The Best British Short Stories 2014

by Nicholas Royle

  There’s no rush up here. There’s no life to save. The phone in his trouser pocket buzzes urgently and he almost falls, his boots slipping a little on the unseen bed of the reservoir. The noise is disproportionate, comical even, on a hot and windless hilltop and him up to his knees in water as sludgy and black as leftover coffee. He takes the phone from his pocket again, his eyes still fixed on the corpse ten yards away. He begins to make out the arch of the buttocks beneath the coat where the legs begin to slump under the surface of the water. It’s definitely a man. He’s convinced of that fact, for no clear reason.

  With two careful prods of his thumbs, he unlocks the screen of the phone and despite the sun’s glare he can just see there’s a new message. He opens it.

  From: Ann

  just rang its ok hurry up want to go morisons

  Instantly he senses fizzing molecules of air above the reservoir being sucked over the near horizon of the black wall. He gasps and stumbles on the uneven bed of the reservoir. Staring once more at the corpse, he is momentarily excited by something; his own jagged, unbalanced, uncalibrated heartbeat, perhaps.

  There’s little he can do here now. His impulse to reach out and touch the dead man is fading. He no longer has a desire to witness the hidden legs, the other arm, the true shape of a barren body, the gruesome and bloated white face that he pictures with a gaping mouth, a mouth that once spoke and relentlessly breathed air. He’s no longer curious about the contents of the bin bag.

  He grins at Ann’s dreaded practicality, the unstudied normality of her text, the careless spelling, the missing punctuation. No x. Only two short words reserved for such significant news. He replaces the phone in his pocket. As they rotate in the water he watches his legs and sees the peat-saturated water swirl gently around his shins. Back on the rocky beach, he turns and looks again. It’s still there, that small, black island. It’s not a mirage, despite the shimmering air of summer. It’s as real as the phone in his pocket, as the acrid water now slopping in his boots, as the car that will soon carry them – him and Ann – to Morrisons.

  Descending the stony ridge path to the car park, he thinks about the dead man in the water. He knows he should call the police. He should tell Ann, too, which would deflect the conversation they ought to have. It would delay her shopping trip, that was for certain. He isn’t clear how, but he knows that if he makes the call now, if he tells his wife, it might take them away from each other. As he nears the car park, he still hasn’t decided what to do.

  In the café, Ann’s there, nursing a cup of tea with one hand and texting with the other. She stands up quickly as soon as she sees him enter. Her eyes glisten as she takes in his boots, moments before she smells the peaty water.

  There’s the sigh.

  ‘Isn’t it about time you packed it in, all this climbing up away from the world?’ she snaps, even though it had been her idea in the first place.

  She steps forward, not meeting his eye yet, and just for a moment he sees her doubtful eye cast over him, the young man he once was at the edge of his world. But he doesn’t understand what happens next. She splutters, drops her shoulder like she’s been shot, and he reaches out and catches her, holds her still. She sobs, only for a second or two, brief instants of the afternoon. He says nothing now. The café is empty, just the two of them left in there. He holds her for some time, listening to the clatter of dishes coming from somewhere beyond a door at the back of the room, trying to feel the heartbeat of his wife. She breaks away finally and sniffs. She laughs at herself, a short cough of a laugh behind a folded tissue, before she dares to catch his eye.

  ‘What did you see up there?’ she asks, beginning to move past him towards the door.

  Someone will call the police soon. It might be him, but if he does call it won’t be today. They’ll go to Morrisons instead. Perhaps tomorrow he might tell Ann what he saw up there, if she cares to ask again.

  ‘Nothing much,’ he whispers, watching her back as she strides away through the door into the blinding light of the afternoon.

  Ladies’ Day

  Vicki Jarrett

  A wet, gusty wind barges across the race track and slaps the crowd for being daft enough to have pictured this day as sunny.

  The women, the ladies, are woefully exposed to the elements in thin dresses that flick and snap around goose-bumped fake tan, not a coat to be seen, clinging on to head gear, reinserting clips and pins, trying to hold it all together against the odds.

  Three of us from the baby group – me, Kaz and Ashley – shelter behind a bookies’ booth.

  ‘Remind me again why we’re here,’ says Ashley, leaning on my shoulder for balance as she picks a wad of muddy grass from the heel of her stiletto.

  Kaz glares at her. ‘We’re here to have a day off. Away from the kids, the husbands, the housework and everything. We’re going to have fun, right?’ She scowls at the two of us until we nod agreement. ‘Anyway, the tickets cost a bomb so at least pretend like you are.’

  Ashley examines the muddy streaks on her fingers. ‘I need a drink,’ she says.

  I give her a baby-wipe from the packet in my bag.

  I should’ve stayed at home, phoned Kaz and said I’d got a cold, or Sean’s shifts had been changed at the last minute. Something. Anything.

  Sean had come up behind me as I fiddled with my hair in the hall mirror. ‘Mmhmm. Looking good,’ he said, wrapped his arms round my waist and pressed in against my back. His hands travelled upwards as he nuzzled into my neck.

  I steadied myself against the wall. I’m not used to heels so my balance wasn’t great to start with. I peeled his fingers off and wriggled out of his grip.

  ‘Thanks, that really helps.’ I tried a laugh to soften the sarcasm in my voice but it came out bent. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m angry all the time these days and it’s not his fault. My reflection frowned at us both from the mirror. It’s not anyone’s fault.

  ‘What?’ The mirror-Sean raised his open palms behind me. ‘Well, you look sexy,’ he pretend-huffed, stepping back.

  ‘No I don’t. I look like someone’s mum.’

  The dress was bought for a wedding last year and was supposed to be floaty to blur the edges of my post-baby figure but it just hung on me like a worn-out flowery dishcloth.

  Sean smiled. ‘You are someone’s mum, pet.’

  ‘I know that.’ There was that irritability again, showing through like a spot under too much concealer. ‘I meant someone older. Someone . . . else.’

  A moment of silence opened up and out of it poured this sadness, like the sky had just emptied straight down on me. The anger washed away but I was drenched, the stupid dress drooping and dripping. I jerked in a breath and blinked a couple of times. Sean squeezed my shoulder and for a second I thought maybe he understood but I didn’t have time to find out because there was a cry from upstairs. We both froze and tilted our heads to listen. A couple more whimpers and then silence. We looked at each other and nodded.

  I went back to jabbing at my hair clips. I had no idea if I’d done them right. We were all supposed to have hats for today and I did try but hats make me look fake. I even tried a few of those feathery things Kaz showed me. ‘It’s a fascinator,’ she said, ‘like I’m not fascinating enough already,’ and laughed that loud laugh she’s got, daring anyone to contradict her. All the time, this phrase, morbid fascination, kept pushing into my head and the fascinators, the morbid fascinators, started to look like exactly what they were: bits of dead bird. So, I compromised with these tiny enamel flowers, three of them in different purples. Hopefully they’re enough to show I made the effort.

  We make our way to the line of bars and food stalls strung out behind the betting ring, backing on to the red-brick pavilion. Two plastic cups of fizzy wine pretending to be champagne and a double vodka later, the weather isn’t so bad.

  ‘Another?’ I wave my
empty cup at the others. I’d be feeling quite relaxed if it wasn’t for these heels.

  ‘Nah. Those prices are ridiculous,’ says Kaz. ‘Ashley, phone your Barry and get him to pass something over the fence for us.’

  When the rumour had first gone round about security guards at the gates searching handbags and confiscating any alcohol, the options were discussed at our Tuesday afternoon baby group.

  ‘You know if you open up boxes of wine, they have plastic bags inside?’ Kaz had said. ‘I could get a couple of them, strap one to each leg, up high so they couldn’t be seen. They’re not going to actually frisk me, are they?’

  The other mums looked sceptical but cracked up laughing when Kaz stood up and waded around the hall like a fat gunslinger.

  Liz, an old hand on baby number three, came up with another scheme. ‘Those blue bricks you freeze for coolbags? Empty them out, fill them with whatever and stick them in with the picnic. You’d get a fair bit in that way.’

  In the end, we didn’t put any of the plans into action. We did get our bags searched though, which was just rude.

  The Barry plan is a good one. If we keep buying drinks in here, I’ll run out of cash before I manage to place a bet. I wouldn’t bother, but it’s not, strictly speaking, my own money.

  Sean lifted his jacket off the banister and pulled his wallet from the inside pocket. ‘You got enough?’

  ‘I took some out of my account,’ I muttered, looking at my shoes.

  He knew as well as I did there’s nothing left in there. I’ve not worked since Tom. That was the deal and it isn’t like what I do at home, looking after Tom, cleaning, cooking, all that, isn’t work. We both agreed. It’s fine. It’s only times like this, not that they happen often, when there’s something just for me and it takes money. I can’t ask. Cannot force the words out my mouth. I’d rather go without than have to ask. It’s humiliating. I know it shouldn’t be, and Sean does nothing to make it that way. But it still is.

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Put a few bets on for me.’ He was trying to make it okay by turning it into something I could do for him, like a favour, or a job. He understood that much. ‘I’ll expect a share of your winnings when you get back.’

  He pressed the money into my hand and I took it, said thanks and shoved it into my handbag. There was an awkward silence and I turned towards the stairs. ‘I’ll just—’

  ‘You’d best not,’ Sean said. ‘Don’t want to wake him.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I whispered, already half-way up.

  Tom lay on his back, arms thrown up above his head, as if the afternoon nap had taken him by surprise. His sleep breath snuffled in and out in a steady rhythm. I leant over the cot and felt that familiar desperate lurch in my stomach. Despite the satisfaction of seeing him grow, I can’t help wishing he’d never change, that I could protect him from time and everything it’ll bring, even though I know it’s impossible and I’ve already failed. I reached a hand out to brush his curls but stopped short. Leaving would be much harder if he woke.

  I stepped slowly backwards towards the door, in the pattern dictated by which floorboards creak and which don’t. Almost there, my heel came down on the soft toy from hell. It started up, high-pitched and insistent:

  It’s a small world after all

  Christ, bloody thing. I hear that tune in my sleep.

  It’s a small world after all

  It’s become the soundtrack to my life. I snatched it up,

  It’s a small world after all

  and fumbled with the off switch.

  It’s a small, small—

  Finally!

  Tom turned his head and raised one arm, like he was waving, but his eyes were still closed and he puffed out a sigh and settled back to sleep.

  Me and Kaz stand near the paddock, waiting for Ashley to get back, watching the horses being led in circles, snorting and stamping, manes knotted in bumpy braids, tails wound up tight. Women drift in and out of the betting booths and bars, carrying drinks and fluttering betting slips. The rain has gone off and a weak sun is making the grass sparkle. The scene looks almost like it was supposed to.

  ‘That one!’ Kaz shouts. ‘We should bet on that one.’ She’s pointing to a brown mare skipping nervously around the paddock. The horse’s skin looks tight and thin, every sinew and vein visible, eyes rolling, nostrils flared. As she goes past I catch a sharp whiff of sweat and earth and hot grassy breath. She’s making a horrendous sound, chewing at the metal bar between her teeth. Flecks of white froth collect at the soft corners of her mouth.

  ‘Why that one?’ I ask.

  ‘It just had a shit. I heard they go faster if they have a shit first.’ Kaz folds her arms and looks knowledgeable.

  ‘Well, less weight, I suppose.’ She might have a point.

  ‘Perhaps we should try to scare another one,’ she says.

  ‘What for?’ I ask, looking at the other horses, bristling with trapped energy. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘So they, y’know, go . . .?’

  Sometimes it’s hard to tell when Kaz is joking. But for once we don’t have to stop and explain, or apologise. We’re both crying with laughter, holding onto each other’s arms, when Ashley arrives carrying a rolled-up cardigan.

  ‘Guess what Barry says to me?’ she demands, but doesn’t stop for an answer.

  Me and Kaz straighten our faces.

  ‘He says Talk about special treatment. You get to have your own day. Blokes don’t get anything like that. We don’t get Gentlemen’s Day. Can you believe that? Poor you, I says, all you get is every other day.’

  ‘What did you get then?’ Kaz interrupts, plucking at the edge of the cardigan to reveal the red top of a vodka bottle.

  Ashley steps away, pulling the wool back over the bottle and giving it a pat, cradling it like a baby.

  An hour later, Ashley sits cross-legged on the tartan rug, one strap hanging off her shoulder, talking about her Barry and how he’s great with the twins but the house will be a bombsite when she gets back because he can’t multi-task. When she starts talking in circles, Kaz takes over about her dad’s cancer and how her brother’s no help at all since their mum’s gone and she has to drag the kids backwards and forwards to the hospital. She talks fast, eyes wide, lips wet with vodka and Coke. I think she’d like to stop talking because now she’s rounded the last turn and we can all see what’s waiting on the finish line. She stops abruptly and stares off across the track then knocks back the rest of her drink before clambering to her feet and swaying off to find the Ladies’. I start talking about Sean and Tom and how I’m thinking of going back to work, which surprises me. I hadn’t realised I was seriously considering it. None of us are used to talking without constant interruption from children. Combined with the drink, it’s like running too fast downhill.

  The horses thunder past, throwing up crescent-shaped clods of turf high into the air, the jockeys hunched on their backs in bright colours like parasitic beetles. The ground shakes, like drums from underground working their way up.

  Kaz arrives back waving a race programme. ‘Right! We need to pick which horse to bet on. I think we should go for Liberty Trail, but I like the sound of Blue Tomato too.’

  I pour more drinks and Ashley blows her nose.

  ‘So, twenty quid each way?’ Kaz pauses but gets no answer. ‘I’ve no idea what that means either so don’t look at me like that.’

  I watch the horses as they loop back round for another circuit. I think I can see that mare from the paddock. She’s out in front and my heart starts beating faster as I watch her straining ahead, a hurtling mass of muscle and sweat. She’s tearing through the air, ripping it apart. It’s like she’s trying to tear a hole in front of her and escape through it, to some other place where something else, something more is waiting, a place where maybe she can stop running. It’s alwa
ys that bit further ahead. The promise of that.

  Getting Out of There

  M John Harrison

  Hampson came back after some years, to the seaside in the rain, to this town built around a small estuary where a river broke through the chalk downs. Everything – everything people knew about, anyway – came in through that gap, by road or rail; and that’s the way Hampson came too, down from London, midweek, in a rental van, unsure of what he would find for himself after so long. He had options, but since he wasn’t sure about them either, he rented a single room on one of the quiet wide roads that run down from the old town.

  The day he moved in, he realised that not all the things he had brought back with him – bits of furniture, endless half-filled cardboard boxes sealed with gaffa tape – would fit in there, so he drove the van to a self-storage under some railway arches where the London Road left the centre of town. It was a bit back from the seafront, the usual kind of place, not very modern, with untreated breeze-block cubicles of different sizes, behind doors that were little more than plywood. He spent a morning carrying things around in there, then looked into the office on his way out. Behind the desk he found a woman he recognised.