She follows it.
War-ter.
War-ter.
The words fill the room, raspy and dry.
She can’t see any birds. It might just be her.
Her throat feels a bit like she’s been swallowing sand.
If she gets any hotter, it might turn to glass.
She thinks about blowing it out like a bubble. Watching it pass through the light of her torch and then pop.
At one point, she used to think bubbles were fairies.
Well, that they held fairies inside them.
But she can’t quite remember where she got that idea. If she were to go through all her stories, no doubt she’d find it in there. She’s even half-tempted to rummage around until she does so.
But she isn’t up to the task right now.
And anyway, thinking it over, it might have just been her dad.
Maybe she used to pester him in the kitchen when it was his turn to wash up, and the bubbles went everywhere, and she tried hard to catch them but they all burst. And she saw the name on the green bottle that made the foam in the first place, and she asked why they called it the name that they did. Fairy Liquid. And that’s what he told her.
And maybe she asked him what happened when the fairies got free.
She stands by the sink and it’s still loaded with clutter. Three glasses, some cutlery, some coffee cups, and the oven tray she’d been intending to use for the pie.
Not quite recalling where she keeps the rest, she rescues and rinses one of the glasses that’s there. Fills it and drains it three, four times. Fills it a fifth time, but then sets it aside.
Another bullfrog belch. More midnight crickets.
Hey, are you getting these? Please would you tell me if its something i’ve done xxx
As though he’s all that matters. As if anything wrong with her would have to revolve around him.
As if she could explain to him, actually, what the fuck’s going on.
Hey Sammy I’m sorry I’m still at my mum’s and the signal is rubbish.
I don’t know when I’ll be back. Xx
It’s not you it’s me x
She leaves her phone on the worktop. She doesn’t need the torch now.
There’s a sliver of moonlight cutting through the curtains.
Enough to pick out the beanbag, one side of the shelves.
Enough to show hesitant tremors around them.
She should shudder, perhaps, but the truth is she’s not scared.
She feels much cooler now. Calmer. The sweat’s mostly dried.
Her head isn’t spinning. At least, not so much.
She feels like she should read something. Seeing as she’s up. Not any more texts, just something she likes. Something she loves.
The spines on the bookcase feel gnarly and remind her a little of her old grandma’s hands. Pulling out book after book, the leaves rustle like breath. She takes in the smell of them, like sawdust and soil.
This one now, heavy leather, she traces the title.
She knows it, she bought it, but she hasn’t read it yet.
Donna drops to the beanbag, to the moonlight, and opens it.
A little too rashly: the first page has drawn blood.
She shakes her hand, sucks her finger, and lets the book fall.
There are answering sounds, as of things pushing outwards.
The breaking of covers.
The snapping of twigs.
48
Knock knock knock like a wolf at the door.
Or chop chop chop like a woodcutter’s axe.
Donna’s in the long grass, in her long dress, with her hands over her ears.
She hasn’t seen Sammy for nearly a fortnight.
He’s come to call on her four times, but she hasn’t answered.
Each time, he has said to her: I know that you’re in there. Please, open the door.
Each time, he has told her: I’m sorry, I really am, for whatever I’ve done.
As though it were an incantation.
A counter-spell.
A release.
But she’s the one who knows magic, or did he forget?
Today he is shouting, or at least raising his voice, but she still hasn’t answered.
In the past week, she’s only left the forest once, carefully, when she knew he’d be working. She’s gone to the supermarket at the other end of town, stocked up on olives and cheese and red wine.
There are seven empties beside her, her own little helpers.
Some of them.
She’s not really sure where the others have got to.
These are from the past few days.
She’s been wearing her princess dress now for five days, maybe six, and for five nights as well. She’s been sleeping out here in the long grass, to avoid being too warm.
The sunlight barely even spears into this forest, with the curtains still shut, but she goes out to the balcony on occasion to see how the world is, to see if it’s spread.
There were three thousand four hundred and seventy-two seeds to start with.
These became trees.
To work out how many roots, what do you multiply it by?
How many thousands does that make? How far can they reach?
It doesn’t matter. All that really matters is that there are enough to surround her, to cover her, to keep everything out.
She feels close to them. These trees, the animals, the beasts that pass amongst them. The people who pass her, who caper and smile and fight and sing. They’re all such good characters. They’re all such good friends.
And even alone, in the dark, she never gets frightened. Those branches reach out and tangle and look crooked and grasping. But nothing’s what it seems. It’s all in how you look at it. If she reaches out to hold them, then they hold her back. They give her high-fives as she passes. As evening approaches and it’s time to relax, she lets them give her neck-rubs and comb the knots from her hair.
Keeping it beautiful, as it grows out so long.
Sammy said she was beautiful, but she bets he doesn’t think so now. Or, at least, that he won’t in the future. There’s nothing unconditional, nowt that can’t break.
Except love, Donna. You can never get enough of that, her grandma had said.
True.
And what Donna loves is these stories.
They’ve never left her. There’s no way that they could.
Their numberless roots stretch deep through the centuries.
They aren’t going anywhere.
And neither is she.
But the axe is getting louder.
The wolf more insistent.
I thought you were different.
She still doesn’t answer.
I thought you were special.
She still doesn’t stand.
I must have been wrong.
She doesn’t even move.
Then silence again, not even birdsong.
Then the lift doors slide open, like a drawbridge going down.
Then they slide closed, grindingly as ever.
He was right about being wrong, but not how he thought.
49
Donna Creosote is different. She is special.
She’s a knight.
She’s a princess.
She is always a princess, after she’s done things like this.
Whenever she finds herself alone again, she is always a princess, because princesses in fairy tales are always alone, this kind of alone, right ‘til the end. Until the happily ever after.
And she’s starting to think, as she steps out on her balcony, that the reason she keeps ending up on her own is simply because she prefers it this way.
She just wants to be here, by her
self, overlooking her kingdom.
What’s wrong with that?
Is it too much to ask?
Ever since she was a child, ever since she was little Donna Crick-Oakley, she’s always chosen books over spending time with real people. She’s never quite fully been able to relax in their company, to be calm and accept that they want her around.
Perhaps she’s just seen too much of what can happen to people when they get too close to each other. As they build up and govern their shared little realms.
It’s surprising, indeed, what she can see from up here.
One of the reasons a princess stays so alone throughout most of the story, Donna thinks, is so that when she finally meets her prince and gets married they don’t have time to find out all the things they hate about each other before the story ends.
Ignorance is bliss, as her grandma had said sometimes.
Ignorance is bliss, and Yes, Donna, ‘s’gone.
Was she blissful in those last few months, Donna wonders. When her mind was failing.
Or was it more than she could bear, that all her world had disappeared?
Perhaps Donna has just seen too much of what can happen to people, whether they get too close to others, or lose touch, or not.
It’s surprising, incredible, what she can see from up here.
Standing out on this balcony.
Swaying on this balcony, with her hands on the rail.
White-knuckled.
With her dark green dress, and her coppery hair.
Overlooking her kingdom.
The river.
The ferry.
Where the traffic light devil is flickering red.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my family: my mum and dad, for their tireless support and for keeping a roof over my head; my siblings for keeping my ego in check; and particularly my older brother, Adam, for being my crucial test reader.
Special mention should also be given to my friends (too many to name here!) who have both put me up and put up with me over the years, displaying extraordinary patience and generosity, not to mention encouragement, in the hopes that I might someday be able to buy them a meal for a change.
Of course, I must convey my everlasting gratitude to Kevin and Hetha and all at Bluemoose Books. In particular I’d like to thank my editors, Janet, Lin and Leonora, who all went above and beyond to help me turn my rough-edged manuscript into an actual novel.
Finally, my thanks to those whose works were in my mind most strongly when I started: Milan Kundera, David Markson, Terry Gilliam, and especially Miguel de Cervantes – without whom this book, along with countless others, could not have been written.
THE LESS THAN PERFECT LEGEND OF DONNA CREOSOTE Page 16
