Ambi & Anspi and Other Stories by Lochlan Bloom by Philistine Press

ÂŠ Lochlan Bloom 2015 Edited by Frank Burton

www.philistinepress.com

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The Hole Ambi and Anspi The Green Door Thames New England Metamorphoses

The Hole You find it below the sink. The hole. It is a dark space behind the U-bend. Your life these days. You need to clear up more. The cleaning stuff has sat there untouched for months in that little cupboard. The mess in here. You're used to it now. How long ago did you lose your job? A pang of terror stabs you. You should have done better. That's why she left. The job. The mess. You, it was you that messed this up. But no, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not right, she had already gone. She left two months before you lost the job. That had nothing to do with it. You stare back at the sink. The hole. The word subterranean crawls into your mind. Where does this hole lead? There is a wind-up torch underneath the hall stairs. You try to get a good view down the hole. It goes on a long way, down into the earth. The torch is low on power and it winds with a high pitched buzz. Like an insect. Could something be living down there? It's impossible to make anything out from your angle. The torch is weak. You move the cleaning stuff out the way and pull at the MDF boards beneath the sink. Two of them come out easily but the other is wedged in tightly. You get a hammer. How did you never notice this hole before? Now that you have cleared the MDF you see it is quite extensive. The light from the kitchen leaks down the hole but still you cannot make out much detail. It is cavernous. There is a sound, a dull sound, coming from the hole, the sound of dullness. No, not so much dullness as an absence of surprises, a place where surprises can't reach you. Sharks never kill you on dry land. 6

You reach a hand down hesitantly. What are you expecting? This is the middle of the city. How big could this hole be? Cavernous. Why would you use a word like that? Creatures do not live in lairs, underneath houses, in the centre of the city. What are you imagining? You have lived here long enough - would you not have noticed something alive down there? You feel earth. Cold, wearying earth against your fingers. There is something, metal, small. It pricks you. You let out a terrified noise. Your fingers are covered in dirt, a globule of blood stands out on your index finger. Get a hold of yourself. There is nothing down there. You pull it out. It is an earring. You cannot tell if it is expensive or not. It doesn't look like the sort she wore but you can't be sure. Could it have fallen from the sink? You feel around some more but there is only cold earth. You squeeze the dirt in your hand. It feels loamy, pregnant. What sort of thing could grow down there? You try to remember her ears but nothing comes to mind, you cannot visualize anything. Is it possible for life to flourish, underground, away from the light? Does God exist in such places? You throw the earring back into the hole and put the MDF boards back in place. You will leave the hole alone in future.

Ambi and Anspi Part 1: Ambi The pregnant couple arrive at the door. We’re looking for a place to stay, they say. It’s been a long dusty day. The door starts to open but they stand waiting. The man who opens the door makes no reply. The husband squeezes his wife's shoulder in anticipation. She is seven months pregnant with their child. They are motioned inside. They are relieved. Life is full of surprises these days. Two weeks before, they left their house. It was in Badibo, far away in the mountains. The husband worked for the government there. Now his entire department had relocated to Searlo. Searlo is to the north of Badibo, much nearer the equator. It is on the coast. The couple like the brisk sea air there. It takes away the heat but they miss the smell of the dense misty forests that crowded the edges of their little garden. The building is modern. It is surrounded by beautiful gardens on a grassy hill and reflects the sea and the sky. It is not made of concrete. It is in harmony. The couple want to live there. The flat they are at is on the 10th floor. Welcome, says the man in a soft yet assured tone, please do come in. The couple move forward and introduce themselves. They ask the man his name. He does not reply. The room they stand in has very little furniture. It is painted white. This room is where I like to spend most of my time, the man says. The light fills the room marvellously in spring time. From the window the wife sees a small sailing vessel making slow headway on the shimmering sea. She is pleased. This will be their home. The husband is looking at the street below. A demonstration is taking place. The people look angry, even from this distance. The mob is enraged, thinks the husband. What is hidden in the individual you can see in the mob. As when a flexed muscle becomes visible under the skin. They’re ignorant, says the man. They look like they want blood, thinks the husband. The man leaves the room. He enters from another door. He looks suddenly

crazed. The couple feel embarrassed. He chants feverishly. Outside the crowd reaches the grounds of the building. They encircle it, lapping at the base. The husband and wife try to leave. They think this man is mad. The wife is worried. The husband feels a sense of guilt. Then an almighty rumble shakes the building. A cry weaves its way up through the window. The pregnant couple stumble to the floor. The room becomes dazzlingly white. What’s happening? the husband says to no-one. They follow the child, says their host calmly. Our child? says the woman. This is your house, counters the man. Then who are you? they ask. Below, the crowd strengthens in number around the lower building. A deep vibration travels through the structure. The mob chant. They mimic the words of the man. They are words that have been spoken only once, long ago. The building by now shakes ludicrously. I wish we were back in the south amongst the mountains, thinks the husband. The floor starts to buckle and rupture. My unborn child, thinks the woman. Glass and metal, warped, tumble away around them. They are catapulted into space. Is this a dream? Surrounded by a clutter of unblemished furniture and broken building the three free-fall, hurtling toward a painless death. The only sound that marks their descent is the ever-growing noise of the mob. At the last second the woman turns away from her husband to face the man and ask for the third and final time, Who are you? ..................... ……………. .............. A……. m……. b..... i...

Part 2: Anspi Finally, we are close! After this morning’s triumph in the valedictory hall the bells shall ring out loud. Though it may have taken us years to reach this stage now, at last, we are close to our goal. The outer chambers, where the fighting took place earlier, are now completely controlled by our forces. The giant labyrinthine corridors and halls where Anspi’s drones once worked, coordinating his organisation, perpetuating his will, are now in our hands. These offices are ours to destroy if we wish. It may seem like gloating to you, outsiders, that we should talk at such length about this victory when so much blood has been shed today but you do not realise the damage Anspi has done to our once great country. A country of which most of us, those involved in the fighting at least, can remember precious little. His power, his army, had grown to such a bloated size that for a while it seemed that Anspi was our country. Those of us who chose to rise and fight now barely recall what sunset used to look like in this city, Anspi’s city, our capital. Year upon year, we fought in the wasteland merely to gain entrance to the city gates and now, at last, not only are we inside but we have almost broken through to the inner chambers, the chambers where he now lurks. The place we hope will soon become his final resting place. His organization is broken, no longer able to hold sway across the land. Our victory today has crushed the network that delivered his orders and marshalled his troops and yet to break the inner chamber will still take wills of iron. There can be no doubt in anyone’s mind, least of all those standing here on the brink, that Anspi’s forces are strongest within these nucleonic chambers. In these past months each victory has been bloodier than the last. Yet we continue, and continue we must, for it would be impossible to turn back now. Maybe in the beginning we could have acted differently, accepted the burden of Anspi’s rule, chosen a different path, with different battles, but not now. No, now we must press on and we will succeed. True, there are dissenting voices that moan and groan, complaining about the cost, all the lives taken just in order to make sure he is crushed. The voices that yell and shout in warning, crying, you will not succeed, you can never succeed, He is

unattainable to you. But those voices have always been there and anyway, amongst the noise of the front line they are drowned out. If it truly is an impossible task would they still wheedle? It is difficult to say in all likelihood they would. Sometimes these voices are as troublesome to get rid of as Anspi himself, talking slyly in that way of theirs saying, beware, beware, conjuring up paranoia, making us doubt, but we the warriors know what is and isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t possible, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t we? True, many men may fall and it may yet take years and we do not even know the dimensions of the inner chambers or even really grasp its orders of magnitude, but our numbers are great and now that we have control of the outer chambers we can surely begin an estimate? In any case it is not these things that worry me for they have all been considered from the start, mulled over, factored in. The thing that worries me most is the talk by some men, the scouts, the shadows, those that have lived unnoticed amongst these walls for decades, innocuous chitter-chatter really, that says Anspi is no longer within the inner chambers, perhaps never was, and that all this while he has been tunnelling - knowingly letting us advance.

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Part 3: The child on the mud flats She had travelled quite some distance before she felt the first pangs of doubt. She was safe enough but, try as she might, she couldn’t stop her thoughts drifting back to the little black house and its occupant on the far side of the hill. That morning it had been yet another early start as she had made sure the house was ship-shape before she left. He would be in a foul mood when she came back. She knew she wouldn’t have the strength to handle him on her return. The chances were that he would be in a foul mood anyway because she had taken the car keys with her and thus barred him his only way of getting into town, but it had had to be done that way, she just couldn’t risk letting him drive off on his own. She had checked one last time to see that he was still asleep and then set-off for the day, taking her blue bag with her. Inside the bag were her provisions: an apple, two slices of bread with an ultra-thin layer of margarine on each, a box of juice which she had been saving, two bin bags, a length of wire and some old hooks; previously used for hanging a wind chime in the porch. She left before seven and was soon happily out of sight of the little black house, happy in the knowledge that she was the only one awake for miles around. The air had a clear Highland chill to it and the stillness soon lifted her spirits. By the time she cleared the brow of the hill, and found herself looking down along the coast, out and on towards the not too distant arctic, she had almost believed that she didn’t need to go on, had thought that maybe if she turned around then things would be alright after all. The chill tang of salt air soon woke her up though. It was up to her, and her alone, to carry out the plan and if she caught no fish today then nobody else would. She had reckoned they needed enough to live on for a week or at least that was how long she estimated until the money arrived at the post office. Although she had never fished before she had a vague idea of what was involved and she liked the idea. By the time she reached the beach, and caught sight of the rock, she was already eager to start. The Sighnoghn Rock or Bear Rock, as she used to call it when she was younger (when it looked much larger and she had been told it was inhabited by 12

families of bears), was a rocky outcrop some distance out from the shore, accessible by foot only at low tide. It was, in her mind, an ideal place to catch fish and she wasted no time in crossing the sand that separated it from the dunes, before the sea came and swallowed her footsteps. To her disappointment the tide took longer than she had realised and so she had to sit atop the rock for well over an hour, impatiently staring out to sea, waiting on its resurgence. The sea failed to hurry. Once the water was deep enough she dangled her home made fishing line over the side but with no sign of any fish she got soon got bored. She decided instead to climb up higher to get a better view and left her line tied to a small outcrop near the base. Once at the top she felt like a conqueror and ate one of the slices of bread she had brought. How she wished she had bought more food the last time they had been at the supermarket. At the time it had seemed that they would never possibly run out. She hadn’t taken into account the fact that he would get so much worse after that trip into town. Why did every supermarket have to sell all those bad things alongside all the good things? How nice it would be to go for a day into town and wander up and down the main street looking in the shop windows, picking out dresses and wondering which to buy instead of going there and fearing what might happen once he disappeared, hating the town for what it did to him. On returning to their little black house that day she had felt so relieved. She had wished they would never need to return to the supermarket or the town again. They had managed. In the interim however the supplies had ‘run dry’ and hence she was doing what any sensible person would do and putting off the inevitable, a day or two at a time. At first, she failed to notice that the water had risen. It was only when she heard it lapping nearby that she realised how close it was. In a rush she had to shimmy down the rock and untie her line before it got submerged. Luck was not with her that day and although a few sea birds touched down and a jellyfish floated past she saw no sign of fishes. Again a pang of doubt struck her. Would she have to go back empty handed? No, she was resolute, she would catch something for them to eat.

She started to picture a triumphant return, him standing there welcoming her back, commending her on the catch and preparing the stove to cook the biggest of the bunch. For a moment, this image hung pleasingly in her mind before flickering and dissolving as she imagined instead that he had found a bottle - hidden, stashed somewhere. Somewhere she had completely forgotten to look. He had been about to drink it and, then, suddenly changed his mind, run outside to fetch her so she could witness him dashing it on the rocks, then hearing no reply had run round the house in a fervour to find her and show her that he would, he could, smash it, but she hadn’t been there, and he’d lost his resolve and turned inside instead to start the routine he had started a thousand times before. She shook her head resolutely. There would be no failure she would catch food and soon he would be better and everything would be good. She lay back. She thought how different things would be if her mother were still there. The sea was extremely high, as was the sun, which blazed down from overhead, she figured it to be about 1pm. There was no hope of returning to the mainland until low tide, the rock was well and truly cut off, so she lay on her back and looked up at the clouds, still hungry despite the food she had eaten a short while before. The clouds were bright and well defined, they reminded her of a deer she once saw, for a moment proudly outlined on the horizon of the far hill, before it was shot by a group of rich shooters from some foreign country. Sighing, she decided to play a game she had learnt a long time ago, at her grandfather’s, whilst her mother was ill. It had stuck in her mind, as had everything from those few weeks away, because of the sharp contrast between the perfection of life in those final days and life after. The game, if you could call it that, consisted of finding a face or animal, or any recognizable shape, within the contours of each cloud as it passed overhead. The first one to come by was unmistakeably a fish, its long fins trailing several miles. She relaxed and let her mind drift through the images in the sky, filling her imagination. On occasion, an obstinate cloud would pass that looked like two or three different things. By power of will alone she seemed able to turn it from one to the other and back again. For example, one cloud gave the undeniable impression of being a giraffe one moment only to become the profile of an old man’s face the next. 14

She remembered at times having seen a face in a cloud so clearly that there remained no doubt in her mind who it was. It had seemed unbelievable that anyone in the world wouldn’t recognise it, as if it had moulded it as an exact likeness. Then a mere fifteen minutes later it was gone, as the tapestry of the sky changed. The face she recognized so clearly became distorted and dissipated, blown by the wind into some new configuration. She couldn’t help thinking of him, back at the little black house. These days when she saw him she no longer knew which image really applied any more. Sometimes there were a multitude of images and emotions switching rapidly between each other as he spoke and then later at other times she felt there was none at all, like a cloud onto which she was foolishly determined to impose a face. She turned the word Father over. She didn’t know what was truth. Her role as his conscience was one she little needed or wanted, yet how could she relinquish it? It was getting cold, cold and dark by the time she noticed that the water was sloughing back from the shore and the first hard stars had already pricked the sky. Hours had passed in which she had become increasingly preoccupied by frustrations. The time seemed to have flown by under wing of some shadowy bird. She realised she had to leave now or risk spending the night on the rock and with a chill already in her bones she knew that that was no option, so with a heavy sigh she got up to leave Jumping from the bottommost nodule of rock, she landed in a muddy puddle with a splash. The darkness and the cold seemed to telescope the distance across the lonely beach and suddenly she felt quite daunted, very far from home. Half sinking with each step she struggled on towards dry sand. She felt herself starting to cry, emotions dragged roughly to the surface by the physical exertion. A few more steps and she collapsed. Sitting in a soggy hollow of sand she let go her stores of desperate failure only to find them easily replenished. It wasn’t until water, lapping at the seat of her trousers, aroused her that she once more started moving, with head down, across the treacly mud. It was about ten metres from the furthest tidemarks that she came across them, helpless for sure, but beauties nonetheless. There lay two fish, flapping uselessly, in less than an inch of water, quite the largest she had ever seen. Her first thought was one of surprise as she had given up all hope of making a catch, never mind two such glorious specimens as those, covered as they were in 15

shimmering jewels. A tremendous exultation filled her as she marvelled at their shiny scales, marvelled at the way the whole day now seemed prearranged to bring her there. Marvelled at the chance that left two such perfect fish here, alive, so many hours after the tide had last been in. She knew that it was impossible that any fish could survive that long out of its habitat but she had no explanation. It seemed that they must have either crawled from the sea in search of land or been put there by some giant hand - neither of these scenarios seemed likely. Crouching down to bring her head level with their twitching tails she thought she could discern a wink from one of the fish. Or perhaps it was just a shimmer of magic around them. She wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sure. She knew that they must have names and scrutinizing them again, she settled on Ambi and Anspi. She wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really too sure where she got those names from but somehow they seemed to fit. Picking up her two treasures she placed them in her bag, certain that all was going to be well. The plurality of skies above her seemed to agree. The infinity of fish not lessened.

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The Green Door The window rattled, shaking Richard’s thoughts. The man across the compartment was doing something with his bag. He looked foreign - did he have a bomb? Imagine that, what a way to go. Splattered everywhere. Splattered across the country’s breakfast tables. One big blast and you're rocketed to the front page. Almost romantic in a 20th century sort of a way. But no, he was just getting a book. A tome. Something dull looking about economics. He wasn’t a terrorist then. What was he doing reading economics at this time? The rest of the train was empty save for the two of them. He slackened his tie again. He shouldn’t have had so bloody many, he really needed another piss. Where was the next stop? The train rocked. Don’t need terrorists with the state the underground’s in. God, what a disastrous evening! Bill and his bloody resource plan. And Emily hadn’t turned up, of course. That bitch. Tomorrow he was going to sort things out. Once he got home and got a good night’s sleep. He yawned. He really needed to piss. Why did he not go home an hour before? He lifted his head. The Muslim economist had gone, he was alone in the train. It rocked again. He rubbed his mouth; there was drool on his chin. How long had he been snoozing? He stood up and cricked his neck. He could feel the pressure in his bladder. Couldn’t be that long now. He paced up and down. Shit, he really needed a piss. Where was the next stop? He looked at the map. There was an advert that promised a college degree in ten minutes. Scientifically proven speed learning. God, people will buy anything if they’re desperate enough. He really needed a piss. He paced up and down. The train started to slow. Hopefully this was his stop. The platform was deserted. What did that sign say? ‘Please be…’ - shit no it wasn’t. What did it say? He stumbled. Where the hell was he? He must have slept passed his stop then; but he didn’t recognize the name at all. It didn’t matter anyway, he just needed a piss. The doors opened. He leapt onto the platform, his bladder about to burst. Why had he had so bloody many? There was no one about. He didn’t recognize this station at all and no

sign of any toilets but did it matter, there was really no one about. He would have to just go. There at the end of the platform. As long as no one turned up. Yes… …. …. … Ahh better than sex, what relief. His piss trickled down towards the tracks. It was an open air station, probably somewhere near the end of the line. Lucky the train had stopped when it did, wherever that was. As long as someone didn’t come along now. He watched his piss trickle towards the electric tracks. Did urine conduct electricity? He finished off as quickly as possible. No sign of anybody. Good. Now to try and catch a taxi. Where was he anyhow? He tried to remember the Tube map. Rathersbone? He racked his brain. God it hopefully wasn’t the middle of some housing scheme. He tried to think. Had Jemma not lived in Rathersbone? No that was Horston. He’d have to look her up. There was no sign of anybody as he climbed up the escalators. They’d switched them off for some reason. Should at least keep them running till the last train had left. Even if he was the only one on it. The barriers were all open when he got out. One lone guard stood at the side glowering. ‘Ticket,’ he demanded, with the utmost suspicion. ‘Machines are broken.’ He produced his card which the guard examined carefully before scanning in a portable machine and finally pronouncing ‘Zone 3 ticket, mate,’ in a gruff tone. He explained that he’d fallen asleep. ‘How far is it back to Highgate?’ he asked. ‘Highgate? Never heard of it but this ticket ain't valid. You’ll have to pay the difference.’ He asked how much it was and reaching in his pocket produced a twenty. The guard was unimpressed. ‘You ain't got anything smaller? I don’t have no change.’ He looked through his pockets but that was the smallest he had. He asked how far it was back to city centre. ‘Twenty-three minutes to Chap Cross.’ Chap cross? What was this guy talking about? 18

‘Where is that? In the centre?’ The guard considered him carefully. ‘Yes, but you’ve missed the last one tonight. Have to get a taxi now.’ He nodded and held out the twenty again. ‘Look, I don’t have no change here. So I’ll let you off this time alright but watch yourself. Had a guy last week with his throat cut while he slept on the Western line. Bloody junkies, always pissing in the station.’ He thanked the guard for his advice and left the station. As he walked away the guard started talking into a handheld transmitter, following him with his eyes. Was he talking about him? He thought he overheard the guard say ‘Exit 5, watch him’. Was he speaking to another attendant? He scurried towards the stairs that lead to Exit 5 but there was no one around as he escaped above ground. God, where was this place? The whole place seemed so run down. The streetlights glowed a dim orange. A boarded up shop lay on the far side of the road. It was quiet; the only sound was a truck lumbering in the distance and apart from that nothing. But there in the corner was a taxi rank. Finally something was going right. Only one taxi sat there but that was all he needed. He suddenly felt incredibly tired, the last vestiges of alcohol had disappeared and now he just wanted his bed. He approached the taxi and tried the back door. It was locked. The driver didn’t move. Obviously this place wasn’t the best neighbourhood if a taxi driver had to sit with all his doors locked. He was glad he lived in a nice part of town. The biggest danger on the streets of Highgate were the joggers. He tapped on the driver’s window but still the guy didn’t move. He was reading some tabloid, staring at a pair of tits caught through a zoom lens. Oblivious. He knocked again. This time the driver reluctantly put down his paper and wound down the window slightly. ‘I’m going to Highgate,’ Richard said, trying to remain polite despite his impatience. ‘Sorry mate,’ the driver replied after staring at Richard suspiciously for a moment. ‘Highgate please.’ ‘Don’t know about that mate but I’m on a break.’ ‘Look, I need to get back, yeah? I’ll give you a decent tip.’ Richard felt he would do anything at that point to get back to the comfort of his bed. 19

‘Did you not hear me, mate? I'm on a break.’ ‘I heard that but I’m willing to give you a generous tip if we go now.’ ‘Well, that’s all very well but it ain't up to me.’ ‘How does 80 sound?’ This was way over the odds. ‘No look, mate I told you I'm on a break, do you think just because I'm a cabbie I don’t have a right to any breaks huh? Just because I drive other folk around all day, I don’t need a rest? Everyone’s in a rush mate, everyone’s going somewhere in this city, flashing their cash in your face, look how successful I am, look where I'm going now, look who my friends are, look who I'm fingering in the back seat. Doesn’t make you special mate. Everyone’s going somewhere. My advice: go and find another cab if you want a lift to wherever it is you’re going, go and find one of those other cunts to give you a lift.’ And with that the driver furiously wound up the window and returned to his newspaper. What an outburst. Richard was about to knock on the window again but something stopped him. He felt that it wouldn’t take much more for this guy to snap and he didn’t want to be in the back of his cab when he did. Maybe this guy had just had a bad day, but still there were bound to be other cabs on the street. He crept away leaving the driver brooding on the inequities of modern life. Nothing moved in the street. It was late now. He felt suddenly nervous. What if there were junkies about? He walked a little distance from the station until he was out of sight of the taxi driver. Looking up and down the street he could see no movement. About five hundred yards to the right, the light of a kebab shop buzzed. He wondered if he should get some food. Anyway, it seemed to be the only life in the area. Maybe they could call him a taxi. He walked hurriedly down the road keeping an eye out to left and right. This truly was a god-forsaken part of town. Who lived here? Immigrants probably, suicide bombers. He wished he were back home already. He thought of the fresh olive bread he had in the house, a slice with those Italian sun dried tomatoes. He was a little hungry. The kebab shop door hung open and his hunger subsided the moment he entered. It was without doubt the most squalid shop he’d ever been in. A greasy smell of dirty fat permeated the air. None of the surfaces looked like they had been cleaned, the electric fly killer had seen far too much action and the dried up stump of lamb rotating against the spattered elements looked like it had been in position for years. 20

In the far corner on a stool sat a bearded man. He looked Turkish or foreign at least. He had a great belly and dark shocking hair. Every bit as greasy and unkempt as his shop, He sat leafing through a book with one hand while the other was actually inside his pants scratching his balls. He was aroused by a cough and made his way to the counter. ‘Hello, my friend,’ the portly man said in a loud booming voice. Richard asked if it would be possible to phone a taxi. The kebab man told him he could catch one at the station just down the road. Richard then had to explain that he had just come from there and the taxi driver had refused to take him. At this the man seemed utterly crestfallen. It was as if he had been putting a brave face on things only to have all his hopes dashed by this piece of news. ‘You want a kebab maybe?’ he suggested. Richard declined the offer, the thought actually made him queasy, but he asked again if he could phone a taxi. ‘No phone I'm afraid. Cut us off last week. It is bad month, I tell you.’ He found that easy to believe. This whole neighbourhood carried an air of despondency and the man himself almost looked as if he were about to burst into tears after the news about the taxi driver. ‘It’s just as Ippolit said,’ he wailed, ‘there is only one dark, insolent unreasoning and eternal power to which everything is in subjection. Oh, what is the use!’ Richard didn’t know who Ippolit was but he had doubtlessly spent some time in this shop too if that was the way he felt. He made his excuses and walked out. The guy was going to have to pull his act together if he ever wanted to get his business back on track. It was dark outside alright. Two of the street lights were broken. He tried to make out if there was anything further down the street. Any taxis. There was no sign of anything. Maybe he should go back to the station. There might be another cab there by now. He hurried back the way he had come with his head down. Yes, this really was a shitty part of town. Why did they build these hopeless blocks of stone? Why did anyone choose to live in them? In actual fact the whole city was ridiculous at night and not lonely or empty or anything grand, just ridiculous. Piles of stones each containing a quota of soft soporific jelly-like creatures, laid out on springs. He had to get away for a break. Maybe Crete again. 21

He reached the station somewhat agitated. Unwittingly he’d increased his pace until he was marching along. He stopped in sight of the taxi rank. Well, the taxi driver had evidently finished his break. There was now no sign of any taxis at all. Great. He walked over toward the light at the front of the station. What to do now. Maybe the guard would let him phone from inside. He walked toward the entrance. ‘Got a fag mate?’ A hood appeared out of the dark to his left. He jumped, a little startled by the stranger. ‘I said got a fag, mate?’ the hooded figure repeated. Richard took a good look at this character. A filthy hooded top covered a skinny frame and grubby, sinister-looking eyes. The figure fidgeted in front of him. ‘No, sorry, don’t smoke,’ Richard said slowly. ‘Don’t smoke?’ ‘No, sorry.’ The figure didn’t move. He glanced passed him into the station. He could see the guard pulling the metal gates across. Shit. He sidestepped the figure and dashed across to persuade the guard. The guard was having none of it. ‘Closed for the night, mate. Anyways no personal calls from the station.’ The guard was clearly keen to lock up and get home, but suddenly he didn’t want him to leave. He felt the presence of the hooded figure behind him. He desperately wanted the guard to stay a little longer, but the guard wasn’t interested. Was it his imagination or did the guard signal to the hoodie? Was there some complicity between them? Could this have been who the guard radioed as he was leaving the station? Suddenly the guard snapped his keys into this pocket and walked off sharply. Shit. He stole a glance across the lot at the spot where the hooded figure had been. No sign. Had he gone? He scanned around. No, there he was near the taxi rank. There were more of them too. Three or four. He didn’t want to hang around any longer. But where could he go in this deserted wasteland of a place? They were all looking in his direction. Yes, definitely looking in this direction. Menacing. He fidgeted with his watch. He could see them talking amongst themselves. No, but there must be more taxis about. In the other direction maybe. If he got to the main road. He walked away from the station in the opposite direction from the 22

kebab shop. Christ, how long had he been here now? It was so late. It felt like he’d been here for days. What if he never got home? Would he then be given a hooded top or a job in a kebab shop by the mysterious agency that organised such things? But he wasn't thinking straight, it was just so late. He tried to remember what exactly it was he did every day in this city but his memory folded and churned. He didn’t look back as he walked, keeping a steady pace. At the first junction he took a left onto what appeared to be a more major road, but as he followed it he quickly realised it only led to further streets of scabby housing. He stole a glance in the direction he’d come from - no sign of the hoods at least. Christ, they were probably just kids, why was he getting so worried tonight. He took another left and them a right. The streets all seemed to lead back on themselves. There was only one house in different locations. Maybe only one person too, he thought. Repeated over and over in the same house throughout the city. Infinite copies of one sad body. He was tired all right. He thought he saw them again. The darkened hoods. Were they not looking right at him again. Stony rapacious stares. He quickened his pace and then, when one of them let out a shout, broke into a jog. How could this happen to him? He’d only gone out for a couple from a sense of duty. He didn't give a damn about Bill and his equity plans and now here he was lost in the middle of god only knows where being chased for his life. He heard the clatter-clatter of their pursuit. They’d followed him all the way here for what? He broke into a little run. They stayed with him. They were after something all right. Would they be satisfied if he just gave them his watch? Would that be enough? He carried on at full pelt. They stormed along behind. Whooping now. Jeering. He twisted his foot at one point but kept going left and right and left again. Was there no end to this place? He was getting short of breath. Damn them, where were all the taxis? He was going to have to stop soon. If he could just lose them. He ducked down an alleyway. His ears strained for the sound of their growling fray. Nothing. He collapsed against a green door set in the wall and let his breath fell out in a ragged gust. Nothing. He’d lost them, thank… . . . 23

. . . He didn’t remember the attack itself. Just a sensation before he passed out. A sensation as if he were tied to one end of a piece of elastic, stretched taught, stretched across some unfathomable space, across the entire length of the universe, he remembered only that sensation and the universe telescoping infinitely, collapsing down to a single dimension and then only a point. He remembered the tension in the elastic cord and then nothing. . . . . . . They all agreed he was lucky to have survived. He had’d his own ward when he came to, so it must have been serious. He felt fine though. They agreed that he’d improved a great deal. He’d been delirious for three weeks and talked and raved incomprehensibly but in that time he’d healed up nicely. He might find it hard to remember certain things, they said, but only to begin with. It would all come back if he worked at it. He felt thankful. They let him go the next day. On the way home, the high street felt somehow strange and foreign. He paused for a moment at a newsagents. They had small stands outside, now that the weather was getting better. Magazines, newspapers, some fruit and vegetables too. There was a pamphlet on sale, a tourist guide to the city. He thumbed through it until he got to the tube map, but when he looked at it he no longer recognized any of the names.

Thames I received the first call on a Tuesday. It had been one of those mornings where nothing holds still. Any time the phone stopped ringing Paul Gilbert had been there yapping on at us about the big conference in May. I did my best to ignore him but there was something about his voice that just drilled into your brain. Patrick Brennan is confirmed, he said with an irritating tone of glee. Fuck Patrick Brennan up his smug arse. I was still way behind with the quarterly reports. They were meant to have been finished the previous week so understandably I didn’t have time for his small talk. As soon as I could get out for lunch I practically ran down the stairs. I bought a sandwich in the Pret across the street and was heading towards the river when my phone rang. Don’t worry about Sandra, it said. Keep focused. That was all. The voice started speaking as soon as I had said hello and pronounced each word at a steady pace, like a recording. It was a confident, precise male tenor – with none of the fakery that you normally hear in a phone voice. More like a radio announcer. As soon as it finished speaking there was a click as if disconnecting and then an echoing tone as if I was listening to the last cry of a distant star. Hello, I said. Who’s that? I strained my ear against the receiver but there was no answer, only that spooky echo. A lorry must have driven past at that point as the sound was drowned out and, by the time I could hear again, the receiver was completely dead. I looked at the display in confusion. It read: Call from: Unknown Number 12.17pm My first thought was that it had been a wrong number, a crossed-line. I knew a Sandra from school but I hadn’t seen her in twenty years. She was the younger sister of a guy in my class at primary. I couldn’t see what connection she could have with anything. Her brother had gone to a different secondary school and I’d lost touch with him. I hadn’t thought of either of them in twenty years. For a second, I admit, I considered it might be Leigh, playing some kind of trick on me, but I quickly discounted that idea - we weren’t the sort of couple to play 25

pranks on each other. I put the phone back in my pocket and walked down the narrow passageway that led to the river front. I had chosen a Crayfish and rocket sandwich and started munching on it as I walked, pieces of filling falling out as I went. Around my work it was mainly converted dock buildings, from the time when London had been a sea faring nexus. A thin pavement ran along the top of the river walls supposedly part of the Thames path but few tourists made it along this section. London Bridge and the South Bank were always busy but on this side there was no seating or sunshine. There was something dirty and seedy about these alleyways and passages that repelled even the nearby office workers, who you might have expected to sit here for lunch. Miraculously I was alone. Alone in the centre of London. I leant against the metal rail that ran along the top of the river wall. Ten feet below me the river sloshed greedily against the brick. Brownish-green algae clung to the stone and created a sheen on the water nearby. I was tempted to throw the wrapper from my sandwich into the river. To pollute it. Make the river that little bit filthier. Contaminate the water. A pointless act I know but at that moment the ceaseless industry of the city around me was just too much. I was surrounded on all sides by a sea of productivity, goals, achievements and blind efficiency drives. The sound of progress was deafening and for that moment I wanted to do my bit to halt it. Stop the race. To call time out. I wanted everyone to throw a hundred sandwich wrappers into the Thames and choke it up entirely. Choke up the lifeblood of the city and watch it grind to a halt. I enjoyed that, the thought of my imagined city crumbling and knowing it was my fault and not caring and doing it anyway. I stared hard at the reflection of the sun on the waves near HMS Belfast. A cloud passed over and I finished my sandwich. The last remnants of fishy mayonnaise lingered in my mouth so I leant over the railing and spat into the river below, my globule of spit tumbling lazily towards the water and landing with a splot. I looked for a bin but there were none nearby so I folded the sandwich wrapper and stuffed it into my back pocket. I took my phone out and traced the unlock pattern with my finger. The icon showed one missed call. For a moment I thought it might be Matt phoning about the party at the weekend. 26

I tapped the call history and scrolled up and down. Matt really should have phoned me. He was probably still in bed, the work shy loafer that he was. I went back to my unknown call and tapped it, knowing full well that it wouldn’t connect. The earpiece beeped twice and then returned to the call history screen. I phoned Matt instead. The number you are trying to reach is temporarily unavailable. Temporarily unavailable. That was the story of his life. The story of everybody’s life, if you took a long enough view. We’re only temporarily available after all, fleeting across the face of things, a rarity against the norm of static. You’re a long time dead, as they say in Yorkshire. That afternoon at work things had quietened down. Alex’s team were away running an event in Vauxhall so the office was saved their constant back-slapping. I got my head down for the most part and had forgotten about the phone call entirely when Joanna came over. Have you got anything for Sandra?, she said. I was startled. The name resonated around my skull. I looked up from my spreadsheet blankly. Sandra? Yes, the new intern. She’s starting next week. I know you got the memo. Joanna rolled her eyes. She was a podgy woman in her mid-forties and had a way of looking permanently exasperated and amused at the same time. It was never clear exactly what role she filled but she knew every project that was happening and every team in the building. I shook my head confused. She’s joining your team on Monday. We want to make sure she’s got plenty to do and enjoys the experience or she might ask for a wage! I smiled weakly and nodded my head sagely. Oh Sandra. Yes, I’ll send a list over once I’m finished with the quarterlies. Of course, dear. Make sure it’s with me before 5.30. Joanna winked and disappeared on her rounds. After she’d gone I stared at the screen but was unable to make any sense of the rows and columns. Leigh always said I was too lenient with Joanna, that I ended up doing her job for her but the truth was I felt sorry for her. It wasn’t a big task, showing an intern around the office, but Joanna was permanently flustered, her age compounding matters as she suffered from hot flushes. 27

Normally I would’ve thought nothing of this and emailed across a list with few scrappy jobs, but after my phone call at lunch I felt a terrible sense of foreboding. The voice on the phone and the terrible echoing sound that followed it seemed to me some kind of omen. Whoever this Sandra was she signified something terrible. The air suddenly became stifling. Looking around the office nobody else seemed to have noticed. The place was a hive of activity, everyone focused on their screen. The air shimmered and I felt sure that I was about to pass out but then, as quickly as it arrived, the feeling disappeared. Shakily I stood up and walked to the water dispenser. By the time I crossed the floor I felt much better and changed my mind, continuing round the corner to the kitchen to make a coffee instead. The strong earthy smell helped revive me and I convinced myself it was nothing. The call was certainly mysterious but nothing more. A cosmic coincidence. Comic coincidence even. After all the voice had specifically said not to worry about Sandra so if there was any connection it wasn’t worth stressing about. The rest of the afternoon passed quickly and I made good headway on the reports. As I was leaving, Joanna stopped me and asked for the tasks I’d promised. I’d been so engrossed in the spreadsheets that I forgot to send the files to her but I knew it could wait until the following day. Joanna made a mock annoyed face and waggled her finger and I blew her a kiss as I left. It was drizzling as I left and the cycle home took me 25 minutes. When I had begun commuting by bike, at the start of the year, it was closer to 50 but practice makes perfect and I’d learnt a few tricks to deal with the rush hour London traffic. I had figured out the shortcuts that shaved valuable minutes of my route; I’d stopped waiting for green traffic lights and switched from tarmac to pavement like a pro. I’d been pleased to note that my calf muscles were becoming much more defined and I could feel a spring in my step where before I’d slouched about. Once the reports were done and I could count on my bonus, I was planning to get a new Claud Butler light weight frame. The drizzle, combined with the spray back from the rear tire meant I was thoroughly soggy by the time I got home. I hoisted the bike into its space behind the garden door and climbed up the stairs to the flat. When I reached the door I dropped my keys and as I stooped to pick them up I noticed a ball of fluff and hair on the carpet. I picked it up, rubbing it in my hand as I 28

unlocked the door. Just as I was about to throw the hair ball into a corner, I was overcome by a sudden compulsion to swallow it. It’s hard to describe the sensation as it was so alien to me even then but some part of my body still retains the feeling. It was nothing to do with hunger more akin to a sexual urge. For a split second I wanted the ball of dust and fluff and hair inside me and I felt a rush of excitement that I should have it within my grasp, so close, so available. I felt my saliva glands starting to work at the prospect of ingesting it and, almost unconsciously, my arm moved towards my mouth. I could almost taste the dusty accretions and imagine the rough texture as it slipped down my throat. The excitement surged for that split second before the rational part of my brain stepped in. This silent partner had watched aghast as my hand approached my mouth but had been unable to interject. Now as the dust ball drew closer I felt a shiver of objectivity and looked at the grime in disgust. Again I was about to throw it away but the urge had not entirely subsided and I was afraid of losing the dust ball amongst the other everyday fluff and dust in the corners. Quite what made that accretion special I don’t know but the urge to swallow it was tied with a certain attachment. It was my fluff ball and I could do with it as I pleased. It wasn’t something I wanted to lose. Hesitantly I moved my hand back towards my face and took a deep breath through my nose, imbibing the scent. It was musty and greasy, just as I’d imagined. I was overtaken by the urge to swallow it whole but some part of me overcame my reptilian brain and instead I stuck out my tongue to lick it... …it was disgusting. I threw the horrid gunk into the hall. The taste was repulsive, beyond what you can imagine. It tasted decayed and old, ancient, like a remnant of death itself. The taste made me want to gag and I ran into the kitchen to gulp down a glass of water. Although I drank several tumblers full in rapid succession, the taste would not go away. I stared out the kitchen blinds blankly. The whole sequence of events had taken no more than twenty to twenty-five seconds but I felt shaken. A terrible sense of fate enveloped me, I felt that my actions had been lived before, as if my life was some kind of second hand repeat. As soon as the fluff had touched my tongue my urge had shattered but now a dark hangover remained that shadowed my thoughts. A flash of an image appeared in my thoughts. I could see myself, in the future. 29

I stood on top of a small hillock overlooking a city made up of abstract geoids and brightly coloured towers. It was early morning and the sun gleamed fiercely on the futuristic buildings. I was alone but I could sense the countless lives moving in the distance. I knew this city, this future version of me lived there, but I’d never seen it from that angle before. Something momentous had happened. I struggled to remember the details, an historic event, something earth-shattering. It was somehow my doing, I had evinced this change, but the specifics eluded my grasp. A faltering success. Something great had happened but as I stood on that hill I also felt a crippling sense of loss. I’d failed. I’d sacrificed something, something close to me and gained something marvellous as a result but the thing I’d lost, the thing I’d lost… I caught my breath. I was shaking. The memory dissipated like dawn vapours. I steadied myself on the kitchen worktop but could make no sense of my sudden vision-journey. I had some glucose tablets, a promotion free with a recent Amazon order. I cracked the packet open and dissolved them in a pint of water. I had been planning to stay in that evening and take it easy, the previous few weeks had seen too much alcohol, but I couldn’t sit still any more. Instead I picked up the phone and dialled Matt’s number. He answered after the fourth ring and we arranged to meet for a pint. It was only as I was locking the front door half an hour later, that my mind returned to my phone call earlier in the day. I don’t know why but I felt some connection between my vision and the mysterious voice. The recommendation, not to worry suddenly reassured me and I left the flat feeling much better. That was the last Tuesday of the month. The following week Sandra arrived at my work.

New England The sun shone but brought no warmth in the frozen air. The place was not how he remembered it at all but then after ten years that was only to be expected. In any case, his memory had never taken much hold on buildings â&#x20AC;&#x201C; numbers, theories, calculations - those were the things that filled his world. These he could remember perfectly, with ease he could recall the form of an equation or the ratio of two variables. A long gone calculus he might remember if it were a distant acquaintance from overseas, his mind ebbing and flowing with a complex web of information he had aggregated over the years. This is not say that he lived apart from other human qualities, isolated in some cold, autistic world. On the contrary, associates knew him as genial and approachable friend, a fact that he was proud of. To him it proved that at least some of the sacrifices had been worthwhile, but he hid a great deal of his thoughts or spoke little so that others very seldom guessed his mind. People were all too happy to ascribe thoughts to others if given the chance and he had long ago learned to let others carry the conversation instead. He had even cut his presentation down to the smallest possible word count. So there he was back in that airport again, after so long. It had changed but some thread of the years that he had spent there still remained in him, as if the echoes of some bell that had first started ringing all that time ago still clung to this place. It took him some time to find a taxi to take him to the hotel and the bitter cold bit at his hands as he paced up and down outside the terminal. Today for some reason he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem able to think straight. His thoughts were muddled, unsure. It would take at least forty five minutes. Random sensations crowded in on him and he found himself thinking of Anne. Reluctantly he felt his thoughts plough down a certain path, a mental furrow sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d worn in his brain. Old doubts and uncertainties blocked his way, events long finished became unpaused and made him wince. He smoked four cigarettes in the freezing winter air before finding an empty taxi. It was only on the interstate, counting the blocks fly passed that he realized how long it had been since he last thought of Anne. The memories, while so familiar, 31

felt almost worn out. They had not plagued him for years, at least not since he’d married his wife. Penny was a good woman, at least he believed so. If truth be told he wasn't really too sure what drove her or made her tick. She certainly had never acted with anything less than complete kindness and integrity in his experience but he was far old enough to realise that this alone does not make a good person. They’d married for one reason or another in amongst the general upheaval of that period when he had lived in the city. Quite how long they lived together prior to that, he wasn’t sure. There were a great deal of details that had evaporated the moment they packed the contents of their small flat into the van and crossed the city's boundary. It seemed to him that nobody could reasonably be expected to function where there were so many distractions constantly surrounding one. Lack of space, noise, deadlines, traffic, appointments, travel, networks – that he should somehow have emerged from all of that unscathed seemed to him a miracle. The taxi drove on clearing away the towering blocks of the financial district and snaking its way out into the harsh leafless countryside. It would take him half an hour to get to the hotel and he resolved to concentrate on the purpose of his visit: the conference. He had to create some kind of itinerary for the next few days, arrange some meetings, make contacts. His secretary had sent him numerous emails in the run up to the event but he had studiously ignored them, exhibiting an uncharacteristic lassitude. Still he had time, he could organise himself that evening before the conference started in the morning. His mind came up blank as to what needed to be done. The old team would of course be pleased to see him but what he could talk about with them was no clearer now than when he’d boarded the flight on the other side of the country. Too many unknowns clouded his path. Variables became meaningless the more he examined them and thoughts of Anne disrupted his attempts to calculate how they related to each other. Thankfully his belly took control of the situation, forcing his thoughts back to the mundane and bringing to the fore the fact that he’d not eaten in over 12 hours. Airline food did not agree with him.

Normally hunger was something he’d happily ignore until it really started to gnaw, but today he was glad of the excuse to settle his thoughts on a simple tangible goal. It was dark by the time the driver dropped him off outside the green awning of the Pullman’s main entrance and he tipped him all he had left in his wallet which did not amount to much. The driver muttered gruffly and swung the car round in the snowy grit of the car park leaving him alone in front of the bright doors. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow I’m going to sort all of this out, but something told him his expectations were never going to be truly met. Another conference, the same dull repetitions and puffed up sermons. The hotel room was all that he would have hoped for but he felt on edge. He smoked the remainder of his cigarettes as the telephone glared at him. He should have phoned Penny but then he knew by now that it would be pointless. He had been on the road so long that to phone at this stage with no excuse would be a form of defeat. It would be better to wait until he had something to say, some definite indefatigable piece of information, some sign of progress. He ordered room service but after an hour waiting he decided to cancel it and go in search himself. He needed more cigarettes in any case. Outside the temperature had dropped again and he walked briskly, searching out the light of some 24 hour convenience. He suddenly felt very tired. Was it only three weeks he’d been gone? Could it not be much longer by now? He had long since lost track of the days? Nothing moved beneath the sky, a solitary star winked enigmatically as if also trying to disappear into the blackness and thus deny its own immovable nature. In the end there were no shops open and, after walking around in the freezing cold for some time, he eventually returned to the hotel hungrier than ever and somewhat delirious with the cold. He determined to make the best of it by going straight to sleep but the gnawing at his stomach would not abate. He started to wonder if it was not in fact more than 12 hours since he’d last eaten. He couldn't recall any meals but then that wasn't so unusual. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy eating, in fact he was a very good cook. Penny had commented a number of times on his tortellini, but he hated to feel captive to the whims of his body.

He ran a hot bath. Steam poured out flooding the small hotel bathroom and turning the mirrors opaque. He had to wait for it to cool down as his toes, still cold from outside, burnt when he first tried to ease them into the bath. Eventually he lay there as red as a lobster and the soporific effect of the heat allowed him to close his eyes. Anne was good looking, there was a consensus on that, but she carried some awkwardness with her that meant he rarely felt that any other man might compete for her attentions. Before they had started fighting he was sure that she’d been in love with him. At least he was sure if asked in private, in confession say, she would have said so. Whether she actually knew him at all was another question, but he was sure at one point at least that, given the right circumstances, and the right person asking the question she would have said she was in love with him. The struggling genius, the creative, cutting to the nib of things and working silently slowly in isolation. Only him and his girl possessed the secret, that work was being completed, very important work. That was a lie, of course. The work he’d done back then was far from important, time had demonstrated that, and if anyone had been fooled then it was only him. In retrospect Anne had shown that she cared very little for either the work or the status it eventually brought. They’d been on a bench in the park. Heavy leafed trees hung around them. It was a beautiful setting. Even her tears reflected the sunlight perfectly. ‘Why can’t you just talk to me?’ she’d said. ‘Why can’t we talk like normal people?’ ‘I am talking,’ he said. ‘I just want to be able to speak to you.’ ‘I can’t stop my work,’ he’d said. They sat there for a long time, the sun had fallen behind the trees casting supernatural shades across the park. He held her tightly until her sobs trickled away and he felt her warmth. When she’d lifted her head from the wet patch on the lapel of his jacket there was a look of hunger in her eyes. With an almost violent passion she kissed him on the lips. He’d been startled and up close her red bloodshot eyes looked ferocious. They’d done it there, metres from the path, their bodies intertwined, her strength overpowering him. It must have been summer for it was hot in the grass and

their bodies joined and became her body. The sex was her sex and he was nothing but a means. He felt foolish for having talked to her about his work. He woke up to find the bath water had turned quite cold. It was not for this reason that he shuddered, however, but at the image of Anneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tears. As he climbed out of the bath he reached for a towel and wrapped the soft hotel fibres around his thigh. He had a feeling that, just like in Boston, this conference would not be a success.

Metamorphoses Gregor was sleeping in again. His sister, Grete, tiptoed passed his room listening for any sound of his stirring. She was sure he was awake in there. In any case he should be. Wasn’t he meant to be at work by now? She’d tried to sneak in to speak to him last night but in the dark light of his room she had barely been able to make him out, he’d responded with only a murmur to her questions. She didn’t know what was wrong with him, but she’d hardly seen him these last few days. In the kitchen she heard her mother and father talking. Or rather, her father was talking loudly, while her mother dutifully produced replies, dishing out his breakfast. He was complaining about something yet again, the price of consumables or combustibles or something. To be honest, she didn’t know what he had to complain about the price of anything, for they had plenty of money. They lived in a large flat in a nice part of town. Ever since her grandfather’s death they’d never been short. She continued her tiptoe along the hall, meaning to return to her room when the doorbell awoke. Caught between the kitchen and the front door she was forced to turn to answer it. Standing plumply on the entrance mat stood a red-faced man. For a moment she failed to recognize him as Gregor’s boss, Mr. Stanislav. She’d met him once or twice when he’d been at the house for a meal with Gregor and her father. He beamed a fleshy smile and before she could usher him inside had his coat off his shoulders. ‘Gregor not in work today?’ ‘No, I think he’s feeling a little poorly, Mr. Stanislav’ ‘Demetri, please’ She smiled, embarrassed. She’d forgotten the awkward form of insouciance he employed. Having taken his coat and hat off, he placed them on the stand by the door. “Not to worry, I came to see your father anyway.” “Oh, he’s having breakfast.” She led the way through to the kitchen where her mother looked up, startled at the entrance of a stranger, before busying herself towards the two of them. “Coffee, Bacon, Mr. Stanislav?” 36

“Uh no ehh, I've just eaten.” “Demetri! Sit down,” her father boomed, “are you here about that boy?” “The boy?” Demetri suddenly seemed hopelessly lost in the imposing environment of the breakfast room. “Gregor! That useless lump next door. God knows he’s done nothing to deserve the family name.” Her father indicated with a nod of his head the room where Gregor lay. “No. Uh no. He’s feeling poorly?” Her father harrumphed loudly and returned to his breakfast. As Mr. Stanislav hesitantly launched into the business which had brought him to the door, Grete made her exit, catching her mother’s eye for only the briefest moment as she went. As she folded the clothes in her room she thought again of her brother lying in the far room. No wonder he doesn’t want to get out of bed, she thought. That job is not what he needs at all. Although they didn’t talk that often, and when they did it was invariably about something trivial, still she felt she knew her brother well and he had, since coming back home and starting work, been somehow different. It was clear to her that Gregor not only didn’t fit, but would never fit, into any kind of job with Mr. Stanislav. In her mind Gregor was only eight, was always eight. “I’ll probably think of him like that even when he’s grey and old.” She wondered again what had happened when he’d been away. What had brought him back here? It was five, six years he’d been gone, she’d heard so little from him. She’d grown up in the interim. The day he’d left she remembered her mother fretfully arranging his collar; she’d been tearful but excited nonetheless. Her father too, she thought, had been excited but in his own stern way. He’d slipped a bill in Gregor’s pocket out of sight of mother, and had he winked too? No, he couldn’t have. Her own feelings she couldn’t clearly remember, she’d been much younger than Gregor, of course. She knew that something was happening, Gregor was going somewhere. He was going to make something of himself, she remembered her father saying that at the dinner table the evening after Gregor had gone. Proudly. Sternly. And that was that - she slowly got used to the fact that Gregor was no longer there. His letters were read out at the dinner table when they arrived - at first

regularly, punctually, in good time, periodically, from time to time, sporadically, once in a blue moon and eventually not at all. At some point her father stopped reading them out loud at the table and would instead glower of each sheet of notepaper before pronouncing a verdict. Grete and her mother sitting quietly in anticipation “He’s doing fine.” Or “The weather’s getting warmer there now.” Only then could they begin eating, and always in silence. At the time she’d felt such a curiosity to find out what was really in each letter. Certainly she never got the chance to read any of them. What had been written? Had they kept them all in a drawer somewhere? Had her mother ever read them? After dinner perhaps? And so years had passed and she’d got used to not seeing Gregor around. She’d written her own letters to him too of course, largely at her mother’s insistence. This was not because she didn’t want to speak to Gregor, but because she found it so difficult thinking of things to write down in a letter. Had he ever replied? She didn’t know, every letter was always first digested by her father at the dinner table, and so it had continued until the day he appeared again on the doorstep with his little leather bag in hand. They’d all been in the house quietly going about their day when suddenly there he was, as if out of nowhere. She didn’t recognize him at first, not for a good hour did she see her brother in the man that sat at the dining table. Had her parents been expecting him? Again, how would she know? Her mother had broken into floods of tears, as if some great tragedy had befallen the house while her father barely seemed to acknowledge that Gregor had ever left. With his usual rocky face he poured coffee and spoke on, ignoring their mother’s hysterics and Gregor's full-grown presence. Now Gregor was working for Mr. Stanislav, which meant he was working for her father, which meant he was selling whatever her father sold. It seemed strange that after so long away her father would find Gregor a job that involved so much travelling. Some weeks he wasn’t back at all. Her father must have been able to find lots of jobs right there in the city. She didn’t know, but in any case the job her father had organized for Gregor hardly seemed to suit him- that much she could tell. It suited him even less than the classes her father had arranged for her.

Her classes were arranged though, there was no way out of them, and so as the hands approached the hour she picked up her satchel and pulled her bedroom door closed behind her. Her father and Mr. Stanislav were still in the kitchen talking earnestly as she went out the front door to Miss Lonstrups. The short walk to the lyceum building was the last chance she got to think on the matter of her brother for the rest of the day. Miss Lonstrup insisted that a wandering mind was a weak mind. At home that evening Gregor was not at the dinner table. Neither her mother nor her father made any mention of him or whether he’d been out of his room at all that day. Instead they sat in silence for most of the meal until nearing the end of his dessert her father suddenly raised the topic of marriage. This was the last thing Grete wanted to hear. Not least because the marriage under discussion was her own and the other prospective participant was Mr. Dalymsiv. Mr. Dalymsiv was yet another business acquaintance of her father. “Was everyone he knew a business acquaintance? Did he have no real friends?” He was nearly as old as her father and from what was said a fine, upstanding, well-connected and most importantly rich man. She’d met him once and had taken an instant dislike to his grey creeping flesh and overbearing drawl. What did she know about suitable companionship though? She was still young. He was not only a fine man but a fine teacher also. A man who could instruct her on the subject of life. Apparently. After they’d finished, it took all her strength not to flee the house and run screaming through the darkened stone streets. Screaming, screaming some word she’d never before heard, a word that was at the tip of her tongue and the back of her head and which would hasten the end of all time. She didn’t though; instead she patiently cleaned the dishes and swept the floor while her father sat smoking and talking, talking and talking on about Mr. Dalymsiv. Why didn’t he smoke in his study as he usually did? Why, when she wished he were gone, did he sit there and every other night of the year, when she had something to say, would seclude himself for the remainder of each evening in his smoke filled armchair? That was her father. Once everything was done, she feigned a yawn as she stumbled to the door. She’d almost made it clear when her father called after her. It seemed three lodgers would be moving into the spare room. 39

Later, once everyone was asleep, her thoughts again turned to Gregor. She tried to slip through the connecting door, which separated their rooms, but he must have locked it. She knocked timidly, afraid lest she woke her parents who both slept incredibly lightly. She wanted to ask Gegor what he thought of her getting married, what had happened when he was away, but even as these thoughts popped into her head she realized that these were not things they could ever talk about. There was no reply and the door remained firmly locked. The light in her simple room was burning low now, as the darkness of the house threatened to envelop it entirely. Outside, shouting - rowdy, drunken - came from the streets but above this she thought she heard some sort of slimy scrabbling from the next room. She put her ear to the door. She couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be sure, it sounded like some giant cockroach marking its lonely territory. But no - it was gone. She must be getting tired. Yes, after the whole day she was feeling so tired. Yet she did not fall asleep immediately for she suddenly had the feeling that she might never see her brother again. And it was something of a confirmation that her dreams that night were so strange and filled with foreboding as her young body stretched on the bed.

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