Issue 7

THE RED LINE www.overtheredline.com

THE RED LINE

Molly Hope E. A. Boissiere Fayroze Lutta Apollonia Sansepolcro

I7 MONEY

Gwendolen Walker And Daniel Sansome

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Contents

Editor’s Introduction……………………………………………….……………………………3 The Man with No Nails…………………………………………….………………………..…..4 Leopard Skin………………………………………………………...…………………………..14 Seven Point Three Million Pounds..………………………………………………………...22 Let Me Clear My Throat Before I Begin…………………………………………………….28 Interview…………………………………………………………………………………………..31 Sugarville………………………………………………………………………………………….38 Judges Decision…………………………………………………………………………………43

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THE RED LINE Welcome Reader, We’re into our second year. I wasn’t sure that we would get here.

There are plenty of magazines out there publishing short stories, plenty of competitions for people to enter, and plenty of wariness by mainstream publishers about the short story as a marketable art form. The suddenly ubiquitous George Saunders winning the Folio prize in the UK, and the Story prize in the US, might be an indication that things are changing, of course.

That said, interest has continued to grow at a steady rate since January 2013, when Stephen and I clumsily cobbled together our first issue. This issue saw our greatest number of submissions yet, and “Escape” is looking to comfortably surpass that.

For this reason we are pleased to announce that James Sandham has joined the editorial team. He’s a writer, a Canadian, and a new father, all of which are pretty exciting, so “Welcome James”. No doubt we will be looking for more help with reading soon, as long as things carry on the way they have been, so watch this space...

For “Money” we have to thank David LaBounty and his wife, Robin, who have framed the feedback in a kind of Lite Socratic dialogue for this issue, and you can find their discursive meditations at the end of the magazine.

I think it’s fair to say that, as far as they were concerned, there was a clear winner, so congratulations to Gwendolen Walker who will be pocketing the monstrous, awe-inspiring fifty pound prize for this issue.

In the meantime we have announced the themes “Escape” and “Faith” which are both still open, and both of which carry the chance of bounteous fiscal reward.

Until next time, we wish you success and happiness in all that you do, assuming it’s not some sort of crime.

Josh, Stephen, and James

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The Man with No Nails

by Gwendolen Walker

I’ve always thought of it as them and us.

We see them in one of two sterile glass interview rooms swilled with disinfectant and desperation, containing just a desk and a single chair either side, one for them and one for us. Well that’s not strictly true. Under the desk there is a button like a door bell to summon the assistance of the large ex-copper from the main office next door. And the claimant’s chair is carefully positioned to capture their image on a CCTV camera hung from the opposite corner of the ceiling. As soon as the call comes through and we have found their details on the computer system, an electronic red flag waves if they are suspected of fraud or violence or of being mentally unstable. And then I would ask one of my colleagues to watch the meeting through the clear horizontal gaps in the striped etching of the glass walls, a witness in case of trouble.

But of course we’re expected to refer to them as customers now not claimants, as if they have a choice and could visit any one of a number of stylishly appointed offices around the district, popping in at their convenience to claim their benefit. Soon hospitals will be required to refer to their patients as ‘friends’ or the prison service to their inmates as ‘guests’. Come to think of it a few of their guests are our regular customers, but not many. No, most of our lot are old or disabled or stuck in low paid casual jobs prone to being laid off the minute there is a hint of a down turn. But we never use the P-word; whatever else they might

be, none of them are ever poor.

Finishing an interview and coming back into our office, locking the door behind us so we’re not followed by a disgruntled customer, is to return to the smell of coffee and homemade cake, a lingering of perfume shared on a colleague’s wrist and in winter the smell of scorching dust rising from ancient electric heaters.

And between the broad computer screens is a flow of advice, barter, joking, a story about a recent night out or the time Hattie was so hung over she fell asleep at her desk or the characters from the old days.

In Housing Benefit we’re a team of ten, including our manager Malcolm, the only man, and we share our office with the Council Tax team and the three fraud investigators. We’re mainly old timers each with up4

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wards of twenty years’ service, mortgages repaid, pension funds full to the brim. Our kids have grown up together and mostly done well, going off to college and university, opportunities we never had. Some of my colleagues are close friends even outside of work, weekends away together, meals out, God parents to each other’s children. I’m not like that though; I’m pretty private.

“They want to see you Malcolm. Can you go in the room?” Janice is asking, already knowing Malcolm cannot say or do any more than she has already.

“Did they ask for me by name?” Malcolm is surprised, he rarely sees customers these days.

“No they asked for ‘The Man with No Nails’ which I took to be you as you’re the only man on the team and you bite your nails.”

“I’ve been called worse, I suppose. What did they want?”

“Wanted to know if they would definitely get Discretionary Housing Benefit.”

“We can’t say. It’s discretionary. They’ll have to apply and see if they qualify.”

“I know. I told them. They just need you to tell them.”

And then there is a call from reception for me: Scarlet Ellison is waiting in Room Two. I’ve seen her before but she won’t be on benefit for the long term, by no means a typical case.

“Hello my name’s Sandra. How can I help?” The standard opening from the script we all use.

Scarlet lolls, waiting for a cocktail, in the claimant’s chair, which she has, deliberately or not, managed to move out of the range of the camera. Her long hair is in an artfully messy loop on the back of her head.

She is making some sort of statement in her short fur jacket, jeans and mannish boots. I’m not sure what it is but it makes me feel frumpy and middle aged in my institutional trousers and cardigan.

“I might be moving soon. Do you need to know?” She can hardly be bothered to form the words.

“Yes we do. You’ll need to complete a Change of Address form.”

“Oh God. Really?”

“I’ll go and get you one.”

Back at my desk I pull out her file to refresh my memory. Three primary school aged children with im5

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probable names: Ishmael, Tobias and Drusilla, wealthy ex-husband still living in the disputed matrimonial home, bank statements showing maintenance payments to her running into thousands. But since Scarlet doesn’t have any income or capital of her own at present and maintenance payments are disregarded in our calculations, she is entitled to full Housing Benefit.

Now I recall the discussion in the office when she first claimed. None of us felt comfortable making the award but she was entitled and that was that. They’d obviously done their research. Well I imagine it would be the husband rather than Scarlet. He must have discovered that the disputed assets, however large, would be disregarded for six months. And since Scarlet didn’t work, the state would pay for her rented accommodation whilst the divorce was going through. Wouldn’t occur to most people in that situation to claim or even if it did they would be too moral or too embarrassed to go through with it, in spite of the rules. But apparently not our Scarlet.

I glide the form across the smooth surface of the desk. Uninterested, Scarlet doesn’t bother stop its progress and it falls to the floor at her feet.

“Can’t you just do it for me?”

“Do what?”

“Fill in the form.”

“If you are unable to complete it then I can do it for you, but you will still have to sign it or make your mark at the end to show that you agree the details are correct.”

“Oh I’ll take it with me then. I’m going to be late for……”

“Just drop it in at reception when you’ve done it.”

I can’t bear to hear what it is that she will be late for. And I return through my door leaving her to retrieve the form. I know what she is doing is legal but it still feels wrong, makes me feel in the wrong, somehow her accomplice.

I haven’t finished typing up my note about Scarlet’s move when the next call comes through.

“It’s Raymond in Room Two” is all the receptionist needs to say. We all know Raymond.

“It’s Raymond in Room Two” I repeat loudly hoping one of the team might offer to go in my place but 6

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instead there is laughter and one or two scramble for their coats. It’s nearly lunch time and none of us has ever got rid of Raymond in under an hour.

There’s not much point in looking at Raymond’s file or rather files as they now run to two volumes, since all his enquiries revolve around the same obsession: the government is determined to take Raymond’s home from him by some means or other. On average Raymond discusses this with us about once a month.

That’s not counting the times he is able to waylay one of us in the street if we haven’t spotted his pale greasy raincoat, chicken stepping towards us in time to avoid him.

Unlike Scarlet, Raymond’s circumstances are never likely to change: talking to unsuspecting strangers on street corners, being fed by the town’s fish and chip shops in return for not accosting their customers and making his regular allegations about his housing problem to any agency within walking distance.

Raymond is standing wedged in the corner of the interview room looking terrified.

“Hello Raymond. My name’s Sandra. How can I help?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t do what?”

He points at the chair recently vacated by Scarlet Ellison lying on its side on the floor. I set it straight again but Raymond refuses to sit down preferring to shuffle four tiny paces forwards and then backwards again.

“No I know you didn’t tip it over. I think it was the person before you.”

“Is it on the camera then?”

“Yes it will be.”

Raymond relaxes and continues his back and forward motion. Then he smiles.

“Will you get her?”

“No Raymond. Don’t worry about it.”

“Will the man get her?”

“It’s not important Raymond. What do you want to see me about?”

“Will the police get her?”

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“Yes. Yes, they will. Now can I help you with your Housing Benefit?”

“They’re going to take my house away and put me in prison.”

“No they’re not Raymond. Remember Malcolm? The man? He sorted it out for you.”

Raymond’s raincoat gives up several letters from unseen inside pockets. They have been handled, refolded and pocketed until the paper is as thick and soft as felt. Raymond lays them out coyly on the desk, watching my face. They are from the housing association, his social worker, our Malcolm, Raymond’s GP and finally his trump card - the letter from the local MP bearing the insignia of the Houses of Parliament, now becoming faint. Raymond clearly knows the contents of these letters though no one has ever been able to establish whether or not he can read. We go through them again, each one giving assurances that Raymond’s tenancy is secure and I manage to convince him that I do not need to write another letter since he already has one from Malcolm who is more important than I am. Malcolm’s superior status is not lost on Raymond.

“Have you put your heating on Raymond?”

Raymond famously chopped up his banisters and skirting boards as kindling for his open fire a few years ago. Then central heating was installed which he refuses to use resulting in burst pipes most winters much to the annoyance of the housing association.

“It’s November now. Getting colder Raymond.”

But Raymond doesn’t want to discuss his heating. He gathers up his letters deliberately as if taking back a tantalising gift he might have given me.

“Take care now Raymond.”

And I watch the raincoat retreating down the corridor distorted by the frosted glass as Raymond heads off for an afternoon of free chips and random conversation with passers-by and I wonder again how much of his condition is real and how much is a charade put on for his own convenience.

“How’s Raymond?”

Malcolm has been home for his lunch and back in the time I’ve been in the interview room.

“Same as usual. Malcolm, do you think Raymond can read?”

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“His social worker says he can’t but, y’know, when he got me to write that letter for him I’m sure he was reading it when he shuffled out of the room.”

“He’s still got that letter in his pocket.”

“Oh God, the raincoat. I often think what the raincoat would say if it could talk.” “’They’re going to take my house and put me in prison’?”

“Yes probably.”

Dodging Raymond in solemn conversation with a skinhead outside the town hall, my lunchtime is hurrying to one bank then another, queuing at the post office, the girl putting the wrong filling in my sandwich and then forgetting to go to the greengrocers.

Back at my desk I throw away the fraudulent sandwich and remind Malcolm that I am leaving early so I’ll take the next customer in the room only and then just answer the phones so I can leave promptly at four.

He nods absently and continues to swear quietly at his incoming emails.

“A Mrs Ingham in Room One. It’s a new claim. Just moved to the area.”

But I suddenly can’t face Mrs Ingham. I feel tired. Not because its half past three on a busy day and I’ve had no lunch but tired out, tired of it all, tired of listening to the customers’ stories, all unique but all the same, tired of not being able to solve their problems and just giving them enough to stagger on to the next pay out from the next agency, tired of my colleagues with their holidays and birthdays and home improvements and their endless offers of coffee. I wish I could go home now, not wait until four. Go home and never come back.

Have I felt like this before? I can’t recall. Perhaps I’m ill, coming down with something. Perhaps I should tell Malcolm I’m sick. He’d insist I go straight away. But Mrs Ingham is waiting in Room One with her new claim, new to the area, perhaps new to the system, not knowing what information is required, probably not being able to wait several weeks without any money until her claim is processed, not yet realising how little she will get at the end of it all.

In the interview room, I can’t bring myself to give my usual introduction, my shield of officialdom projected in front of me, ready to ward off the first blow. Instead I just sit down at the desk opposite Mrs Ingham who is pretty and nervous, the remains of a tissue passing from hand to hand.

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“I’ve filled in the form but I wanted to talk to someone. I don’t think I’ll qualify you see but I wanted to check.”

Nodding I pick up the form, the boxes neatly filled, passport and bank statements lying ready to be copied.

She’s one of the few who’ve bothered to read the instructions at the back of the form.

“You’ve got just over twenty thousand pounds of capital?” It’s a question, not a statement. I’m hoping she will say she’s made a mistake, added an extra nought but the information is too meticulously presented for that.

“My father died recently. It was from him. Actually I’ve only been able to come back up here since he died.” She stops to tease out the tissue ball and blot tears back into her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m a bit of a mess today. Shouldn’t ‘ave come in.”

I wait, thinking I should say the same thing about myself but instead I opt for:

“Don’t worry about it. Take your time.” And I find I mean it, settling back in my chair to listen. After all she’s my last customer.

The words seep out of Mrs Ingham, drop by drop, until there is enough to fill a story: The move south for a better job, the husband, the two kids and then the words that sending it spilling over onto the floor: “It was just me at first but then he started on the children.”

Often in this job I’ve found it’s what people don’t say that is most important. Mrs Ingham never says her husband was violent or cruel or he hit her. Perhaps she can’t bring herself to say it because it will make the truth of it into a fact. Or perhaps it’s that curious shame the victim always seems to feel or perhaps she’s just leaving out the details for my sake. But probably it’s because violence makes you feel different, different from your neighbour or your mother, different from who you were before. Us and them. I’ll never know of course, possibly never see her again since she’s got far too much money to qualify for Housing Benefit but I know I like her.

“When my father died I knew I could come home. I could never have told him what was happening but I

could tell my Mum. She’s always been more, y’know…..practical. The money was for the kids really. That

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was his idea to give it to me for the kids for college and stuff.”

“The thing is that it’s in your bank and I will be able to see it on your bank statements so it will be counted as yours.”

“Thought you’d say that. I just didn’t want to spend it all on rent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’ve been really kind. Really.” She puts the ever shrinking tissue ball in her pocket as there’s no

waste bin provided for safety reasons.

“If you can wait a minute I could have a word with my manager. He might have some ideas.”

It’s tea time through the looking glass in the main office. It’s someone’s birthday and there are iced doughnuts to accompany the tea this afternoon.

“Didn’t make you one Sandra. Didn’t know how long you’d be.”

“That’s alright. I’m off after this. Anyway I don’t think she’s going to qualify.”

I pretend to study the form and work out the figures on my desk calculator. I already know the answer. In fact I’ve known the answer for years, working it out shortly after I started the job but I’ve never discussed it with anyone else, keeping it secret, hugging it close.

I return to Mrs Ingham who looks up anxiously still hoping for help.

“What did he say?”

For a moment I don’t know what she means, who she is talking about.

“Your manager?”

“Well there isn’t anything I can do for you today but here’s what I’d do if I were you.”

She tries to get a pen and note book out of her handbag which is under her chair.

“You don’t need to write it down. It’s quite simple.”

“But I get in such a fluster these days with everything. Mind like a sieve.”

“Don’t write anything. Just listen.”

I think she is going to cry again but she recovers herself.

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“Divide the money between your two children and put it into a bank account in each of their names as soon as possible. Then wait two months so the withdrawal doesn’t show on your most recent bank statements.

We only ever ask for the last two months statements you see and we never check children’s accounts. Then make a new application for benefit and you’ll qualify for the full amount.”

Mrs Ingham seems on the point of asking me a question but then changes her mind.

“It seems a shame for the kids to miss out on going to college or whatever.”

“Yes a real shame.”

“I suppose I should have done what you said before coming to see you. But I’d never have thought of it myself.”

“Well that’s what you need to do. All the best Mrs Ingham.”

We both stand, neither of us turning to leave by our respective doors. There is more to be said but each of us is wary now, not of each other but of the conspiracy that binds us together.

“Should I ask for you when I come back again?”

Of course she could and that in some ways might be the safest option but now I’ve finally put the plan into action, at last stepped into that indistinct country between what ought and ought not to be that we all know is there but keep at bay with meetings and checklists and spread sheets, it’s time for me to go. I seem to have stopped being one of us and started being one of them.

“No. You see I won’t be here. I’ve decided to retire. Been here too long really. Time for a change.”

Mrs Ingham will have to carry through the plan, my plan, on her own. She seems bright enough to do it.

And why shouldn’t she and her children have some help recapturing their lives? That’s what money’s for isn’t it?

“Well thanks again and thank your manager too.”

I put my coat on first before going back to my desk to get my bag so everyone knows I’m leaving and I’m not delayed with any more queries about work. I know Malcolm will have to have a joke with me, he always does the nights I go early.

“You off now?”

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“Yes.” “The mystery lover again tonight is it?”

“Na that’s Fridays. I told you that.”

“Oh Thursday, it’s the casino then.”

“That’s it. See you tomorrow.”

And I leave by the back door out into the dark welcome of the town, glossy now with rain reflecting the yellow flares of the streetlights. And I make my way up the hill to the safe house to meet a young woman I know only as Sadie.

Raymond’s raincoat gives up several letters from unseen inside pockets. They have been handled, refolded and pocketed until the paper is as thick and soft as felt. Raymond lays them out coyly on the desk, watching my face.

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Leopard Skin

By Molly Hope

Her fingers drum out an introduction on the cigarette, nail polish scratched - dirty work, this is - ash spirals down onto the floor. She crushes it with her boot.

‘Eleanor.’ She grinds the end on the wall, the wind catches the grey powder and blows it off the roof, down. She watches it fall and turns back to me, something longing in her eyes which she hides with something bright. Bright with the idea of the money, or something else; if it’s tobacco in that roll, and I’d watched her twist the paper with the fingers of a connoisseur, I’d be off that roof and down the stairs in a flash, I haven’t come up for this. I appreciate the deception - it feels right for the moment - though not the fact that she hadn’t offered me a light.

I tap my own hand on the concrete wall and look over it, look down to the courtyard where the bins have blown over and the remnants of Saturday night litter the pavement. Beside my hand, more smoke curls down.

‘What is it that you wanted?’ she asks. Wraps her coat around herself, a scarf shields her ears, a trace of Cockney from between lips stained slightly yellow. Early twenties, a nice looking woman. Eleanor. I’d heard about her. Heard that she wore leopard print and a wig, the person in front of me has her hair twisted up into a knot around the back of her head, the tendrils of peroxide blonde caught up in the scarf. I’d dragged her out of bed, the mascara artfully smudged. Smoky eyes.

They watch me.

‘Thought you would have known,’ I say. The words I want to say won’t leave my lips. Her nails are red, mine pale pink with a brown smudge on one where he’d bent my finger back one day. It hadn’t hurt at all.

One knuckle has a scar on it, so does hers; she’s tried to cover it up but I can still see it, gleaming white through the thin layer of foundation. A tooth, breaking through. I, proving the natural attraction towards the ring finger, see a thin silver band which mirrors my own, a miniature handcuff. Hers has a diamond. Engaged, I suppose, or a promise ring. He hadn’t been able to afford a diamond for me, saved a star from be14

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ing trapped.

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ she says. Throws the butt over the edge and leaves it to fall.

‘Is it important?’

‘Yes,’ she says flatly.

I pause. ‘Emily.’

My eyes catch me out again. My mother’s name, that was foolish.

‘And your real name?’ The scarf coils like a snake as her fingers twist it. Early twenties, and she’s got the upper hand over a thin woman of thirty nine, who’s been thirty nine for the last five years, broken, battered.

Under my jumper, which was one of his - I’d stolen it, it was warmer than my frayed one - a new bruise blooms, I can feel it pressing against my ribs. That was Adam, he’s twenty three now. I’d broken a bottle next to his bed when he was six, it had shattered and cut his eye, blood dripped down onto his lips and stained them bright red, a beautiful child. I’d told the doctor that he’d fallen. A bottle of water, glass; we

were putting on a show for the neighbours who’d just moved in and tap water wouldn’t do. Adam hadn’t stopped screaming, I’d walked into his bedroom to ask him to be quiet and he was behind the door, he jumped out at me. I dropped the bottle.

He punched me last night, when he wasn’t at home. It wasn’t him I had the problem with.

‘Alexis,’ I say. My Greek father with the fake Cockney accent. ‘Alexis Stevens.’

‘And your maiden name?’

‘Adams.’ Adam’s name, one lasting legacy of my mother. I always used her name when I wanted to do something bad, something naughty, as she’d say. Her ashes scattered around the borough, he’d dropped the container in a fit of rage, or a fit of boredom, or just a fit; that was his excuse once, that he was secretly epileptic, that every punch was a spasm.

She holds out a hand for me to shake, quake, I clasp it with my own and then let go.

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‘You want him gone?’ she asks.

This time, she’d offered me a cigarette. I’d taken it and would have run, would have eaten it up in my desperation to have a smoke - he wouldn’t let me smoke in the house, said it’d ruin the kids, ruin the paint but she offered me a light. The flame flared up. I didn’t have my own.

He’d tried to break my nose that morning but had missed. A red mark flared up on my cheekbone which stood out like a knife, he’d taken them away, too, said I didn’t need them if the kids weren’t at home, I did-

n’t need to cook. I wanted to dice carrots, slice potatoes, carve a leg of lamb into even pieces and watch the pink juices flow out, not blood, it was bad if it was blood. He took the knives away, I was left with spoons.

‘Yes.’ ‘And why’s that?’

I raise my eyebrows, she sighs inaudibly but I’m watching her lips, and the wind whips through the laundry which flies above us, it cracks. Grey concrete block, the stairs had bit at the back of my legs as I climbed up and up, she lived on the top floor, or rather her boyfriend did. She wouldn’t give any of us her own address, he was happy to let her use his. I’d seen him a couple of times, he didn’t know me; he would keep out of her business if she kept out of his. He was a gambling junkie, and for all his skin and bones look, his innocent suits and shirts whilst his girlfriend was wrapped up in a heavy bomber jacket and her leopard print scarf, he could down a vodka in one. I’d seen him. So could I, when I was young.

She said she didn’t mind, and skirted over it.

‘He beats me up,’ I say, then feel like that isn’t excuse enough. ‘He tells the kids… he tells the kids to keep away. And they do. Adam came back, he brought his girlfriend and beat me up in front of her because he wanted to show that he was tough.’

‘And why’s that.’

‘He said she saw him cry at night. Because me and his dad used to scream at each other at night, because that’s when you scream, and it doesn’t feel right, going to sleep without that noise.’

‘So you want him gone?’

Oh, god, the euphemism. It swims round my head. Down the crow road, meetin’ your maker - I met his ma 16

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once, she terrified the shit out of me and I never went again - goin’ to a better place. He can go to the devil if he wants, I’m sure he’ll get a choice. The rest of us won’t. Six feet under; I’m thirty feet up at the top of a tower block, just like the one we used to live in, and I feel like being sick over the side.

The cash is in my pocket, heavy like a leaden weight, like when I was pregnant with Adam and I would sink to the bottom of the concrete steps like I hoped someone would come along and carry me up, but they never did. He kicked me, once, and I wondered if that’s what a miscarriage felt like. The shame of it, God. One of the neighbours saw.

‘Yes.’ The noise of it sounds like a bell tolling, and I want to sleep.

She lets me sleep.

God, she’s got all this power - the bitch, I swear she’s gotten me hooked on something, either something

she’s slipped into the tea or in the cigarettes which she now knows I can afford, but can’t ever take a drag off. Snuff was a type of tobacco, snuffed out. She’s got all this power, and she lets me sleep. The sofa’s comfortable, I wake to hear groaning from the bedroom. The boyfriend’s back, enjoying the leopard print, I turn over and press my face into the fabric at my cheek, which smells of cigarettes and alcohol, someone’s spilt beer on here at one point in time, it caresses my skin.

When I wake up again, she’s shaking my arm.

‘Come on,’ she says, her voice slightly warmer. ‘Ain’t you got no home to go to?’

I leave the money on the side, and stumble out of the door like I’m drunk. Before I go, I see her slip it into her pocket to keep it safe, and I’m glad it won’t be nicked and pissed up against the wall like he would do.

I come back a few times more, over the course of a couple of months. I live for it; I go home and he beats me up, or Adam’ll be at home and that’s like a punch, because in every move, every gesture, I see him, and then I come over here.

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‘Mark Stevens?’ she asks. Reads out my street name, my address, holds it on a piece of typed A4 paper in her hand, black and white. I merely nod.

‘Should be fine.’ Scrunches it up into a ball and slips it back into her pocket.

‘What are you going to do to him?’

She shrugs. ‘Haven’t decided yet. Is he a druggie?’

‘Smokes. Not pot, though, just normal cigarettes.’

‘We can get a doctored pack, then.’ She raises her head and smiles at me, the skin around her eyes crinkles like an old woman’s and the peroxide blonde halo around her is still, the wind has died down, now. ‘It’ll be fine. I’m practiced at this, you know.’

‘I know.’

Some reputation, she’s got, for a girl of twenty two. Cash only, I was told that even before I knew her Christian name, I went to the bank and got it out of my account, hid it in my shoe, it smelt of feet when I

handed it over to her and she didn’t notice, or pretended not to. Someone in the pub recommended her to me, told me where to look and then bought me a drink, I let him have it, in the end. He looked like he needed the fluids. I found her easily, just knocked on the door. The boyfriend had seen my expression and let me in.

‘You here for her?’ he asked.

I only had to nod.

And here I am, still. I can’t help coming back, I want to know when and where and who and what and whether he would feel pain (I want him to, I really do) and whether the kids’d know and what I was supposed to tell them and then, and then she puts a hand on my arm and leads me inside the flat.

‘Clear off,’ she says amicably to the boyfriend, who slouches out. She sits down and hands me a cigarette I used to look at the lighter doubtfully, like she was going to swipe it across my arm like he did, once - and I take it, accept the light, draw in the smoke. My lip bleeds over the narrow tube, I can taste metal in the smoke.

The sofa surrounds my arse, comforts me.

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She tells me what she’s going to do, says that she likes her clients - I almost laugh at the word, and then catch myself, swallow it - to know what she’s going to do, to know what exactly will happen to the person who you want to be dispatched. And as she’s talking, I feel my lip seep and my ribs weep where I’m sure they’ve punctured the skin, I haven’t wanted to look, and I feel the hatred. I want to see him spread-eagled in the street like a broken marionette, a gunshot through his heart, like all the times he left me lying on the floor. Lying on the floor in front of the kids; Adam was back yesterday, cried into his tea because the girl’d broken up with him - good riddance, I told him, and he didn’t believe me - and I threw him out. He didn’t deserve me.

Eleanor had told me that.

‘They don’t deserve you,’ she’d said, and it sounded like she meant it. I’d wanted to spend another night on her couch, like a child crawls back to a mother after a nightmare, and she’d pushed me out. I didn’t begrudge her that - I had kids, I know sleepless nights like the scars on the back of my hand.

And now I sit on it again, and look up to her. She’d a couple of inches taller than me anyway, but I stoop, my back goes out from under me. Her chin’s a lovely chin, it really is, her lips burn red with Rimmel and smudge against each other as she talks. She’s taken off her scarf, her neck seems vulnerable without it, you can see a hickey on it, gently fading away. I focus on it - how long’s it been since I sported one of them?

Her hands tap a glass, filled with orange juice. I poured her it, I know the way around her kitchen better than she says she does, she’s never bothered to really cook. She knows how, but sometimes he’ll cook, sometimes they’ll go out.

I know. I watch them.

I sit outside on the wall opposite the tower block. I watch the window - she sees me, I know she does, I wonder if any other client does this to her - and I see the silhouettes. They seem happy, happy enough. She arrives home and kisses him, they’ve been together a while. I know, because she told me once that she’s been with him since school, something I didn’t put together with the woman who wears leopard print underwear - I saw that through the window once, too - and organises dispatches. It’s like a postal service.

I sit there, and I want him dead with all my soul, and I know that by sitting there I’ll get it. She doesn’t ac-

cept every application, only the ones who need it.

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I need her.

I sit there, I eat chips out of plain paper because they’ve stopped using newspaper, and I watch them through the window, and feel myself falling in love with the woman who holds a poisoned cigarette with his name on.

The night he dies, I don’t even hear about it. I presume it’s happened, because when I go over there the following morning to watch the flat there’s no new bruises - he likes to keep them fresh, raw - but she doesn’t tell me until a few days later. The police came round before her, and I don’t trust her an inch at that moment in time, when they’re asking me questions I don’t know the answer to, questions and questions. She arrives, and I fall into her again. I sob and sob and she gives me a fag and lets me drag on it until I calm down. She never asks me for money for them, but I paid her enough the first time around, an extortionate amount for something I didn’t have the guts to do myself. It’s like paying for a cleaner. Cleaning him up.

‘How?’ I whisper. If he didn’t hurt…

‘Do you want to know?’ she asks.

The police were round, they didn’t want to know anything. They knew how he died, I suppose, there’s autopsies and CSI and all that jazz and him under a white sheet with a tent around him, perhaps lying on a gurney, they’re wheeling him away. They wanted to ask if he was a druggie, I told them yes, as some sort of defence. No one else really knew him, did they?

‘Yes.’

‘Doctored ecstasy,’ she says calmly. ‘He’d been taking it for a while, you know.’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘The autopsy’ll find that.’ She crushes a tablet into the lino of the floor and spreads it around, there’s mud on her shoes which she’s forgotten to wipe off. ‘There. Evidence.’

‘Can I stay at yours?’ I ask. I don’t expect her to say yes, but she does, and I pack my bags and leave. All done in the same day as he died, I’m out without a second glance. They’ll think it’s suspicious, but blow

them.

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On the day he died, I was still coming down off the high of the night before. I’d stayed over, and she’d given me more than I asked for. It wasn’t the sofa I stayed on that night, she said the boyfriend had guessed already. Had given her permission, like she would ever need it.

I stayed the night, felt like a reckless teenager. I was forty three, and loving life already.

She would throw me out, out into the street afterwards like a cuckolded husband, and I’d sit and wait.

I imagine the tablet in her hand, and wonder if she doctored it. Somehow, it makes her more attractive to

me. Though she’s never held a gun - knows how to, of course, doesn’t everyone? she told me. I hid my naiveté - and I doubt she’d know about drugs. Her arms, everywhere, are free of needle marks, I find out that what was in the cigarette was pure tobacco. Decent tobacco, she never settles for anything less.

Sometimes, I’ll sit outside her tower block - no one else’s - and I’ll watch the woman I love, because she saved me, and there’s something more there. I don’t love her like I hated him, it’s not the same, because if I’d seen him with anyone else I would have slaughtered him, cut him to the bone, but I’ll follow her. I’ll follow her wherever she wants me to go.

In a bar, I slip a white powder into the glass of a man who’s been beating up his daughter, and more. She smiles at me, after.

He died. I live - I watch the streets and eat chips and run around the block to burn off the calories, she doesn’t want me fat, fat women draw attention to themselves, and sometimes I’ll sleep over or I’ll sleep on the wall, I’ll bunk down at the girl who left Adam’s, who doesn’t live far away - and I love life. I watch her through the window and thank her, I’d bow down to her if she asked me to.

She never does.

Once, though, I see her with a bruise. She gives me a bottle which doesn’t reflect its name and hands me a letter, white A4 paper and black text, I see the name of the boyfriend and slip him the drink. He downs it in one, like I used to do when I was young.

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Seven Point Three Million Pounds

By E. A. Boissiere

I watched as a man, arm slung low around a woman half his age, sauntered into my private space. It wasn’t really my space but I thought of it that way; I spent perfect days there whereas others merely passed through like shooting stars in the dim light.

‘How much d’you reckon that’s worth, ‘fina?’ His deep, penetrating voice grated on my fine-tuned nerves and the squeak of his audacious red shoes on the green and brown tiles along with his inappropriately placed hand on the pert arse of his equally fashion challenged wife, did nothing to soothe them. ’Fina gave me a furtive glance ‘it says on the label.’ Her velvet plumb tongue deeply contrasted her husbands. She manoeuvred out of his reach and I detected a hint of sarcasm in her tone that implied she shared

my disdain for his vulgar behaviour.

‘Seven point three million. For that!’

‘Keep your voice down Ryan. You want the world to hear you?’

‘Who’s listening, Serafina?’ Ryan glanced around the dim exhibition room. ‘Him?’ Ryan pointed at me with an extended finger; at least I assumed he meant me, and not the leather stool that cushioned me for hours at a time. I heaved myself upright; the crunch in my knees served as a reminder that my own youth

spanned out far behind me.

‘Can I help, Sir?’ Technically, I protected the painting but in reality, I ticked a box for the insurance company’s benefit. State-of-the-art automatic shutters provided the real security so to increase my worth I took it upon myself to assist visitors.

‘This price tag’s wrong.’ Ryan’s pneumatic drill voice vibrated through me again. Serafina rolled her eyes.

‘It’s entirely correct, Sir.’

‘For that?’ Ryan jabbed a finger at the painting, it hung unapologetically, spot lit by the only light in the room. I nodded.

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‘But it’s just a dull sky with a black hole in the middle of it!’

‘It’s called “Black Hole”, Ryan’ Serafina pointed out as she winked at me. She at least had a sense of humour about her husband. I did not.

‘I reckon I could paint that.’ Ryan threw the statement into the air for his own benefit.

‘I seriously doubt it.’ Serafina muttered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

‘What’s it mean anyway?’

‘It’s a symbol.’ I offered my pop psychology version of the verbose brochure description.

‘A what?’

‘A symbol, Ryan. The black hole is representative of something beyond its literal interpretation.’ Serafina explained. Her appearance belied her intelligence, her marriage to the uncouth fool in red shoes even more inexplicable as a result.

‘A symbol for what?’

‘Whatever you want’ I suggested. Ryan raised a sceptical eyebrow in my direction.

‘What’s it represent to you?’

‘I’m irrelevant. It’s what it means to you, the connoisseur, that’s important.’ It cost nothing to give him a throwaway complement.

‘You got that right.’ the corners of Ryan’s lips arched up but they dropped immediately when Serafina glared at him in disgust. Faint crow’s feet developed at the edges of Serafina’s eyes and for the briefest of

seconds, like an electromagnetic wave travelling in a vacuum; we shared a derisory smirk at Ryan’s expense.

‘What would you do with seven point three million?’ Ryan asked, pivoting the conversation away from his failed joke.

‘I’d buy the Black Hole and a lifetime lease on this exhibition space and – well, I’m comfortable here.’

Ryan reached out and grabbed Serafina’s arm, pulling her close. ‘Not me, I’d buy a big house, a Mercedes

and..’ Ryan leant over and slapped her arse, a thwack resonated round the room as a deep crimson washed over Serafina’s face, ‘I’d take this lady on lots of holidays, Dubai perhaps. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

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Ryan ignored her embarrassment, probably oblivious to it. No more knowing eye contact for Serafina and I. I sensed my brief conversation with this couple had finished so I seized the pregnant pause and strolled back to the stool.

‘Excuse me?’ Serafina’s velvet plumb voice now elevated with panic. I turned round; she stood alone with a perplexed expression. Over her shoulder, the painting shimmered.

‘Did you see where my husband went?’

‘He must have moved onto the next exhibition’ I said. *** A young boy in a wheel chair propelled himself across the green and brown tiles.

‘Billy? Billy!’ a panicked woman called from the main gallery. Billy closed his eyes as he put a hand down to stop his wheel chair mid-roll. ‘What now?’ he muttered to himself.

‘There you are!’ a silvery young woman’s voice floated through the dim light. I could see bruise-like circles under her eyes and her grey pallor was stark against her dark hair.

‘Look at this painting Billy, it’s…’ she leant forward and read the label, ‘expensive.’ She glanced in my direction. Foreseeing a conversation, I heaved myself up from the stool once more.

‘Who has the kind of money to buy this?’

‘Not us.’ The words caught in Billy’s throat.

‘Excuse my son, he’s…’

‘I’m what?’ Billy shouted; spit projecting out of his mouth. ‘You know what even a small amount of that money would mean to me.’

‘I’m Lola, apologies for...’

Billy jerked downward on his wheels and spun his wheelchair round to face his mother. ‘Stop doing that! I don’t need you to apologise for me!’

I strolled over to the painting and gave them the spiel ‘The black hole is a symbol, it represents different

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things to different people.’

‘I’d go to the US; they have surgeons who can help me walk again.’ It warmed my heart when people wanted more than just houses and cars.

‘What? Nothing to say?’ Billy demanded as he edged his wheelchair up to my legs; forcing me to peer down at him.

‘Billy!’ Lola shouted ‘I’m so sorry; it’s ever so tough on him.’

‘Not at all.’ I extricated myself from Billy’s foot-rest and returned to the stool.

‘You can’t possibly understand what it’s…’

‘Billy, you shouldn’t talk to… Billy? Where’d he go?’ Lola’s silvery voice strained to breaking point. She spun round the room, eyes flitting in all directions ‘Billy, this isn’t funny.’

‘He probably went onto the next exhibition.’ I offered slumping down onto the stool. Out the corner of my eye, I caught the Black Hole painting shimmer. *** An elderly couple shuffled in, supporting each other. Even when she leant forward to read the label, he kept hold of her hand.

‘You think that Black Hole could take us to our spot by the river?’ she asked gazing into his eyes.

‘If we had the money I’d take you.’ he replied gripping her arm tighter. I picked up my word search book and allowed them their privacy. When I peered up a few minutes later, they had disappeared. The Black Hole painting shimmered again. *** ‘You think he’s dead?’

‘Just dozed off, they work these old boys hard.’

‘He should retire if he can’t stay awake.’

‘I don’t suppose he can afford to. Now leave him alone Tiffany.’

‘Seven point three million!’ I heard Tiffany’s honeyed voice exclaim. I opened one eye and peered out, my

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imagination hadn’t let me down. Late teens, blonde hair with designer labels stuck to every imaginable body part.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.’ The man’s gravelly voice and distinctive suit seemed familiar but I couldn’t place them.

‘I must have dozed off.’

‘I won’t tell the gallery if you don’t.’ The man winked at me and then I remembered. Brandon Reid, the famous chat show host, and his infamous daughter.

‘How can one picture be worth so much?’ Tiffany purred.

‘It represents whatever you want it to. The black hole is a symbol.’ I said without getting up.

‘It looks like a black circle.’ Tiffany strode up to the painting and examined it closer ‘Yep, just a black circle.’

‘I won’t buy it for your birthday then’ Brandon teased sending a shiver up my spine. He probably had enough money. I couldn’t allow that to happen.

‘I’d rather have a Porsche’ Tiffany said looping her hand through her father’s arm as she tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

‘Maybe mum would like it instead of that beach house in Barbados?’ Brandon gazed at the painting; weighing it up as an actual possibility. Tiffany yanked her arm away; her ploy to extract a new car from her father hadn’t worked. She changed tack.

‘She’d prefer the painting for sure and its Christmas soon. You can get that for mum and a Porsche for me’.

Brandon nodded his head while Tiffany hunched her shoulders up in a little excited jig. I didn’t share her enthusiasm and my mouth dried up as I realised Brandon was seriously contemplating paying seven point three million pounds, for my painting.

‘Do you know the artist?’ Brandon asked, finally acknowledging my presence.

‘No, I’m a security guard.’ I picked up my word search book and focused my anger away from Brandon.

When I peered up a few moments later, Tiffany stood on her own, agape.

‘Did you see where he went?’ her honeyed voice had gone up an octave and the shrillness made me wince.

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‘He probably went onto the next exhibition.’ The Black Hole painting shimmered and I could swear a lucky star shot across the bottomless black. *** ‘Hey Stan, how’s it been today?’ Jamie peered into the exhibition space.

‘The usual, you know.’

‘Four minutes to closing, shift’s nearly over.’ Jamie, twenty years my junior, had worked in the gallery for

two years compared to my thirty-six. But good lads were few and far between so I always gave him the time of day.

I settled back and counted down to closing ‘one, two, three… two-hundred and forty’. Nothing changed in my space but lights dimmed across the gallery and doors locked shut.

I heaved myself up and strode across the green and brown tiles. It had been a good day. The Black Hole shimmered and I stepped through into my own private gallery, a featureless white room. I strolled past the latest four pieces, savouring each one in turn.

The cityscape of Dubai radiated with intricate detail, tall skyscrapers lit up the night sky and if I squinted up close to the canvas, I could just see a man with red shoes strutting down the street, alone.

The painting of a jumbo jet landing on American soil had a retro style about it and a boy in a wheel chair waving from the upper-class deck.

I lingered on the wilderness lodge; the tranquil river scene calmed my nerves. I smiled when I noticed the old couple sitting on the jetty, arm in arm.

It was as if Turner himself had painted the heavenly Barbados sunset. The suited man on the beach in the stifling heat didn’t inhabit himself fully, his long sleeved jacket incongruous in the scene, but my smile broadened when I saw that he’d rolled up his trouser legs to let the warm sea wash over his toes.

As I reached the end of today’s gallery, a door swung open revealing more paintings and yet more doors.

Every painting an individual, but none so exceptional as the Black Hole (artist unknown) a masterpiece in many dimensions.

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Let me clear my throat before I begin...

By Fayroze Lutta

Let me clear my throat before I begin... One of these days it will be with meth. I need my Benzedrine fix. I need some sort of medicated-codeine-high-octane-behind-the-counter-legit-smack-kind-a-shit.

And so I found myself walking... It was still light out surprisingly as the days fall away too fast, by 5pm it’s like midnight out. I happened upon Lisa. I think I could be her some days, sitting next to her begging on a street corner so we could buy a packet of cigarettes together and split the ends.

Lisa was anxious she kept telling me she had to go change her coins into a note to make it something more manageable. I imagine it is less embarrassing at the tobacconist than to arrive splaying a mountain of dirty

silver coins on to the countertop. Furthermore I imagine it would be to buy those cheap and nasty ones. The Chinese cigarettes that feel like you have smoked asbestos filled fibreglass through a plastic straw.

That afternoon was different an older gentleman was passing by and recognised Lisa. He came and sat in between us on the bench. Purposefully he didn't say his name and he wasn't letting me in on it either.

He was well dressed - a navy blue blazer-white shirt and leather boating shoes. I was confused with what

sort of pants he was wearing. Until Lisa posed the question, “why he had blue ski pants on?” He replied that he “slept outside these days.” It was winter so he came cut-corrected in his ski apparel and added that he had made in the passing days, maybe weeks months or even years “the decision to live in his clothes.” I liked this guy.

He told us that he had to go into the bottle shop and would be back. Lisa then left to go make other peoples small coined offerings into a note. The gentleman returned, I told him Lisa would be back shortly. He sat

down next to me. I asked him what he had bought; he told me it was a bottle of, “Southern Comfort.”

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It only seemed apt all so fitting living in the city of the South under these southern skies and it was that other word as well that hovered and resonated in the air- comfort. It seemed to spell it all out for me – my mood.

I always imagined I would meet my end by being unceremoniously hit by a car. One night in a drunken state I found the location.

I guess it is what we all look for is comfort. To fill that void inside us that we no longer fill with the love of god and he had found his in his glass bottle filled up with amber liqueur like spirits. The effect temporary never permanent always wearing off. Perhaps like returning to his mother’s breast nuzzling into the warm and golden licks. I wish I could do that give into something completely with disregard for all other things. I have behaved like this on occasion and believe in addiction there is a relinquishing of living in prescribed modern terms but it is a love affair or liaison with nihilism that ends in fatalism giving into oblivion but I argue that we all must die someday.

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I always imagined I would meet my end by being unceremoniously hit by a car. One night in a drunken state I found the location. I recall the lure of the flashing lights of the heavy traffic on the corner of Beauchamp and Oxford Streets. That night on that corner it seemed all so tempting to do such a simple act as to put one foot in front of the other and step into the heavy moving metal.

It was obvious the gentleman had a gambling problem and was on the drink as well. I imagine black jack not the misery of the poker machines with their flashing lights and buzz-cock-high-pitched- ringing-in-your

-ears-giving-you-a-headache. He took the large hip flask sized glass bottle out of the paper bag wrapping and slowly unscrewed the lid. He then mentioned if he drank it all in one he would be paralytic he snarled a laugh. He had enough social graces to say, “Cheers,” to me and made a gesture with the bottle up towards the sky. I said, "Santé," he then usurped me and one better and said, "Saluté."

He placed the bottle to his mouth, his southern comfort, his mother’s glass nipple, his comfort. He titled his head back slightly he didn’t gulp or swallow the amber bourboneque-syrup just flowed down trickling down his throat. He had mastered this motion, this ritual, his throat didn't hesitate either it was waiting for this moment.

I felt I was a party to his misdeeds and impending paralysis. I couldn't stop myself I had to say something I said “woo-oh.” He stopped and looked at me. I looked at the bottle he had drunk about one-eighth.

I felt relieved in that moment that Lisa had returned. They now both felt awkward around me and left together. Lisa hadn't made enough money for a $5 note. I couldn't follow them they were trying to get away from me for fucks sake. I knew all too well that I was not low brow enough to beg with them too well dressed with my hair still wet hair from the shower.

At least they could see till the bottom of the bottle or until they made enough coins to make that five dollar note in their hand and they would have company. Unlike me they both knew exactly where they were going. I knew as well, the corner of High Street and Belmore Road just outside the Night Owl. It was obvious that I wasn't invited. Evidently too much like a tourist in their waking world.

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Interview

By Daniel Sansome Another day and still I’m unemployed. Though I could say I have a job. It’s job-hunting. Clearly, I’m not that good at it, but not many people are these days. Each day I go around handing out résumés and lining up for job interviews. Each job I go for, there are thousands of other contenders. Every interviewer says, “We’ll be in touch”, though these days they never seem to be. Turning on the morning news, all that is up for discussion is record job losses, unemployment, and businesses closing. The only job that seems secure now is those reporting on the job losses. According to the news reports, the country’s unemployment rate has risen to 75%, though we’re somewhat better off than others. Apparently, there are some countries where unemployment has hit 96%. Most of the world is in chaos. Nonessential services have been bludgeoned and even the vital ones have been quite drastically cut.

I had a job once; it was many years ago, almost too long to remember. I was working for a computer company as a technician. As soon as ‘it’ hit the world, everything was in chaos. First, it was the luxuries, but now even those essential jobs, like government, retail and agriculture, are few and far between. Somehow though, most people seem to get by. Plenty have died though; those who remain survive by returning to barter and trade. It really reminds you that, at the end of the day, you can’t eat your money.

Even though the chances of me actually getting another job soon, or possibly ever, are quite slim, I still persist. As the saying goes, “You’ve got to be in it to win it”.

So on this day, I applied for what I estimate to be job number 4397. In the fashion of the day, all applications are sent by pigeon; they don’t require wages like postmen. I only expected at most a courtesy reply. It was with complete shock that I received summons to the company’s HQ and a ‘successful applicant’ swipe card to gain access. I quickly packed some things, dressed in professional attire, and set out, riding my horse, Yertul, to the building.

When I arrived, I tied Yertul up to the horse post, alongside several other horses, and set out on foot. As I approached, I saw hundreds of people outside the impressive wrought iron gates; I assumed that these were

the protesting unemployed, desperate for a job. They noticed me, saw that I was dressed professionally, and then started to turn on me. I had to push and shove through the massive crowd, and once I had reached 31

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the front, I saw masses of security personnel guarding the entrance. There must be plenty of work in security these days. I walked towards the nearest officer, held out my swipe card and was granted access.

As I walked through the gates, I noticed a magnificent looking building that was made out of woven rope with transparent aluminium windows. The building was impossibly high and looked so natural that it seemed to have been there for millennia. I couldn’t imagine how it was staying erect, and it must have been prohibitively expensive. Perhaps a relic of the prosperous times, or evidence that, even now, the rich just keep getting richer. I arrived at the entrance to the building, opened the door, and walked inside.

It was infinitely crowded and yet there still seemed plenty of space. All the people were dressed in business attire and carrying briefcases; presumably everyone was here for the interview. Once again, my hopes were not high with so many applicants. But how were we to all be interviewed?

A few more people arrived, then a thump of metallic panels crashing around the doors, locking us inside. I guess if you were late, too bad. Voices rose in a furore of confusion.

Suddenly, we were plunged into darkness. Out of nowhere, a screen appeared, with the face of a wizened man displayed. He spoke in a resonant voice. “Welcome. Level one will begin momentarily. Prepare yourselves and good luck.” The face disappeared and we were back in temporary darkness.

For a moment I was full of trepidation about what this ‘level one’ was going to be. Then, floodlights clicked on in a blaze of light. Everyone squinted around and saw that each of us was standing next to a desk with a keypad on it. A new voice reverberated around the room. “Please sit down. Level one begins in 3…2…1… begin.” Then, individual screens popped up in front of everyone.

I looked at my screen and the word ‘begin’ faded away, only to be replaced with ‘die’. There was a cursor flashing below the word, and I immediately assumed that I should type as fast as I could. At first, there were just random short words, which then progressed to complicated lengthy ones and finally became random letters, numbers and symbols, with each different to the last. We typed furiously for what felt like hours, but in reality, was perhaps only a few minutes, and then all at once, every single screen evaporated away from view.

The wizened man’s face returned to the central screen. “Level one is complete. That level focused on finger dexterity whilst typing. Successful competitors will continue to level two, which is located in the floor above us. Your chairs will take you there. All unsuccessful candidates thank you for your application and goodbye.” And with that, numerous chairs and their occupants fell into the black voids that suddenly 32

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opened up beneath them. There was a collective sigh of relief from everyone remaining, and plenty of sighs, judging by many people’s looks of fear, were also mingled with some apprehension about where those unsuccessful ended up.

My chair took me upwards to level two. I wondered just how many of these levels there were going to be.

Once again, we were all in a very large room, though now with less people. Our chairs lined us up in an orderly fashion, and we all waited for darkness and the screen once more. As expected, the room went pitch black and the wizened man’s face appeared. This time he said in a tone of slight revere, “Congratulations, you have reached level two. Level two will begin shortly. Good luck.” Once more, the face disappeared and we were left in the darkness until the floodlights returned.

This time however, we each found ourselves seated in front of a desk, beside which was a filing cabinet.

The reverberating voice returned and said, “Level two begins in three…two…one…begin.” Once the word ‘begin’ faded away, a stack of documents appeared on the desk. I soon realised that I had to file these documents in the filing cabinet; well, what else could you be asked to do with these things? I stood up and started glancing over the documents and rushing to shove them into the appropriate drawers.

Time passed quickly, and it seemed like we had only just begun when the remaining documents spontaneously combusted. Everyone sat back down in their chairs and awaited the results. No one knew how “they” would check how much we had done and even if we had done it accurately, but presumably they had a method. The man’s face returned. “Level two is complete. That level focused on how well you could organize, file and archive documents under pressure. People who have passed can continue to level three, on the floor above us. All people who have failed, thank you for your application. You have done well to get this far. Goodbye.” This time, people knew what to expect, so I could see others clutching their chairs in anticipation. Their terrified anxious faces mirrored my own as I wondered if I had done enough to pass.

Once the screen vanished, even more chairs and their inhabitants than last time fell into black abysses below them. I was curious to know whether the chairs fell just down to the floor below or all the way to the basement like the previous evictees.

My chair once again took me up to the next level and again we were aligned, but this time there was more space between everyone. I looked around at the number of people. There couldn’t be more than 500 re-

maining. The lights were turned off and the old man’s face returned. This time he spoke with mild veneration. “You have all done quite well to reach level three. It will begin shortly and this time you will be tested 33

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on fortitude. So stay strong and try your hardest, you will surely need it.” Once more, his face disappeared and treadmills materialised next to each of us.

The other person’s voice returned and announced, “Please step onto your treadmill. At regular intervals, the speed will increase. There are 20 speed settings. In addition, there are also 10 incline settings, which progress after every second increase in speed. At no time can your feet come into contact with anything other than the treadmill conveyer belt. If your feet come into contact with the solid sides of the treadmill or the floor you will be immediately removed. You may hold on to the handrails, but at no time can you remove your weight from the conveyer belt, as that will result in elimination. This level will continue until there are 100 people remaining. Once the treadmill is at the steepest and fastest settings, it will be a test of endurance. Be prepared, level three begins in 3…2…1…start running.”

All the treadmills started, and the noise of 500 people running was thunderous. At the beginning, it was quite easy, but I knew sooner or later my legs would start to burn and I would become short of breath. I just hoped that 400 other people left before I did.

It wasn’t long until the first person faltered. Their scream pierced the air for a few seconds before it was cut short with a thud. At first I thought surely they weren’t that distraught at failing to get the job, so what happened and what was that thud? As I continued to jog, I noticed that behind each of us was a black void, just like those the previous unsuccessful candidates fell into. The thought of falling right down into the basement was terrifying, and pushed me to run harder. I could see from the looks on the other people’s faces that they were afraid of the same thing. I wondered if we’d survive the fall.

It surprisingly wasn’t that long until the voice returned and pronounced that we were now halfway through the difficulty settings. I was going quite strong at this point and I knew I could probably hold until the final increase, but I wasn’t sure how long I would last after that. Looking around I could see that over half of the treadmills were empty, their occupants having fallen into the holes behind them with their screams intermittently breaking the monotony of labored breathing and feet pounding on the treadmills.

Now my legs began to burn and my breath started to become laboured. “The final increase of both speed and incline, will commence in 3…2…1…”.

It didn’t take long after the final increase for my legs to feel ablaze in excruciating pain. I knew I could not

last much longer, and I was praying that there were others who would falter first. I was greatly comforted when the voice notified us, “There are only 101 people remaining. The next person who goes will be the 34

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last.” I could see some of the others look around, as I did, to see who was struggling the most and likely going to be the next to fall. I desperately did not want to be the final person to fall.

The next thirty seconds felt like eternity. I was faltering and knew that I would fall off in a moment. I began to slide down to the edge of the treadmill. The knowledge of the black hole behind me spurred me on for a moment, but I couldn’t sustain my effort. I was slipping further down the treadmill. I could feel myself on the edge of the treadmill, just about to go over the edge.

I held on for a few more moments, before I tripped slightly, which sent me backwards towards the hole,

and the abyss below. I yelled in fear, unsure of my fate.

The fall was short. Much shorter than I had thought, and with very little pain. Looking around, I realised that, I was still in the same room! The hole had been closed over! Someone else must have fallen through just before I did.

I was saved! I looked around to see my competitors, and all of them were almost as buggered as I was.

The man’s face returned and he said with moderate approval, “Level three is complete. That level focused on your cardiovascular fitness and endurance.” What that had to do with the job was anyone’s guess. He continued, “Congratulations, I’m sure all of you are worn out, so there will be a half an hour break before the next level commences. I suggest you make good use of it. The next level will be … challenging.” His face was then replaced by a countdown timer that began at 30 minutes. All the treadmills had disappeared and couches, buffet tables laden with food and water, and even some magazines and books to read, replaced them.

I immediately went and grabbed an apple and a glass of water, and sank down into one of the couches. No one really talked, but people were eying one another, as if judging their competition. I had no idea what they would throw at us for the next level, nor how many levels remained, but having made it this far, I was starting to feel confident that, perhaps, I could get the job after all.

The half an hour went by unexpectedly slowly and I was still a little tired by the end of it, but I was glad it was over so we could get onto the next level and reach the end of all this. “3…2…1… your chairs will take you to level four,” the voice said as we started ascending. “In level four you will be split into ten groups.

These have been chosen based on your height, weight, muscle mass and IQ. Please stand up off your chairs. Level four will begin shortly.”

Everyone was now standing in an empty room arranged in ten groups of ten. “This is level four. Only 10 35

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people will move on to the final level. One person from each group will advance. That is all.”

After the man had finished speaking, walls sprung up, surrounding my group, and presumably the whole room had been split up into 10 sections. The other voice said, “Level four begins in 3…2…1…go.”

We stood there for a moment, silent, looking at one another in confusion. What were we supposed to be doing? All we knew was that somehow, one of us would progress. My group looked pretty evenly matched, though one man seemed stronger than everyone else. One person suggested that we all choose a winner, but no one else agreed with that. After all, how could we choose when we were all so desperate? The stronger

man suggested that we all fight to the “death”, so to speak. That suggestion was immediately taken as a threat, and everyone spread out, eyeing each other off as enemies. The first man who had spoken questioned if we were really all fine with fighting to the death. No one responded.

Our Mexican standoff continued for only a short while. The stronger man made the first move, using his briefcase as a weapon. After that, all hell broke loose as everyone began to attack each other. I could see people using briefcases as weapons and as shields. There were suits and shirts being ripped and shredded.

A tie was being used to strangle someone. People were taking off their shoes to hurl them at others or use them to beat somebody else. A witness to the fight would have found it comical. I mean, ten fully-grown men, all dressed up in suits and ties, desperately wrestling with each other. But I must say that it was anything but comical to those involved. There were many bruised body parts, scratches, scrapes, headaches, torn suits and also a couple of damaged egos.

After a while, there were only two people remaining in the fight: the stronger man and, more surprisingly, myself. All others had forfeited or were unconscious. We were both standing as far away from each other as possible, trying to catch our breaths. As soon as we did, we both ran towards each other and began to tussle. The other man’s strength was greater than I assumed, and I was sent onto my back. The man walked over to me, and as he did so, I kicked my foot towards his stomach. I landed the blow, and he stumbled backwards. I got up off the floor and then walked around him and kicked him to the ground. Then I quickly moved to place my foot over his throat. The man struggled for a moment, but as I placed more and more pressure on his throat, he soon gave up. I had won! Shortly after his surrender, everyone else in my section fell away through the trapdoors.

I waited, wondering what I would have to do in the final level. Surely not another fight? The walls soon vanished and the man’s face once again appeared and this time he spoke with great deference. “Level four 36

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is complete. Well done to you all, you now have a one in ten chance of acquiring the position here. The final level will be a proper interview in front of the board members, including myself. On your way to the boardroom, which is located on the top floor, you will find individual bathroom facilities with a change of business attire if yours needs replacing. You have one hour until your chairs will leave the bathroom to go to the boardroom. If you are not on the chair, you will be left behind - no excuses. So clean up and relax for a little while.”

We all sat back down on our chairs and were taken to our own individual bathrooms, which were extrava-

gant. Such luxury I had never seen before. I was astounded that this could exist while nearly everyone else was living in poverty.

I quickly had a shower, changed into a clean suit and put on a new tie. Despite my anxiety about the following interview, in such calming surroundings, I found myself able to relax. The time passed quickly and I sat back down in my chair and was taken up the many floors to the boardroom.

We were all seated in the vestibule of the top floor and waited for our turn to be called into the interview. A receptionist told the first person that they were ready to see him. The man never came back into the vestibule; we could only assume that he went out a different exit.

A couple more people went into the boardroom, and then the receptionist came up to me and said, “The board are ready to see you.” I stood up and walked towards the boardroom. I briefly paused before I pushed open the door, and then I stepped inside.

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Sugarville

by Apollonia Sansepolcro

Justin had dirty blonde hair, pale skin and a lilting working-class Georgia accent that you could listen to forever. He had come up from Atlanta – as I had from Memphis – to go to university in Chicago,

and we landed two floors apart in a cinderblock dorm at the edge of the lake that seemed to funnel cold wind right into our bones. We gravitated towards each other instantly, not so much because of our common penchant for "y'all" but because we were the only two poor kids in the immediate vicinity. While roommates tossed two hundred dollar sweaters on the floor and complained about how they couldn't make it to Vail for the winter break, we stole food from the dining hall and carefully considered which movie was worth the five bucks to see. We were stuck together at the hip and we liked it that way.

Justin, like me, had a “work-study” job, which is a job you get for “demonstrating financial need” and gives you part-time work for minimum wage, paid out by the government. It barely covered the books you needed to buy, but since there weren't a lot of kids with financial need around, it was easy to get one, you just had to agree not to take other jobs at the same time. I wondered how they could figure out that you had another job – did someone snitch on you? And who exactly would snitch on someone for holding down two jobs while going to school full time?

Justin managed to find out. He took a second job as a dishwasher in a restaurant – which didn't even have him on the books – and the day we returned from winter break he was dismissed from his workstudy job for non-compliance. The dishwashing job ended soon after that when the restaurant went out of business.

All of this news was delivered in one languid run-on sentence as we sat in the back of the local fast food joint we were fond of sneaking into. (We had to sneak in because the thought of paying four or five bucks for one meal seemed ridiculous.) He had no idea if somebody snitched on him but now he was banned from work-study and out of work altogether. He seemed nonplussed, quoting the favorite Margaret

Mitchell line with a curled-lip smile: “Southerners can never resist a losing cause”.

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Three weeks later he was treating me to an awful lot of petit fours and fancy teas in a cozy banquette at the Russian Tea Room downtown. There were wry smiles all around, though I wasn't sure if I was smiling because the staff kept giving us stink eye or because I worried this was some sort of last meal before Justin made a messy exit.

We were walking the freezing, abandoned beach that lead up to our dorm before Justin casually dropped that he had found a front. He had bumped into him at a party, and after a long night of drinking, his new best friend agreed to give him a brick of pot with the promise that Justin would have the money

for him in two weeks' time. That was two weeks and two days ago.

So it was settled: Justin was the new dealer on campus. He was calm and charming and had that pleasant drawl that lent him an air of gentlemanliness, especially to the girls, and overnight everyone seemed to know him. With his newfound popularity it was easy for me to start slipping away. I became a model student, took up jogging at the dank and smelly university gym, and talked my way into a second job babysitting two kids for a wealthy family not far from campus. In exchange they gave me a room to live in, and in no time I had disappeared from Justin's life as he had from mine.

Winter became an endless march through bleak, grey sodden days and nights that were so cold it was a joke. I had never experienced cold like that before, the kind that made my eyes water only to have the tears freeze at the ends of my eyelashes. The exchange kids from Venezuela and I would trade bugeyed glances when we passed in the street, swathed in mufflers and hats and layers and layers and layers of clothes. Meanwhile the guy I used to live down the hall from in the dorm, the one from Alaska, would sometimes tramp to class in shorts. I started to hate things for no reason.

It was becoming increasingly clear I was not making enough money to get through the rest of the year. The book list for the next quarter of classes was impressively long. I couldn't get a refund for student housing and I was charged for abandoning my room; more invoices for mysterious fees arrived, with little recourse to challenge them. Every unexpected expense was a minor terror. I signed up for any paying research study I could find, an endless parade of poorly designed psychological tests and interviews. I sold blood until I was dizzy.

I grew restless, and when an overnight storm dumped enough snow to cancel classes and shut down the city, I ended up walking for hours through an empty space of powdery 39

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drifts, bitter winds and unusual quiet. By evening, stiff and steeped in self-pity, I had called Justin, who cheerfully agreed to meet up with me at the campus church half-way between his place and mine.

The church was more of a chapel, and I knew its doors would be unlocked, with the lights and even the heat on, though the priest had gone home for the night. Inside was warm with wood and candles and stained glass, and I did not expect the little flood of exasperation that came over me as we walked inside.

Justin stretched out in a pew, flashed a shiny watch as he unbuttoned his brand new coat, and seemed in no hurry. I wanted to ask him if the sweater he was wearing was cashmere, I wanted to ask him how big his

new apartment was, I wanted to say to him “take us the little foxes that spoil the vines for our vines have tender grapes”, as if that made any sense.

Instead we exchanged pleasantries and he offered me a job. Only I would not be working for him; apparently he had enough people. But his connections were expanding, and he knew someone further down in the city who could use a hand. I told him I didn't want to handle product, which he found very funny. He tried to explain what I would be doing and seemed to confuse “stool pigeon” with “carrier pigeon”. I wondered if he was stoned. He laughed and told me how to get to Sugarville from the train.

Sugarville is not a name on a map but a tiny neighborhood wedged between a cemetery and industrial burnout: a few apartment blocks, empty lots and overflowing trash bins. The local factions of Latin Kings and Gangster Disciples didn't even bother to claim it as territory, and I doubt any cops bothered with that part of their beat. Still, nature abhors a vacuum, and this tiny fiefdom was lorded over by a small-time dealer who was just smart (or more likely lucky) enough to operate without much notice. He was lazy, oldfashioned, and very, very paranoid. He was also my new boss.

The job, thankfully, was simple. The boss thought his phone was tapped, so he quit using it. He figured his house was bugged, so he didn't like to discuss business there. The same was true for his car. Every pay phone was watched by cops, and every bar in the neighborhood had UCs lurking about, or at least snitches. How was he going to talk to his distributors, his suppliers, his enforcers? Standing out in the cold with a mobile phone? The shadow army of police, imagined rivals and other dreamed up enemies had him surrounded. And the neighborhood kids were not to be trusted. What he needed was a go-between.

From the outside.

I started the day I met him. He pulled a fist-sized wad of bills from his pocket, peeled the top layers 40

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off and handed them to me. He gave me a message and told me who to deliver it to, in a house about eight blocks away. It was freezing cold and I got lost, and I did not expect to be out that long in wind that went through me like thousands of needles. But I had just been handed about a day's wages from my work-study job, for twenty minutes of effort. Counting the ride on the train it took an hour. And once I had time to demonstrate basic competency and trustworthiness, I was given many errands, as many as I was willing to show up for, enough to pay for every expense and then some.

In addition to messages, I carried envelopes, big and small, always sealed. Like a kid at Christmas I

would give each a little shake and try to guess the contents, though I was never tempted to try and open anything. Smaller envelopes had folded pieces of paper or little baggies. Larger envelopes had solid packs and unidentifiable tiny objects like tools. On at least one occasion I carried an envelope with an unmistakably L-shaped dead weight, which I handed off to the recipient like I was holding a dead rat by the tail.

There was no trouble but it put a bad taste in my mouth; it would be my luck to run across a cop with something like that in hand.

A few months rolled by, and slowly, snow turned to freezing rain and then rain, the sun came out more, and I wore less layers, felt lighter. I began to understand the concept of “spring fever�, as mild temperatures and sunlight seemed like a minor miracle to behold. The work was steady, and the boss even took a shine to me, sometimes handing me hundred dollar bills for an errand. Actually I didn't like when he did this – hundred dollar bills were hard to get rid of. No store would take them, and I got such dirty looks at the bank that I gave up trying to deposit any there. Then by accident I happened across a falafel stand that would take them for five bucks worth of food, no questions asked; God bless them, they had terrible falafel.

By May it was all over. I took the train down to Sugarville as usual only to be told my services were no longer needed. Had I stopped off at the bars too often, become a little too familiar in the neighborhood?

It didn't matter. I had made it through the first year at university with a tiny bankroll and possibly some education to show for it. And I still had my work-study job, with a promise to be re-hired when school started up again in September.

Classes were over a few weeks later and I had lined up three jobs for the summer: babysitting in the early morning, a regular 9-to-5 job for the week, and another for nights and weekends. I calculated how 41

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much I could save and started looking for investments. It was all very boring. Everyone I knew from school was going to Europe for vacation, and the area around the university emptied out. I wanted to see Justin again, but he had become very difficult to track down.

On a very warm day in June, on a rare day off, I was standing on the train platform with a mix of sweaty tourists and locals when I saw him, for the last time. He was, as usual, impeccably groomed, in a fresh t-shirt and pressed pants, but his watch was gone, and his sneakers were dirty. His eyes had the faraway look you get when you're somewhere with no one to talk to and time to kill, an idle dreamy look.

When the train arrived he stopped to let the woman next to him go in first before he slipped into the crowded car. I stayed on the platform to wait for the next train.

He had bumped into him at a party, and after a long night of drinking, his new best friend agreed to give him a brick of pot with the promise that Justin would have the money for him in two weeks' time. That was two weeks and two days

ago.

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THE JUDGEMENT

Robin: So, what did you think?

David: Not too bad. Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up.

Robin: “Leopard Skin?”

David: Well . . .

Robin: You made lots of “huh?” noises while you were reading it.

David: It was hard to get through. I really like the idea . . .

Robin: Just not the execution. I know. Some of the sentences weren’t, well, sentences. Reading it was like walking on a broken sidewalk. You have to pay so much attention to where you are stepping, you miss your surroundings.

David: Which is the opposite of how I felt about “Let Me Clear My Throat Before I Begin.” The story was forgettable . . .

Robin : It wasn’t really a story . . .

David: . . . but the writing wasn’t bad.

Robin: There were some good lines. What did you think about “Seven Point Three Million Pounds?”

David: I thought it was cute, which is probably a terrible insult.

Robin: It was readable, but a bit too cheesy for me.

David: That’s because you have no soul.

Robin. Ha ha. Do you think everyone really disappeared into the painting?

David: I think so. I don’t think they were symbolic disappearances.

Robin: I don’t know. That was my only problem with the story. Wouldn’t you call the police if your spouse or child just vanished?

David: If it was you? Of course.

Robin: Nice try.

David: I actually didn’t have a problem with that. I just felt there was no real conflict. If the story 43

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continued to the next day and someone actually bought the painting, that might be interesting. Speaking of endings, how about “Interview?”

Robin: So much potential. First, it’s a funny story, and I loved the descriptions of the different levels of ‘interviews.’ But it just stopped, like the writer hit a mandatory word count.

David: There are two ways to end a story without ending a story. One is to leave the reader wondering which door the narrator or protagonist will choose; thereby, letting the reader fantasize about his or her own choice, and the other is to stop mid-story, no resolution, not even a punch line, which just pisses everyone off.

Robin: Feel better?

David: I just had so much hope for this one.

Robin: I had hope for “Sugarville.”

David: I liked it.

Robin: It was okay. The writing is good, but it felt kind of predictable. Maybe I’ve read too many similar stories.

David: It was simple, but it wasn’t simplistic.

Robin: It did remind me of my own work-study days. Unfortunately, the story wasn’t strong enough in the beginning to keep me from reminiscing, and I found I had to go back and reread several paragraphs.

David: Which just leaves us with “The Man With No Nails.”

Robin: Excellent.

David: It needs a light edit, but this is the one I wish we would have published.

Robin: It was fascinating, especially from an outsider’s perspective. My only complaint was the title.

There was a nice line in the story: ‘I seemed to have stopped being one of us and started being one of them.’ One of Them should have been the title.

David: So we’re in agreement.

Robin: I think so.

David: The stories, from bottom to top are: “Leopard Skin,” “Let Me Clear My Throat Before I Begin,” “Seven Point Three Million Pounds,” “Interview,” “Sugarville” . . . And the winner is . . .

Robin: The Man With No Nails.

David: Hey, I wanted to say that.

Robin: Maybe next time.

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THE END OF THE LINE

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