A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘Precisely. Quantum mechanics posits that we can be in all those places and millions more at once. Wild, right?’

  ‘And reassuring. For multiple baby fathers at least.’

  ‘You’re winding me up, I appreciate that. But you can’t. This is too good for that. Here’s the thing, and then I’ll shut up about it, I promise. We create these parallel worlds by observation. When we see a particle, we choose whether it exists on the left or right. Or maybe it chooses us, I don’t know. Anyway, even though we’re certain both realities exist at once because we’ve run the tests that prove it, it’s our sole perspective that makes a choice about which viewpoint is dominant. So the remaining particle is there, somewhere, even if we can’t see it. It exists. We just don’t know where there is.’

  Markriss slumped, head resting on his hand, for a good long minute. The noise of cinemagoers had faded. Many had left, while others sat, quietly discussing what they’d seen.

  ‘This is why we never talk about your work. Didn’t we make a pact or something?’ He paused, took another swig of beer. ‘What do your students think?’

  Nesta placed two fingers at his temple, pulled the thumb trigger. They laughed.

  ‘It’s the same whenever I lecture on this. That’s when I show them this BBC documentary I dredged up, which happens to be the easiest way to explain it I know. You’ll like it too, being a writer and all. It says: think of a story in a book, or an article, maybe one of yours. There are many copies of that book, or article. How many stories?’

  ‘One,’ Markriss said. He smiled again, different this time. ‘OK, I like that. And I kind of think I get it. But your original point is?’

  Nesta made an expression of acute dissatisfaction. ‘Don’t teach astrophysics, obviously.’

  Bellowed laughter. ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Alright, as you insist. I haven’t one really, more’s the pity. Other than the fact you can rest assured, if you believe a word of what I’ve said, that somewhere in the multiverse, Labour’s won, the trains are empty, and you’ve got where you wanted ever since the-one-we-shall-not-name first started at your work. Out there, infinite probability allows that at least one version of us is living the life we want, in the here and now.’

  Nesta held up both hands to prove he was indeed finished, shrugged, and sat back. A slim waitress arrived at the table cradling white plates, sing-songing their food orders.

  When they’d eaten Nesta wanted a smoke, so they went out into the cold, letting red doors slam in their wake. The beautiful young women were still taking snapshots of themselves with their phones, striking poses, ignoring each other. On the square, paving slabs were furred with evening frost. The bulk of a leafless plane tree loomed above the surrounding buildings like the skeleton of a giant placed amongst autumnal darkness and light. Local old boys and young hustlers sat on chairs and the stone-grey semicircle outside Brixton Library, weed smoke emanating from their fevered conversations. A block to the south, the delicate lights of the BCA spread warmth onto the grass and pathways before it.

  Nesta fired up his vape, took a deep drag, blew skywards.

  ‘Gotta stop.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that.’

  ‘Truthfully. These people at work are bad influences.’

  ‘I hear that.’

  An erupting siren. The marked police vehicle manoeuvring around traffic, finding a clear path, powering up Brixton Hill.

  Nesta puffed, considering Markriss.

  ‘How you doing anyway?’

  He shrugged, studying his feet.

  ‘You looked at those people I told you about?’

  ‘No.’ Markriss kicked at nothing. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’

  ‘You should talk to someone, Riss. A qualified someone I mean. I’m here for you, man, whenever you need, but I don’t have those tools. I’m worried about you, if I’m honest.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  Before he was aware of the fact, Nesta had turned, was hugging him. His chin bumped his friend’s shoulder. Corduroy rubbed his cheek, he smelt the remnants of morning aftershave, musky and eastern, mixed with the familiar mango flavouring of vape smoke. Nesta rubbed his back with a solid hand, whispering sentences he could barely hear. Pressed so tight it verged on hurt. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all. He was slightly embarrassed, that was true, though heartened by the knowledge Nesta wasn’t. He realised how long it had been since he’d been hugged in any way that wasn’t perfunctory, meaningless or fraught with consequence. Loneliness struck him, icicle-clear and precise.

  They let go. Nesta held his elbow, looked into his eyes. A double-buzz in Markriss’s pocket. He ignored it.

  ‘Whatever you need. OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Ness. That means a lot, swear down.’

  Nesta placed a hand on his own heart, staring at him. The serious expression he adopted almost made Markriss laugh. He stiffened his jaw and kept his composure. Mango smoke drifted into his face.

  He heard snuffling, felt a soft object tickle his ankles, Nesta chuckling miniature clouds of smoke. When Markriss looked down a dog was sniffing his feet, tail wagging, head whipping left to right, frantic and panting. At that moment it stood on hind legs, half bounding up his thighs to greet him. Short gloss-black fur reflecting sodium lights. Due to its uncommon length and fox-like features he was unsure of the breed, the type of dog he usually just called ‘dog’. He backed a step away, only partially reassured by the red lead at its collar and the sight of the dog’s owner, a bespectacled, greying African man in a large, dishevelled Nike jacket, tracksuit bottoms and too-huge trainers.

  ‘Woah . . . Hey there . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the owner said. He was well spoken, a voice entirely at odds with his appearance. ‘She’s a bit hyper, super-friendly though. Anu! Anu! Leave him alone!’

  ‘Lovely dog. Beautiful colour,’ Nesta said.

  ‘Yeah. She’s lovely,’ Markriss added through clenched teeth.

  The man burst into laughter.

  ‘Anu’s not like this with everyone, truthfully. She’s obviously taken a shine. Anu! Anu, stop!’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m fine with dogs. Good girl. Good girl.’ He knelt, ruffling her back, pushing long, firm strokes from neck to hindquarters. Anu tried to lick his face. Markriss wasn’t having that. Hot breath caressed his cheeks. ‘No, no, no. That’s a nice name, where’s it come from?’

  ‘It’s Greek. Short for Anubis, Egyptian god of the afterlife. She reminded me of it, somehow.’

  ‘Very cool.’ Markriss got to his feet, offering a hand. ‘Markriss. Most people shorten it to Riss.’

  ‘Ra,’ the older man said, shaking his hand and turning at once to Nesta, who shook too. Beneath them Anu whimpered, a high-pitched keening.

  ‘Egyptian too, right? Your name?’

  ‘Yes, it is. My family are from Aswan, they were into that type of thing. Ancient myths, what not.’ He paused, peering at both men. ‘Can I ask you something? Have I met you gentlemen before?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘I live round here, so you might’ve seen me in the Village, or drinking in the Effra,’ Nesta said.

  ‘No, no, no. It’s not that.’ Ra shook his head, pulling at the lead. ‘Strangest thing. Never mind. You both have a good evening, hear?’

  ‘You too!’ they chimed, watching the dog. It strained the lead taut as tightrope, seemingly trying to get back to Markriss all the way past the library, adjacent to the stone semicircle, not even giving up when Ra turned the first corner onto Rushcroft Road. They disappeared.

  ‘Odd bloke,’ Nesta said, finding a pocket for his vape.

  ‘Proper odd,’ Markriss agreed.

  They reached for the doors and went inside.

  3

  It turned out the buzz in his pocket was a message from Keshni that Markriss didn’t see until he reached home. He sat on his bed with a mug of peppermint tea and brown-eyed discs of chocolat
e biscuits on a side plate, reading with no lights, even though it gave him headaches.

  Keshni Roberts: Hey u, hope u feeling better after your gong treatment? It was really nice having u over. Me and C wondered if you’d like to pop to ours for dinner and drinks Friday 29th. Let us know if u free . . . Kxx

  He re-read the message for the next few minutes, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t certain if he wanted that, or whether it would be good for him given his current state of vulnerability. If he could stand a night of looking into Chileshe’s eyes and seeing hurt. Raw, open flesh sprung to mind, vivid and sore. Still, the fear of what might happen between them if he didn’t accept was as crippling as the discomfort he’d most likely undergo if he did. He continued to read the message over, trying to look beyond words in an attempt to glean deeper meaning and decipher what they wanted, until his eyes hurt, his forehead throbbed. He leant over, switching on the bedside light. Typed ‘Sure Rx’. Lay on his back, trying not to convince himself he’d made a bigger mistake than the first, which had started it all.

  He’d done his best to make sure it hadn’t happened that way. When Chileshe first joined their news team he’d played it very casual, even though he didn’t feel like that inside. She’d been crossing the office floor to talk with Somayina about an interview they were assigned, and when he saw her there was a feeling of lift, a moment where he became aware of a noticeable leap from his chest to his throat. While she walked not two feet away, not even seeing him, his mouth hung open and his eyes would not stop trying to take her all in.

  He listened to her talk. Everything about her seemed to light his nerves. The way she formed vowels, mouth and depressed tongue emphasising sounds. The faint smell he picked up, not perfume or detergent lingering on clothes, rather the scent of her. Flowery, powdered stuff, like incense. Her confident, slightly nerdy laughter, her braids, thick jumpers and crappy jeans, her dark-rimmed glasses. He bent his head lower, trying to concentrate on what he typed while his heart thumped loud in his ears. He tutted to himself, whispering under his breath that he should get a grip, even while he was unable to follow his own order. When Chileshe left Somayina’s desk and passed by his, she looked down on him, said hi. Markriss only just managed to raise a hand in reply. She smiled, he felt her pity. Like a woman overly familiar with the emotion she roused in others. She walked away.

  ‘Eh-eh,’ Somayina grinned. ‘Put your tongue away, bro! Cleaners ain’t gonna sweep the floor till late shift.’

  ‘Joker,’ Markriss shot back, knowing he’d been truly caught when Somayina wouldn’t stop laughing. He hadn’t known he was that obvious.

  Over the next few months he tried to rein himself in, and found it no good. It was blatant. Everybody knew. When he talked to Chileshe fire burned under his skin and the thump in his chest was like House drums or something, as if he was raving or the rave was inside him. The whole office saw, and that made him feel worse. He’d never considered himself someone who didn’t know how to hold a conversation; they normally happened naturally, especially with women. He didn’t need chat-up lines, one-liners or jokes. He’d just talk and everything fell into place naturally—the next thing he knew, he would be dating. With Chileshe it was different. She had some inner core that made him stutter whenever they fell into conversation, and he couldn’t look her in the eye. Perhaps it was her spiritual beliefs, the time she spent learning meditation, yoga, African cosmology and all. She rarely spoke of it, though he saw her commitment from the red, gold and green wooden bracelets and pendants she wore, the heavily wrought silver earrings. One day she came to the office wearing a black-and-white T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘Roots Before Branches’. She wasn’t a Hotep, that was for sure, though she was woke.

  Given time, they were thrown together for assignments, and as he got to know her Markriss discovered how cool Chileshe really was. First, she was brilliant at her job. Her videos were competent, her photos like forgotten dreams. She brought the best out of portraits, her subjects rendered in precise detail with a spectacular eye for their inner beauty. Her landscapes were stunning and epic, all wonderfully composed even when she simply pointed the camera and shot. Markriss never understood how she managed to find that right moment, and click. It wasn’t simple luck, it happened too often for that. And when he began to talk about her work, internet-stalked her site, then came back to her in awe at what she’d created, they talked about her inspirations, the artists she loved and films she’d seen. He mentioned the names of his favourite films, so they decided to see a movie together, then hung in the foyer talking for almost an hour, and finally, despite his nerves, everything fell into place organically, like normal. They became friends.

  They’d go to literary and visual-arts launches. Hang out on Sundays at the South Bank. Trawl Portobello Market, Chile wandering stalls in search of the best second-hand clothes, Markriss guessing the origin of her dated 501s. She’d crash out on his sofa, wake halfway through the night and leave in a sleepy hurry for the night 52. Before she woke, he’d watch her curled up and know that that time would come, hating himself: he was in fucking love. Much as he tried to stem that awful thing, to be the person she wanted from him, a good and loyal friend, it was there. A cancer lodged within his deepest flesh.

  Because, of course, there was Keshni. Everybody knew that too, had from the very start. Even him. He’d known and pretended not to. Office gossip was office gossip, he supposed, and so it was no secret that Keshni and Chileshe were in a relationship. Partners. Living together. Married. Yes, he could admit that. It was the reason Chileshe left her old job and joined the paper, to spend more time with her woman. And he had unflinching love and respect for Keshni too. She was beautiful, giving, one of the most ideologically distinct people he’d ever known. They’d worked together for three years and she was the journalist he respected most out of everyone he’d met, at any paper. She would be a major writer one day, Markriss knew that. Novels, stories, non-fiction, film, plays, poetry, Keshni did it all. She was an open soul, a latent genius. What’s more, she didn’t ever seem to mind how close he and Chileshe were. She actively encouraged them to spend more time, joining them on occasion, most often not. Keshni was from a big, wealthy family. She had an ample amount of friends, was always busy. People loved her; it was as if she was not so much distracted, as fully able to lead her own life. Markriss found it refreshing to see two people so in love who managed their separate lives so well.

  And yet he couldn’t stop emotion gaining force inside him, drawing his lower body to earth.

  They’d gone to watch The Last Tree at Picturehouse Central almost a month previous, leaving the auditorium busy with sparking thoughts and perspectives. In the first-floor bar, they’d talked it over. Markriss got the drinks, bottled cider for her, beer for him. It was Saturday night, quite late. The music was loud, the clientele boisterous. Keshni was in France, in a farmhouse just outside Avignon for a poetry retreat, and Chileshe had no need to hurry back to the flat. He’d waited at the counter for his drinks order, flushed with good feeling about what they’d seen, of being in the company of someone who understood the significance of it, a general feel of rightness in his bones. If he’d been paying more attention he would have known attraction played a major part. Yet he wanted to be centred without the need to question or analyse. If struck by any inkling or urge to examine his emotions, he pushed it away.

  He’d brought back their drinks, dumping them on the table. Chileshe was already leant forwards, speaking before he even settled.

  ‘I feel seen!’ she beamed, arms thrown wide. They laughed so loudly, propping each other up, rowdy drinkers looked over.

  ‘I’ve not gone through anything near what Femi had, but I know what you mean,’ Markriss said.

  ‘No, me neither, it’s just to see ourselves well lit—’

  ‘Hear our voices—’

  ‘See our streets, places we know—’

  ‘It’s a mood, right?’ She beamed. ‘I hadn’t realised how much I mi
ssed it, till it was there.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  They talked more about the film and its commonalities with their lives, before digressing into personal sharing, things rarely said, well-buried instances. Markriss told of the time he’d witnessed a racist attack as a child that resulted in a man being murdered, although he hadn’t known it then. It was a road-rage incident between a group of men in a van and a lone driver in the town he’d grown up in, Uxbridge, on the western outskirts of London. They’d pulled him out of the vehicle and beaten him in the middle of the road. Markriss was eight. Chileshe spoke of the night she’d been abused by a family member. She wouldn’t say who, though from what she told him, Markriss guessed it was an older cousin. He’d been staying in their house over the weekend, came into her bedroom and held her down while she slept. They talked about the frequency of those bitter life experiences in others they had met. The depiction of trauma in art, whether it was necessary for the work, or if it was possible to create without it. They hugged, Markriss feeling damp against his temple. He swallowed his emotion, many times. He wasn’t sure what he could do to help either of them, and perversely, he wanted to remain in the cinema for ever.

  At Piccadilly Circus, lit by the brilliant allure of the underground rotunda, they hugged again, for a long while. Markriss heard a thousand footsteps about him. Breathed traffic and her scent. The roar of a bus and the mix of unrecognisable languages swelled inside him. They rubbed cheeks against each other. Nuzzled. The cider of her exhale. The irritation of her cotton scarf. A soft corner of a mouth, a beginning. Their lips touched. Parted. They accepted each other, using all the time they needed, Chile allowing a knee to slip between his. Hands firm on his waist. Markriss swore the building above them and the Circus beyond fell away, became cardboard, until they were standing on a street of yellow-brick terraced houses, flat-roofed, square blocks replicating them-selves for ever. Obscure light bathed them blue. His eyes were closed, and so later he wasn’t sure how he’d seen anything at all. Nothing around him, apart from Chileshe, was recognisable.