by Tom Becker
My body aches like I am bruise from monster lorry journey. We are like chickens packed inside on way to new camp they call jungle.
A jungle is beautiful in my mind
A jungle is green with lions and tigers, elephants and monkeys, bright birds
A jungle smells of heat … coconut oil, eucalyptus
This is not a jungle
This is like people growing from mud and human waste
Shit.
*
They say they will come to jungle and destroy the school, our mosque, the church, the fields of tents. They will not let us stay here. Kabir tells we will go before that time. We have an arrangement.
One night he wakes and we walk away… “Quiet, quiet, be silent now, Amir.”
I hold the lemon in my mouth.
“I said three… The agreement was three,” Frozen Man says.
He is Rock Heart and Cargo Man all together – cares only for money.
Mirsa tells him, “Look, the baby is like carrying nothing.”
Frozen Man says, “Everything costs money … ‘nothing’ could be very costly if it cries.”
“I will feed her,” Mirsa tells … but Mirsa has no milk left.
Kabir and Mirsa they pay for me because they know my mother and father, because with everything that has happened to them, they do not let the poison enter in their blood.
Mirsa says to me, “Amir, you will bring us good fortune, Inshallah.”
Frozen Man closes the door of giant fridge, slams it, locks it. He tells us to be quiet ‘like nothing’. I show him lemon in my mouth. He looks to me like I am idiot boy, but I suck on hate for him.
Sucking lemon harder, gum is bleeding. Blood is freezing. We hold together to stay warm. We hold together for memory of our village.
Mirsa is trying to feed Kalila not to cry
Kalila cries
We are ice breathing
Brain is freezing
Then we are all sleeping
I am not bringing good fortune for Kabir and Mirsa
Kalila stops crying
Kalila cannot wake
Kalila never wakes
She is frozen in death
We are frozen inside and outside.
*
Reflection George is placing his head in hands and shaking, shaking. “I am so sorry, Amir. Even I didn’t forsee a world this ugly.”
“It is not all ugly,” I tell.
*
This is my family now. They finally adopt me and now we are trying to make a place for ourselves in the city.
Mirsa is not my mother
Kabir is not my father
They have no more daughter
I am not their son
This is not my country
But still we are some kind of family together
The lemon from my garden is dried now but I keep it to remember.
*
Perhaps my story is not easy for you to hear. Maybe some people do not want to hear, but still I think it is one I must tell because I am alive. This is my liberty.
*
Mr Shaw opens the door. “I’m sorry, Amir. I’m afraid there’s not going to be an opportunity for you to speak today. The rules are quite firm. I hope you’re not too disappointed. Do you want to stay to see who wins?”
Behind me I see the chair is empty.
Reflection is gone.
We walk out into the hall. I turn to see the painting of George Orwell. I did not notice before, this gentle smile. He is looking like gentle man, like my teacher.
“No, Mr Shaw. I don’t care who wins. Let us go home.”
The Letter
–
Tracy Darnton
‘The Letter’ is the winning story from the Stripes YA Short Story Prize in partnership with The Bookseller. Congratulations, Tracy!
It’s hard to imagine, but the Bowling Plaza is even worse than usual tonight. A bobbing, giant inflatable snowman is tethered to the roof, casting menacing shadows over the car park. Inside they’ve strung up cheap tinsel and ‘Season’s Greetings’ banners, and a plastic tree with red and green baubles sits on the reception desk, getting in the way. It’s only the first day of December, but already there’s a sickly smell of stale mulled wine and a drunken office party is messing about by the pool tables.
Spotty Paul on shoe duty is dressed as an elf. You’d think he’d have more respect for himself. I don’t like doing anything where you have to wear communal shoes. I’ve had enough of hand-me-down crap. Paul sprays them with a sickly aerosol between each customer, but even so, it freaks me out. I shudder as I put them on. This interests Julie and she makes a note in her stripy book as usual.
“Maybe it’s due to my feelings of abandonment,” I tell her helpfully so she has something else to write down. “Or maybe it’s because I dislike other people’s smelly feet – which is completely rational, by the way.”
Can you believe Social Services still has a budget for bowling and ice cream with Julie? The free ice cream would be OK if I was, like, six years old and on a beach. I’d rather have a double shot Americano. But I don’t want a machine coffee in a plastic cup, so I stare for a while at the ice-cream choices to build the suspense before saying, “Nothing, thanks.”
Julie looks disappointed. Maybe because she is now a grown woman licking a Solero next to a teenage girl sipping at a cup of water. I tell Julie she should cut back on the ice creams. If she takes all her clients out like this, no wonder.
“No wonder, Julie,” I say, tutting.
Julie reddens and makes another note. Does she ever just call it as it is and write ‘Bitch’ or does she always have some mumbo-jumbo excuse for my behaviour?
“So who’s drawn the short straw this year?” I ask.
“We’re having a little trouble getting the right placement for you after term finishes,” says Julie, fidgeting. This is Julie-speak for ‘nobody wants you’.
“How will Santa know where to find me?” I stare, wide-eyed. I see her processing whether I’m serious or not. She just doesn’t get irony. I learned the truth about Father Christmas early on in life.
To be honest, I see the Christmas stuff happening around me like a trailer for a film I don’t get to watch in full; like those adverts on TV where one big happy family sits down at a glittering table with a shiny turkey and everybody is so frigging happy. It’s not my world. I’m like the Ghost of Christmas No One Wants in a foster home. They have to pretend to like me and cover up the fact their own child gets piles of gifts from relatives who actually give a shit.
“So no room at the inn,” I say and laugh. “That reminds me of something.”
“It’ll be fine.” Julie pats my hand. I shrug her off.
“Tell them it’s only dogs who aren’t just for Christmas – you can get rid of kids, no problem,” I say. “Anyway, I don’t know what all the fuss is. It’s just a day when the shops shut and the telly’s better.”
Julie’s Solero is dripping down her hand. I watch as the drip plops on to her lap.
“Can’t I stay at Beechwood by myself?” I already know the answer.
The office party’s getting rowdier, singing along to piped Christmas singles from last century. Paul the elf has to intervene.
I start bowling with Julie. “The sooner we begin, the sooner it’s over,” I say. We take the furthest alley as usual, like an old married couple picking their regular table at the pizzeria.
I watch as she bowls. The ball trickles down the polished lane, heading slowly for the gutter at the side. She looks surprised. I don’t know why. She’s always rubbish at this. I used to think she was letting me win and hate her for it, as if my winning a game of ten-pin bowling would make everything all right in Julie-land.
She keeps asking me if I’m OK, if I’m having a good time. Please! In this place? She’s poking in her bag and casting glances my way like she’s got more to tell me. I know the signs.
I win the game, by the way. I always win at things
that don’t matter.
“I have some news,” says Julie, when we stop for her to take a rest and guzzle a fizzy drink.
Finally. What now?
“We’ve had a letter for you. From your dad. How do you feel about that?” She is obsessed, literally obsessed, with how I feel about everything. “We’ve struggled to find him, as you know. There was some confusion over names and information.” She rummages in her briefcase and hands me an envelope, opened. It sits in my hand like an unexploded bomb.
“If you don’t want to look at it today, we can save it for another time. This must all be a big surprise,” says Julie. She pats my knee. “Turns out he was back in America.” She says it like that’s an achievement – like he’s a film star rather than a waster.
STRIKE! The teenagers on the alley next to us are doing a moonwalk as the scoring machine flashes and plays loud music.
What am I doing in this shitty place?
I look carefully at the envelope addressed to Somerset Social Services. The idiots must have told him where I ended up. I flip it over. The return address is a place in Florida. I can picture it already – a duplex on a housing estate surrounded by retired golfers and repossessions.
Julie checks her watch. Her concern for me only operates until eight o’clock. She has to get back to her real life. She fiddles with the wedding ring on her pudgy hand.
I breathe. I listen to the clatter of the bowling lanes and the whoops of another strike.
“OK,” I say. “I’ll read it.” I remove the letter from the envelope with my fingertips as if it’s hot. It’s oh-so-carefully typed, but I’m not fooled by him – unlike Julie and her team.
F.A.O. Amber Fitzpatrick
Dear Amber,
I can’t tell you how pleased I was to finally have news of you. It was like Jesus himself had answered my prayers. I’m sorry for your loss. I can only imagine what you’ve been through. But you don’t need to worry about anything now – I’m here for you.
Your mom made it pretty difficult after we split up, but I never stopped looking for the pair of you. You know I’d never give up. I went to your old addresses, but you’d moved on every time. You always were a hard girl to pin down, Amber. I can’t wait to see what a beautiful young woman you’ve grown into.
I look forward to rekindling that special bond between us.
Your loving father
“Short but sweet,” says Julie. “He’s been looking for you all this time.”
There’s nothing sweet about the bastard, but then she’s never met him. She knows nothing real about him. About him and me. I promised Mum in one of her lucid episodes that I’d never tell anyone what he used to do to her … to me. He damaged her forever as sure as if he’d poured the alcohol and the pills down her throat himself. Some secrets are safer kept – especially when your dad’s not the forgiving type.
It dawns on me that Julie’s probably thinking Dad’s the Christmas miracle, appearing to solve all her problems with placing me. She’s seeing a happy reunion in Disney World. But that’s the last thing I want. And now he’s found me, I know there’s no way Julie can keep me safe. Not from him. And I can’t rely on anybody but me.
“So how do you feel about your dad getting back in touch?”
Feelings again. Always feelings.
She checks her notebook. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. We had a lucky break in tracking him down at last.”
Lucky? He always was a lucky bastard. After all Mum’s efforts with fake names and addresses to make sure the do-gooders couldn’t find him, even when she was in rehab and I was playing foster-care roulette.
“Would you like to write back?”
“No need,” I say.
“You may feel that now,” starts Julie, “but let’s talk about it again when you’ve thought about it some more, maybe chat it through with Dr Meadows. It’s a lot to take in, sweetie.”
And as usual she’s got the wrong end of the stick. She hasn’t actually read the letter properly. She doesn’t know how my father operates – but I do. Ten days have passed since the postage date. He’ll be on his way – if he’s not already here. I look around me, suspicious now of the office partygoers. I need to make plans. I have to disappear.
“Now that your mum is…” Julie pulls awkwardly at her necklace.
“Dead, you mean.”
“…No longer here, we could explore other family options.”
Family? My dad? I’d rather be shacked up with some cardboard and a blanket in the multi-storey car park. Mum and I did it to get away from him before. All I have to do is keep moving, making it harder for him to find me again. And yet now … now I have more to lose. I have what Julie would call prospects. My grades are good, I wanted to go to university. I have actual friends and decent teachers. Not that I’d ever tell them that.
Julie puffs to her feet and waddles over to choose a bowling ball. “Come on, double or quits.”
I think of my neat little room at Beechwood: the duvet cover that Julie and I picked out at Primark, the posters I carefully stuck to the wall and the row of books on the shelf. There’s a bright orange cushion Julie bought me for my birthday that I pretended not to like. Too big to pack now. The furniture is brown and slightly tatty, circa 1999, but everyone’s room is like that. I don’t stand out among the boarders – except in the holidays.
Julie heads off to the ladies after all that Diet Coke, while I stare at the wall and try to think straight. I thought I’d made myself invisible, but then Julie’s boss ruins it all by interfering in my business. The letter has tracked me down like a heat-seeking missile and I’m not free of him even at the shitty Bowling Plaza. I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand, cross with myself for getting complacent, for getting to like somewhere, when I should have known it wouldn’t last.
*
Julie hugs me in the car once we’ve pulled up outside Beechwood. I let her. She won’t be seeing me again. I bite my lip and stare out at the flickering lights on the tree by the main entrance. The angel at the top has broken and the wings are blinking on and off. I was going to help decorate the hall with holly and ivy next week. Proper greenery from the garden – real decorations, not ones made of foil and plastic.
“It feels like snow’s on the way,” says Julie. “A white Christmas maybe.”
A cold one, then. Shit.
“Could I have some extra cash?” I ask. “I need some toiletries and stuff.”
She marks it in her notebook and hands me £30.
“I’ll see you next week. We can write a response to your dad’s letter together, if you like. No pressure. Whatever’s best for you.” She smiles. “Maybe with Christmas coming…”
She’s happier being useful, making plans.
“Sure. I’ll think about it.” I shove the cash in my pocket and toss her a bone: “I know I can be a right cow sometimes.”
She blushes, unsure what to say to that as it’s so true. I can’t help but feel slightly fond of her and her flowery smocks.
“Take care of yourself,” she says.
I intend to.
“We’ll sort something out for you, I promise.”
Julie tucks my hair behind my ear.
I get out of the car and lean down towards the window. I nearly say something. I nearly say, Thanks, I know you want to help, it’s not your fault. I nearly tell her how I really feel and ask for help, but I can’t quite do it. The weight of all that’s happened is pushing on my chest. So instead I tap on the glass.
“Go easy on the mince pies, Julie,” I say.
I turn and walk away.
Claws
–
Tom Becker
1 December
Exactly one year had passed since Holly had come back to the village. It had been a bleak welcome: grey, grainy skies; the rain’s wet fingertips tapping on the windows of Gran’s cottage. The small house was gloomy and unfamiliar, and coated in a strange smell that Holly would later learn was a
potent brew of beeswax and mothballs. Old smells, from another century. The smell of her new home.
Gran had done her best to make her feel comfortable, chattering constantly as she led Holly through the cottage. The living room was dominated by a working fireplace, a brass coal scuttle filled with black lumps waiting beside the ash-flecked grate. A clock on top of the mantelpiece loudly doled out the seconds. It was surrounded by family photographs, a small gallery of fading ghosts and unfamiliar faces. As she stared at the fireplace, Holly had found herself wishing that it would swallow her up in its sooty mouth; that she could fly away up the chimney and melt into the sky like smoke.
A hand had fastened around Holly’s arm. “Come away, dear.”
It was Gran – a small, bird-like woman with glasses and tightly curled white hair. She was smiling, but her firm grip brooked no argument. Holly followed her out of the room and up creaking stairs to the attic, where her new room was waiting for her. The roof sloped down sharply over her head, a lone window offering a view of the flat expanse of fields. The floorboards were cold through Holly’s socks.
“I hope this will do,” Gran had said. “I know it’s smaller than you’re used to, but we’ll make the best of it we can.”
She patted Holly’s hand and smiled encouragingly. Part of Holly had wanted to cry, but she’d told herself back in London that she wasn’t going to do that any more. So instead she lay down on the bed and stared up at the roof, thoughts of the fireplace and Gran’s tight grip drifting away.
She would remember, though – later.
2 December
Winter had come late to the village, only to arrive with a bite sharpened by hunger. The summer had been generous and warm, and it had been October before the trees let slip their leaves and autumn bonfires singed the air. Birds arrowed across clear skies in formation; fields hardened into barren furrows. The clocks went back. Nights drew in.
