A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  She pulled away. He was returned among pedestrians and smog.

  It was wrong, both were aware of that mundane truth when their eyes opened. Not that it felt wrong, it hadn’t. It was almost too good, everything lost but the feeling they’d created. Her head was low, though she reached for him, caressing the place beside his ear, trailing down his lower jaw. Stayed. He put his hand over hers, rubbing her knuckles.

  ‘It’s OK. Don’t worry about it, or me. Please don’t.’

  She nodded, held his eye, couldn’t keep it. Dropped her gaze once again. Dropped her hand.

  ‘I better go.’

  ‘Text me when you get in.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Chileshe pushed a smile over her shoulder. Even though he knew he should savour the moment as much as he’d tried to keep the sensation of their kiss, she was gone.

  He walked towards the crossing and pushed the silver button, waiting for traffic to pause.

  Days after he’d met with Nesta, Markriss lay on a sofa, scrolling Twitter and Insta feeds, when the notification came through. ‘Breaking: Police are responding to an incident on London Bridge after reports of shots being fired.’

  He jumped to a sitting position. Made a swift check of his laptop; wire copy had chimed an alert, yet it’d somehow eluded him. Switched his television from a blink of light into a full screen. From what he could tell there’d been a terrorist attack on London Bridge. A number of people had been stabbed. It wasn’t yet discernible if there were any deaths. The attacker had been tackled by members of the public and eventually shot by armed police.

  He logged on to PA Media to view what little video footage of the attack there was. His phone beeped with messages from work colleagues, Chileshe and Keshni individually, Willow. His mother sounded frantic. He called to reassure her while simultaneously texting the women to say he still planned to come for dinner, so he probably wasn’t paying the greatest attention. Yes, he was fine, no, he’d been in all day. No, he hadn’t been sleeping. The breaking-news reporter filed copy as he spoke, Markriss reading their boilerplate with the phone pressed between shoulder and ear. He touched ‘End’ on the phone’s screen and grabbed a shower. He spent a further two hours watching news channels, drinking coffee and checking the breaker before he put on clothes to brave the pre-weekend rush.

  It actually wasn’t that bad, and he reached Pimlico about ten minutes later than usual. Keshni let him in. She wore one of her usual flowing, formless dresses, a low-neck, deep-purple tie-dye that fell to her slim ankles. Her light-red hair was tied in a bandana of the same colour and material—she could’ve just stepped off a beach in Petite Carenage. They hugged, or rather she hugged him, Markriss awkward, hands full with a bottle of Tesco Prosecco in one hand, own-brand apple crumble in the other. She pressed her cheek against his for what felt like for ever. Kissed both sides. He couldn’t help feeling weird.

  And then he was met by the solid warmth of central heating, trying not to look for Chileshe, even though it was impossible. She was poised before the oven, wearing oversized gloves like mittens, peering into the living room at their slim TV, tuned to BBC 24, the London Bridge incident. He saw the images he’d watched in his own home: suited men and women, the dark bulk of armed police, a fire extinguisher, an improbable narwhal tusk. Chileshe, in the process of extracting small tinfoil parcels set in neat formation on a baking tray, used their equally full hands as reason not to give her usual embrace and twin European kisses. She wore her faded jeans, a nondescript yet sparkly blue and purple jumper. They kept metres apart, seeming hardly to register the other’s presence. Markriss settled for finding the American fridge, putting his offerings where there was space, trying to stay upbeat. He’d changed everything. It was entirely his fault.

  ‘Another, for God’s sake! The self-same place, I’m telling you!’ Keshni said loud, placing cutlery in pairs along the table.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m worried about all the brothers out there labelled “terror suspects” who’re just going corner shop for a pint of milk!’ Chileshe slammed a baking tray onto the oven top and removed her gloves. ‘This is a dangerous precedent. Watch the Tories now.’

  Keshni angled herself towards Markriss, eyes full and waiting.

  ‘I’m surprised they didn’t call you to go down there,’ he told Chileshe, feeling his lack of vocal power, standing. She ignored him.

  ‘They did.’ Keshni shrugged. ‘She turned it down. It’d be too late, be done before she even got there.’

  ‘Oh. They didn’t call me.’

  ‘They wouldn’t—surely you’re too senior?’

  He said no more, noticing that Keshni saw his discomfort from clear across the room.

  ‘Hey, you know what? Have you seen the McQueen exhibition?’

  Chileshe stiffened, bug-eyed with shock; she looked pale, a marionette in Levi’s and box braids. It stunned him, making him unsure what to say next.

  ‘No, I haven’t actually,’ he said, aiming his reply at Chileshe.

  ‘Oh, we should go, it’s only over the road. Dinner can wait. It won’t take half an hour, what d’you reckon?’

  Markriss shrugged at the table. ‘Sure.’

  Outside, the women walked arm-in-arm. By keeping level with both Markriss almost convinced himself they were all just work friends, out for a simple evening stroll. They crossed the busy Vauxhall Bridge Road, so many cars and buses the traffic was slow-moving sheet-ice, pedestrians weaving through vehicles, mindful of the odd motorcyclist, bike courier or scooter. A walk between tawny pub windows and a sleepy Thai massage/beauty boutique onto quieter roads, around corners, hurrying to escape the cold, and there it was: the hulking mass of Tate Britain.

  The gallery was a bustle of jostling bodies, many more than he’d imagined on a Friday evening. A wealth of languages he couldn’t place, swollen North Face jackets and woollen hats, pushy kids. Hi-vis-clad, nervy security guards, rapid-moving Tate staff. They made for the Duveen Galleries, Markriss already isolated, the women resting their heads against each other, talking low. So close there was barely space between them. They swerved, straightening, hardly conscious of their surroundings.

  The exhibition comprised 3,128 photos of every Year 3 class in London, from pupil-referral units to state schools, a means of capturing that pivotal moment in their development, the children’s eighth year. Class portraits of over 76,000 children were combined into a single gallery installation, and exhibited on advertising hoardings in thirty-three boroughs across the city. Markriss had noticed a few on his daily commute. They always made him smile, thinking of his past.

  Entering the space, his initial response was gasped shock. Duveen was a narrow cathedral-like hall with beige marble pillars and white arches, its walls lined with the class portraits, an echo chamber of teachers, teaching assistants and the proud faces of their charges creating the effect of stained-glass windows for the entire length of the gallery. He peeled off to make his way alone, struck by the unconscious expressions of hope on unblemished faces. Greater than innocence, or new beginnings. Unfathomable, apparent. To see them all—new beings on the verge of the person they would become, forever captured, looming and cinematic—made him blink, eyes smarting.

  Vision blurred, he saw a carousel of lustrous movement in place of gallery walls and class photos, light and dark traded in equal measure. The strange sensation of falling he’d felt on the tube returned, only stronger. He couldn’t shake a familiar noise, heard from somewhere distant he couldn’t place. A whirring bike chain, shushing tyres on tarmac. A steady clank of metal rubbing against metal in lazy, circular rhythm.

  He came to.

  When he turned to one side, there were the women, gazing at images. He swallowed, dry throat clicking, walking to join them. Markriss just about made out Chileshe’s expression on her partner’s left. Contemplative, searching the immediacy of glossed paper. Keshni’s smile was tiny and knowing, a secret. Unnerved by his brief hallucination, unwilling to break their solitude, M
arkriss stayed to her right.

  A class of three rows, wearing uniforms of undeviating navy blue, one teacher in their midst, another to their left. The backdrop, Jesus Christ seated mid-air, his robe sky-blue, winged archangels afloat on either side.

  ‘So beautiful,’ Keshni whispered.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He didn’t know what else to add.

  ‘I love their little faces. So much going on. Not just happiness, something else . . .’ Chileshe broke off, shook her head.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘They’re glad to be alive. I remember feeling that way. I’d jump out of my dorm room, raring to grab the day.’ Keshni’s shoulders were hunched.

  ‘Do you? I don’t. I hated school.’

  ‘I know, babe.’ Kissing Chileshe’s forehead. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘Might as well gone boarding school, the way it was.’

  ‘No way, you would’ve hated it. I didn’t, but it wasn’t anything like people make out. You were better off where you were.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Another kiss, a squeeze of shoulders. Markriss pushed both fists into his jeans pockets. Spotted a photograph he hadn’t yet seen, wandered over.

  He’d dragged himself through a fair amount of bad nights out in the past, yet dinner that night with Chileshe and Keshni still ranked close to the worst. Compounded by the fact it should have been a great evening with two close friends, his mood was a push and pull between elation and, if he was honest, complete misery that made him wonder why he hadn’t called Nesta, or gone to his mother’s, anything other than hang out with them. Had he been mad? Had he not fully understood what would happen when he stood before Chileshe and the feelings she caused did not go away? Surrounded by the evidence of their lives together in photos—bad enough—matched with the actual lived realities of their partnership? Ornaments she had bought while out with Markriss that now inhabited the flat, secure as though they’d always been there. Keshni and Chileshe’s moments of fleeting touch, whispered jokes, elbowing each other, exchanging sly grins. Over and above those stabs of jealousy, the fact of his affinity: moments when he forgot that night at Piccadilly Circus, the heady sensation of their bodies crushed together, and fell into easy conversation and quick-fire jokes until he felt self-conscious and caught himself between laughter, staring at her, remembering. Unnoticed by her wife. He had wondered if Chileshe thought it too, and was certain she must: for she fell into awkward silences at times, snatching unconscious looks at Keshni.

  ‘Oh, tune! Tune, telling you!’

  One finger pointed at low white ceiling, hips a rocking wave, Keshni swayed, sure-footed, free. Markriss and Chileshe, pretending not to notice. Yazmin Lacey, singing of remedy.

  Sandalwood oil, a bubbling lava atop a metal burner. Cold white wine, mouthfuls of heaven in saltfish fritters. Rotis and thin gifts of tinfoil parcels opened to reveal baked, seasoned white fish. Pink rice and peas, steamed vegetables, sunset sweet potatoes, chick peas and the gentle melting ice of a sorrel glass. The resting bell in a corner of the room, tilted on a sky-blue cushion. Experiencing that low vibration as he registered its presence from his place at the dining-room table, enveloped in the foods he loved, the music he appreciated, and the people he felt close to, even after everything.

  They talked work and cultural politics, the general election and art. Music, film, theatre. Lively, honest discussion, their converged alignment making things even more difficult. He forgot himself, until he noticed Chileshe receding as the evening went on; she was mostly quiet and he was the cause. She complained of a headache, still he knew. He knew. Perhaps he had been selfish not to think of the after. In his fleeting mind’s eye, they worked out some way of seeing things through and no one getting hurt, and yet here, looking across the table, Markriss saw that was ludicrous. They would both be were this to continue. He had no intention of that. They were too special, not just to him but also the world, to warrant that. If their lives changed for the worse due to his actions, he wouldn’t forgive himself.

  Chileshe slumped in her chair, eyes red-tinged, half closing. The corners of her mouth turned down. He was struck by an unbidden memory of her sweetness.

  ‘This’ll go down as the weirdest election we’ve ever had, everyone knows it,’ Keshni said, pouring more sparkling wine from a curvaceous green bottle. When Chileshe held a palm over her glass, she simply removed it, tipping until the contents fizzed.

  ‘Most shambolic, worst for people of colour . . .’ Chileshe murmured, eyes shut.

  ‘You saw that car-crash interview, right? Corbyn on Neil?’

  ‘At least he had the courage to go on, unlike the PM.’

  ‘Is it any wonder things are this bad? With the Scourge of the West in office over the pond, Brexit madness over here?’ Markriss sipped from his glass, savouring bubbles.

  ‘It’s like some kind of epidemic!’

  ‘Fuck that, they just pulled back the curtains and exposed the wizard’s arse,’ Chileshe sneered, seeming to revive. ‘Surprise! Racism over here too!’

  Bitter laughter, leant over the table. Slapping palms against the surface, plates and cutlery rattling.

  ‘You lot see the new Burger King ad on the buses?’ Keshni open-mouthed, eager. ‘Picture the King of Burgers. Juicy, succulent, even for us veggies. Caption: “Another Whopper on the side of a bus. Must be an election.”’

  Even louder laughter. Keshni wiped at her eyes, shoulders trembling from a giggling fit.

  ‘I mean, whoever does their campaigns is genius.’

  ‘Or certifiable,’ Markriss added, to further chuckles.

  ‘Seriously, though, there’s never been a better strategy of divide and rule played on voters, when we should really be coming together against the issues. Anti-Muslim, anti-Sikh, anti-Hindu, anti-Semitic, anti-Black, anti-working class, anti-women, anti-LGBTQI. Anti-disability, anti-NHS. Has there ever been so much shit flying? And we know where it all came from.’

  ‘It’s always been there, babe.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s always been there, but don’t you think it’s stoked up even more of late?’

  ‘It has.’ Anger tightened Markriss’s brow. ‘And I really think we’re too busy looking at each other sideways to see what’s happening in our face. It’s people like us that’s mostly to blame.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. We’re to blame because we refuse to take a step back and think, to see how much we’re being used.’

  ‘Yes, us, us, but also us.’ Using a finger to draw an invisible circle around them all. ‘The whole media. Papers, television, radio. This race stuff’s out there, it already exists, but most misinformation on the subject comes from people with our jobs reporting lies, omitting truths. If those are the voices heard over people like us, the journalists committed to telling real stories, it’s no wonder the public don’t know what’s going on . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You know Britain’s ranked thirty-third in the World Free Press Index? Says a lot, right?’

  They sobered, staring at the table. Markriss waited, refusing to look around, hollow inside. Another black hole he’d created into which conversation fell. Another void, another silence.

  ‘This discussion calls for dessert,’ Keshni declared, beaming unexpected radiance. ‘But if we’re gonna avoid post-sugar slump getting in the way of what we’ve really got to say, I think we’ll have to wait until we’re done.’

  He frowned, noticing, across the table, Chileshe’s rigid countenance return. Her knee bounced fitfully until she saw Markriss watching. She sat up, tried to smile. Couldn’t.

  ‘Crumble’s in the oven, I set the timer.’

  ‘Thanks, babe.’ Keshni winced. ‘God, where’s the old Dutch courage, eh?’ Letting the Prosecco bottle roam glasses a second time, hovering, to lift again.

  ‘What’s going on? Are you guys OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ Chileshe said, only it was certain she wasn’t. Her gaze was set beneath the table. Hands clasped, legs still, nervousn
ess expressed by the occasional, fitful twitch of a knee. Keshni leant over the table, grasping one of Markriss’s hands. A million fluttering nerves took flight inside him.

  ‘Riss. You know how much you mean to us, Chi and me both. You’re a brilliant friend. You’re kind, talented, funny, generous, such a loving spirit. I don’t know how we would have managed to cope if you didn’t work in the office with us. Every day I come through the door, I’m grateful you’re there.’

  ‘Oh, man.’ Swift glances. ‘This feels like a break-up chat. Is this a break-up chat?’

  ‘Don’t be silly! Let me finish, will you, it’s tough enough to say as it is.’

  ‘OK.’

  He focused on her fingernails. Slim, gloss-painted. Oyster-shell glazed.

  ‘The reason we’re telling you this, is because we need you to know how dearly we think of you, Riss. We’re so lucky to have you as a friend.’

  ‘I’m lucky too,’ he said, panicking, before he remembered: no talking.

  ‘That’s sweet, but you don’t have to say it. You don’t have to say anything. Now . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘I don’t know if Chi said anything to you before; for the past half a year or so we’ve been looking into having children of our own.’

  Stricken, watching her lips move. Feeling Chileshe’s eyes.

  ‘And it’s a really crazy process whichever way you look at it, whether you go artificial or natural. Foster or adopt. We had a good talk, and a bit of a discussion this week, and we agreed natural’s best for both of us. The other ways . . . Let’s just say, it all felt a bit too artificial for me. Us. So, we agreed on that, then we were stuck with another dilemma, and that was who the natural donor would be, if we went that way. Neither of us want some faceless guy from a clinic in Sweden, or Trumpville USA. We wanted it to be with someone who felt organic to our lives, and hopefully over time, theirs. Someone who could be around—not to raise them or anything, we’d do all that. But as a presence when they needed it.’