A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s like that Erykah song, you know?’

  Markriss looked at her, blinking, burst out laughing.

  ‘What?’ Grinning with him.

  ‘Sorry.’ Controlling himself, releasing her hands. ‘I never really took you as one, but that’s the most Hotep thing I’ve ever heard you say.’

  Her expression blanked in a matter of seconds. He stopped laughing.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m not really into all that Hotep chat.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I don’t get why people say that stuff. It’s ridiculous. Why would we take a word meaning “peace”, or “to be at peace”, a word used as a term of endearment for thousands of years, and turn it into something derogatory? Worse still, we take an actual derogatory word inherited from the Europeans who despise us, one used to demean us and amplify our wretchedness, and turn that into a term of endearment? What the hell’s that about?’

  It took him time to recover, possibly too long.

  ‘I didn’t say that. I hate that word.’

  Chileshe laughed. ‘I know, it’s just mad when you think about how we use words, and what we do with them.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They looked at each other from either side of the black table.

  ‘What were you saying anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh.’ Brief smile. ‘I’d forgotten. Let me get off my soapbox. What I was saying was, I care about you so much. You’ve become so important to me. You’re in my heart, you know. I can’t overstate that. I just think this thing . . . you know . . . it’s a real commitment. Not just to me, or Kesh, I don’t worry about that so much. But the kids. And given how you feel . . . Scratch that, how we feel about each other. We gotta be careful, Riss. Real careful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Chileshe raised her hands, and let them fall to the table. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just think about it. I’m not gonna say what’s right or wrong, this isn’t binary. Just think.’

  He played with the sandwich wrapper, lips pursed, unable to see her. Drenched in frustration, or so he felt. The clatter of trays, plates and the swirling conversation in the canteen returned, too loud it seemed. His knee sprang to life, jittering.

  ‘Are you upset?’

  ‘Nah—no,’ he said, and had to turn her way. ‘I’ve just been finding it hard, I suppose. With this and, you know, everything.’

  ‘It’s tough,’ she said. ‘No matter which way, we all feel it.’

  He crackled the sandwich wrapper between fingers, head bowed towards the table, his churn of emotions pulling him low, a child again.

  They walked the riverbank, not saying very much, just to be with each other, or so he thought. Given every opportunity to go separate ways, they did not. Chileshe said she wanted to see the water, even though the breeze that rose onto the walkway was bitter and crisp. She huddled in her too-large jacket, even smaller, shoulders hunched, eyes squeezed closed and watering. At one point she raised her hood, linking arms with him. He had no idea what was happening, couldn’t stop it.

  They followed the bend of the pathway, through a subway where the music of an accordion-playing busker echoed, and out the other side, dodging crowds that took up space everywhere they moved. Something weighty bumped his leg, knocking Markriss off balance; glancing down, the elongated body of a dog swum by, black fur, triangular snout, wading through the crowd with precision beside its owner. He was reminded of the dog he’d seen in Brixton, twisting to see if it could possibly be the same animal. By then, the crowd surged at him, unrelenting, Chileshe looking back, wondering what had happened. Any view of the dog, if it was her, blocked by surrounding people. He squared his shoulders, moved on.

  To escape the rush, Markriss pointed towards an outcrop of jetty by the Oxo Tower Wharf. At its furthest end, he and Chileshe surveyed the expanse of chopping water, sodden wood underfoot slippery with damp. The slap and slop of tide beneath, St Paul’s dome a humped mountaintop, to their right. Vehicles on the north bank and riverboats hauled themselves with the appearance of great determination. Silent, they watched them creep by.

  ‘Kesh said something cool last night about water being associated with reproduction. She reckons our pelvic area, just above our root chakra, is called the water bowl. It’s like a crescent moon or something.’ Chileshe shook her head, braids jumping. ‘It’s a nice thought. I don’t get it, to be fair.’

  He couldn’t think of much else to say, so he didn’t. Stamped his feet, burying himself deep into his puffer. She turned, shivering, teeth gritted.

  ‘I don’t think I’m being totally honest,’ she said, lifting her glasses to swipe watering eyes. ‘I’m scared, Riss. I am.’

  He wasn’t sure what she was talking about, although by then that seemed pretty usual. Children or the world? Him or the week to follow? He wanted to give her comfort, unsure whether he could manage such a thing. Half a metre apart, fingers and cheeks numb with cold, they focused on the other side.

  In the warmth of his flat that evening, Markriss flicked through mute television channels until he caught one of David Attenborough’s many nature programmes. First, he couldn’t tell what he saw, then realised it was a bundle of snakes, threaded and woven, moving in slippery, presumed accidental motion. Ponderous, blind. When he raised the volume, Attenborough’s calm narration informed him that it was a collection of males attempting to raise their temperature from the friction of their fellow bodies, an action that would later become part of their search for a female. He watched, attempting to see where one reptile ended, the other began.

  5

  The week hurtled by, much as the year. He tried doing what he could to maintain equilibrium in the face of such tender assault to his sense of self, awakened to truth. He was struggling. He needed help. Malaise was vapour inhaled into his lungs and sweated from his pores. It coated his body, enveloping him in a clouded sensation that closed him off from the outside world. He was dazed, unable to see or hear, to comprehend. Even normal tastes were foreign on the tongue, distant and unregistered. It was something like grief, he recalled, thinking of earlier years, his body’s account of loss. The impression of absence in flesh once rich with the promise of abundance, now unfulfilled.

  He counted moments, the good things he possessed. Health, home, friendship. He travelled to work, put his head down, filed copy. He stayed away from Chileshe, much as he could; there was no use in going further, trying for more. Keshni was good enough not to trouble him with her own anxieties about what he might decide, seeing, or perhaps sensing, the fraught nature of their present days. With the world in turmoil around them, personal issues seemed trivial and secondary. Trained nurses were said to use food banks. A four-year-old boy with suspected pneumonia was photographed sleeping on a hospital floor amidst a pile of coats, the mother’s claim decried as fake news by Tories and the right-wing media. The father of the first man to be killed in the London Bridge attacks wrote an article for the Guardian denouncing hate. Every day, on his journey to the office, Markriss walked by abraded men and women camped out in doorways beside sleeping bags or tents. Sometimes he gave food or coins. Sometimes he passed quickly, avoiding their avoidance of him, the embarrassed glances into laps, their stunted hope. His return to work had helped a little. In the newsroom, a sense of hushed expectance, of getting work done without qualification or banter became the norm. They kept politics to themselves, speaking of celebrity diets and Christmas at the coffee machine. While others went to the pub after their shifts, Markriss took the tube home.

  Vague optimism lingered that no one dared to speak into being. Canvassers with red and yellow badges would get on underground carriages in high spirits, campaign manifestos and clipboards under their arms. He and his fellow commuters pretended to ignore them. At home, he opened his laptop, searching through hundreds of emails Nesta had sent until he found one with �
��Kinfolk’ written in the subject box—a list of names, and links. He right-clicked each, rewarded by thumbnail pics, names and accreditations—MSc Counselling and Psychology, MA Counselling and Psychotherapy—above four-line bios written in first person. Markriss picked three that he liked, two African women and one Caribbean man, noted their emails, then wrote, copied and pasted a general enquiry to all. He’d thought he might feel better after taking direct action. Instead, he was spent.

  He listened to Alice Coltrane’s Journey In Satchidananda, made peppermint tea and lay on his bed. Thoughts wouldn’t stop racing, and still she came into his mind.

  He and Nesta WhatsApped every few days, although his friend was engrossed with teaching and numerous Tinder dates. He seemed to enjoy the things Markriss didn’t, making plans and dressing up, useless small talk, endless bar menus and meals. The excitement of the unknown, even disappointment. Markriss wrote to tell him he’d contacted the therapists and received promising replies. His phone stirred, and as he looked down, he saw a brown-handed thumbs up. It had been evening, after all; dinner-date time. Half laughing, Markriss plucked a chip from the golden pile spread across stiff paper. The flat was dark, the fitful television screen winking before him.

  On Election Day heavy rain fell, a ridiculous display of pathetic fallacy. Markriss worked from home, and took a lunchbreak at twelve, making the short walk up Notting Hill to St John’s Church. Silence was a physical presence. A trio of attendants stood idle, with lacklustre attention. He’d arrived without ID and gave his address instead. A slim, almost translucent sheet of folded white paper, a few steps taken towards the open wooden booth amongst the low collection of others. He made a cross with the squat pencil on a string, folded the sheet again, posting it into the ballot box that reminded him of a paper shredder—not a great thought. The emptiness of the church room piqued his anxiety. He clasped fists, nodded at the trio of attendants, left.

  It still rained, the damp church stones slippery with wet. Stepping carefully, Markriss headed down the hill to the Lebanese restaurant a few blocks from his house, on the Grove.

  Inside, the whispered sizzle of grilling meat on skewers, and before him, the jewelled glitter of baklava pieces stacked into strangely neat pyramids, at eye level. He waited to be served, full of hunger pangs, a distant urge for the sweet combination of honey and pistachio. At a table just beyond the queue, a woman ate, head thrust forwards, patiently carving into a whole grilled fish. Markriss recognised her tall, thin figure as the local who had taught an after school club, only for something to happen between her and the kids that involved them attempting to rob her flat, the woman retaliating with violence. Markriss turned away before she saw him. He’d visited the club to give a talk on journalism, years ago, and couldn’t think of a single thing worth saying to her.

  At home, he met his afternoon deadline, using growing blocks of words to try and forget the stakes as the nation waited. Played Alice Coltrane from the beginning, staring out of his window at passing legs and feet. The warmth of his radiators was consolation. His phone buzzed to life.

  Willow.

  ‘Hey, Mum.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  A sniff of distaste. ‘Just thought I’d ring is all. Haven’t heard from you.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Been working.’

  ‘Gathered. Must be busy. What with today.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty crazy. Been flat out.’

  ‘Thursday twelfth.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, understanding what she meant afterwards. The following day was Friday 13th. ‘Oh, man. You think it’s intentional?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past them, would you?’

  He shook his head, remembering she couldn’t see.

  ‘How’s it looking up by you?’

  His mother had swapped the Uxbridge two-bedroom council home where he’d grown up for a Wallington equivalent not long after he’d finished university. He often joked she’d moved out on him, instead of the opposite. It was only half meant for laughs.

  ‘I dunno, can’t tell. Be shocked if we went Labour.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sighing. ‘So how you doing? Feeling OK?’

  ‘Not so bad. I’ve got some lavender to give you. Please remind me. If you don’t come up I’ll post it.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that. I’ll come up, Mum.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it’s here if you need it. For your sleep.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her lavender hadn’t worked, ever.

  ‘You know what next week is?’

  ‘Course. How could I not?’

  ‘Just checking, don’t get narky. I’ll go and lay flowers. I’ve been growing them especially.’

  ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘Carnations and sunflowers. He liked those.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Used to take the heads off with his football, remember that? I’d get so angry.’

  ‘You smacked his bum once.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, you did. Said if we were back home he’d have to pick his own switch from the tree. He bawled the house down.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll never forget. Then you gave him ice cream.’

  ‘Ah.’ Markriss heard his mother’s smile. ‘At least I did.’

  ‘Yeah. He stopped crying right away.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ An electronic tick of silence. ‘D’you think he forgave me?’

  ‘Course he did, Mum. It’s what kids do: cry, tantrum, forget about it.’

  ‘What about you?’

  He frowned out of the window. ‘For what, Mum? You never did anything to me.’

  ‘I could’ve taken better care of your brother. I could’ve—’

  Sniffling. Crackling movement. He imagined a sleeve wiped across her cheek. Rounded shoulders.

  ‘Mum. Don’t be silly. We loved you. Ninka loved you.’

  The rattle of her breath, the vibrating speaker.

  ‘Stupid.’

  ‘No, Mum. Not at all.’

  She felt a touch better, and so Willow talked of his father, Vendriss Denny, who’d returned to his birth island of Barbados after he attended the patient liaison meeting that followed his son’s death. The consultants and head nurse had been sorry, telling the family that tuberculosis had been on the rise since the late ’90s, even more so in the present day, from what Markriss learned years later. Poor living conditions, poor nutrition and poorer health all said to account for its resurgence. Once Ninka was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, a family plot his mother bought with the help of their local community, his father had decided he couldn’t live in the house, or country. Markriss never blamed him for that.

  ‘I was thinking of joining your dad. I emailed him, we talked. What you think?’

  ‘You lot renewing your vows or something?’

  ‘As friends, you daft sausage. Them days long done.’

  ‘I’m only teasing. I think it’s good, Mum. It’d be good for you.’

  ‘So I have your blessing?’

  ‘You don’t need it. You should go.’

  She made a noise of positivity, and was off at a tangent, talking about taking an online DNA test she’d seen on a tube advertisement to find out where she really came from. Something about not being originally from Carriacou, even though it was still back home to her. The arrival of her ancestors from an undefined place. He stopped listening after a while, as it was always the same thing. She’d call to check on him. Possibly wanting to discuss his mental health, unable to face the enormity of the task. Too fathomless, impervious. She covered up the inadequacy by talking of her own concerns. Markriss didn’t mind, he just had limits.

  ‘So you’re fine about me buggering off and sit on the beach with your old man? Dunno when, but soon.’

  ‘Course, Mum. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you.’

  Willow spluttered a few unintelligi
ble sentences, blowing kisses down the phone.

  ‘I’ll meet you down the cemetery, ten o’ clock. Bring the lavender, yeah?’

  ‘Love you, son.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  He put the phone down, ducking his head to look from the window. Spotted rain on glass was drifting mist, the clouds a sea of cotton grey.

  He’d known he wouldn’t sleep through the night, unsurprised to open his eyes to the void of his flat, the lazed grumble of a night bus, a temporary flash of jittering lights, fallen dark after. He groped for his phone, unable to find it, assailed by remnants of dreams. A ballet of clustered snakes, writhing, desperate for heat. Unable to tell each other apart, in search of the female amongst them. Constant motion, the quiet murmur of scales. He was cold in spite of radiator heat, searching until his fingers came across sterile plastic. Lifting the iPhone, he fumbled for the home button. Impromptu light caused his eyes to ache, squinting at the screen.

  Friday 02:59 13 December.

  He tilted the phone to ease discomfort. Typed ‘election results UK 2019’ with a finger. Waited tense moments for it to load.

  Wincing at the too-bright screen, he saw that Conservatives had taken 81 seats and Labour 73, with a 41.3% and 37% share of the vote.

  He fell onto the pillow. Searched the dark ceiling.

  By the time the exit polls were announced the previous evening, hours before he eventually fell asleep, it was already predicted the Conservatives would garner a majority. Fearful, he logged on to the Ark, where their boilerplate was designed and ready: ‘A Blue Wave’, the headline foretold. Richard, working a late shift, had landed the breaker. Unable to face the disappointment of watching the vote develop as it happened, Markriss tried to sleep, knowing he’d probably wake hours later wracked with runaway thoughts, nothing else left to do. Trapped with the knowledge of what was to come.

  Between swipes, he propped a pillow against his headboard and sat up, phone grasped tight, watching the screen in hope something would change, scrolling through windows with a terse finger. An Indie article published an hour before he’d woken bore the headline ‘How to Leave the United Kingdom’. Though focused on the wider population, the piece directly addressed the intense worries people of colour had about their incumbent PM. He tracked his finger downwards, anxiety becoming a gnawing sensation, sinking blunt teeth in his lower gut.