A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  He had been granted 14 days’ leave from the Warrington Ark after his last big piece, an exposé of a community-based youth centre funded by local government, which his investigations proved had misappropriated funds. The centre owner and selected staff members had given themselves lavish salaries and an abundance of material perks: cars, mortgage payments, holidays abroad. Grants meant for the centre’s use had been diverted into a number of personal bank accounts. No fortunes were made, though people lived much better than the average worker of their status. That story resulted in further articles being commissioned on the topic, as well as a handful of anonymous people making contact with Markriss, threatening to kill him. Though he didn’t take the threats seriously, his senior editor, mindful of Markriss’s ongoing mental health and wellbeing, advised he take a fortnight’s leave to get back up to speed, after a three-month run of late shifts and weekenders. While Markriss appreciated her care and attention, the truth was that after a few days he missed the office. He suggested a compromise, which she agreed to: though he could work from home, Markriss would attend their daily meetings when he wished.

  He travelled to Holborn by bus and tube early enough to avoid rush hour, and spent the journey scrolling between Twitter, Facebook, Insta, even Myspace, making notes on his phone, double-tapping between windows. Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn claimed to have produced a sheaf of documents proving the current government intended to sell off the NHS following Brexit. Nationally it was no wetter than normal, although Watnall, Sheffield and Scampton were on course for their wettest November ever. The Conservatives were embroiled in a row with Channel 4 after the PM hadn’t turned up for a live debate on climate change attended by all four leaders of the major political parties, causing the broadcaster to televise an empty seat. A study found young people became panicked if denied their mobile phones.

  When Markriss arrived at the office, a cheery, tired-eyed receptionist waived his bag check, giving him a nod and smile. He took the stairs rather than the lift, as he needed the exercise, although he was puffing and overheated when he reached their floor. The office was an open-plan, low-level maze of grey desks, black phones and glistening Macs. When he looked into the office of the building directly opposite, it was the mirror image. Markriss had no idea what they did.

  He waved hellos at his co-workers, who wandered the floor with glazed demeanours, whether starting their shift or about to leave. Markriss flopped into his regular desk space. He was well known enough for his usual desk to be left free, mostly; as they hot-desked, there were occasions when he arrived to find a warm body and back of neck on show, typing with stubborn fury. Somayina, his next-door colleague, who’d been frowning at his screen, looked up.

  ‘Oi, oi.’

  ‘Morning, brother.’ They slapped hands. ‘Ready and set?’

  ‘I am. Not sure why you’re in though.’

  ‘Just thought I’d pop by, is all,’ Markriss said, booting up the Mac.

  Somayina blinked once, staring. ‘You got to be kidding me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re here because of why I think you are—when you’ve got nothing on deadline, nothing to produce come 9—I’m seriously worried about you, mate. Seriously.’

  ‘Carry on, yeah?’ Markriss said, swivelling towards his screen. A long silence followed. Then the static clatter of keys from Somayina’s desk, building up velocity, white noise so loud it penetrated thought, drowning self-accusation along with conscious knowledge. If he heard work, he would think work, surely.

  Their daily news meeting took place at 9 a.m. to the second, as usual. Somayina had been right: Markriss had nothing to bring to attention, therefore no actual reason to be there, especially as he was technically on leave. His phone double-buzzed as people began to arrive for the meeting, turning chairs around from nearby desk spaces, or grabbing at empty ones, pushing them closer to form a rough circle, so he managed to avoid the quizzical glances and swapped looks between colleagues by focusing on his screen.

  Nesta: Finish @ UCL around 4. Wanna link?

  He typed a quick thumbs-up, pushing his phone into a pocket. When he looked up, a cluster of faces stared into his. Somayina, who’d spun his custom, red-woven office chair to face the rest of the news team, his senior editor Maxine, Nadine, Teresa, Robert, Ed, Frankie, Roger, Keshni.

  Chileshe had found a place to look over his shoulder, somewhere out of the expansive windows, even though he tried smiling at her. Glasses perched on her forehead, eyes narrow, she squinted past him.

  ‘Riss,’ Maxine said, level-voiced despite her obvious surprise, cradling a wafer slab of iPad. A short-cropped, elfin brunette with high cheek bones, she wore a loose-fitting, navy-striped jump-suit. Straight-talking, light-hearted, everyone on staff loved her. ‘We didn’t expect you this morning.’

  ‘Hey, Maxine. Everyone alright?’

  He waved a noncommittal hand. Maxine looked at him for a few more seconds, clearly wondering if he was going to give a reason for being in. Markriss had the feel of cold air against skin, the subtle despair of rising goose bumps.

  ‘OK, let’s see what you’ve got,’ she said, turning to the others.

  They went around the circle, pitching stories. Keshni wanted to run a general piece on the royals, a follow-up on the aftermath of the Epstein scandal. Maxine didn’t seem too keen, urging her to think about the legal ramifications; she didn’t want to go there. Keshni nodding, writing quickly, took the note. Somayina had found another Grenfell fire story in which a man had pretended to be a squatter in the tower block, when he actually lived in Cheshire. Maxine knew the story; it had been picked up by the BBC. She gave it a green light. Roger pitched an international piece on a former US journalist and his wife running a gay porn empire. That prompted laughter, and ten minutes’ chat. The story also got a go. Markriss gave a half-hearted, strung-together pitch about racism in football, including a summary of verbally abused players and their matches alongside the testimonies of a handful of Black supporters, how they felt about attending games where abuse was rife. Surprisingly, the story piqued Maxine’s interest. He received the nod to write it up, a 1 p.m. deadline.

  He couldn’t help a look at Chileshe, pleased. Work had won out, even if he did have to wing it. He’d been hoping that, as Senior Video Producer, she’d be assigned to film content that would help bolster his story, only to see her farmed out to Robert, who’d pitched an office workers’ poll for the General Election that involved digitally recorded lunch-hour street interviews. As the meeting drew to a close, Markriss sat back, aware of an undeniable sting, looking down at his clasped hands, opening phrases and concluding paragraphs for his article swimming before his eyes. Chatter rose about him. He remained seated, resisting the urge to join in. Work, it would have to be.

  As Nesta had moved south not long after finishing university, Markriss agreed to travel into Brixton a few hours after he filed copy. That meant tackling the rush-hour commute, which he normally avoided and actually thought he had, until he remembered Thursday was the new Friday, and the big squeeze on buses and tubes began two hours early. At Oxford Circus, he waited for a train amongst a crowd so dense two southbound trains passed before he could board, locating a position just inside the single carriage door, back against glass, fellow travellers pressed around him. At the following station, Green Park, a man on the platform began to shout as soon as the doors opened.

  ‘Budge up, you lot, make room!’

  There wasn’t space to turn and see him. A push of bodies rippled towards him as the speaker edged inside, over his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, mate, move up a bit.’

  Close in his ear, spitting.

  ‘There isn’t room to.’

  It was true. A woman in a camel coat and hijab was so near, he saw his breath ruffle strands of cotton on her arm. Behind him, the man kept pushing. Someone stumbled, gasped.

  ‘Yeah there is, go on.’

  Markriss squeezed his eyes closed. When he heard doors
shut and the train start to move, he opened them. The commuter who had been in front of him had edged further down the carriage, and a reasonably tall man, square-cropped hair, thin unshaven face and translucent glasses covering pale blue eyes, had taken their place, glaring.

  ‘See, told you. If you’d move your arse there would’ve been room, wouldn’t there?’

  He held the man’s eye, saying nothing.

  ‘What? What?’

  Markriss turned the other way, looking down the carriage as they rocked like bobbing ducks. A brunette woman beneath the pusher’s armpit set her gaze in that direction. He couldn’t tell if they were together, or she was just unfortunate enough to be standing next to him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, voice low.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Markriss replied.

  Pusher coloured, became jittery, bit his lip. Silence, until their destination.

  Brixton, alive with crisp air and brilliant lights, drums and the smell of good cooking, was its expected sensory explosion when he trotted up the steps and into evening. He weaved along the busy main thoroughfare, as always filled with people and buses arriving or leaving, families shopping and men playing steel pan outside Iceland, others selling incense and oils. He walked south and crossed at the lights to arrive at the relatively still oasis that was Windrush Square, scattered with people, composed of an entirely separate atmosphere to the street two lanes of traffic and yards away.

  Across the square was the aqua-green bust of Sir Henry Tate, the philanthropist who had gifted the Tate Library to Lambeth, a building that later became Brixton Library. Tate’s business of refined sugar had been built on the trade in human beings kidnapped from Africa and brought forcibly to the ‘New World’. Although Tate was only fourteen when the Abolition of Slavery act passed, and his business partner Abram Lyle only twelve, the raw sugar imported by their company originated from estates established on the enslavement of Markriss’s ancestors. At the time of Tate & Lyle’s dominance, those same sugar plantations were worked by impoverished wage-labourers and indentured labour across the Caribbean islands. Many works of art in Tate’s galleries were given by or associated with benefactors who were owners of the enslaved, or had made their wealth from the trade. Markriss had written an opinion piece on the subject years before, attempting to track injustices of the past to inequalities of the present day. It received such a negative response from the general public, the comments section was shut down within the hour.

  He angled for the blood-red light of the Ritzy Cinema. He leant his shoulder against heavy doors, saw a raised hand of greeting, and there was Nesta, waving from a corner table.

  ‘How you doing?’ he said, standing to greet Markriss. His friend was dressed halfway between smart and casual: blue jeans, black loafers, a crisp white shirt and beige corduroy blazer. Locks tied back with an assortment of multi-coloured rubber bands, he looked post-teen rather than his actual late twenties. ‘I set you up already.’

  Following his gesture, Markriss saw a weeping green bottle. ‘Cheers, man. You been home, or come straight from work?’

  ‘From work. Had to, classes all day. Fucking nightmare.’

  ‘Tell me about it. The tube’s murder at this time.’

  ‘Ah, yeah, course. Sorry about that. I walked from Gower Street to Russell Square and took the bus. It’s slower, much more sedate.’

  ‘I could take that.’

  They grinned, Markriss thumbing the menu. The bar area was brightly lit, every spare inch filled with tables, nearly all full. Predictably, soft-volume reggae played above their heads, Sizzla’s Black Woman & Child. The obligatory laptop owners bashed away in hunched frenzies, faces pale with screen light, phones and brown-rimmed coffee cups at their elbows. A family of mum, dad and two school-aged boys finished up their dinner, sipping tall glasses of hot chocolate. A few well-put-together, well-matched couples dotted around the room seemed on Tinder dates. They barely spoke, and spent a lot of time checking their phones, scrolling with an off-hand finger. Markriss had had a few like that. Two beautiful young women, early twenties, sat near the red swing doors side by side, all pouts, figure-fitting clothes and glowing weaves, taking selfies.

  ‘What are we like, eh? As a human race?’

  Nesta followed his sightline, laughing.

  ‘There is something about their focus I can admire.’

  ‘If only that could be harnessed to find the cure for cancer.’

  ‘If only. You eating?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll order in a bit.’ He laid his hands on imitation wood, sighed. ‘So. What’s going on?’

  Shrugging, scanning the room. ‘Not much. Busy, busy. I’m missing Corbyn’s interview with Andrew Neil for you, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Oh shit, totally forgot.’

  ‘You, my friend, should never forget that.’

  ‘I know, I know. I actually think I’m trying to avoid the whole thing. Stupid, yes, seeing as I don’t have a snowball’s chance. If we get Johnson—’

  ‘C’mon, man, why say that?’

  ‘I say that cos Black people are voting for him. People of colour are voting for him, so they say.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘I’ll leave the flipping country if they win, I swear. My job, I can do it any place. I’ll rent out my flat on the sly and go back home. Drink rum and work remotely.’

  ‘The dream.’

  Nesta raised his short glass. Dark liquid and ice sloshed. Rum-drinking had already started for his friend, from what Markriss could tell.

  ‘To the dream.’

  They toasted, glass clinked.

  ‘Can you imagine? Four more years?’

  Markriss put two fingers to his temple, made a trigger of his thumb.

  ‘Anyway. Think cheery thoughts. How are things with you know who?’ Nesta beamed, untying his locks.

  ‘Ah, come on. That’s unfair.’

  ‘How so? Telling me there’s been no developments? Or you don’t want to talk about it?’

  ‘Amen to both,’ Markriss said.

  ‘You can’t be serious. The whole reason I’m here instead of home marking essays and getting set to watch Corbyn v. Neil, is you, Chile, the whole love-triangle thing.’

  ‘No way. I definitely do not want to talk about that.’

  ‘Wow, bro. You really got it bad.’

  ‘I’m gonna go order. What d’you want?’ He stood.

  Nesta patted his pockets, belly-laughing. ‘Alright, alright. Get me a grilled mackerel, yeah?’

  ‘Safe, don’t worry yourself, I’ll get it. In a bit.’

  Leaving Nesta chuckling, Markriss joined the queue beneath a sign that stated the obvious: BAR. He raised his chin, fidgeting, spinning a debit card between his thumb and first finger. He did not want to think about the feel of her hip beneath his fingers. The soft tickle of hair against his chin.

  He exhaled between his lips, resigned, and when it was his turn to order, mumbled for a chicken and avocado burger, Nesta’s mackerel with fries, and two more drinks without making eye contact with the bar staff. Sometimes it was better that way. After receiving his drinks and table number, he tapped his contactless and went back to the table.

  Nesta rolled the short glass between his hands, gazing at them. Markriss turned sideways to avoid a customer heading for the bar, and set the fresh rum before him.

  ‘Save us getting up again.’

  ‘Ah, nice one.’

  ‘No problem, bro.’

  He sat. Nesta half looked up, a mischievous gleam in his eye. The volume of the bar area had risen a good few decibels. A film had ended, its audience flooding the space; Markriss wondered if Joker was still showing.

  ‘Alright, so we won’t talk about Chileshe. Wanna hear what I lectured today instead?’

  ‘Sure. Go for it.’

  ‘You’ll be proud of me, I swear. So I was teaching my students the theory of inflation. That’s the idea that space isn’t just bigger than what we see, which is obviou
s I suppose. But it’s actually infinite, right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s what everyone thinks they know. Now try to imagine the implications of that a moment—space and time is so huge, basic probability suggests there are infinite alternative versions of this country, this city, that exist in other universal bubbles, solar systems and planets. Which means there could also be infinite versions of ourselves.’

  ‘OK. So, like, parallel universes?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  Markriss blocked a smile by putting his bottle to his lips, drinking.

  ‘Don’t make that face. And don’t make me start on eternal inflation.’

  ‘I would never.’

  ‘Good. Cos it would fry your brain, which is why I never inflict it on my poor, addled undergrads. We talk about the microcosmos and theories of quantum mechanics instead.’

  ‘Lucky old me.’

  ‘Our theory of the microcosmos works on the principle that multiple particles can exist in the same place, at the same time. We know this to be true, because we’ve run tests where it’s happened. As long as we have machines to check the results, it’s all good. The only thing that changes the experiment is us, looking at them. That’s when the particles sort themselves out and we only see one, in one place. Physicists get excited about that experiment because for some of us it means the possibility exists, theoretically of course, that humans can also exist in simultaneous spaces, or overlapping realities, at the same time. I can be here, or on a beach in Negril, or at my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn, or at work—’

  ‘. . . Or at home watching Corbyn v. Neil . . .’