”.

He loitered for a second but was starting to panic; “Sorry, I’ve got a habit of calling a spade a spade.   If something needs to be said, it needs to be said and I don’t shy away from it but I’m only here cus I saw the guy needed help.  I’m too soft, I’m too generous.  I will willingly sacrifice my needs for the needs of others, I can’t walk past somebody in distress”.    

Emma waved her hand to usher him further out of the door, “No one needs to worry about our daughter.  She’s very old for her years, very mature and has had to deal with things little girls shouldn’t have to deal with.  It may seem bizarre but I think this’ll have a very good impact on her.  Mmm, that reminds me”.  She opened the contacts on her mobile, pressed J and Jessica’s number appeared amongst a small list.  She pressed her name.  It went straight to voicemail.  “Hello Jessica darling.  It’s 8.35 on Thursday morning.  Your father seems to be bleeding to death.  The paramedics will probably take him to The QE.  You should pop along there with some urgency”.

Chapter 6

“Emma... Can you get here now...it’s my...it’s my...just get here...”

I sat for some time, contemplating his whimpering. He was obviously in pain, he was clearly suffering. I didn't want to go, I really didn't want to go but I did go, I did go and all the way over there in the car I was beating the hell out of myself for rushing to his aid. I reasoned that it might have been cruel to Jessica if I didn't go, cruel to myself, I was a good person after all, a hurt person but none the less a good person. I smelt it before I saw it, the stench was arresting as I clicked the car door shut, I didn't need to ring the door bell, it was wide open. And then I saw him, the ponce from the pub. The one who thought he was ‘oh so much better’ than everyone else. Standing there looking like a frustrated little rat, I knew what he thought about me, I knew what he thought about everybody. It was written all over his face, what he didn't take time to consider, was what we thought about him.

“My ca...” He said

“What?” I said

“My Car, I need to mo...” he said

“Emma!” My philandering husband yelped.

“Jeysus” I saw the blood pouring across the floor. “I am Philoc...” He was delirious, crying, whimpering, and spouting some shite about Greek history. I looked at the prick who was moaning about his car. “You fucking asshole, why didn’t you call an ambulance...fuck, the smell is killing me here, open a fucking window shit head” He did it, he opened a window and then he turned and smirked at me “You and him?” I laughed “He’s my fucking husband”.

He laughed, I laughed, the whole situation seemed surreal and then something happened: shifted, moved. He had a look in his eye, a glimmer, a childish whisper of something naughty. Something entirely unthinkable and we didn’t need to talk anymore, we just both knew, that we were on the edge of something dangerous.

“Philoc...amb...Emm? Jess?...Help me...He’ hel...”

It was too late, we ran away from the stench...away from the blood and the tragedy of it all...we were upstairs and it was too late, it was too late to not take a chance, to not throw caution to the wind and all that.

I’m not that cruel though. I did call the ambulance before leading him up the stairs and just as I was about to experience a final wave of female bliss the neeenaaaaneeenaaaa of the siren belted up the road.

By Rachel

Chapter 5

I didn’t want to move here. It was Ange’s idea. The whole area’s full of sales reps and nobs with their bloody BMWs and their dinner parties. I think Ange saw it as a move up. Something on the way to fulfilling an ambition she’d probably never admitted to before.

I met her outside Gran’s house. Walking down the long, drab rows of scruffy Victorian terraced houses like a flower floating down a gutter. All long legs and cleavage, tossing her hair and smiling at me. I’d seen her before down the local on darts night but she always seemed to be with someone else.

Anyway, I should’ve known she lived locally. Turned out she rented a room in the house next door but one to Gran’s. Taken a job at Ford’s and moved in a month ago.

Two days after seeing her walking down the road, I was stood outside Gran’s house having a fag. Late afternoon in a drab street on a drab November day. Streetlights throwing regular pools of yellow and a fine drizzle giving a sheen to everything. A still, penetrating cold made my legs ache.  Mimicking my life. A drab, cold one way street to fuck all it seemed. What was I doing still standing here having a fag as I’d been doing off and on for the last eight years. School half a mile that way, work half a mile in the other.

The soft click of a door closing discreetly drew my attention and there stood Ange, lighting up. She was still wearing that minute and oh so thought provoking skirt. Must have been freezing. She glanced over and so, as much to avoid an awkward silence, I wandered over to her, not sure what to say.

Well, to cut a long story short, we hit it off.  This time on darts night, it was me strutting about like a dog with two dicks. Looking back I don’t understand how I could have failed to wonder why no one was surprised. Ange had been round the whole pub by then it seemed. I was the only one left.

Perhaps I knew this really, but didn’t want to acknowledge it. Perhaps I harboured some daft, romantic idea about ‘rescuing’ her. Whatever. She was gorgeous, incredibly sexy, tactile, warm and affectionate. I’d never known anything like it before. And we could talk somehow. Like we shared a common view of life. She understood me and I her. Or I thought I did. I don’t know if it was love or lust that pulled my feet out from under me but whatever it was, I was smitten.

We got married that following summer, pooled resources and went house hunting. I was doing well at work, in charge of the workshop now and earning good money.  I wanted a house on a new estate that had just been built a couple of miles away. But Ange hit on this bay windowed semi in suburbia and wouldn’t let it go. One of those places with a little driveway and a hedge, and net curtains that let you peek at the neighbours without them seeing, as they mowed their lawn or washed their bloody company car. There wasn’t a pub for miles around.

Anyway, we ended up buying it and I worked my bollocks off trying to pay for it. Ange took a part time job and became all full of herself. Had to have the best of everything and forever saying ‘do this’ and do that’ and ‘don’t do whatever that way, do it this way’. The sex dried up and we started to argue.  I was knackered, broke and pissed off. I don’t know what her problem was.

Next thing you know she’s up and gone with one of these bloody BMW driving nobs. A Sales Manager or something. Lived two streets away. Doubtless throwing dinner parties and thinking she’s come a long way from darts night. And she wants half the house. As it happens, poor old Gran died that year and left me her house so I was able to buy Ange out. But she did well. Earned a hundred and fifty grand for spending four years with a devoted husband.

I see her sometimes, driving around in that damn car with her nose in the air. Silly bitch.

But life hasn’t turned out too bad really. Although I think I’m going to flog this house and push off somewhere else. Somewhere a bit more real. But being single has its advantages. Sex with different women is much more interesting than sticking with one. And there’s loads of it about if you know where to look. Intimacy, sex and affection with none of the ties or costs. Highly recommended, let me tell you. And I take particular pleasure in shagging the wives of the local nobs. Most of them are at home all day, bored out of their brains and yearning for a little flattery.

I have a new life and it’s a lot more fun than the old one. And right now I’m off to work and now I get to keep al the earnings. Or I would be off to work, but one of the nobs has parked his bloody car across my driveway.  I went next door and knocked them up. Some scrawny bloke with a green face and red eyes answered. Looked like death.  Wearing nothing but socks and pink and blue striped boxer shorts. Perhaps there was more to these dinner parties than I realised.

Anyway, he disappeared back into the house to get his keys and I wandered back to my car. Next thing I know, there’s a string of verbal coming from next door and I turn to see this nob standing there, still in his socks and boxers, waving his arms in the air and standing in a pool of blood.

I walked back over to him. He was yelling something about the wrong keys and no key and God. And he was crying. And the pool of blood round his feet was getting bigger by the minute. So what was I to do? I mean, he was the enemy right? One of the nobs. And I have to admit, I was starting to find the whole thing quite funny. Basically, he’d gone back indoors, picked up the wrong set of keys and cut his foot on the way out, closing the front door behind him. So now he was stuck out in the street in his underwear with absolutely no way of being able to do anything about it. His BMW stood there so near yet so far, like an unattainable goal. Excellent.

His foot was a bit of a concern though. I didn’t want him dying on me, and anyway, I needed to get to work. So I grabbed a tea towel and a box of plasters from my kitchen, and tossed them to him, suggesting that he tie the towel around his leg to slow the bleeding. But there was still the problem of how to shift his car. Clearly, we were going to have to break into the house. Well, it’s here that I have to admit to a bit of a leery childhood. I do, as it happens, know my way round most windows. It didn’t take me long to prise one of his open and climb in, to then open the front door for him.

He was in quite a state. Limping about in his stripy kecks and socks with a tea towel tied round his leg, bawling his bloody eyes out. The first thing he did was go for his mobile and make a call. Which pissed me off because I wanted his car moved before anything else. So whilst he was yelling into his phone, I found his trousers and pulled his keys out of one of the pockets. With them came his wallet which fell open on the floor. And in that moment events took a completely new and even more interesting turn because there, in his wallet, staring up at me with those great big eyes that I knew so well, was a photo of Emma, the best local nob’s shag bunny of the lot.

By David

Chapter 4

Jessica is perched on the edge of the toilet seat, lost in the mosaic of coloured tiles before her. ‘Jessie?’

‘Just give me a minute, Saz.’

She looks around the unfamiliar bathroom. In place of the tatty poetry books and National Geographics that clutter up the same space at home, there are brightly coloured ducks, boats and pirates. Sarah doesn’t know how lucky she is having siblings. A house full of laughter instead of heavy expectation and silent resentment. Her gaze is drawn to a bedraggled princess propped up against an oversized yellow sponge and she finds herself thinking back to the countless Disney movies she watched, nestled in the crook of her father’s arm. The rainy Saturdays spent at the cinema as a child. To this day, that warm buttery smell of popcorn is the closest she ever feels to unconditional love. Only now she’s old enough to know there are no happy ever afters. In the end, the King fucks off and leaves the Queen for some 20-something whore bag. And the Queen takes her fury and disbelief out on the princess. As for Prince Charming – he’s nothing but a smarmy bastard who weaselled his way into a young girl’s pants at a crappy party. Got his fumble in the conservatory and split. It has been 37 days now and he hasn’t even called her. There’s only so long a girl can kid herself.

Then again her mum has managed a lifetime of denial. She remembers the day, leafing through their wedding photos she’d clocked the telltale empire line of her mother's ivory dress and put two and two together. ‘We would have got married one day anyway, love,’ her mum had reassured her. She looked uncertain. ‘You coming along just sped things up a bit.’ If it wasn’t for Jessica, Dad could have fucked off long ago rather than waste years pretending he loved them both more than booze. And now the hangover.

She thinks about not existing. Would it really matter if she never had? Instead of weeping into the dishwasher, her mother could have made something of herself. Taken that trip to India she always dreamed about. Met a man who knew the difference between love and intoxication.

It's terrifying, realising that the two people you’ve looked up to your whole life are nothing but massive fuck ups themselves. Everything suddenly goes from certain to… She’s dragged from this spiral of despair by the tinny tone of her mobile. Dad.

It rings off. What’s there to say? Like he ever listens anyway. Of course she wants to tell him that he’s making a fool of himself. That it’s only a matter of time before this young student with daddy issues works out what a twat he really is; that his whole ‘let’s live for the moment’ thing is an act. ‘Seize the day,’ he’ll say, while drinking himself into such a stupor he can barely face the following one. What a fucking joke of a bastard liar.

And that whole thing of old men and young girls. Beyond gross. Her friend Sal had fooled around with a 24 year old once and even that seemed a bit creepy. What could this Helen possibly hold up to her mother anyway? Apart from a perky arse and tits, maybe. The truth was her mother was a princess who’d married a frog. One so jealous of her carefree beauty and golden aura, he’d locked her away in a cage. Starved of affection, she faded away until all the frog could see was the cage. Raging at the world, he longed for his lost princess. All he had to do was open the door, his heart, but instead he drowned his self-pity in whatever was on offer at Thresher’s. Disney has a lot to answer for. A wave of nausea passes through her. She knows she should eat something. One more minute and…

The phone is ringing again. Mum. She presses the reject button. Spiteful little bitch she’d called her. How could she? When all she’d ever done was help her stick up for herself? Maybe the truth was every time she looked at her daughter she saw only what could have been. And what never would. And who could blame her? Because now Jessica knows exactly how her mum felt all those years ago. Scared and stupid and lost and alone and… She looks at the stick in her hand. So completely and utterly pregnant.

The phone. For fuck’s sake. This time she picks up:

‘Dad.’

‘……’

‘I don’t care. There’s something I need to tell you. I’m…

‘……’

‘For Christ’s sake! What do you mean you’re bleeding?’  
 

Chapter 3

By Sally

A loud thumping, banging, persistent, what the…? Where am I? Oh my head, my mouth. There are voices, raised voices, then the door crashes open. Bright light, oh my head. “Your car’s blocking Jonesy in next door, you’re going to have to move it.” I groan as I remember where I am. I try to say ‘OK, Dom’ but I think it comes out as a grunt. There’s a searing pain in my neck as I roll off the sofa in my boxers and send the empty red wine bottle skittering across the laminate floor. Oh my head! “I’m off to work.  Rach said you can’t stay” he calls. The front door slams, silence.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, the great Helen love affair. Emma didn’t believe Jessica, called her a spiteful little bitch, a trouble maker, and worse. Jessica said I told her to tell her. There was yelling, denial, Jessica stormed out crying. Now Jessica hates me, says it’s my fault that her mother hates her.

Emma didn’t believe me either when I denied it, when I said Jessica had made it up. There was a lot of shouting, doors slamming, cruel unnecessary words. We said more to one another than we’ve spoken for years but none of it is repeatable. Emma told me to leave and not come back. She threw my laptop out of the lounge window, and then my favourite CDs, then my clothes from the bedroom. Emma hates me too. 

A loud thumping, banging, persistent. Shouting at the front door. I stagger into the hall and fumble with the lock. “ ‘Ere, your bell ain’t working, move your car mate, I’m late for work. Hah, heavy night was it?” “Er, hang on a sec…” I stumble back into the living room. Where are my keys? Jeans, jacket, ah, keys. 

What’s wrong with this lock, when did front doors get so complicated! Oh it’s so bright out here. Ouch, what’s that I just stood on? Broken glass, my foot’s bleeding.

Jonesy:  “Get a move on mate.”

Blip, blip, nothing. 

The keys in my hand are not my car keys.

Slam… 

I do not have a front door key.

Oh my head.

chapter 2

by caity

I woke up in the grass. The sun was high overhead and the sky was clear. I lay looking at the vapour trails and I thought about the people in the planes;  going to places, coming home. Would they find things as they left them? Would I?

I walked through the front door, calling out as I came in. Nothing. The carpet was the same colour as when I went out. The wallpaper, the mirror, the console table with the dying roses in the big vase - nothing had changed there. I dropped my bag down and closed the door behind me placed my book on the table.  I turned square to the mirror. There I was, more faded than the roses. Grey sallow and sagging. Is this why?  I ran my hand down my throat, pulling on the crepey skin, catching on the skin tags and moles.

She was firm. No age,  so no marks of age, no loose skin. She shone, like a jubilee beacon on the hillside. I had too. We both had. We had both run and danced and sung with the dawn chorus and shouted and screamed and cried and roared with laughter and passion and…. I can barely see that woman now. The shape of her eyes, the curve of her jaw, like someone has smudged over the edges rubbing out the clarity, the precision of her lines. 

I went up the stairs. Everything was there.  The bed was made the curtains drawn. I lay down.  If it was nearer to winter I could hibernate. Draw up everything around me and hide. I slept.

I woke up in the grass.  The sun was high overhead and the sky was clear. I lay looking at the vapour trails and I thought about the people in the planes;  going to places, coming home. Would they find things as they left them? Would I?

 He was no better. I saw the resentment flash across my face.

I took two steps back. I picked up the vase. I threw it at the mirror and  was showered in a dew of glass and petals.  There were patterns now on the plain wallpaper; red and blue. I traced these down with my fingers and the red followed me down.  I sang out at the top of the mountain and the echoes started an avalanche,  I rolled and swam and the colour of the earth drew me down and I burrowed in. The flood tide took me down, rushing, crashing, breaking me into a shower of glass and petals.

I woke up in the grass. The sun was high overhead and the sky was clear. I lay looking at the vapour trails and I thought about the people in the planes;  going to places, coming home.

I lay my hand across my neck. I traced my fingers down to my breast. There were patterns red and blue that followed me down.  My hand clenched a petal, tighter  and tighter.  There was a noise from somewhere I couldn’t reach,  piercing me, cutting and cutting.

I woke up in the grass. The sun was high overhead and the sky was clear. I lay looking at the vapour trails and I thought about the people in the planes.

I thought about coming home

I thought about you

I woke up in the grass. The sun was high overhead and the sky was clear.

I traced the vapour trails with my fingers.

Red and blue they followed me down.

I closed my eyes.

Is it time I went?

Chapter 1 - Alan

           

 

            ‘It was amazing.’ He spoke without emotion, without need to impress or apologise. A soft voice in a darkened room on a wet afternoon in summer. ‘I felt seventeen. We were getting pretty tired so someone suggested a break. John had his, ‘Oh, yeah, we’ll really come back from the bar,’ face and of course one drink and it was an explosion of talk. I was sitting like this, we were all a bit giggly, we’d had almost ten hours non-stop, and I’m not even sure, you know, if I’d really noticed she was there. But I have this picture of her face: she’s looking slightly down and very serious, so I’m sitting - like this - and suddenly her hand rubs the top of my hand and she says I am Philoctetes, he was a Greek, I say, yes, I know Philoctetes, how am I like him? because Helen’s the one you’d think knew nothing about Greek tragedy. And all the time she’s rubbing my hand.  We really weren’t drunk. I’d had a pint. We walked back to the digs. The others got separated. I couldn’t say if I caught her up or she me, we were just there like it’s no-one’s choosing. There’s an everyday silence, so we kiss. What was significant was that she squeezed.  There was a park. We went into the park. It’s night, it’s quite cold and we sit on a bench like we’re seventeen and put our noses together and stare into our eyes by a streetlamp. Time stops. Eventually I say, ‘I’d like us to go to bed,’ and she says, ‘I’m not sure,’  - still with the eyes - then, quiet, ‘It’d be lovely.’ I feel her fingers on my cheek, her other hand rests on my thigh and that’s the moment because I imagine her touching me everywhere and me touching her, so that’s the moment I know we’ll take the plunge. And it was wonderful. I’m forty two. I’m alone when I wake, there’s sunshine behind the curtains, it’s a new world. She comes into the room fully-dressed, which again is not what you’d think, I mean, organised, ready, and she smiles and jumps on me. There’s no time but as we’re setting up later she catches me and I know her expression is saying ‘How long to go?’ I want to giggle. I feel seventeen. When I get home Emma speaks to me in the World-Before-Helen and it’s going to be really hard. Jessica didn’t even say hello at breakfast.

          ‘I had a revelation.  You’re at home with this great love thing going on and you pretend there’s nothing - and the lies, my god.... Also, you look at someone at work and wonder, ‘Would you tell Emma?’  Then I had my revelation. I’d always accepted men were the bad guys: we did what we wanted while the girls got on with the drudgery, they were the ones that empathised etc etc, and then, when I was pissed off about some little thing I suddenly realised that Emma’s sense of duty was actually a failure of feeling. It wasn’t my fault. It’s perverse to worry the shirts aren’t ironed when the universe is going on all around - birds singing,  wine maturing, the city lights shining, art on the walls, lovers talking - it’s all out there and it happens even when the skirts are crumpled. You must seize it; the birds, the lights, the wine, the art - the laddettes are right after all, bugger the shirts. So I saw Jessica back to school after the holidays and said, ‘Right, I’m going, I’ve got another woman, I’m sorry,’ and she said, ‘You leave me now and you’ll never come back.’ I said, ‘You might want to ring your mum,’ and I left. Helen was with two friends, so I said, ‘I must talk to you.’ She looked put out. We went to the back and I told her. She said, ‘You’re not suggesting we move in together?’ I was flabbergasted. ‘You don’t think you’re the only one, do you?” she said. ‘You’re forty two.’ I could have killed her. But I have this picture of her face: she’s looking slightly down and very serious, so I’m sitting - like this - and suddenly her hand rubs the top of my hand. Philoctetes?’

          She uncrossed, crossed her legs. She did not notice he noticed. She was thinking. She said nothing. She nodded at him, once.