Best British Short Stories 2016

by Nicholas Royle

  The first night is fine, the second the hecklers are vicious, violent. The men are drunk and hateful; they do not wish to laugh with but at. I watch my mother and she looks oddly calm, then strangely confused.

  ‘Well done,’ she says afterwards.

  ‘That was horrible,’ I say.

  ‘You were brilliant,’ she says and looks for all the world like she believes it. She does believe it. The next night she is laughing, no longer making notes. She can see it. There is no future in it, just the constant fucking present.

  The last date is the biggest one on the itinerary. The Irishman joins us on the bill. He doesn’t recognise me and I have no interest in talking. I have a couple of drinks, and from backstage see my mother by the bar, an old guy chatting her up. For a moment, just for a split second, he could be Mr Hughes. But he is not Mr Hughes, just a man in a blazer, laughing loudly. It turns out that he is the compere; a filthy, innuendo-soaked old queen popular with the local students.

  ‘Apparently he’s a real cult,’ says the Irishman to the group of us, pointing over to him as he helps himself to a glass of wine. ‘Or at least that’s what I read in the Guardian.’

  Everyone laughs but me; it is a joke I do not quite understand. Mother is still at the bar, now checking her eye make-up in a compact mirror. She does not belong here, surrounded by students in their DM boots and cardigans and limp, long hair. She looks out of time as much as out of place. I watch her until I’m given the nod.

  The applause is warm, just as it is at the Palladium.

  I salute left, and I salute right. I stand in the centre of the stage and it all comes so easily; it’s the last gig and it’s all so easy.

  I stand there and when I can take it no longer, when there is just a sense of audience unrest, I do the wink.

  ‘Hello, ladies and gents, my name’s Davey Cruz,’ I say.

  ‘I only have to wink at a bird and she gets pregnant,’ I say and look down to the front row. ‘Are you looking forward to raising me bairns, sir?’

  I do the low reassuring laugh.

  ‘I’m only kidding!’ I say. ‘I can’t help it, me. I’m just a kidder, you know. This one time though this bloke, true story this, ladies and gentlemen, this bloke tried to attack me live on stage, as I was actually performing. Which is why I always wear a brown suit on stage. Just in case I have another little accident.’

  The intonation, the accent, the stance, is purely my father. I’m not wearing a brown suit, but I do the brown-suit routine anyway. The room is nervous, the laughter sparse.

  ‘You’re shit,’ someone shouts.

  ‘No, sir,’ I say, ‘it’s just the brown suit. You need to get your eyes tested.’

  It’s an ad-lib from the cassette version of the routine.

  It comes at around the right time and I try the little tip of finger to nose gesture he was good at. It works perfectly.

  I do the whole routine, line for line, word for word, ending exactly the way my father had.

  ‘My name’s Davey Cruz. Don’t go changing – I won’t recognise you.’

  I turn away and see myself as a child, backstage, in the wings, standing beside my mother. Mum is young and applauding my father, her face set with joy. I turn back to the audience one last time, just as my father does on the video. Mum is standing now, applauding. Members of the audience are turning to look at her, the crazy woman clapping alone. She ignores them and continues to applaud. I can hear her even when I’m finally backstage.

  She still talks about it. When she remembers. When she’s more lucid. But even then it’s hard to know whether she’s talking about me or my father. Perhaps it’s both.

  At the hospital, she tries her best, but jokes won’t be wrangled the way they once were.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ she asks when I arrive.

  ‘I’m your son,’ I say.

  ‘But are you a doctor?’ she asks again.

  ‘I’m a proctologist,’ I say.

  ‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘My son, the proctologist.’

  Janice Galloway

  Distance

  The deer came down to the road at night, slipping through the bracken just before dusk. By sundown, more beasts than seemed natural would reach the tarmac, sure-footing their way across to the narrow beach. They were there that first night, pallid in the headlights as she rolled off the ferry, turning to watch her as she slowed to a stall. Every night since, using petrol it would probably have been wiser to save, she had come back to see them do it again. They paid little attention to her, just went about their business, picking their way to the sand, their young close beside them. Sometimes, they turned and sniffed the air, then ambled slowly on. Something primitive, she guessed, was drawing them. Her too. Deer did not judge, did not speculate about her motives: they simply were. And so, they decided, was she. Gentle things made bolder by the dying light, they met her eye to eye, their pupils huge, absorbent in the dark. This was their element, not hers. But she had permission to stay.

  Martha had not expected to be so struck by any of it. That the island would be beautiful she had taken for granted. That was what Scottish Islands were, after all: heather and bracken, tumbledown crofts and Highland cows, solitary eagles, hovering over rugged grandeur. And water: streams to waterfalls, crashing waves – a lot of water. That the place was entirely as perfect as expected surprised her nonetheless. Even late in the year, the lushness was heart-stopping: a small continent of greens and russets, clumps of bramble, fern and rush grass fringed by seaweed, scrub and scree. The window of the hotel bedroom framed a tethered boat that never seemed to move, red hull twinned against the mirror-surface sea. Most mornings, a seal twisted his way between the scattered rocks of the Small Isles. That she could not identify the birds that hung like dancers over the harbour did not matter: they’d be there tomorrow, and every day after that whether she knew what they were or not. She was superfluous. Harmless.

  Peter was three when he split his head on a sheet glass table. She had been serving soup from a pot on the stove, heard him pattering closer in his socks and from instinct, looked up. The whole thing played before her eye in mere seconds in the shiny backboard of the cooker. He was running towards the table, laughing, then without warning came a dreadful crack like gunshot as the child stopped in his tracks, raising his hands to his face, his mouth wide. He crumbled to the floor as the howling started, the pain. Kneeling, trying to understand, she saw the blood: like paint from the lip of a can, thick and scarlet. A towel pressed to his forehead soaked as soon as it touched, blood forcing up through the fibres. As though the wound beneath had been made by a cutlass. She cradled his face, hands running like a butcher’s, as his eyes rolled and the screaming went on, and on, and on. If he was dying, she thought, bracing his little body tight, smiling down at him out of sheer terror; if he was bleeding to death, her duty was reassurance. As she pressed the right numbers slowly, carefully, into the phone with one hand, the other clutched him close, not letting go. As she spelled out their address to the operator, her voice clear, she kept her gaze steady, point to point on his. He would not be afraid because she was afraid. He would not be afraid.

  It’s all right, she crooned, as he shook, barely containable between her arms. I’m here. He rattled against her chest. Let mummy take it, she whispered. Let me take it instead.

  After, it soothed her he could not have heard her. It would have been impossible for him to have heard what she had said.

  At hospital, things were more detached. Cuts to the forehead, the nurse said; they always barked worse than they bit. She meant there was always lots of blood, often no lasting damage. They stitched him back together so gently, he fell asleep the minute it was done. Next afternoon, he woke woozy, heavy-lidded, but more or less himself. The table survived with only a minor crack and three stained towels were thrown away; Peter’s torn skin mended behind a Cat in the Hat plas
ter and everything fell to rights again. Everything but Martha.

  It started with dreams; formless things in empty rooms, black shapes worming towards her as she slept. More than once, a sensation of falling woke her sweating, fearful, as Riley slept, oblivious, beside her. Before long, she had taken to taping the empty slits of the electrical sockets in the skirting, shifting ornaments and glassware from reachable shelves. Toiletry bottles in the bathroom are swapped for plastic containers. She fit a brass lock on the cupboard full of bleaches, acids and cast fluids; removed the tea-towel hooks from Peter’s eye-level at the sink. She put rubber bumpers on the edges of their softwood dining table, threw out a set of toy screwdrivers and long-handled paintbrushes as asking for trouble. Riley’s pen-knife was removed from his key ring; the ancient tube TV – too big, too heavy – now sat on the floor. When she began waking Peter at night, checking more than once if he was breathing, Riley drew a line.

  You’ve had a shock, but for godsake. He paused, softened his voice. You’ll make Peter paranoid at this rate. The last thing we need is you being—

  He looked at her, let his shoulders slump, then smiled, limply. Just don’t go turning into your mother, eh?

  The mention of her mother, even as a joke, was something Martha hadn’t seen coming. For all that, she knew what he meant. He thought she was being – what was it he had always called her? Neurotic Nancy. Neither of them ever called Martha’s mother mother, but Riley, more often than not, attached the adjective. He had also called her – the words formed in her head as she looked at her husband now – a selfish old bitch who ruined your life. Under her gaze, Riley flinched.

  Look, he said. I’m not trying to blame. He brushed the fringe out of her eyes. But it’s time to get a grip, Martha. To move on.

  Move on. Martha only realised she had said the words when she heard them out loud, her own throat, working.

  You have to let him live a normal life, he said. He kissed her fingers, breathed out. Let it go. His eyes, she noticed, were shut.

  Toxic Bonds surfaced in the Oxfam shop. Its embossed silver title glittered across from the Fairtrade Coffee stand. On the cover, three short sentences, ranged like lines of poetry, sat beneath a cartoon heart. The heart was chained. Fear is Toxic. Clinging makes a Prison. Love means Letting Go. Embossed so they rose from the book’s crimson background, these lines frazzled under the strip-light, sending a cold-water shiver down her neck.

  Martha took the book home and read it the same night. It told her things she already knew, but with fewer caveats. A good mother was not driven by fear. A good mother did not limit the growth of what she loved. A good mother did not cling, for clinging was a curb upon joy. The good mother wished only to set free.

  There were pages of exercises: mantras, deep breathing, checklists, a slew of limp phrases encouraging letting go. Spend today without consulting your watch and see what happens! Imagine a perfect beach, your child free from danger, playing separately in the sand! It was trite and predictable. It was embarrassing. But it was compulsive nonetheless. She went to the spare room in the small hours, sleepless, and read it all over again, this time marking it with highlighter pen. Near dawn, she dozed enough to imagine a huge animal with heavy paws had come in the room, strolled twice round the bed choosing its moment, then pounced, silent, onto the quilt to place its paws on her chest, pressing till she couldn’t breathe. Even struggling to wake, she knew no beast was there. Of course not. Her eyes scanned for shadows in any case, so she unfocussed her eyes, stared at nothing instead. Since the sound of her own breathing was frightening, she took the book’s advice and spoke out loud. Let it go. The ghosts of passing cars travelled as lights along the ceiling cornice. Let it go. She had to understand what that meant. Let it go. There was no danger. No broken glass, lurking electric cables or razor-edged crockery. The beast in the dark was, and she knew it, only herself.

  A trip to a counsellor recommended by a work friend of Riley’s was not a success. The counsellor, a sad-eyed, unhealthily overweight single parent, offered chocolate biscuits. Martha had trouble meeting her eyes.

  Do you do that on purpose? the counsellor said, creaking in her chair.

  What? Martha asked.

  That – detachment thing? You don’t look as though you really want to be here.

  Martha looked away again. The counsellor prodded Riley instead. That seemed more fruitful.

  In the second session, Riley’s Canadian origins declared themselves. He missed the open space, he said, its place in his heart. Some day, he’d go home. The word home did not mean their house: it meant the place his mother lived, the place from which she sent dried autumn leaves every year, pictures of her allotment.

  Peter would love it there, he said. I did.

  He tried for a smile, failed. The counsellor touched his hand. She liked Riley, Martha thought. Down-to-earth, reasonable-to-a-fault; everyone loved Riley. Her too. Maybe it was the easy-going suggestion of Irishness about his name. Her own made people think of Jesus and domesticity if they knew the biblical stories. These days, a lot of people didn’t. Riley, as a name, seemed unlikely to date. At the end of the session, Martha handed over the suggested donation while Riley made a fresh appointment. After three, she called a halt. Riley asked what in god’s name she thought they should do instead and Martha told him straight. His mouth fell open.

  What do you mean, separate? he said. You mean live apart? Martha waited.

  I thought we were trying to work together? I thought—

  Divorce, Martha said. The words had come out no one else’s mouth. I think I mean divorce.

  The words surprised her, but only slightly. That was what separate usually meant: a cowardly, slow-death route to definite distance. She saw no reason not to call it by its name.

  It’s only fair, she said. I can’t live with me either.

  Riley was exasperated. There’s no getting through to you any more. You’re completely – he raked his mind for the right word – cut off. He kicked the skirting. What is it you actually want, Martha? Apart from endless fucking patience and permission to fall to pieces whenever you are overcome by the horror of normal life? What do you want?

  She watched him struggle to regain control of whatever it was he was losing, looked at the square smudge on the wall, at a place where a picture had been taken away but had left its shape behind. She wondered what it had been a picture of. She did not say, I want to let you go. He would not have the faintest idea what she was talking about. I want you both to be safe. She barely understood it herself. The square on the wall seemed to pulse in the dim light.

  I’m not leaving, he said suddenly. If that’s the idea. I’m not going to be the one who packs his bags and strolls off into the sunset. He was indignant, his voice rising. I’m not abandoning anyone. It’s not me.

  No, she said, gathering herself. She kept her voice soft. It’s not you. I didn’t say it was.

  Riley looked at her as though she had just stepped out of a human skin and shown a terrible, alien self. It was, she knew, the beginning of something unstoppable.

  I won’t ask for a thing, she said. Least of all Peter. She cleared her throat. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you. Either of you. It’s me.

  There was no bargaining or even shouting. He took it, Martha reported to her sister in Melbourne, on the chin.

  White silence came down the line, a crackle of static.

  Jesus, Sarah said. You can’t just cut your own kid out like a tumour. Christsake, Martha, you’re his mother.

  I’m not cutting him out, Martha said. What’s being cut out, if you must, is me. I’m – the word toxic skipped through Martha’s head like a black lamb, disappeared – I’m a drain on him just now. Both of them.

  She heard Sarah’s intake of breath.

  Don’t talk to me as though I’m stupid, Martha pressed. Surely I need to acknowledge what I can’t do?r />
  There were a few seconds of nothing, of thick, underwater silence.

  Martha. You know what Nancy always called you? Are you there?

  Martha said nothing.

  She called you her rock. Martha’s such a bloody rock.

  Martha looked at her nails. She should have washed her hands. Let it go, Sarah, she said. Trust me. I’m your sister. Make a leap of faith.

  Jesus, Sarah said. Jesus H Christ. Faith in what?

  Martha heard her sister sniff, tried not to admit she might be weeping.

  You really want out of it, don’t you? That’s what it means. You’ve had enough and you’re cutting loose – is that it?

  It’s for Peter, Martha said, trying to keep anger out of her voice. And for the best.

  Yes, I know, the phone said. It’s for the best. Now where have I heard that before?

  Sarah, you’ve no right—

  As though topping herself did us all a favour. That was for the best according to that stupid bit of paper she sent. The back of a petrol receipt, if I remember correctly. And you got that. I got a fucking photocopy. Nothing personal, no apology. It’s for the best. You’re can’t even muster the gumption to be original, Martha. You’ve got this from her.

  Martha held the phone tight. Nancy has nothing to do with it, she said slowly.

  Not any more, she hasn’t. But that’s some legacy she left behind. You can’t even see it, can you? It’s for the best. She sounded drunk. Well thank god for that. Thank god for a catch-all get-out clause and good old mum.