Lost on Tib Street

She caught the number 42 into town, from the stop by Tesco. She sat next to a window and looked at the cars queuing to leave the Tesco car park, blocked in their escape by the labouring, lingering bus. Closing her eyes, she felt the vibrations of the bus’s clapped out engine pulsing through her body, vibrations that failed to move her.

A man got up from the seat across the aisle from her, leaning over her with his sweat-smelling shirt close to her nose.

“Excuse me, love, do you mind if I just...?” He reached to open the vent at the top of her window.

“No, go ahead,” she said, trying not to breathe in his stale odour, turning her head towards the window, away from him.

He sat back down, and she continued to sit looking out of the window. The bus finally pulled away and began its long asthmatic trundle along Wilmslow Road, north to the city centre, past Withington and Fallowfield, Whitworth Park, along Oxford Road and up to the bus station at Piccadilly Gardens. She gazed through the window, but she did not take in the things she was seeing: the mothers pushing prams along the pavement in Withington, gazing through the shop windows at goods they would never buy, their babies enjoying the sunshine; the students hurrying to catch the bus to University and lectures they would not take in; the midday drinkers sitting outside Kro2 in the hot sunshine, shaded by the canopies over the tables.

She left the bus at the bus station and walked across the gardens, past the newly installed fountains. It was a working day, there were no children playing in the water, getting drenched by the spray, just the odd office worker on their lunch, and the usual drunks and homeless sprawled on the concrete steps, idling on the grass, some of them snoring, reminding her of the bus she had just left.

She skirted to the left of the Costa Café and up along Tib Street. It was hot. The sunlight dazzled her, making her squint, bouncing back from buildings, road and pavement. Blossom was falling from the cherry trees by the junction with Church Street. The breeze whipped the blossom and the dust of the day into bouncing eddies, lifting it occasionally to blind her further.

Tib Street. Spring. A hot day in Manchester. She wandered along the pavement, ignoring Lemn Sissay’s words beneath her feet, past the ginnel through to the back of The King.

As she passed it, she had a flash of memory. That place for loiterers, tryst-keepers, deal-makers. That place that stood to the past of her, where he had stolen the last of her and left her hollow and old before her time.

The ceramic birds that nested on the ledges of the buildings watched her as she hurried in the hot spring sun. She was late. She knew what he was like when people kept him waiting. She remembered too well. The bruises on her flesh had faded, but those in her memory had yet to dull.

She turned left into Dorsey Street, west, as the white on blue of the tileware could have told her if she had only raised her eyes, and stopped at Cord Bar. Her phone rang. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes and dug it out of her bag, careful not to disturb the cloth wrapped object she was here to deliver.

“Hello?”

“Are you here yet?”

“Yes, I’m just outside.” She looked in through the window, but as ever the interior was too dark to be able to tell if he was there on the ground floor, or downstairs in the other bar. “I’ll come and find you.”

She rang off before he had chance to answer. She pulled open the door into the bar. She scanned the booth in the window then walked to the back of the upstairs room, looking into each booth along the way. He was not there. The booths were all full of people chattering and laughing, and she wondered why they were not out in the sunshine chattering instead. She wondered why they were not walking the blossom-strewn streets of Manchester, enjoying this rare spring heat.

She went downstairs, feeling her bag bounce against her back, aware of its contents, aware of what she had to do with it. He was sitting on the banquette opposite the stairs. He was staring at her, bouncing his leg, agitated, coiled. She stood at the foot of the stairs. The downstairs bar was quiet, just one member of staff, wiping the counter. She felt as though she had stepped into a scene in East Enders.

“Have you brought it?” he asked.

She nodded, feeling the weight of it in her bag.

He sat forward, both legs now still, feet planted firmly on the floor, and held out a hand to her.

“Give us it, then,” he said, calmly, as though it was a book she was lending him, or a pound of potatoes, or something mundane.

She stepped towards him. ‘Give us it, then.’ She heard the echo of his words in her head. ‘Give us it, then.’ She put her hand into the bag, dislodging the piece of cloth it was wrapped in, and curled her fingers around the cool steel of the pistol. A Beretta M92FS 9mm. Almost one kilo of steel, fully loaded, ready to use. The same weight as a bag of sugar. ‘Give us it, then,’ he had said, and she was tempted.

She lifted it carefully from her bag, checking that the bar person was not looking at them. She held it out to him.

“Jesus, you could have wrapped it or something,” he hissed. “F’fuck’s sake!”

She smiled. Irony, she thought, don’t you love it?

He took it from her hand and inspected it down between his legs, down where the low table would obscure the vision of anyone who might be looking their way or come downstairs and see.

She stood, hovering, uncertain, while he checked the gun.

“Have you got the money?” she asked.

He grunted and nodded his head.

“Can I have it please?”

He nodded his head over to where a brown paper bag was sitting on the banquette beside him. This was all so clichéd, she thought. This didn’t happen in Cord Bar. There was a burst of laughter from upstairs. She picked up the paper bag and stashed it in her own bag.

He pushed the pistol into his jacket pocket.

“So how are you?” he asked, pulling a packet of B&H out of his other pocket.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Yeah, you look it.” He lit up, drawing deeply on the cigarette then eyeing her through his exhaled smoke. “You had much work lately?”

“Enough.” She was still standing just in front of him. She was remembering the first time, in that ginnel leading to the back door of The King, by the blue plastic dumpster. Sent there by him to close the deal. Sent there by him with the threat of a beating, which she had received anyway. Sixteen years old and petrified of what might happen if she screwed up.

“You got yourself a bloke?” He picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, not looking at her. She did not reply.

He drained the glass that had been sitting on the table in front of him, then stood up. She took a step backwards to let him pass. He paused at the foot of the stairs.

“Send my best to your mother, will you?” Then he was gone.

She slung her bag back over her shoulder, feeling the weight of it settle into the small of her back, less heavy now the gun was gone, the strap crossing her body. Then she turned and followed her father up the stairs and out into the bright spring sunshine again.

© J R Hargreaves 2003

Snowstorm

Rain. Always fucking rain. The rain had lashed down since she got up that morning. The air was sticky and oppressive, making it a hot, miserable wet day. She pushed her sodden fringe out of her eyes and hefted the last box out of the car boot. That was it. The last of the things from her house.

She carried the box up the path to Steve’s house. Her house. He appeared in the doorway.

“Here, give me that,” he said, taking the box from her. Immediately her arms felt as light as air, as though they were rising away from her body. She followed him into the house. Boxes were stacked everywhere, from the front room to the dining room to the kitchen. She placed her hands at the back of her waist and stretched, looking through to the back garden. She loved these old semis and the way the ground floor seemed to stretch on forever.

Steve put the box down on top of another, causing the bottom one to crumple slightly from the accumulated weight.

“Oi! Watch it!” she said, scooping the top box up and looking round for somewhere else to put it. There was nowhere else, of course, so she put it back down where Steve had placed it. Steve laughed.

“Look at you,” he said, “you’re soaking.”

He took her hand.

“Come upstairs a minute,” he said, pulling her towards the hall. She pulled back against him.

“There isn’t time,” she said.

He pulled her again and reluctantly she began to follow him. His eyes were full of mischief and electricity.

“Come upstairs, I’ll find you a towel. We’ll dry you off,” he told her.

She sighed. They were climbing the stairs now, Steve still holding her hand. She looked at the back of his head. His hair was getting long, but she liked it. It softened him somehow. She wanted to stand up close to him and breathe in the scent of his cleanness.

At the top of the stairs they paused. Steve looked at her, trying not to smile.

“You go in the bedroom. Get your wet things off,” he said, turning to open the door to the airing cupboard. “I’ll bring you a towel.”

She walked to the bedroom and pushed open the door. Her whole body was weary from carrying boxes from house to car to house. The hot sticky day had left her drained of energy. The door swung open and she heard a faint click then a low whirring. The room was in darkness, the curtains drawn.

“What are you up to?” she asked, standing on the threshold of the room.

“Just go in,” Steve said from behind her, his voice muffled, his head inside the airing cupboard.

She stepped into the room. The lights on the central spot system clicked on. Suddenly she was standing inside one of those toy snowstorms, the ones with the plastic dome and the unnaturally blue skies. She stopped breathing for a moment. Sparkles of light danced against the walls and ceiling and played across her body like falling glitter. It was magical. Her eyes could not take in the dancing patches of light quickly enough, compelled to follow their scatter around the room.

Steve stood in the doorway behind her. “Well?” he said softly.

She could not speak. Her whole being was consumed with looking, trying to drink it in. She looked down to watch the light speckle and shimmer across her hands, her torso. She looked up to see where this space dust was coming from.

“Well?” said Steve again from the doorway.

They made love under the glitter of the snowstorm, her bones melting, her eyes leaking. Later, they sat among the half-unpacked boxes in the kitchen.

Steve sat to her left, his strong hands wrapped around his mug of tea, talking. She did not listen, replaying the snowstorm in her mind. She stretched out her hand and traced the pattern of veins and bones on the back of his hands with her forefinger.

Mentally, she listed the things she loved him for. The first time their eyes had met in that dingy club where he was the resident dj, how she had not wanted to look away, ever. The first time they held hands, walking down Wilbraham Road past Safeways. He had just taken her hand. No conversation, just a calm action. He had gripped her hand just right, his fingers locking naturally with hers as though they belonged. The way he seemed to complete her, without her knowing why.

Stupid little things like that signify, she thought, still tracing her forefinger over his veins. She looked up. He was gazing off into the distance, through to the front room. His eyes were wintry hard, almost flinty. Then he closed his eyes slowly, and opened them again to look at her, and the warmth returned.

He gazed at her, smiling. Suddenly, he stood up and turned on the radio. Turning to face her he said, “Let’s dance.”

She sat and looked at him. “I’m not dancing,” she laughed.

He held out a hand to her, palm up. “Dance with me. Please?”

She shook her head, still laughing. The music on the radio was some girl band, the rhythm angular. She couldn’t dance to this. She couldn’t really dance full stop. Steve began to jig about, singing along in a falsetto voice.

“I should maybe play this tomorrow night,” he said, as he stood with his back to her, shaking his bum. She grabbed it with both hands, squeezing it tightly.

”Oi, oi!” he said over his shoulder. “That’s a bit personal. I barely know you, missus.”

She put her hands on his waist and pulled him down onto her lap.

“I’ll crush you,” he warned.

She didn’t speak, just buried her face into his shirt, breathing in the smell of him. He tolerated it for 30 seconds, then stood up.

“Your legs have gone flat,” he said, casually. Then he drew a box towards him along the table. “Come on, let’s get cracking with these.”

There was so much stuff, she wasn’t sure what they were going to do with it. His stuff and her stuff, two households merging. She unwrapped a teapot. Her mind wandered. She unwrapped another teapot. She thought of how quickly this had happened. She unwrapped another teapot.

“How many teapots have you got?” Steve was looking at her incredulously.

She smiled guiltily. “Five,” she said.

Steve shook his head. “I won’t ask why,” he told her. “But you know you’re not right, don’t you?”

She reached across to him, lashing out with her outstretched arm. He danced away from her.

“Careful,” he laughed. “There’s crockery here. Teapots, you know.”

She grabbed a tea towel from the towel rail by the sink and chased him, trying to flick the towel against his legs. But his legs were longer than hers and he was able to stay out of her reach. He ran into the living room. She stood in the doorway, panting slightly from the exertion, the tea towel hanging from her hand. She let it drop to the floor, looking at him the whole time as he stood there, laughing at her and beautiful.

The telephone rang, making her jump. Neither of them moved.

“It’ll be your mother,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, maintaining eye contact.

“Don’t you think you should answer it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

The phone rang on. They stood staring at each other.

“So,” Steve said, eventually, not moving. “You’ve moved in then.”

She smiled. “Yes,” she whispered. “I have.”

There was a loud crack of thunder. Steve looked past her and through the kitchen window to the sky outside.

“Thank god for that,” he said. “Maybe the heat will lift a bit now.”

She yawned.

“You’re tired,” he said.

She looked at him sleepily, and he carried her up the stairs to bed.

The next day dawned bright and hot. She stretched luxuriously in the bed they now shared. She could see half mirror-balls dotted around the room, the source of last night’s snowstorm. Steve slumbered on beside her. The sun was leaking into the room round the edges of the curtains. The window had a halo of light. She lay with her arms above her head, her hands holding the bars of the headboard, remembering.

She looked at the clock. It was 9.30. She got up out of the bed. Steve stirred and muttered then settled back into sleep. She went slowly downstairs, savouring the silence.

In the kitchen, she lifted the blind and looked out at the back garden. One of the neighbours was already up, out in the garden, mowing the lawn. It was all so suburban.

She filled the kettle and set it to boil, then placed the coffee grounds in the cafetière. She loved coffee in the morning, its sharp bitterness, the sensation of it hitting her stomach, the wake-up buzz it gave her.

She unlocked and opened the back door to let some air circulate through the house. It was still hot. Even though she was naked, she went out into the garden. Sod whether the neighbours could see her. It would give them a suburban frisson to see her lardy arse on a Sunday morning.

The grass was cool beneath her feet. She didn’t know how Steve managed to keep his lawn so nice. At home (she smiled) – at her old house – the lawn was a nightmare. Full of weeds and moss, boggy and poorly drained. Every spring and autumn since she had lived there, she had thrown fivers, otherwise known as lawn feed, at it.

The morning sun was warm on her skin. She stood in the middle of the lawn, head thrown back to receive the full warmth of the sun on her face, worshipping. There was only the slightest breeze.

She heard Steve walk out of the house. She turned to face him. He was grinning at her, his face lit up by his mega-watt smile. He held out a cup of coffee to her.

“Morning, missus,” he said. She took the cup and grinned back at him. “Enjoying yourself?” he added.

She took a mouthful of coffee and looked at him over the top of the cup, before lowering it and smiling. She did not reply. He reached out a hand and brushed it against her body. Electricity shot through her.

“What do you want to do today?” he asked.

She thought for a moment, then replied, “Let’s go for a wander round, get some breakfast at Battery Park, or something.”

“Deal,” he said. “Think you’ll be able to manage clothes, you naturist?”

She laughed and looked down at her naked body.

“It’s very nice,” he told her, “but what must the neighbours think?”

While Steve showered, she got ready, dancing craply around the bedroom to the radio, pulling on pants, vest top and linen trousers. She ruffled her hair up, then regarded herself in the mirror. For her age, she wasn’t doing too badly.

Steve emerged from his shower, a towel round his waist.

“So coy, Mr Brenner,” she teased.

He grinned. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” she replied, turning back to the mirror to apply some lip gloss. “I feel nice.”

He stood behind her and nuzzled his face into her neck. “Mmm. You smell nice, too. All outdoorsy. You should go naked into the garden more often.”

She laughed, then turned to face him. “Come on. Get dressed. I’m ready. I want my breakfast.”

“Can we go to Barbakan?” Steve started to get dressed. “I’m in the mood for a spicy sausage sizzler.”

She sat cross-legged on the bed, looking at his behind while he rummaged in the drawer for clean underwear.

“Sounds good to me,” she said languidly. Then she sighed. “I love your bum,” she told him.

The door bell rang.

“Jesus! On a Sunday?” Steve said, frowning. “Will you go?”

She went downstairs, could see the shape of a man through the glass in the front door.

She opened the door to see Sean, one of Steve’s friends from the club. He was looking down the road and turned to face her as the door opened.

“Hiya! You over for the weekend again?” he asked.

“Nah, Sean. Moved in last night. I’m a resident too, now.”

He nodded once. “Steve in?” He looked over her shoulder.

“Yeah, getting dressed.” She opened the door wider and stood back. “You coming in?”

“Cheers.” Sean stepped into the house and went through into the living room.

Steve came downstairs, pulling a t-shirt over his head.

“Who is it?” he asked her, seemingly reluctant to go into the living room.

“Sean,” she said.

“Ah.”

He went into the living room, holding out his hand and saying, “Seany-boy!”

“Alright, Stevo?” Sean replied.

She followed Steve into the living room and sat in the armchair. Sean had taken his rizlas and stash out of his pocket and was rolling.

“It was fucking rare last night, man. You should have been there. Errol surpassed himself. The floor was packed, you could just about move your arse out there. I stood up on the balcony with a couple of the lads most of the night, necking shit and just watching them all. Some really fit birds in, as well.” He lit up, took a couple of healthy drags, then offered round.

“Not for me, mate,” Steve said. “I’m trying to lay off for a bit.”

“Liar,” said Sean, holding the spliff in front of Steve’s face.

“Ah well, if you insist,” he said, taking it from his friend’s fingers and toking on it. He offered it to her, but she just shook her head, so he handed it back to Sean. She breathed in the sweet smoke, enjoying the dope vicariously.

Steve looked at her. “Will you make us a cup of coffee, love?” he asked. Sean was looking at the carpet, one leg bouncing, taking occasional tokes on his spliff.

She stood up and went through to the kitchen. She could hear them talking, voices lowered, the rhythm too urgent to be just a friendly chat. She went and stood in the doorway, intending to ask how Sean liked his coffee. As she reached the door, she saw Sean slip something to Steve. She coughed. They jumped guiltily.

“I won’t ask,” she said. “Sean, how do you like your coffee?”

“Oh, you know. Milk. Sugar. Ta,” he replied, not looking at her, leg still bouncing.

“Actually,” Steve said. “Sean was just about to go.” He turned to his friend. “Weren’t you mate?”

“Aye, yeah, I was,” Sean mumbled, standing up. He shook hands with Steve. “See you later then, mate.”

“Yeah, see you later. Let me see you to the door.”

She went back into the kitchen and turned off the kettle. She could hear them talking again at the door, low and urgent once more.

Steve came towards the kitchen from the front door, then leaned in the doorway.

“Are we nearly ready to go, then?” he asked.

She turned to him and smiled. “Yeah, we’re ready.”

He picked up the car keys from the side by the microwave.

“I’ll drive,” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

They looked at each other. She wondered briefly what he was thinking. He was smiling, but he seemed distant. Something about Sean’s visit had changed his demeanour. She smiled back, then he pushed himself away from the doorframe with his shoulder and walked down the hall to the front door.

He opened the door to two police officers. That stalled him. She stalled too, in the hallway behind him.

“Good morning sir. Could we come in a moment, please?”

Steve stood back from the door, frowning slightly. She smiled guiltily at the officers. Why did she feel guilty? It was probably something and nothing.

“Is there somewhere we can sit down and have a chat, sir?” one of the officers said to Steve.

“Yeah, through there,” Steve indicated the living room. “What’s all this about?”

“We’ve had a complaint from one of your neighbours, sir. Apparently a naked woman was seen in your back garden this morning, and they called to complain.”

Steve laughed. “But it’s our back garden. Surely my girlfriend can go out there naked if she wants to.”

The police officer smiled, but without any warmth. “Of course, sir. However, we have also had other complaints about people visiting your house at strange hours of the night, one of whom answers the description of a known drug-dealer operating in this area.”

Steve stayed quiet. She spoke from the doorway from the living room to the kitchen where she had gone to stand unobtrusively.

“Would either of you like a cup of coffee?”

The other police officer looked up. “Not for me, thanks, love,” she smiled.

The first officer continued. “As we were driving up, we saw the same man leaving your house. A Mr.,” he paused to check his notepad, “Sean Whelan?”

He looked up at Steve. “Do you know this man?”

Steve smiled.

“Yes, of course I do. We’re djs together at a club in town. I know him well. He’s a mate.”

“Did he come here to do a deal, sir?”

Steve laughed. “No, but if he did, do you really think I would tell you so?”

“Maybe not, sir, but if he did come here to do a deal with you, you are advised that informing us of the fact now may work in your favour later in proceedings.”

She stood in the doorway, coldness beginning to fill the pit of her stomach. She knew Sean and Steve were dope heads, few people in Manchester and in their circle weren’t, but this was more serious. The police wouldn’t be after Sean for a bit of dope dealing. She remembered the package that Sean had been passing to Steve when she came into the room to ask him about his coffee. She hoped to god it wasn’t what she suspected.

“So when Mr Whelan came to your house this morning, it was a purely social visit?” the officer asked Steve.

“That’s right. He’s a mate.”

“And the purpose of his visit was not to supply you with any illegal substances?”

“No.”

“Then you won’t mind if we have a look round, see what we can find?”

“Yes, I will mind, actually. Do you have a warrant?”

“No, sir. We don’t have a warrant, but we can easily come back with one. If you have nothing to hide, however, then there’s no harm in us looking now, is there? Unless there is anything you would like to inform us of now?”

She spoke up. “Steve?”

He looked at her, his eyes icy. “What?”

She lowered her gaze. “Nothing,” she mumbled. “I just wanted to remind you we’re going to be late.”

Steve stared at her. “Late?” He looked back to the police officer. “Oh yeah, we’re supposed to be meeting people for lunch in Chorlton. It’s not really convenient for you to look round now. But if you want to come back, that would be fine.”

The police officer looked at Steve with an inscrutable expression on his face. Looked at him for a long time. Steve looked right back at him, unflinching, smiling his mega-watt smile. The icy feeling in the pit of her stomach grew. This was bad.

Eventually the first officer stood up, followed by his colleague.

“Alright, Mr?”

“Brenner. Steve Brenner. I think you should have asked me that at the start of your questioning, shouldn’t you? To check you had the right man? Because I’m sure you know my name.” Steve was still smiling, but his voice was hard.

“Yes, Mr Brenner, I probably should. Thank you for your time, and please know that we will be back later today.”

Steve showed them to the door. When he returned, she had begun to shake.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said, her heart beat slowing as she hardly dared to breathe. “What was that package Sean passed to you earlier? What’s in it?”

“Sparkle dust, darling. Coke. Charlie. A little bit of magic. A snowstorm more exciting than the one upstairs last night,” Steve replied, looking straight at her, into her eyes, deep into her eyes and menacing.

The ice in the pit of her stomach froze solid. She did not know how she would get out of this one. But she knew that she must. She knew it as she knew that her happiness was draining away before her eyes, as a third snowstorm danced before her eyes, as she fell to the floor in a faint of panic, as the blood rushed to her head.

© J R Hargreaves 2003

Pills

The woman took the kettle from its stand and filled it. The shiny chrome tap from IKEA, the shiny steel sink from B&Q, she gazed through the window at a world she could not feel. Her mind did not connect.

She lowered her eyes to the tap head and saw the water in the kettle rushing up, seemingly magnified, like a torrent. Calmly she turned off the flow of water, her hand stretching away from her.

She replaced the kettle on its stand and flicked the switch. The small brown plastic bottle stood next to the cup. She picked it up and unclicked the cap.

The pale green and turquoise capsules tumbled from the bottle mouth into her waiting palm, so slowly and gently and then so suddenly still. She tipped them into her mouth and held them carefully under her tongue, so as not to taste them.

Over by the fridge was a bottle of Evian. The kitchen was not huge but it seemed to take an age to reach it. She unscrewed the cap and took three or four slugs, washing the capsules down.

The water in the kettle began to simmer, making that hissing noise like static on the radio. She looked through the window again, at her car parked in the street.

Suddenly she was in the hall, putting her coat on, pulling her hat onto her head. She wrapped her scarf round her neck and pulled her car keys from the hook. They sat in her hand, where the pills had been moments before. She gazed down at them and tried to remember.

Something wasn’t right, but her thinking was too dull. Her mind had been sublet.

She must have stood there for some minutes. The kettle had boiled and begun to cool when the clatter of the free newspaper coming through the door woke her.

She looked at the keys in her hand, then moved her eyes around the periphery of her vision. She was in the hall with her coat and hat on, her scarf wound round her neck.

Slowly she placed the keys back on the hook and removed her coat, hat and scarf. She went back into the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle again.

She saw the brown plastic bottle with its cap removed on the side next to the cup. She touched the rim of the bottle mouth with one finger and tried to remember.

The kettle clicked off. Her face was wet. She poured the boiling water from the kettle into the cup, watching as the brownness of the tea bled into the water, gradually staining it completely. She looked at the bottle again. Her mind was too dull.

She pulled a teaspoon from the cutlery drainer (steel, cylindrical, from IKEA) and stirred the teabag around the cup. She brought milk from the fridge, noting that the Evian bottle did not have its cap on.

She made her tea, watching the open-mouthed pill bottle as she did so. She wished she could remember.

A banging on the window made her jump. It was her neighbour from across the way. She waved and smiled at her from the outside looking in, then pointed towards the front door.

She walked through to the hall and opened the door.

“Hello, love!” her neighbour said.

“Hello,” she replied, a little dully.

Her neighbour proffered a parcel.

“Here. The postman delivered this to ours, but it’s for you.”

She took the package and stared down at it.

“Thanks.”

“That’s all right, love. Anyway, I’d best be off.”

She looked up. Carole. That was the woman’s name. Carole.

“Thanks, Carole,” she said.

“Okay, love, bye!”

Her neighbour was already heading down the path as she spoke. Carole. She was glad that she had remembered her name.

She closed the door and placed the parcel on the arm of the settee just inside the living room.

She went back into the kitchen and saw the cup of tea, steaming on the side. The brown plastic pill bottle was open beside it. She picked it up and shook out two of the pale green and turquoise capsules. She swallowed them down with a mouthful of hot tea which burned her gullet. She turned round and saw the open Evian bottle. She took a few mouthfuls straight from the bottle to cool her angered throat, and felt better for it.

She looked through from the kitchen to the dining room and the french windows. A squirrel was sitting on the fence watching her, frozen. She looked away briefly, thinking of something else, trying to remember, and when she looked back, the squirrel had gone.

She picked up her cup of tea and saw that the pill bottle was uncapped. She put her cup down again, her hand stretching away from her. She took the pill bottle and replaced the cap, then looked at it, trying to remember. Her mind would not connect.

She took her cup of tea and went towards the living room. She saw the package on the arm of the settee and picked it up. It had a central Manchester postmark. She stared at it for a few moments, taking occasional drinks of her tea. There was something in her mind. Some memory. A slow blooming of red and orange and yellow. A blooming that was not flowers. A slow blooming and then blackness.

She took the parcel into the living room and placed it carefully on the coffee table. If John were here he would know what it meant. She drank some tea.

The pills were slowing her mind, she knew that. They were dulling something, some memory. The doctor asked her how she was feeling and then wrote out another prescription. More pills. More pale green and turquoise capsules to stop her feeling life. She felt like she had fallen into a deep hole. Nothing touched her, her mind would not connect. She wished she knew what mattered.

John was gone. She could not remember where. They had been shopping in Manchester. Only to Market Street, the Arndale, M&S. If John would come back, she knew things would make sense again. And she could stop taking those pills.

She looked at the package. It wasn’t very big. About 30 by 20 by 10 centimetres. Wrapped in brown paper, different coloured stamps across the top right corner, a central Manchester postmark.

She could not remember if she had ordered anything recently. At 32, she had the feeling, she ought to be able to do better than this.

She finished her tea. It was 3 o’clock. She put her empty cup in the kitchen and went into the hall. She took her coat from the rack and shrugged it on. Again she wrapped her scarf round her neck and pulled her hat on, then took her car keys from the hook.

She drove. She was on the A34, Kingsway. She passed the familiar turning at the lights onto School Lane, that led over to Northenden. She and John had lived in Northenden when they first married. She wished he would come home. They could go back there, it would all be all right again.

A car horn sounded and she swerved back onto her side of the road. Her mind was dull. She had the feeling that she should not really be driving. The houses, big semi-detached Didsbury houses, where she had always wanted to live, flashed by on either side of her.

The parcel was on the passenger seat. She did not remember bringing it out of the house with her. She tried not to think of the red and orange and yellow blooms that filled part of her memory.

She was at the lights near the multiplex. She turned right and into the Tesco car park. The pills weren’t doing her any good, she was sure, but she was scared to stop taking them. She didn’t want to remember.

She remembered that she and John had met in Dublin. Had slept together in a room that smelled of cigarettes. She had heard a car alarm going off in the street as he slept beside her, his hair curling into his neck, his fist curled against the pillow.

She remembered that he had come back to Manchester with her, and they had married soon after. They bought a terraced house on Chapel Road, hidden away at the back of Northenden. She remembered them driving round the area for a day, checking out every street until they found the house they wanted. She remembered John telling her it was important to live somewhere with good motorway access and not too far from the airport. He travelled a lot with his job.

She remembered these things because they were safe memories. Anything after that shopping trip into Manchester, though, she could not remember. Just that she had gone into the Corn Exchange, which John hated with its junkshop mentality, and he had gone back to the car. He was going to pick her up on Cross Street. But he never did. She had not seen him again.

She remembered the blooms of red and orange and yellow.

She was in the Tesco café now. Somehow she must have parked and made her way into the store. She had her hands round a cup of tea and was watching the shoppers through the window, collecting their trolleys and making their way to the store entrance. Thursday was obviously pensioner day at East Didsbury Tesco. She drank her tea.

She took a basket with her into the store and wandered up and down the aisles. She knew she must have come for something, but she could not remember what. She passed the fish counter twice, with its display of gaping mouths and glassy eyes. The shelf-stackers milled around, smart in their uniform of blue checked shirt and dark trousers.

Her basket was empty and she decided to leave. She drove calmly onto the M60 and home.

Her forgotten package lay unnoticed under the Tesco café table, where it detonated at 6.15 p.m. The café had closed for the evening, but the destruction of the store was complete.

She watched the story on the news. Her mind would not connect, but she knew that she had been there only hours earlier. She shook two pale green and turquoise capsules from the brown plastic bottle, to help submerge the memory of the red and orange and yellow blossoms.

She wished she could find what mattered.

© J R Hargreaves 2002

Conquest

“Why do you love that word so much?” she says to me.

I ask her exactly which one she means

“You know exactly which one. The one you can’t stop using.” She looks at me steadily. “Every other word you say, practically.”

Just now, the way she gazes at me, that strange hardness in her eyes that looks like indifference but is really a lie, I want to do it to her. That word she won’t allow herself to say. That word she hates me saying.

She is old, lately, and critical. When we first met she was majestic. They say that women bloom when they come into their thirties. She must be some exotic flower, then, because that bloom is fading.

She is still looking at me. Her face has lost its softness. It no longer invites the caress I used to want to bestow. She is harder now, in spite of the creams and lotions she pours onto her aging body.

I say the word. All credit to her, she does not blink. I say it again, there is no flicker in her gaze.

“I hate it,” she says softly.

I smile and get up from the table. I pick up my bowl, my spoon, my cup and take them to the dishwasher. I ignore hers. It’s all part of the petty war. I leave mine on the worktop by the sink. Later, it will make her sigh to see them there.

She looks tired. I don’t know why I love that word so much. For the same reasons I love to wear her down, I suppose. It suits me. I lean against the sink unit and watch her. Her shoulders have begun to sag. She was proud and straight when we met. Now she just looks weary.

I say the word again and laugh.

She stands up and collects he own lunch things, bringing them over to where I stand. She opens the dishwasher and places her things in, then mine. She does not sigh, not audibly, but her whole movement is a reproach. It gratifies me to see it.

I reach out a hand to touch the hardness of her face. She freezes, not expecting tenderness and I am tempted to change the intended caress to a blow. But I don’t. Instead the back of my hand comes to rest gently against the coolness of her cheek.

She remains motionless. I remove my hand. She continues to load the dishwasher. The pan that heated the soup, the spoon that stirred it, the cups, plates, dishes from breakfast. I watch her, knowing she is waiting for something to happen, for the casual blow to land.

Why do I love that word so much?

Then the telephone rings and the moment is lost. I move into the hall to answer it. I am speaking to my mate. He is in the pub. Am I coming, he asks. Maybe later, I tell him. There’s something I need to do first. The match is on the big screen, he tells me. Kick off at three. Two hours away. All the time I am listening to him, I am also listening to her, moving around the kitchen.

I place the handset back on its base. She is humming under her breath. I stand in the doorway. I tell her to shut up.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say.

Shut the fuck up. The word. The signal. I smile. She looks at me. She knows. But I calm the moment. I tell her that the match is on the big screen and my mate is waiting down the pub.

“What time?” she asks.

I tell her and watch her work it out for herself. Her body sags in resignation. She looks tired. She nods.

Later, she is limp and refuses to look at me. I am spent, the tension gone, released. I have left her raw. She lies with her face turned away from me, her arms still raised where I pinned them, her legs still apart. I stand by the bed and I want to do it again. The sight of her weary body invites it.

It takes longer this time, and her eyes are closed throughout. She looks as though she is trying not to be here, so I push harder. She flinches then. She flinches because, physically, I have hurt her. Emotionally she is already dead. That is my triumph.

She is crying this time, as I dress. I smile and tell her I’ll see her later, after the match, after a few pints. She is crying and I know that I have won this time.

As I leave the room, I hear her whisper it.

“Fuck you.”

That word that she hates. I’ll talk to her about that later.

© J R Hargreaves