by Naomi Joy
I murmur an agreement. Yes, it is interesting. I’m a historical journalist and this is my idea of a dream story. A perfectly packaged article I could write up with front page aspirations. Headlines explode like fireworks as I let myself run away with the thought of it.
Tube works ‘plagued’ by further delays as mass grave uncovered in East London.
Just when you thought the morning rush hour couldn’t get any worse… now there’s THE BLACK DEATH to watch out for on your commute.
Anthony carries on, cutting through my thoughts, positioning his glasses back on the bridge of his nose then pushing them up into place.
‘To think what we’re digging into, damaging, for the sake of an extra tube stop, you know, people don’t realise how important this stuff is, they don’t know the half of it… just so long as they can waddle into an elevator without too much fuss they don’t care.’
I spin my hair up into a ponytail. I twirl the lengths round my fingers, looping the strands in place, my tresses slick at the scalp but dry at the ends. I could use a good scrub and a hair masque. Perhaps I’ll feel well enough to do one later, I think optimistically. I hold on to the thought as my chest cramps, dull shockwaves reverberating from my insides out. I let the flurry pass, then finish the rest of the porridge with little fuss – a vast improvement on the fizzy milk drink – and try to stand unassisted, gripping the edge of the kitchen island as I do so, looking down at split nails, chipped and bitten on hands that can’t possibly be mine. Not enough calcium, not enough zinc, I imagine Anthony saying if I pointed it out. Here, take these – they’ll sort you out in no time.
‘How do you want to get there?’ I ask, sucking in a breath through my teeth, the pain always worse after eating.
‘I’ll order a cab,’ he says, putting away the cleaning products and hurrying to my side, gripping my shoulders and breathing deep with me, exhaling in sync. Anthony’s the over-sensitive type. A natural carer who delights in smothering those close to him with his abundant capacity for love. I hadn’t really noticed when I was well, but as soon as I’d fallen ill it’d been like he’d come into his own, found his calling, his real raison d’être. I’m not sure he’d ever admit it, but I’d say part of him enjoys his role as my live-in nurse, likes the attention it gives him, the purpose.
His wiry hands run the length of my back, rubbing against my ribs, patting gently in the hollow between my shoulder blades. His face is etched with excited concern, fine lines wriggling out from the corners of his eyes as he assures me with flaky lips that everything will be fine in a moment. I let him hold me and I’m looking deep into his slate coloured irises when we’re illuminated by the sun breaking through the clouds, roaring into our kitchen with the last gasps of summer. I think about how we used to sit out in Regent’s Park on days like today, soaking in the weather, a half finished bottle of rosé and discarded strawberry tops dotted on the gingham rug beneath us.
I imagine us there for a moment, in the park, occupying our usual spot. In fact, if I looked up forty-five degrees to my left and squinted I’d see them. Us. I’d watch a seemingly perfect couple embracing in their airy, top floor flat. Anthony and Emelia. I’d envy them, in a way – what possible problems could people like that have? Little do you know. How could anything be wrong in a home as beautiful as theirs? Ours. ‘Look at it,’ I’d say to Anthony. ‘How could it be any better? On the east of the park, built with red bricks and sash windows. I’d bet it was beautiful inside: classic, antique-y, with a wood panelled study brimming with the treasures they’ve amassed over the years.’
Anthony and I would be sitting there, down in the park, convinced that nothing could go wrong in a home like that.
‘It’s perfect,’ I’d sigh, oblivious.
Back in the kitchen, I look at him, at the face that’s metamorphosed into someone I don’t recognise much any more and consider how wrong alternate-universe-us would be about that perfect couple in their beautiful home.
‘Let’s get you dressed,’ Anthony says, breaking from our rare moment of intimacy. He takes my sweaty hands in his dry palms and leads me back through to the bedroom, my feet sticking to the wooden floors below, grubby prints left behind. I shuffle after him, observe his white golf shirt tucked neatly into slim legged chinos, his outfit in stark contrast to my ancient pyjamas: frayed and worn thin, way past their best, ready for an upgrade.
*
‘You’re sure?’ he asks, half an hour later, as I sit panting on the edge of the bed, gripping my chest.
‘I’m sure.’
We’ve managed to wrestle my brittle legs into a pair of saggy jeans, my torso into a loose Bretagne-striped top. Anthony’s laundered everything and my clothes smell fresh, in a blue coloured liquid called ‘air’ kind of way, but it’s not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. I let myself get a little giddy at sitting in ‘outside clothes’ for the first time in a long time. But he’s changing his mind, I can tell by the way he avoids making eye contact, by the way he’s rubbing his hands together in repetitive loops.
‘We don’t have to do this. I don’t want to push you… I don’t want to make things worse.’
This pattern is all too familiar and I should be wise to it now. I shouldn’t let him get my hopes up; he enjoys dashing them too much. Stop it, Emelia, you’re being unfair.
‘I’m fine,’ I insist through gritted teeth, clenching my chest in on itself to stop my hand from flying to the area and giving me away.
‘I just—’
‘I’m OK,’ I say again, steadfast.
‘It’s just—’ he repeats.
‘I mean it,’ I counter, louder, determined, my eyes watering with the frustration.
He turns his back and picks my pyjamas up off the floor between his thumb and forefinger.
‘No. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Why don’t you just get back into bed, darling? We can try again tomorrow. Or next week. Let’s see how you get on.’
He lays my pyjamas across my lap and pulls back the duvet, expecting me to collapse into it.
I feel it then, the bubbling lava of my discontent, and I make little effort to stop the eruption.
‘No!’ I shout, fire and fight appearing from nowhere and he stops dead, surprised by my strength. I gather myself. Be calm, Emelia. Breathe. ‘I want to go,’ I pant.
The tension in the silence between us is palpable and I watch his lips tighten and his expression crease.
‘Very well,’ he says, after a while. He’s still for a moment, then breaks into strides, pacing out of the room, jabbering. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you, it’s not advisable but I suppose if I call us a car…’
I don’t breathe out until I can no longer hear him and, when I do, it’s jagged and frantic. Did I just win? Did he just agree? Am I really going to go outside today? I can’t let myself get too excited, I’m not in the car yet, I’m not out yet.
I take a few shaky steps to standing, wait for the swell of my pain to pass, then march determinedly for the front door before he changes his mind.
‘Ready?’ he asks, clipped fingernails punching through the taxi app on his phone.
It’s not until the front door to our communal block is wide open and a crisp leaf rushes in, pausing on the toe of my trainer, that I begin to believe this is actually going to happen.
Post-mortem
No. 137221-2021 Toxicology Examination
London, England
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
The deceased is a twenty-eight year old white female who was found unresponsive in her home by her boyfriend. Emergency services attended, but the victim could not be resuscitated.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
There was no trauma or injury observed and no evidence of foul play.
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
An examination of the scene revealed prescription drug paraphernalia. There were also an empty champagne bottle and two glasses located on a nearby table.
R
EDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED.
The victim
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED
was reported by close family members to have a history of prescription medication dependence and of long term manic depression and alcohol misuse.
Opinion:
I find that
REDACTEDREDACTED REDACTEDREDACTED
died of combined alcohol, morphine and codeine toxicity. I classify this death as accidental suicide.
Blog Entry
13th October, 10.00 a.m.
There’s something heady and intoxicating about being outdoors. Something you only notice when you’ve been cooped up for a while. It sits somewhere between the taste of the air in your lungs, the autumnal scent of the trees, the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sound of insects buzzing close to your ears. I revel in it as I take my first step over the threshold, just one stride taking me from inside to out. To most, this wouldn’t be monumental, but to me it’s life changing and I already feel better; more like the Emelia I used to be. Despite the fierce sun, there’s a nip in the air and, though I enjoy it, a question forms: Why was my bedroom so hot this morning? It can’t just have been me, surely? Perhaps it was the heating, after all – cranked high to sweat me out. I glance down at Anthony’s elegant fingers, his talons wrapped round my waist, and wonder why I keep jumping to the worst conclusions about him. It is true that I’ve started despising him for the life he can lead and the life I’ve had taken away, but I must try to change, I must do better.
‘Emelia,’ calls a voice from the pavement, interrupting my thoughts.
It’s Mishti, our ground floor neighbour, resplendent in skin tight yoga pants, her enormous ruby earrings catching the sunlight, casting red reflections on the pavement like mini stained glass windows. As she moves towards us, I notice there’s a shine to her, a shimmer that comes from within, as though her veins pump gold instead of blood. Mishti was the first person I met when Anthony and I moved to North London. She’s the bubbly earth mother type who, somewhat inconveniently for her aesthetic, is the heir to a bloodthirsty jewellery empire – if I were being cruel I’d say her pseudo-Buddhist mantra is a way of absolving her guilt. She’s kind, though, and she’s been there for me, so I shouldn’t judge her for her family’s sins.
I nod enthusiastically, trying to remember how to act in front of people.
‘You must be Anthony,’ she says, extending a soft hand for him to shake. ‘Between your busy life and mine I can’t believe it’s taken this long to meet you, but it’s a pleasure all the same.’ She doesn’t look at him for long, though; she’s more interested in figuring out why I’ve been ignoring her messages for the better part of a month.
‘Anyway, what’s up with you? Where have you been? Some news you need to share, perhaps?’ She angles a pointed look at my stomach.
It hurts that she does that. If only it were as simple as being pregnant.
‘Not that, before you get any ideas,’ I rush to correct her. ‘I just haven’t been feeling great recently.’
‘Everything OK, I hope?’
‘Oh yes, she’s a real fighter,’ Anthony coos from behind me, putting words into my mouth, making everything sound far more serious than it is.
I watch Mishti’s face cloud with confusion. You’re deathly sick and you didn’t tell me?
‘Anthony’s being dramatic,’ I reply sternly. ‘It really isn’t a big deal. Please don’t worry about me, I’ll be better in no time.’ I say, trying desperately to downplay Anthony’s comment. I don’t like the idea of everyone knowing I’m ill; then I’d have to accept it. Which I don’t want to do. This is temporary, fleeting, this is not who I am now.
She visibly relaxes and shuffles her over filled tote back up her shoulder. ‘Maybe it’s just been the stress of the move? It can be difficult when you’re in a new area. Lots to get used to, you know? Damien…’ She pauses. ‘My husband,’ she clarifies for Anthony’s sake, though he’s barely listening, ‘came out in this horrible rash when we moved from Clapham. The doctor said he’d had an actual allergic reaction to the change of location.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Maybe you have something similar?’
I nod along, though I know it’s not that.
Anthony and I relocated to this leafy area of London with little stress, just after we got married. Everything exchanged and completed without delay and the place came fully furnished and exquisitely decorated. In fact, we didn’t need to do anything more than call up to connect the Wi-Fi and fill it with a few pieces to make it ‘ours’. It was perfect. The dream move.
‘Yoga’s not the same without you,’ she sighs as she moves towards the front entrance, sensing that we’re not in the mood for small talk. I shuffle as Anthony guides me past her, keen to get on. ‘I hope you feel better soon,’ she says as we draw level on the steps.
I fix a smile on my face, hoping she’ll forgive me for my recent absence.
I touch her forearm as she fits her key into the lock, then Anthony and I walk away. It’s only when I glance back that I notice her stare has followed us; her eyebrows are down-turned, her incisors gnawing anxiously on her bottom lip. When she spots me looking she motions for me to call her, her thumb and little finger extended in the shape of a phone. I shoot my eyes towards Anthony, glad to find he’s still staring ahead and hasn’t witnessed the secret, silent exchange behind his back.
‘She seems nice,’ Anthony says, sickly sweet, then pulls wide the door to the taxi.
‘She is,’ I assure him as I climb in. But something in the rigid way he’s holding himself and his failure to respond tells me that he never wants me to see her again.
*
As we drive through the busy streets of the city, my mood shifts and I start to feel positive about this morning, lifted by the rush of being out of the house, soaking in the sensory overload of the capital with all its vehicles and tourists and sights and sounds. It’s exciting being back in the hubbub of it all, strangely comforting to know the world beyond our flat still exists. I glance over at Anthony and half smile. He reaches across the middle seat to squeeze my hand in response, his veiny knuckles yellowing with the motion. I let him hold me like that, but return my focus to the window, suppressing a momentary wave of panic that he could change his mind at any point and send us home.
But he doesn’t – of course he doesn’t. We make it and, though I can scarcely believe I’m here – at a live excavation again – I feel entirely at home as the driver pulls in at the kerb, just the top of dig’s tent visible from the road. I’m excited. This was what I used to do before my health deteriorated. I ignore the wheeze in my chest as we leave the car and home in on the site, under cover and behind a security fence to shield it from the public. Anthony takes my arm and holds me in his stare, uncertain. I’m OK, I tell him with a look. Let’s keep going.
It’s empty here, it’s the weekend, so Anthony keys in the code to the fence, beeps rising above the noise of the traffic beyond. Under the tent, we follow the short path that leads us to the main pit. Muddy footprints have been stamped between mounds of rubble dug out from the deep hole in the centre of the space, itself a steep descent accessed only via ladders that sweep through brick and dirt and clay. I gaze down at the discoveries below, at surprisingly well preserved skeletons sticking through the earth, catching the light for the first time in hundreds of years.
‘Amazing,’ I utter, marvelling at it. Bones on bones on bones, stacked mere metres away from a bustling commuter station. I imagine the grave being dug originally, then these bodies, thick with fleas, being tossed in like rubbish with little regard for who they were or what they could have been. And they’ve been here ever since, haphazard and broken, long forgotten. Until now. I bet if I’d been alive back then, they’d have thrown me in too: good for nothing in the sorry state I’m in.
‘Can you believe it?’ he asks, eyes dancing over the scene before us. ‘And that skull, just there, towards the front, is in perfect condition. I can’t wait to di
g it out and have a proper look.’
I gaze at it, at the gaping eye sockets, empty nose and criss-crossing teeth. Then closer, at the size, because it’s tiny and delicate. The brow and cheek bones are prominent, certainly, but they’re also fine and frail.
‘She can’t have been older than sixteen,’ I lament, struck again by the sad lives of the people who once lived here, plagued by disease and dirt, dying as they’d lived: cramped and crowded and undignified. I spot the tip of a rat’s tail diving into the depths of the pit, the body the tail belongs to clearly unnerved by the voices above. The price of working in London, I think, where you’re never more than a few feet away from a flea-ridden rodent.
‘Yes, mostly teenagers,’ he agrees. ‘Probably moved to London to make a living and died because they weren’t immune to the diseases here. To think of the difference modern medicine has made to human life. Remarkable, isn’t it, that we can cross oceans and continents with little trouble, a few vaccinations and that’s it.’
‘Quite.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Much better. Being here, back on site, is helping. Thank you for this.’
My heart rushes with love for him, with the hope that this is the first stage in us getting back to normal, but he steps back just as I’d expected him to draw closer. He’s not annoyed, exactly, but his dissatisfaction with my answer is clear in the adjustments that follow. He clears his throat, interlaces his fingers and paces away from me. Someone with an untrained eye probably wouldn’t think anything of it, but I suspect he’d prefer it if I told him I was feeling bad and that I wanted to go home.
I pull my focus from him – I’m being unfair – and look again at the grave. I’d love to come back tomorrow, watch the team date the bone fragments, analyse the DNA they uncover, be the first to see the facial reconstruction of the delicate skull on top of the rest. I know it’s impossible, of course, I doubt I’ll ever be able to make it back here again. Instead, Anthony will keep me updated with the news via computer screens and photos captured on his phone, but he won’t appreciate that it’s not the same, that I’d rather be here in person, working alongside the team, back where I belong.
