Untitled

How many punches can you roll with before you’re just a punch bag?
Is there a limit - the referee’s count of ten -
Will there be a time she won’t get up again?
Is a good sport just a nice name for a loser -
Is that the reason the men never choose her
To dance or love and move to marriage?

How many times can she shrug it off laughing before becoming the joke?
The set up, the gag-line, the knock-down surprise
Will there be a time the smile won’t reach her eyes?
Is there a time when this writing won’t give solace?
When this isn’t a line to a future full of promise,
It’s just sorting through the wreckage.

Valentine for Elvis

I’m going to send my Valentine to Elvis not to you
Because the King has pledged to love me tender, love me true.
You don’t have to say you love me when we are together
But this empty drudgery you create leaves me wondering whether
You’d notice if I walked round nude, or left for someone cuter -
I doubt you’d even look up from the game on your computer.
Until the food ran out you wouldn’t notice I’d departed
And this casual negligence leaves me cold, I’m broken hearted.
All I’m asking from you is you try, you treat me nice
If you could even notice that I’m here it would suffice
At this point I’d consider it a romantic manoeuvre
If you could pick up washing from the floor, and maybe hoover.
I’m lonesome tonight, every night you ditch me for your friends
And these days it’s just habit you don’t try to make amends.
If you want to have your freedom to go on another bender
Pack a bag and go back to your folks; return to sender.
It seems I’ve let myself accept this crap for far too long
The only romance in my day is from an Elvis song.
The King, he promises to love me tender, love me true
So I’m going to send my Valentine to Elvis, not to you.

Valentine for Elvis

I’m going to send my Valentine to Elvis not to you
Because the King has pledged to love me tender, love me true.
You don’t have to say you love me when we are together
But this empty drudgery you create leaves me wondering whether
You’d notice if I walked round nude, or left for someone cuter -
I doubt you’d even look up from the game on your computer.
Until the food ran out you wouldn’t notice I’d departed
And this casual negligence leaves me cold, I’m broken hearted.
All I’m asking from you is you try, you treat me nice
If you could even notice that I’m here it would suffice
At this point I’d consider it a romantic manoeuvre
If you could pick up washing from the floor, and maybe hoover.
It seems I’ve let myself accept this crap for far too long
Because the only romance in my day is from an Elvis song.
The King, he promises to love me tender, love me true
So I’m going to send my Valentine to Elvis, not to you.

Untitled Take Two

She blamed Facebook.

The twisted body was prone on the library floor; a woman in a red gown, beautiful until you saw the raw angry welt at her throat, a delicate scarf made brutal by the tight knot it made around her neck.

“Thirtieth birthday celebrations really are getting out of hand,” muttered Cath, thinking of her own celebrations over an intimate dinner as she watched people crowd around the body. Friends and strangers alike, she felt cut off from them all. It was all because of that site; people you thought you’d left far behind catching you up. She’d tried to ignore the invitation to this murder mystery weekend from her old classmate, but Louise had been persistent. They’d all studied at university together and it was a small class of six. Her absence would have felt like an admission, proof that she was never really one of them and had acquiesced to the place they’d given her.

Cath had been on the outside at university, the girl from the comprehensive in a class of private school educated privilege. She had felt that familiar cold ache as she watched them ascend the sweeping steps to the country house on her arrival, their red-soled heels flashing, sleek hair swept back with expensive sunglasses. Taking a deep breath, she’d walked inside to the grand hall, full of fresh spring flowers and other people’s laughter. She stood at the back and was one of the first to drift from the initial briefing. She’d read the notes the organisers had provided and already knew who the murderer would be. As her colleagues at the library joked, she’d read enough murder mysteries to set up a detective agency and the game didn’t pose a challenge to her.

Cath changed quickly for dinner, having planned to take a walk round the grounds before the meal. Just as she was heading out of the grand reception, she heard the voices of her former classmates. Louise was at the centre, flanked by Sarah, Lorna and Andy. They were all facing Stu, who had been as unpopular in the class as her in those earlier days. Socially he was their equal, but he showed a brilliance and passion for his studies that pushed him onto the fringes of the group. Cath had thought that she and Stu would have made natural allies and she would lie on the thin mattress of her narrow bed in the student halls thinking about him. In her mind she played it over many times, how he would kiss her - gentle at first and then with more passion as his dark brown eyes sparked amber and they explored each other, found each other in the midst of an isolation that came from being surrounded by so many people.

“Stuart, oh, I mean, I’m sorry Dr Morris,” she heard Louise say as she ostentatiously looked at her programme. Cath stopped and turned. Stuart was saying something quietly that she couldn’t hear, but his expressive face gave him away. In a louder voice she heard him say,

“So Miss Louise, if you have any questions, I will be happy to help you. It is a terrible business and I am desperately heartbroken at the death of my fiancé this afternoon. I long to see the killer brought to justice, so I will help any way I can. If you will excuse me, the shock is still…” He walked away quickly, not allowing her the chance to reply.

Cath walked out to the garden, Louise’s voice echoing across reception as she told them all how she’d found this weekend through an advertisement on Facebook; the promotion had included a photo of Stuart in character. She revelled in telling them how she thought it would be just perfect for them all to be there to show Mr High-and-Mighty just who was the real success from the class. Louise had been the queen bee and at the heart of the social scene at university, but Stuart drew the attention of tutors and students alike without trying and remained indifferent to her. If she’d found out that his acting ambitions had brought him to weekend murder mystery theatre, Cath knew that she would want to show him up, and she’d need the right audience. She was meant to be there with them for a drink before dinner and was relieved not to have been made an accomplice. That was what this reconnection was all about - Louise didn’t want to let go of the past because, Cath guessed, her games didn’t play out as well for her in the adult world they’d all graduated into.

Cath took her place at dinner and found she’d been seated with her old classmates. Not Louise, she was in the centre with her blank-faced fiancé amidst a new circle of acolytes, but all the others were there. Even a wretched Stu sat amongst them, shredding his napkin and ignoring their references to their shared past. He only ventured a comment if anyone asked about the mystery and replied defiantly in character as Dr Morris.

Sarah worked for a large recruitment firm in the City but said she was thinking of giving it all up for a life in the country.

“I want to be closer to nature, and to raise a family. All of this,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand in what appeared to be a deliberate gesture towards Louise, “seems so superficial, don’t you think?”

Lorna was a surprise; she’d followed the career into law as she’d planned, but was currently working for environmental causes. She’d lost the lacquered veneer she’d maintained at university and seemed to have opened up to the world around her. Cath discovered she’d changed a lot after she’d lost her boyfriend to Louise; they’d been together all through university and made a home together in London. When Louise moved to the city for her career, Lorna had invited her out, wanting her to feel included. She soon found herself excluded after returning home to find Louise in bed with Phil. After that childhood bubble burst, she’d immersed herself in work and it seemed to be soothing some of her anger.

Andy had been the golden boy of the group - with Stu so distant, he got the attention of all the other girls in the class - and took everything in his stride. He’d been on the rugby team and smiled through those years with a revolving door of girlfriends and constant flirting with Louise, crown prince to her queen bee. He’d moved with ease to his father’s business and a well-matched marriage. His muscular bulk remained along with his confidence, but the blond hair was fast retreating across his pale forehead and he’d lost his golden promise.

She answered the questions about her own life simply; she worked in a library, lived by the sea, kept herself busy. She knew what it sounded like and was surprised to realise how little it mattered now. The wine flowed and conversation turned more to gossip – Andy and Sarah laughing over Louise’s famous black moods and epic hangovers, Lorna scarcely hiding her resentment as she typed furiously on a blackberry under the table. Only Stu remained silent; occasionally they’d return to the mystery and ask some questions that he would answer, but he didn’t offer anything of himself. Eventually, Cath excused herself. She’d had enough of these people.

She lay awake in bed, listening to the chatter from downstairs. She heard people fumble and giggle drunkenly at the door of the room next door and made out the voices - Sarah and Andy. For all of the pretence at opulence, the walls of the house were thin and she could hear everything as they entered the room. From what she heard, Sarah and Andy were as aroused by tearing strips off Louise for long held grudges and half-remembered slights as they were at tearing off each others’ clothes. For Sarah it was a chance to be noticed after years in Louise’s shadow and for Andy, Cath guessed it was just the chance. She thought of all their self satisfied talk of their marriages at dinner and tried to block out their noise. As the activity next door hit a lull, she heard Lorna talking on her mobile in the corridor.

“No, I’m fine, I mean I know it’s stupid that I even came when I hate her so much, but it’s doing me good to get some perspective. Louise has never grown up, those cheques from Daddy mean she’s never had to…No, I know it doesn’t prove anything, it’s just that what she did broke my heart, and it broke Phil completely. I don’t want her to think she broke me. I think she realises that she’s not got the same influence she used to have, and she’s trying to pull us all back into her toxic world. I’d almost feel sorry for her, but the sight of her smug fucking face makes me want to…”

Her voice faded as she passed beyond Cath’s door.

Cath rose early for breakfast the next day and had already decided not to stay on much longer; she’d done what she came to do and it had always been part of her plan to slip away early. Returning to her room she saw Andy and Sarah walking fast along the corridor, both in dark glasses and speaking in low urgent voices before retreating to their own separate rooms. She heard Sarah crying as she saw Lorna walking through the gardens talking on her mobile and laughing in the weak early morning spring sunshine. At breakfast, Cath noticed Stu displayed none of last night’s hostility as he chatted to another table of people who were feverishly writing notes and laughing.

A scream sliced through the gentle buzz around the room, followed at once by laughter. People moved towards the noise and found Sarah and another girl in the library, standing over the twisted body of Louise prone on the library floor, her designer gown fanned about her body, beautiful before you saw the angry red welt at her neck, a delicate scarf made brutal by the tight knot it made around her neck.

“Typical Lou, has to be the centre of the action,” said Sarah as Lorna met her in the doorway.

“I didn’t think we were supposed to be part of the action, just solving it. Obviously Daddy’s money can help bend the rules here too.”

Everyone drifted away from the scene, checking their event notes and seeking out the actors for answers. They’d been told at the beginning of the weekend not to linger at the body, but to let the actor leave discreetly and return to the scene of the crime later to look for clues. Cath overheard someone say,

“She’s probably only done it so she can skip today, go to the spa and look better than the rest of us this evening. Clever Louise.”

Cath noticed the actors were all standing apart, not mingling with the guests as they were supposed to, and then the manager came running.

“Oh my God, call the police. What do we…Ah…Erm… Everyone stay where you are and don’t touch anything. There’s been a murder!”

The group laughed as his voice cracked and it was only after they saw the police cars pull up in front of the hotel that anyone took it seriously.

All the guests were herded into the breakfast room and taken one by one to speak to a grim-faced Inspector who did nothing to hide his disdain for the whole event. When interviewed, Cath told them what she could, but knew nothing that could help – Louise was nothing more than a snapshot in her past. She mentioned seeing all her classmates out so early in the morning, but explained to the policeman that it seemed unlikely to have any significance; the whole thing didn’t seem quite real.

“That’s the problem with things like this, Miss Everett. It’s like the telly, people think it’s all a game, but that young girl is not getting up from this game any time soon.” He’d taken her contact details and she was dismissed.

She was bumping her suitcase down the broad staircase to reception when she saw two policemen escorting Stuart away in handcuffs. The sight of him so vulnerable pierced her heart and she cried out,

“Wait! No! I mean, I went to university with him. What’s going on?”

A crowd had gathered by the time Cath had reached the bottom of the stairs and the policeman said,

“I’m sorry Miss, er, Miss. But we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. We have evidence that this man was involved in the murder of Louise Clarkson, and we’re taking him to the station for further questioning.”

“Of course you have evidence. He’s the murderer.”

“Well, we can’t comment –“

“No, I mean, he’s the murderer in this mystery weekend. Dr Morris strangles his fiancé in a jealous rage because she’s going to run off with Captain Fallon. There will be evidence all over the room; props which point to Dr Morris, not to St-“ she hesitated, her heart stuttered at his name, “Not to this man.”

As people looked once more through their notes and murmured their surprise at this new twist, the manager confirmed that this was true and offered to go through the evidence. The policemen moved Stuart into a small office as the manager walked towards the library with the Inspector.

“How did you know?” asked Sarah.

Once again, her former classmates were all there and seemed surprised she’d taken centre stage. She didn’t want their limelight and left them gossiping and jostling for interviews with the media as she checked out and walked away. She was quickly dismissed again as they fell into their old roles. So much had changed but still they were following in the wake of Louise and looking across at Stuart in the distance.

It was a long drive home and she had already booked a Travelodge to break up the journey. She always had been good at forward planning, it was why Louise used to manipulate her to research and complete the shared projects she would then take the credit for. All Louise had ever planned were the continual attempts to gain Stuart’s attention, and then to get her revenge when he ignored her. Cath still felt the chill of the plagiarism accusation that had nearly tainted her, and disgust at how close Louise had come to wrecking Stuart’s dissertation with the theft of his research. There was an investigation, but the eventual reduced mark had cost him a place to gain a PhD. Louise had claimed it was just a joke, but the smile never reached her eyes, glittering with triumph and malice.

The miles and the years fell away as she tried to settle on the thin mattress of the narrow bed. She didn’t wake when he came into the room, but opened her eyes on feeling that now familiar sensation when he kissed her - gentle at first and then with more passion as his dark brown eyes sparked amber and they explored each other as if for the first time. In the midst of isolation that comes from the emptiness of amassed online connections, they’d found each other.

“If the police are looking for another suspect, I blame Facebook,” he murmured and Cath knew that whatever else had changed, she, too, remained trapped in the place she’d been given at university and felt glad of it as she arched her back to meet his embrace. She was the girl no one ever noticed.

Short Story - Untitled

She blamed facebook. The twisted body was prone on the library floor, a woman in a red silken gown, beautiful until you saw the raw angry welt at her throat, a delicate scarf pulled brutally tight.“Thirtieth birthday celebrations really are getting ridiculous,” muttered Cath as she watched the others crowd around the body. Friends and strangers alike, she felt cut off from them all. It was all because of that site; people you thought you’d left far behind catching you up. She’d tried to ignore the invitation from her old classmate, but Louise had been persistent. Cath had fretted over what it meant if she wasn’t there. They’d all studied Latin together and it was a small class of seven, so if she’d not come it would have felt like some kind of admission, proof that she was never really one of them and had acquiesced to the place they’d given her.Louise wasn’t the first of them to turn thirty, but she was the first to invite Cath to her party. In the last couple of years she’d been witness to the escalation of the celebrations. Large dinners became catered parties and soon the evening wasn’t enough and there were fashion shows, weekends in Barcelona. Cath hadn’t gone to any of those, just witnessed it grow through the online posts and photograph albums. She’d been on the outside at university and never lost the habit in her adult life. Then, it had been her background, the girl from the comprehensive in a class of private school educated privilege; she’d been surprised that it still mattered then but it had. She felt that familiar sinking as she watched them ascend the sweeping steps to the country house, their red soled heels flashing, sleek hair swept back with expensive sunglasses. Taking a deep breath, she’d walked inside to the cool reception hall, full of fresh spring flowers and other people’s laughter, and checked herself in. The weekend was costing her a fortune. As she saw the bright chattering faces crowding around the actress who was lying still in the middle of the floor, delighting in the elegance of the murder, she’d wondered how this had ever seemed like the right idea. She was one of the first to drift from the room, hoping to move away from them all completely. She’d read the notes the organisers had provided and knew who the murderer would be, couldn’t get motivated to join in with the charade of it all. As her friends at the library where she worked joked, she’d read enough murder mysteries to set up a detective agency and the simple plot being played out left her no challenges. Cath changed quickly for dinner and planned to take a walk round the grounds before taking her place at the dining table. These weekends were meant to be about friendship and teamwork, but she didn’t want to be part of their team. She knew her manners would drive her to make polite conversation at dinner; perhaps she would drop a few suggestions to people as to who the murderer was so they could clear up the mystery quickly and get this all over with. Just as she was heading out the door towards the butterfly garden, she heard the voices of her former classmates. Louise was at the centre, flanked by Sarah, Lorna, Michelle and Andy and they were all facing Stu, who had been as unpopular as her in those earlier days. Socially, he was one of them, but he showed a brilliance and passion for his studies that pushed him onto the fringes. Cath had once thought that she and Stu would have made natural allies and would lie on the thin mattress of her narrow bed thinking about him. In her mind she played it over many times, how he would kiss her, gently at first and then with more passion as his brown eyes sparked amber and they explored each other, found each other in the midst of isolation. “Stuart, oh, I mean, I’m sorry Dr Morris,” she heard Louise say as she ostentatiously looked at her weekend programme. Cath stopped and turned, Stuart was saying something quietly that she couldn’t hear, but his face said it all. In a louder voice she heard him say,“So Miss Louise, if you have any questions, I will be happy to help you. It is a terrible, terrible business and I am of course desperately heartbroken at the death of my fiancé this afternoon. But I long to see the killer brought to justice, and so I will help any way I can. If you will excuse me, the shock is still…” he trailed off and walked away, his face flushed with something other than the grief he was claiming. Cath walked out to the garden, thinking about how Louise had probably known he would be here, it might even have been the reason she chose this murder mystery weekend for her birthday, and the reason she had wanted everyone from their class to turn up. Louise was the queen bee of the class and at the heart of the social scene at university, but it always rankled that Stuart drew the attention of tutors and students alike and never paid her any notice. If she’d found out that his acting ambitions had brought him to weekend murder mystery theatre, she would be sure to want to show him up, and she’d need the right audience. She heard Louise laugh and knew it had been planned. She was meant to be there with them for a drink before dinner and was relieved not to have been made an accomplice.She took her place at the dinner table and found she’d been seated with nearly all her old classmates. Not Louise, she was seated in the centre with her fiancé at her side amidst a new circle of glamorous acolytes, but all the others were there. Even a miserable looking Stu sat amongst them, shredding his napkin and ignoring their trips down memory lane. He only ventured a comment if anyone asked about the mystery and replied defiantly as Dr Morris. Cath found out that Michelle had followed a career into teaching as she’d planned, married a teacher and now lived with him and their three children in the grounds of the private school she’d attended as a child.“Of course, I’ll go back to work eventually, but at the moment I think it’s so important for the children to have their mother at home,” she said as Cath thought of her own mother, working double shifts at Asda to help pay for her daughter’s university education, for the chance to meet people like this. Sarah worked for a large recruitment firm in the City, said she was thinking of giving it all up for a life in the country; she and her husband were currently looking at houses in Sussex where he could still easily commute to London. “I want to be closer to nature, and to raise a family. All of this,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand across the dining room to rest at Louise’s table in the centre, “seems so superficial, don’t you think? Cath, you are so lucky you never moved to the city.” As if she’d had any choice other than returning home after the student loans crippled her, Cath thought.Lorna was a surprise; she’d followed the career into law as she’d planned, but was currently working for environmental causes. She’d lost the lacquered veneer she’d maintained at university and seemed to have opened to the world around her. Cath discovered she’d changed a lot after she’d lost her boyfriend to Louise; they’d been together all through university and made a home together in London. When Louise moved to the city for her career, Lorna had invited her out, wanted her to feel included, and soon found herself excluded after returning home to find Louise in bed with Phil and all her friends telling her it was for the best. After that childhood bubble burst, she’d poured herself into work and it seemed that her current role was soothing her anger. Andy had been the golden boy of the group - with Stu so distant he got the attention of all the girls in the class - and took it all in his golden haired stride. He’d been in the university rugby team and smiled through those years with a revolving door of girlfriends. Now, his muscular bulk remained along with his confidence, but his blond hair was fast retreating across his pale forehead and he’d lost his golden promise. She answered the questions about her own life simply; she worked in a library, lived in a cottage by the sea, kept herself busy. She knew what she sounded like. The wine flowed and conversation turned more to gossip – Louise’s bitchy comments about Michelle’s weight, Andy and Sarah laughing over Louise’s famous black moods and epic hangovers, Lorna scarcely hiding her hatred as she typed furiously on her blackberry under the table. Only Stu remained silent; every once in a while they’d return to the mystery and ask some questions, but he didn’t participate or offer news about where he’d been for the last ten years. Eventually, Cath said she was tired and excused herself. She’d had enough of these people; her curiosity sated at how they’d turned out, she realised she didn’t regret any of her decisions about her own life, and didn’t regret not being part of their clique all those years ago. She lay awake in bed, listening to the chatter from downstairs. She didn’t belong here and didn’t want to; even those feelings of longing and regret for Stuart had gone. It was a good thing she’d come, after all, she thought as she heard someone fumble and giggle drunkenly at the door of the room next door. She made out the voices - Sarah and Andy - whispering and giggling like teenagers. For all of its pretence at opulence, the walls of the house were thin and she could hear everything. Sarah and Andy tore strips off Louise even as they tore at their own clothes; for Sarah it was a chance to be noticed after years in Louise’s shadow and for Andy, Cath guessed it was just the chance. She heard Lorna and Michelle talk as they walked along the corridor. “Thanks for sharing with me Lorna. I really couldn’t afford this weekend, but Louise was so insistent and I never would have managed it otherwise. I love Tom and I’m happy, but with three kids… Louise doesn’t seem to realise.”“Louise never will, ‘Shell. She’s never had to grow up, the regular cheques from Daddy mean she’s never had to count the cost of anything.”“I know it must have been difficult for you to come, I mean after Phil…”“That’s exactly why I came. What she did broke my heart, and it broke Phil completely. I see him a bit now and he’s never really recovered from her dropping him. I don’t want her to think she broke me.”“And this whole thing is so stupid, so expensive, it makes me want to…” their voices trailed off as they passed Cath’s door. Cath rose early the next day, there was a yoga class at the fitness centre and she felt she needed something to calm her, to get through the day. She’d already decided not to stay on for the party; she’d done what she came to do and so she’d stay for the rest of the day and slip away early in the evening. Coming back from the class she saw Andy and Sarah walking fast along the corridor, both in dark glasses despite the gloom of the morning, and retreat to their own separate rooms. She saw Lorna and Michelle walking through the gardens laughing in the weak early morning spring sunshine. At breakfast, Cath saw Stu talking to another table of people, who were feverishly writing notes and laughing as they walked towards the library. A scream pierced the gentle buzz around the room, followed at once by laughter. People moved towards the noise and found Sarah and another girl in the library, standing over the twisted body of Louise prone on the library floor, her designer gown fanned about her body, beautiful before you saw the angry red welt at her neck. “Typical Lou, has to be the centre of the action,” said Sarah as she walked away. Lorna met her as she was leaving the room.“I didn’t think we were supposed to be part of the action, just solving it. Obviously Daddy’s money can help bend the rules here too.”Everyone drifted away from the scene, checking their event notes and seeking out the actors who held all the answers. They’d been told at the beginning of the weekend not to linger at the body, but to let the actor leave discreetly and return to the scene of the crime later to look for clues. Cath overheard Louise’s sister say, “She’s probably only done it so she can skip today and go to the spa so that she looks better than the rest of us this evening. Clever Lou.”Cath noticed the actors were all standing apart, not mingling with the guests as they were supposed to, and then the manager came running.“Oh my God, call the police. What do we, ah, everyone stay where you are and don’t touch anything. There’s been a murder.”The group laughed, and it was only much later as they saw the police cars pull up in front of the hotel that anyone took it seriously.All the guests were herded into the breakfast room and taken one by one to the manager’s office to speak to a grim-faced policeman who did nothing to hide his distain for the whole event. When Cath had been interviewed, she told them what she could, but knew nothing she said would be able to help. She mentioned seeing all her classmates out so early in the morning, but explained to the policeman that it seemed unlikely to have any significance; the whole thing didn’t seem real.“That’s the problem with things like this, Miss Everett. It’s like the telly, people think it’s all a game, but that young girl is not getting up from this game any time soon.”He’d taken her contact details, said he would be in touch and with that she was dismissed. She was bumping her wheeled suitcase down the broad staircase to reception when she saw two policemen escorting Stuart away in handcuffs. The sight of him so vulnerable pierced her heart and she cried out,“Wait! No! I mean, I went to university with him. What’s going on?”A crowd had gathered by the time Cath had reached the bottom of the stairs and the policeman said,“I’m sorry Miss, er, Miss. But we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. We have evidence that this man was involved in the murder of Louise Clarkson, and we’re taking him to the station for further questioning.”“Of course you do. He’s the murderer.”“Well, we can’t comment –““No, I mean, he’s the murderer in this mystery weekend. Dr Morris strangles his fiancé in a jealous rage because she’s going to run off with Captain Fallon. There will be evidence all over the room, props which point to Dr Morris.”As people looked once more through their notes and murmured their surprise at this new twist, the manager confirmed that this was the case and said that he would be happy to go through the evidence the police had to see if it was the planted props. The policemen moved Stuart into a small office as the manager walked towards the library with the Inspector. “How did you know?” asked Michelle.“I don’t know. I read a lot of mysteries, it seemed obvious to me.”“You always were the clever one, Cath. Do you know who did Lou in too?” laughed Andy and she moved away before he could put his arm around her. She left them talking as she checked out and walked to her car, dismissed again as they continued to follow the drama of Louise and look across at Stuart in the distance.It was a long drive home and even with the radio playing at full volume and the windows down so that cold air rushed in, she knew she was too tired from the weekend and would have to stop. She pulled in to a Travelodge and tried not to look at the cost as she handed over her card and punched in the PIN. The miles and the years fell away as she tried to settle on the thin mattress of the narrow bed. She woke when he kissed her, gently at first and then with more passion as his brown eyes sparked amber and they explored each other, found each other in the midst of isolation.

Ex

Wow, hello, I haven't seen you for
Ages could pass and I wouldn't miss
You look really well, how are you
Doing the dirty on any other girls lately?

You got that job in the end? Great I was
Wondering how I ever thought you were
Attractive shirt that you're
Wearing my patience with your presence.

Me? Oh I'm fine and glad we're still
Friends don't irritate me like
This has been greaat; phone me when you're in town
Next part of you that touches my body I keep.

Call it a day

A banged elbow
Hair caught in a car door
Chipped cup of lukewarm oversweet tea
Morning.
I take this lipstick-toothed lack of grace as a warning.

A bar cupboard
No good books in the house
Murder She Wrote I've seen before on TV
Afternoon.
I hope this stuttering segment of time will end soon.

An early closing
All my friends in couples
Ladder in my tights broken heel frayed hem
Evening.
I somersault smiles and count cracks in the ceiling.

A prickly heat
Can't sleep for trying
Saccharine song looping from next door again
Night.
I breathe dust and cobwebs and turn out the light.

The girl who never knew

“You’re the girl who never knew,” she said as she scoured the woods for more fallen sticks to throw off the bridge. She’d never played the game before and I was glad that she hadn’t moved so far on from her childhood just yet. As she examined the available fallen twigs for their winning potential, she’d asked about the locked shed at the end of the courtyard to my new flat. The door was old and rusted, but there was a new padlock on it, robust and certain. The landlords were clear that they didn’t have a key and didn’t know what it contained. The way they said it hadn’t invited further questions and I hadn’t pursued it, hadn’t thought about it since the day of signing the interminable papers to get into my new home.

The weak spring sun shone like a runner straining for the finishing line as we walked on through the park and she told wild tales of doorways to dead bodies and vampire cities underground. She was captivated by the possibility of adventure that was locked behind the door that was a part of my home I’d barely registered.

“I think I’d rather be the girl who never knew if that’s what’s behind it,” I said, trying to get her mind on lighter matters. I was glad that this strange quirk at my flat and my own apathy had combined to fire her imagination, but all her stories lead to the death of a father ever since her own had left with a woman ten years my sister’s junior.

“I like to be the girl who never knew, anyway. It’s better not to know and then we can imagine whatever we want. It’s better to believe in magic.”
“I don’t think Steve believed in magic, did he?” she asked, quickly adding as I looked away at the mention of my own equally errant former partner, “But that’s why you’re not a proper grown up and a cool auntie” Her smile seemed apologetic as she moved on to ask about last night’s episode of Dr Who. I seized on the opportunity to change the subject; like her I preferred fabricated monsters to my personal demons. My fresh start was fast turning stagnant for me and any thoughts of the past soured the air further. By the time she’d run out of stories to tell, the sun was starting to lose its battle against the grasping chill of winter.

Later I thought about what my niece said and I realised the wisdom in her words; with the clearheaded perception only a child can offer, she’d caught me out. I hadn’t concocted my own magical opportunity from the situation as I would have done once, or bashed the padlock with a wrench to see what was inside as Steve would have done. I probed my feelings like a loose tooth and was surprised to find that one exposed less of a nerve than I’d expected.

The phrase haunted me that evening; how she’d said so brightly “You’re like a girl in a story.” I turned it over in my mind as I straightened the minor disturbance to my little world that the family visit had created. I chewed on it with my dinner, kept returning to it when I was trying to lose myself in a film on TV. I’d seen it before, some second rate Stephen King adaptation that didn’t scare me and it was all too easy to tune out from it and let my niece’s words keep repeating like an intrusive ringtone.

I had to find the key.

I was still getting used to the new flat, there were more cupboards and drawers than I needed and I still kept forgetting where I’d put things. I worked my way through the small flat and came up empty. I stopped after pulling everything out from under the kitchen sink, and finding nothing but three almost empty bottles of bleach and a startled spider. I shut the door rather than deal with it; the girl who didn’t want to know.

I almost gave up the search. I’d looked back through all the paperwork from my tenancy agreement: just as I’d remembered from the day I moved in, the shed was listed as part of the property, but listed as locked and absent of a key as if it was a feature. It was presented in such a matter of fact way, as if no one would ever ask for it, ask what was held inside. From where I sat in my silent flat, it hardly mattered whether it was filled with discarded and cobwebbed implements or was the gateway to adventure my niece believed it to be. Realising I was just putting off going to bed by letting these thoughts race through my mind; I sent an email to the letting agents on the off chance that they had a key they’d missed, and then another to my niece asking her to write me a story with her usual flourished illustrations as to what she believed lay behind the door.

I went to bed and although her voice – that phrase - punctured my dreams I’d got used to sleeplessness long before that evening. I’d gone beyond weeping over it, and tried to let the cold ache of my emptied heart rest. Although the place was still new enough to me to seem unfamiliar and unfriendly in the dark I closed my eyes and tried the deep breathing my doctor had suggested when I’d begged him for pills. The clock said four am when I finally gave up and went to make myself a drink. As on all my sleepless nights, exhaustion hit my limbs as soon as I left my bed, but I knew the tension would return if I went back to bed. I flicked on the kettle and dropped a camomile tea bag in a mug. I hated it - it tasted like lawn clippings to me - but I kept hoping it would brew up the serenity promised on the box.

I waited for the kettle to boil; my eyes were hot with insomnia and I struggled to get them into focus, scalding my hand as I missed the mug and poured the water on my hand. I ran it under the cold tap, cursing my continual bad luck. As I stood at the sink, letting my hand be numbed by the cold water, I saw it. A key, hanging from the window, too large for the lock on the frame and new like the padlock on the shed. It seemed to glisten in the blue light of early dawn, and brought my eyes into complete focus. I took it down and it felt cool in my hand, soothing the angry raw burn and quieting that voice in my head, repeating over and over on an infernal loop.
I knew it was ridiculous to be so excited about finding a lost key, but holding it in my hand felt like I’d seized some measure of control at last. I pulled on some clothes over the large man’s t-shirt I still slept in and pushed my feet into broken-backed trainers. Despite my added layers, the fresh air slapped me awake and nearly brought me to my senses. Some part of me knew I didn’t need to do this now, but I’d never sleep until I knew what lay inside and I wasn’t yet so used to sleeplessness to recognise the moments of madness it can nurture.

I shuffled down the courtyard to the shed and put the key in the lock. As it turned, I felt a chill at the back of my neck. I thought about the film I’d half-watched earlier, how I’d laughed when the hero had talked about his hackles rising. Then the words seemed stilted, a poorly constructed stock-phrased fantasy and the hollow sound of my laughter in an otherwise empty home had frightened me more. I thought of all the dim-witted horror movie heroines I’d shouted at in frustration as they walked blind to their doom as I looked back at the sway of the curtains against the back door. The dim fluorescent light from the kitchen flickered as I pulled off the padlock and opened the door.

The first thing was the cold, not the fresh chill of the early morning, but a bone aching bitterness which drained my energy. I sat down hard on the stone flags but hardly felt the damp seep into my trousers. Needles of fear pierced my limbs and my hands shook as I leaned forward, mesmerised by the profound black emptiness that confronted me. My breathing became shallow; there was something seductive about the rich intensity of it, like the promise of bare toes on hot sand, I longed to sink into it even as my limbs shook in frigid anxiety.

I tried to clear my head as my eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the shed; shapes shifted under the stuttering light from the kitchen. That carefree afternoon with my niece was far from my mind as I inhaled a sour stench. It was a hopeless smell, sapping my strength like cheap perfume and strong cigarettes in an airless bar. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the yawning black emptiness of the shed, but my chattering teeth fought with the growing heat of nausea in my through and brought me to me senses. I patted my throbbing burnt hand on the ground, searching for the key. It had gone.

The shed was a tiny structure, but the sound of a strangled scream came from a distant darkness. The bleak aria of desolation echoed in my head, increasing to a volume which buzzed in my ears and yet not touching the still silence of the air. I kept fumbling blind for the lost key, unable to tear my gaze from the darkness inside.

I edged away like a crab, unable to stand as I landed a wild kick on the door. It banged against the frame before opening even wider, creaking on its frame as the pitched scream in my head knocked me backwards. I rolled onto my front and moved my hands to my ears in a vain attempt to block the sound. I wanted to turn away in revulsion, my whole body cried out for escape, but there was no running from this. I had to close that door, shut it out. Slowly, I dragged my eyes from the sultry horror to fix on the dying bay tree on the opposite side of the courtyard. I edged forward to gingerly push the doors closed. In my clumsy, prone efforts I lost a shoe and it caught and dragged on the door. I kept pushing, my battered trainer fell inside and I heard it squeak and scrape across the floor as I forced the door closed. I used my feet to keep the doors closed and without taking them my foot from the door I twisted and rolled onto my back. Sitting up I grasped the padlock and ignored the burning sensation in my hand to hold it tight. Working with a new brisk efficiency now I looped the padlock through the barred handles on the doors and as it clicked shut the noise abated. I felt the strength return to my limbs, soothed by the descending mist of early dawn as I stumbled back inside.


I sleep better now; they bring me the pills I’d so craved before whether I want them or not. They tell me they’re helping me, but they’re really just tiny leaden anchors that drive me deeper into my nightmares. Like the dry fallen twigs that made up that afternoon’s games I’d been thrown off a bridge, but the current has yet to carry me to the other side.

The girl who never knew

“You’re the girl who never knew,” she said as she scoured the woods for more fallen sticks to throw off the bridge. She’d never played the game before and I was surprised that at eleven she still found it fun, glad that she hadn’t moved on from her childhood just yet. As she examined the available fallen twigs for their winning potential, she’d asked about the locked shed at the end of the courtyard to my new flat. The door was old and rusted, but there was a new padlock on it, robust and certain. The landlords were clear that they didn’t have a key and didn’t know what it contained. The way they said it hadn’t invited further questions and I hadn’t pursued it, hadn’t thought about it since the day of signing the interminable papers to get away, get into my new home.
The weak spring sun shone like a runner straining for the finishing line as we walked on through the park and she told wild tales of doorways to dead bodies and vampire cities underground. She was captivated by the possibility of adventure that was locked behind that door; adventure she made it clear she thought I was foolish to ignore.
“I think I’d rather be the girl who never knew if that’s what’s behind it,” I said, trying to get her mind on lighter matters. I was glad that this strange quirk at my flat and my own apathy had combined to fire her imagination, but all her stories lead to the death of a father ever since her own had left. None of us knew how to ask her about it.
“I like to be the girl who never knew, anyway. It’s better not to know and then we can imagine whatever we want. It’s better to believe in magic.”
“I don’t think Steve believed in magic, did he?” she asked, quickly adding as I looked away, “But that’s why you’re not a proper grown up and a cool auntie” Her smile seemed apologetic as she moved on to ask about last night’s episode of Dr Who. I seized on the opportunity to change the subject; like her I preferred fabricated monsters to my personal demons. My fresh start was fast turning stagnant for me, and I worried over the day when I had to answer those hard questions and lost the shine in her eyes. By the time she’d run out of stories to tell , the sun was starting to lose its battle against the tenacious chill of winter. I took her back to my sister, who was waiting at my flat, grateful to have had the chance to enjoy a coffee and read a book in peace. She hadn’t wanted to talk about her recent divorce, either, just asked if I could help her get some rare time to herself. We were a family who all savoured our silence and took refuge in the stories of others.
After they’d gone, I thought about what my niece said, and I realised the wisdom in her words; with the clearheaded perception only a child can offer, she’d not just given me the title for a story - she’d written mine. I’d always thought that being the girl that never knew had its protections and on better days, I’ll still think there’s nothing to know. People look for a reason for the absence of love, even though the presence of it never requires the same justification. But I realise I’ve stopped asking questions; I’ve stopped believing that there are lessons to be learned. I always was the girl who never knew, but now at least I was admitting it, settling into the world as it was, not how it could be or how I wanted it.
Still the phrase haunted me, how she’d said so brightly “You’re like a girl in a story.” I turned it over in my mind as I straightened the minor disturbance to my little world that the family visit had created. I chewed on it with my dinner, kept returning to it when I was trying to lose myself in a film on TV. I’d seen it before, some second rate Stephen King adaptation that didn’t scare me and was all too easy to tune out from. My niece’s words kept returning to me and repeating like an intrusive ringtone, “You’re the girl who never knew.”
I had to find the key.
I was still getting used to the new flat, there were more cupboards and drawers than I needed and I still kept forgetting where I’d put things. I worked my way through the small flat and came up empty. I stopped after pulling everything out from under the kitchen sink, and finding nothing but three almost empty bottles of bleach and a startled spider. I shut the door rather than deal with it; the girl who didn’t want to know.
Spiders aside, I knew I had to be braver, for my niece I had to keep asking questions. If only I could find that key, open the shed and turn the discarded implements over in my hand. Then I would be a proper grown up, I’d know the truth and still let her keep her stories.
I almost gave up the search. I’d looked back through all the paperwork from my tenancy agreement and realised that there was nothing I could do. The shed was listed as part of the property, but listed as locked and absent of a key as if it was a feature. It was presented in such a matter of fact way, as if no one would ever ask for the key, ask what it held. I thought perhaps I was taking it all too seriously, I was just being oversensitive as usual. It was better to keep it as a locked door to adventure; I sent an email to the letting agents on the off chance that they had a key they’d missed, and then another to my niece asking her to write me a story with her usual flourished illustrations as to what she believed lay behind the door.
I went to bed and although her voice punctured my dreams I’d got used to sleeplessness long before today. I’d gone beyond weeping over it, and tried to let the cold ache of my emptied heart rest. Although the place was still new enough to me to seem unfamiliar and unfriendly in the dark I closed my eyes and tried the deep breathing my doctor had suggested. I tried anything that kept me off the pills he kept threatening as a solution. The clock said four am when I finally gave up and went to make myself a drink. I made some camomile tea, which I hated, it tasted like lawn clippings to me but I kept hoping it would brew up the serenity promised on the box.
As on all my sleepless night, exhaustion hit my limbs as soon as I left my bed, but I knew the tension would return if I went back to bed. I waited for the kettle to boil; my eyes were hot with insomnia and I struggled to get them into focus, scalding my hand as I missed the mug and poured the water on my hand. I ran it under the cold tap, cursing my continual bad luck. As I stood at the sink, letting my hand be numbed by the cold water, I saw it. A key, hanging from the window, too large for the lock on the frame and new like the padlock on the shed. It seemed to glisten in the blue light of early dawn, and brought my eyes into complete focus. I took it down and it felt cool in my hand, soothing the angry raw burn and quieting the voice in my head at last.
I knew it was ridiculous to be so excited about finding a lost key, but I felt like I’d seized some measure of control at last. I pulled on some clothes over the large man’s t-shirt I still slept in and pushed my feet into broken-backed trainers. Despite my added layers, the fresh air slapped me awake and nearly brought me to my senses. I had a fleeting image of myself as a child at Christmas and not the “proper grown up” I wanted to be. I didn’t need to do this now, but I’d never sleep until I knew what lay inside and I wasn’t yet so used to sleeplessness to recognise the moments of madness it can nurture.
I shuffled down the courtyard to the shed and put the key in the lock. As it turned, I felt a chill at the back of my neck. I thought about the film I’d half-watched earlier, how I’d laughed when the hero had talked about his hackles rising. Then the words seemed stilted, a poorly constructed stock-phrased fantasy and the hollow sound of my laughter in my own empty living room had frightened me more. I thought of all the dim-witted horror movie heroines I’d shouted at in frustration as they walked blind to their doom as I looked back at the sway of the curtains against the back door. The dim fluorescent light from the kitchen flickered as I pulled off the padlock and opened the door.
The first thing was the cold, not the fresh chill of the early morning, but a bone aching bitterness which drained my energy. I sat on the cold stone flags but hardly felt the damp seep into my trousers. Needles of fear pierced my limbs and my hands shook as I leaned forward, mesmerised by the profound black emptiness that confronted me. I had to know what was inside.
My eyes were still adjusting to the gloom inside the shed, shapes shifted under the stuttering light from the kitchen. A real grown up would have brought a torch, but those memories of the afternoon with my niece was far from my mind as I inhaled a sour stench. It was a hopeless smell, cheap perfume and strong cigarettes in an airless bar, a horror of an entirely different order. Thoughts of my own dating misadventures broke that early spell and my mind cleared as I strained to see through a newly descending morning mist. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the yawning black emptiness of the shed, and patted my throbbing burnt hand on the ground, searching for the key, but it had gone.
Deep inside the darkness, I could hear a the sound of a strangled scream. I remembered how years before my ex boyfriend had laughed at my fear when I’d first heard foxes mating outside the window. Then I’d stayed awake in terror as their tortured-sounding wailing had made me afraid to open the curtains as I sat with my phone gripped in my hand, waiting for him to get home. Then I couldn’t imagine a sound more chilling, but this noise was so bleak, it echoed in my head, not touching the still silence of the air. It was a supernatural sound, and in my fright I kept fumbling for the key, even though I knew now it would never be found.
I edged away like a crab, unable to stand or even turn away as I kicked the door. It banged against the frame and the pitched scream in my head knocked me backwards. I rolled onto my front, and as I moved my hands to my ears to try to block the sound I felt familiar hot tears in my eyes. I wanted to turn away in revulsion but I had to close that door, I had to shut it out. Slowly, my eyes fixed on the dying bay tree on the opposite side of the courtyard, I edged forward and slowly pushed the doors closed. I lost a shoe and it caught and dragged on the door. I kept pushing, my battered trainer fell inside and I used the other foot to hold the doors together. Without taking my foot from the door I rolled onto my back again and sat up. I grasped the padlock and ignored the burning sensation in my hand to hold it tight. At last thinking clearly, I realised I didn’t need the key to lock the shed again. Quickly, I looped the padlock round the loops in the doors and as the locked clicked shut the noise abated. I felt the strength return to my limbs and I stumbled back inside, inhaling the fresh scent of the flowers my sister had brought me and settling into the silence.
I thought of my niece and her wild tales of adventure, and of the nights I’d lain awake, tortured by my own uncertainty. Now I am the girl who knew, and I liked the child’s tales of the girl who never knew better. Like the fallen dry twigs that had made up the afternoon’s games, I’d been thrown off a bridge, but the current has yet to carry me to the other side.
Even when I gave in and let the doctor prescribe pills, I never slept in that flat.

What If

What if we’d moved from friendly flicks
To the back row of the pictures
And not the cheaper option of rented DVDs.

What if we’d let our quiet evening drinks
Fuel sweet liquor tasting kisses
And not special offer wine on our settees.

What if we’d moved together tongue-tied
In hot butterfly-anxious embrace
And not the same quick hug, bus home routine.

What if we’d let our days turn to nights and slide
A sleeping smile to humid dawn caress -
And what if I actually say what I mean.


.

Through Lines

Part One: Your Themes

An autobiography starts with the twist
Sinister carrier of chromosome sixteen
Reaching forward and back, the feeling persists
I am not welcome; double devil, unclean.
Yet the roots of my freckled and fumbling frustration
Lie not in these facts but in your expectation.

Part Two: Swan Match

I'm sorry but I won't relate for the masses
The sad tale of those cringe quiet classes
All that carrot-topped Duracell taunting
Wasn;t fun; but nor was it haunting.
Itch ugly years when the sun bullied me
Shedding my skin through a loose untucked tee
Fearing the beach and staying in shade
Are not part of my life I want relayed.
Sensitive chaps - pre-Raphaelite leaning -
See past recessive, but must find meaning
It's no cause when Im cross, that's my own volition
Am not monster or freak, or art-made-flesh Titian.
It's the first thing you notice and to my despair
You're looking at me, yet seeing my hair.

Part Three: Potential Hendrix

At home, it felt like a failure:
Can't-be-dextrous
I'm stumbling at doors, I'm failing at chores
Beaten by a bean tin

At school it seemed like a set up:
Writing runs ragged
I'm knitting in knots, I'm missing key shots
Baffled by backhand.

At college, I'm told it's like this:
Statistical stand out
I'm better in battle, I'm harder to rattle
Tenancious one in ten.

And you, I bet, can't wait to say it:
Born blessed to be backward
I'm howling at moons but writing my tunes
Accepted unasked as an artist.

My vein of though is sinister.
My mind is trapped in a mirror.
I am not clumsy nor art's new saviour

I just belong over here.

Potential Hendrix

At home, it felt like a failure:
Can’t-be-dextrous
I’m failing at chores, I’m stumbling at doors
Beaten by a bean tin.

At school, it felt like a scheme:
Writing runs ragged
I’m knitting in knots, I’m missing key shots
Baffled by backhand.

At college, I’m told it’s like this:
Statistical stand out
I’m better in battle, I’m harder to rattle
Tenacious one in ten

At the pub, it’s a familiar refrain:
I’m born with a blessing
That creative right brain, I can channel Cobain
Crash landing to creative

My vein of thought is sinister.
My mind is trapped in a mirror.
I am not clumsy, or art’s new saviour

I just belong over here.

Accidental sonnet of the swing

Toddle run stomp in a fizzy giggle burst
Through the gates. I field dreams of flight.
I know each small hand that picks me first –
Clings my strings, pumps with tiny might.
Some mums join in, aiming to achieve
Lost ribbons of twin-plaited aviation
My wire skeleton frames what they believe:
Woolly hat heads to an unseen constellation.
I only hear cries when it’s time to go home
For they’ve hitched their bright star to my wagon
They gain time and mine runs out now they’ve grown
From their shared dream; a lost magic dragon.
The salt squeak of chains tell tales on my fears
Keep me in play and betray my own tears.

Clamped

Abusive or violent behaviour
Will not be tolerated, so says the
Yellow sitting tortoise on a clank chain.

Warning it smirks, photos have been taken
Great snaps; future legal evidence.
Big words from the beak-mouthed squatter, tongue link
And jaw clamp masticate my Saturday.

Shredded like salad with the slugs left in
I call. I wait. I cry. I wait. I wait -
Whine wobble lipped at a walled up weekend.

You… and Me.

You think
The hang dog, puppy dog catalogue of looks
Miss their mark.

And you hope
Carnations, cool home crafted compilations
Light a spark

And you believe
Despatched bugs and repointed spark plugs
Make me debtor

And you feel
That you owe it to us both to write it, send it:
That letter.

I think, I hope, I believe, I feel
They don’t, they can’t, they won’t - it’s not real
Stop shuttering your eyes with that Vaseline lens
A wiped slate clean view finds me and you friends.

Accidental sonnet from a swing

They toddle run stomp in a fizzy giggle burst
Through the gates. I see their thirst for flight.
I know each small hand that picks me first –
Clings my strings, pumps with tiny might.
Some mums join in, aiming to achieve
Lost ribbons of twin-plaited aviation
My skeleton frame spins what they believe:
Woolly hat heads to an unseen constellation.
?????????????????????????????????????
They hitch their dream star to my wagon
As they grow up and gain time, mine’s run out:
A shared dream, a lost magic dragon

The salt squeak of chains forged from all these long years
Stop me from following and betray lonely tears.

As yet untitled

You think
The hang dog, puppy dog catalogue of looks
Miss their mark.

And you hope
Carnations, cool home crafted compilations
Light a spark

And you believe
Despatched bugs and repointed spark plugs
Make me debtor

And you feel
That you owe it to us both to write it, send it:
That letter.

I think, I hope, I believe, I feel
They don’t, they can’t, they won’t - it’s not real
Stop shuttering your eyes with that Vaseline lens
A wiped slate clean view finds me and you friends.

The Closed Door - Second Draft

“There’s a ghost in this house.”
He saw the cords in her neck rise and she gripped her mug of green tea tighter but she didn’t look round, wouldn’t acknowledge him. He wanted to say more but felt stifled by her silence, exiled by her refusal to accept the horror of the presence that filled their home and had done every night since... The air was dry with central heating left on all day, but it was still spiked with a bone aching cold which aged them both, withered from the inside out. When they moved or spoke they stirred the air and the pall fell on them like snowflakes which slip through layers of scarves and jumpers to hit the back of your neck. It was impossible to insulate against those shards of ice in the atmosphere.
Last year had been so different; New Year’s Eve and the house had been filled with the relaxed chatter and laughter of friends. He remembers kissing her as distant bells chimed midnight, her chestnut hair shining in the twinkling fairy lights. She’d tasted of champagne, filling his senses with the sweet vanilla of her perfume and the happiness they’d believed was cemented into the bricks of their home. They’d flung the front door wide and led their friends into the street to greet their future, whooping at the stars and holding hands to share the distant fireworks. They’d smiled their own secret smile as they looked back at the open front door, the light and warmth radiating from the foundations.
This year no one came; no one invited them anywhere these days and they barred their door – themselves - against the festivities. He’d tried to usher in some happiness at first. He bought presents, wrapped them in shining paper and bright ribbon with the promise of treasure but she let them fall from her hands with a sigh. He flattened the back seat of his car to bring back a Christmas tree big enough to fill the spaces, thinking that the aroma of fresh pine would bring some life back into the house. Instead the needles dropped unscented and the lights which last year had crowned her radiance looked like cheap mockery. This ghost ate all his small gestures towards future contentment, it popped and hissed like damp logs in a fireplace while they chewed dry-mouthed on meals which turned to dust.
“I said –“ He tried again.
“I know what you said,” she replied, but still wouldn’t turn to look at him. She’d been gripping her mug for the last half an hour and her tea must be cold but still she wouldn’t let it go. He had read somewhere once that if a woman is holding anything - even something small like a mug - and she falls down the stairs, she won’t let go of it to break her fall because her instincts tell her she could be holding a baby. He can’t remember how they know, these researchers. Something about men and women having different patterns of injury, that’s how it started. Now all he remembers is that men and women can carry different scars for the same misfortune. And different symptoms for the same sickness, he thinks, unable to maintain the silence she guards so jealously.
“I think you’re being stupid, I mean, it’s not as if it’s been –“
Fury overtook him, and he stood.
“As if what? As if it’s not been that long? Don’t pretend this is okay. You won’t talk about it. You refuse to move house and all this, all this... death seeps into our walls and, and into our souls.” Slamming his whiskey glass on the table – unlike her, he wasn’t afraid of the oblivion alcohol could provide – he stalked across the hallway and up the stairs to stand by the locked door. From his pocket he pulled out the key he’d been carrying for three months, and now he realised all along he’d been counting the weeks, the days, the hours since he closed it. Tonight he returned the key to the lock.
“Simon no, it’s...” From the top of the stairs he saw her move to stand and then sink heavily back onto the sofa, defeated.
He noticed then how much had been taken from her. On that first night she hadn’t spoken at all, and even after he put the lock on the door in an attempt to put a stop to the madness, she could only ever manage scraps of a sentence. So often she trailed off as it – this ghoul, this horror - took her breath away. An insidious ghost with a stealthy grip on her heart like an unexpected love affair tears them into separate tatters. From his vantage point at the top of the stairs he sees all the things he’s missed and he sits on the top step like a child waiting for admittance, listening to the riddle and whisper of grown up secrets.
It started with the smallest things. As they sat together on warm August evenings, lights dimmed and the house grew darker, filled with shadows and shapes. The change was so small he had thought it was just the change of the season or his imagination picking up the noises of the house settling at night. It was an alarm clock ringing in an empty room or a discarded sweet wrapper unfurling untouched on a table; eerie but not a cause for concern. He changed bulbs, checked fuses, cleaned lampshades and windows. None of it brought the light back. When he tried to talk about it with her, offering solutions like desperate gifts, he’d see the shadows darken her once clear green eyes and knew she could not stop it and would not help. He once moved all the furniture to banish the dark corners where the shadows grew, but everything was moved back.
He can’t remember when he locked the room, or what had at last prompted him to do it. Was it because she always turned her face to it when she walked past? Was it the hours he knew she spent in there when he was at work - when she was meant to be - her perfume lingering like an eager witness, telling tales on her muted hours. Or perhaps it was when he saw it start to creep through the house room by room, nesting in corners like a family of breeding spiders. That face, open mouthed and grinning as a shadow from behind a lamp shade, dark spots reflected on the flat screen TV that was rarely switched off anymore, though even more rarely watched. From where he sits now, it’s hard to know what he was thinking then; all he has is the remembrance of a forlorn hope that closing the door on this room would make it stop.
Nothing made it stop.
He put lights blazing in every room to banish the horrors, shivering through sleepless nights and the long wait until morning while she would sit wide eyed, enchanted. He’d go to work exhausted but still desperate to leave, eyes hot with insomnia and jaw wired tight. She would linger in bed, tell him she was working from home but he knew it wasn’t true. It wasn’t anything he could talk about; not to the people at work or people they knew, which is all friends had become. How could he say, amidst jokes and conversation on the latest petrol prices and holiday plans; “My house is haunted.” Or articulate his most complete and sweat-drenched fear amongst the gossip of affairs and debated lunch venues; “I am losing my wife to a ghost.” Though he thinks these things often, these are not words to be spoken aloud. They are not words anyone can say in the real world, where ghosts can only walk through stories, not the bricks and mortar of a home, the blood and beat of a heart.
He thinks back again to last year. He’d drunk too much that night and she’d laughed at his groaning hangover the next day.
“Behold the great husband and protector,” she laughed as she drew the curtains and he shrank under the duvet, away from the light that in this moment he cannot believe he ever hid from, “My greatest love and happiness, this wondrous life I chose.” She used to be so full of words, always had the right thing to say to coax him from a hangover or flatter her way out of his bad moods. Later that day he’d been shored up by bacon sandwiches and was watching a film when she said,
“It was a wonderful party, love. And I meant what I said this morning. You are my greatest love and happiness. Even today,” she added laughing, “All I want is here with you.” She’d leaned back on the sofa to better take in the room and put her feet on his lap. And he has to concede that it’s still true that all she wants is here in this house but she sits upright, stoic and straight backed to cut him out of the picture. There’s no room for him now that she has been seduced by the kiss and whisper of the dark shadows. The black horrors that creak through the house make him want to scream and yet to her they sound like a lullaby.
He sits at the top of the stairs, turning the key over in his hands and remembers when he first locked it. It was the first time she’d left the house in a month, reluctant and resigned to heartbreak like a new mother leaving an infant at a crèche. Fitting the lock he’d been an intruder, afraid to look around or stir up the cloud of shadows he knew lived inside. Now he wonders how he ever thought this silhouette of grief could be kept out with a wooden door or controlled by holding the key. When she came home and saw what he’d done, she had spoken to him for the first time in weeks and his heart soared unchecked at the rare acknowledgement even as his mind registered her sentiment.
“I will try to forgive you for this because you don’t know what you’re doing. I will try.” That night she never moved from her sentry at the locked door and the shadows crept past her while she murmured her own soft music. She never mentioned it again and rarely spoke of anything at all, robbing him of any chance of victory. Every time she walked past she would touch the door and smile that same secret smile share and he would know that he wasn’t yet forgiven. Perhaps she was no longer trying.
And with that thought all his carefully held defiance shatters and he stands, gripping the key in his hand.
“You win. I’ll open the door. You can have your ghost; you can sit here in darkness and silence. Keep your horrors if you must have them. I can’t keep… keep locking doors and turning on lights.”
She appears at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at him.
“It’s not about the door. You know that. Open or closed, it’s in us – it’s in me – and I know what you think but this… this is a form of love too, and I can’t just stop.”
“Love? This isn’t love. It’s sickness, it’s hysteria. I can’t...” and for once it is his breath that is stolen with the realisation of what he has to say. The seductive dark shadows have her, and she will not protest, wherever they take her. She wants this black dead world, and she does not want him intruding in it with his man made locks and lights.
“I can’t be the husband and protector. I can’t stay here, can’t fight this. I know you’re right and it doesn’t matter now. It’s polluted our house – our home - and you invited it in.” He cannot dilute the accusation as he stands in front of the door, looking back at her.
“You invited it in.”
As he opens the door, fireworks explode through the blinds bathing his face in a sour green light and she sees him as a ghost in a room that spoke of new life. They hold their breath in the eternal second it takes him to turn on the redundant light and she stands at the bottom of the stairs watching him as he wrenches himself from the room, racing down the stairs and pushing past her to open the front door and run into the street. In the distance he hears a neighbour’s television as Big Ben chimes midnight, and he wails at the stars in bitter parody of last year’s joy. His heart screams with words he cannot say, not because they sound like fiction but because they are scars stitched raw on his black-beaten soul.
“My son. My beautiful, new born son.”
Wordless he turns back to the front door and knows she is inside. The hope creeps in that she’s waiting for him to return but she is still winded by the glimpse of the empty cot at the top of the stairs. She cowers oblivious and alone behind the open front door but at last she wept.