I wear odd socks, dull red and bottle green, alike enough to reassure, different enough to underline my poverty. She never wears odd socks. She does not have to. She wears stockings. Always. And high heels. It makes Her tower over all the rest of those peasants. As if that made Her superior in some way.
I see a lot of feet – shoes, boots and sandals – from my doorstep. I am an expert on telling fortunes from footwear. See those, over there, the brand new, glowing white trainers? He is Spanish, his short trainer socks are too white for him to be anything else. He is pretentious, ambitious, a wannabe and will fail. To be successful you have be at home in your shoes, they must make a quiet statement. They are your base, your underline, the foundations of your daily life. They must be comfortable, secure and fit for purpose. If they draw attention, then your eyes drift to the ground, your ambitions spiral down and you fall from the tightrope.
I remember the first encounter I had with Her. She thought She was taller than me, She thought that the stilettos raised Her above me. I took little notice of them, they were nothing but fashionista accessories. Boring. I met Her eye to eye, tilting my head back. If you do that it shows your ascendance, you are offering your chin, daring a punch or slap. Then you can look down your nose and give a slight twitch of the lip to indicate contempt, dropped quickly, as if you could not be bothered with it. Alpha female. We both did it. I scored top because I laughed first.
She wormed Her way into my entourage. She flirted with men, with women, with diamonds. She was witty, catty, charming. She was clever and knew every dreg of gossip. She had only one thing that I did not: street knowledge. Well, dahling, I have more now than you will ever have. Her breeding was a mystery, She was new money. Trade. Her bone structure was the flat roundness of the peasant, a face of the earth. Was. Now it is finely sculpted, pared down and remoulded. She has traded up Her outside but inside She is still the sum of Her genes. As I, and mine, are.
I confess it. I was stupid, even arrogant. I considered myself above Her machinations. I rested in the easy superiority of my intelligence. It made me blind to Her Machiavellian reality. I did not taste the bitterness in Her syrup nor hear the ring of steel below the clang of brass. I was blinded by Her street cred, the way she could get fixed up, get me what I wanted, then needed and then craved. It was cool to smoke, it was cooler to do two lines then it was easier to main line. She took my money and gave back bliss that burned. She took my man and gave back contempt. She took my heritage, my now and my continuance.
Iron in the clouds begins to weep a faint drifting moisture. I have to be careful. The dampness permeates through everything and can make a miasma that drops my income. No one likes the smell of wet dog or clammy bag lady. Should I move? My secondary pitch is more sheltered but less lucrative. I could kick out Broggo. I let her use it, reserving it for me but she works it well and gives me her rent on time. Besides, it does not have the field of view that my doorstep has. Today I must watch, observe, check the action and maintain my surveillance.
I can hear Glutch playing his ukulele. He is another of my tenants, a thief, a con artist and a slimy liar. He tried whinging about the rent but after a little cut or two he came to his senses. I play a few notes on my penny whistle and the ukulele stops. He knows the signal. Soon I have a latte and a Danish to keep the warmth in. He gives a little bow and returns to his pitch.
To my left, the cobbles are becoming slippery, they always do, it is the grease from Paco’s kebab stall. He will be setting up later, to catch the drunken trade from The Staff And Lamb further down the street. I let him have the pitch cut price because he keeps the piss and vomit out of my place. Every morning it is fresh with today’s copy of The Times, ready to use, and sometimes, but not too often, a red rose. Paco has style, for a foreigner. Smarmy git.
Diagonally to my right, Hammerly House is a multi-story black mirror. Drizzle is beginning to condense, little oily lenses distorting the city lights. One by one they are sliding down, coagulating, making runnels that will merge together to make drips. Each drip will fall, each impact, each splash, eroding a little more of the building’s foundations. I consider that most subtle of innovations, the Chinese Water Torture. The first drip on the forehead is nothing. The hundredth is an annoyance, adding to the discomfiture of cold wetness. By the thousandth, they say, it is beginning to burn.
From my office, here on the street, I can watch and wait and plan. I have Mercer to sieve through the bins at the back. He pays me for the privilege in information. I know every in, every out and every shady deal. It is stupid the way people rely on electronics. As if no one ever prints out anything. Or jots down passwords. Or thinks that a mendicant knows nothing about computers. Laptops are easy to come by. Who needs to pay for internet access when there is so much free WiFi around?
She should be worried. I am surrounding Her. I have my place at the front, I have my agent at the back. Her foundations are being undermined, Her roof is not only the abode of pigeons, bugs live there too. I spend my money on my mission, but I spend it wisely, carefully. I employ only those who can help me and when I am done with them, they are finished. It is my cleaner who empties the rubbish from Her office and uses cheap polish on Her fine teak desk. I have the drips falling on Her head, one by one and She does not yet know it. Soon the rain will fall, the rivulets will become a stream, the stream a torrent, the torrent a flood. I fell into the gutter. She will be washed away.
Darkness is just a number of heartbeats away. The time of clocks, the time of radioactive decay is nothing. Time is measured in heartbeats. The number of beats between one drip falling and the next. The time of anticipation. The time of dread. Time to savour.
Today Her car will not come. It has been delayed. The tyres are flat. Spinks has a very sharp knife. Another minor annoyance. Drip. She will call for a taxi but the kebab stall owner will be setting up, blocking the one way street. The taxi will be late. Drip. When She arrives home, Her key will not fit the lock, it has been filled with chewing gum. Drip. The padlock on the back gate is not the one She has a key for. Drip. Someone has substituted it. Drip. She will make a call, help will come, they will break in. Drip. The power will be off. Drip. The cable not working. No landline phone. Drip. No tv. Drip. No broadband. Drip. What is happening? Drip.
A Mercedes, a big one, pulls past me and draws up in front of the revolving door. It is not Her usual car, a foreign substitute for her Roller. With unslashed tyres. She swans out of Hammerly House as if it matters not. Her chauffeur opens the door, touches his cap, slams it like a door in the face and drives away. They are early. The drizzle dries up. Someone drops a coin on to my takings. A measly 5p. I want to throw it after him.
A paradox: A crocodile steals a child but promises the parents that their heir will be returned if they can correctly predict whether, or not, he will return the child. It is OK if they predict the return of the child. Suppose they predict the child is not returned? The crocodile keeps the child. But he cannot because he promised the return of the child in the event of a correct prediction.
She has more teeth than a crocodile. She is a dishonest liar. She lives in turgid waters and preys on whatever is there. She snaps and grabs, rolls them over and holds them down. Then tucks away the carcass to rot awhile, to make it tasty and tender. She would not return the child. She lied.
I will have it all back. Those crocodile tears will drip on Her head. They will send Her mad. I am not drowned but I have rotted. I do not look like me anymore. I have scars on my arms and terrors at night. I know the agony of the addict, coke broke, and cold turkey. The road to hell is paved with used hypos and zigzags.
As Paco arrives, he holds up the traffic, a mastery of acting, wasted. I leave him to argue with the bus driver and pull the dog to his feet. He shivers, he hates the cold and is hungry. He reminds me of me. We pick our way across the park and down the alley to my flat. His claws rattle on the iron step
s up to my door and as soon as we are in, he is waiting to be fed. Biscuits and half a tin for him. Nothing for me, I have to hustle. I have to cross the town.
Almost time. I shuffle past Her gate, a bag lady in the gloaming. The house is dark, a pane in the door, broken. Drip. I can hear voices inside, baritone barking short phrases over a soprano screeching epithets that reveal Her true vulgarity, unaltered by plastic surgery. Drip. A police car parks beside me. I do not change pace as a pair of uniforms get out, adjust their stab vests and make their way up the drive. Drip. Someone has called 999 to report a break in. Drip. The caller thought that the garage was being robbed. Drip.
She has not finished the run. Drip. The kit is still in use. Drip. Drip. She is going to be caught.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The police leave. They have been reassured. There was no break in, Officer. It was a mistake, they had to break in because the lock had broken. Thank goodness for concerned neighbours, Officer. All’s well. Drip.
Darkness cloaks the whole street. One of the lamps is out, the one just opposite Her house. A vandal has put a stone through the glass. Drip. The usual city noises are louder now, the mushed-up grumble of engines, the hunting scream of klaxons. Drip. A blue light travels down, then up, the street as a fire-engine rockets over the speed bumps, siren outdoing any banshee from hell. Drip. Gurgle. Drip.
It is all frantic business as they throw open hatches. One trots down the street, hydrant key in hand. Another runs up the drive. Red light. Drip, drip, splash. Blue light. Gurgle splash. Sorry officer. Drip. Splash. Drip. False alarm. Splash. Splash. Concerned neighbour maybe? They are slower to pack up, making snide comments, securing the hatches, climbing back into the cab. The flashers are extinguished, no more than a red truck, it negotiates the last sleeping policemen and makes its way back to await the next shout.
It is getting late. I must be careful they do not see me, half hidden in the darkness of a hedge. It is a perfect observation point. I think the candles they have lit will blind them to the outside world. They will have calmed a little by now. They have not been revealed. They are checking out the garage. I can see torchlight playing under the door and around the frame. I sneak in closer, listening to their voices, strained and muffled.
Oh dear. Drip. What a shame. They have covered the broken glass with cardboard. A well-known security device. Drip. Plop. Splash. It is easy to push aside and drop a lit rocket into the hall. Its charge ignites and the familiar firework whoosh starts. Orange sparks and white flares. From my hidey hole I can hear the whizz, the bang and see the multiple red, green and blue stars light up the house. From the inside. It is not enough to cover screaming and bellowing. Two figures stumble out, coughing, one falls, one stands in the modern pose of mobile to ear.
Now the heavens open. The downpour cannot put out the fire. The blue and red rotators on emergency vehicles are better than fireworks. The house is better than any bonfire, thick, devilish smoke making a solid column out of every bedroom. Hoses and shouting. Water and flooding. Fire fighters outlined in high reflectivity tape. An ambulance, green and yellow checks, its crew in green and hi-viz. Acrid stinks and wet ashes. Police forcing the watchers into lines, their eyes everywhere. The watchers are determined, it is beginning to lash down, umbrellas are up, macs on. Some are too tired, too cold to stay and they begin to disperse. They have no stamina for a torrent.
I am aware of being soaked through and shiver. The garage stands untouched. The fire is no more than a steaming memory. Two figures, wrapped in blankets sit in the ambulance. A policeman is with them, making notes as he talks to them. He looks up suddenly, staring across the road, his eyes seeking mine. I shrink down, a mouse, hidden and unmoving. He snaps shut his notebook and hands something, a business card, to the couple in the ambulance and climbs down into the rainfall. For a moment the rain stops, a windy gust rattles down the street, spreading a moment of silence. I have seen enough.
By dawn, I am home, back in my silent apartment. The stale cabbage reek from next door smells worse that the stench of burnt plans. My clothes are nothing but a reeking pile of rags and the dog has laid a gift for me under the table. It smells how I feel. There will be few enough opportunities. It is not often that the crocodile’s stolen child has a sleep over.
By the time the knock on the door comes, my soggy clothes are in the bin, my hair is light and fluffy from a shower and the dog has been let out. They are tall and young. They always look tall and young, these days. One is a WPC but I keep my chin down, looking at the tip of her nose, keeping my shoulders slightly hunched. The other is plain clothes, holding up his warrant card, no expression marring the set of his features.
‘Princess Maha Hammerly?’ That’s my name, don’t wear it out. I dip my head. ‘Detective Sergeant Bliss.’ He nods at his companion. ‘WPC Constable.’ I open the door wider, Sergeant Bliss and Constable Constable, she must have heard all the Catch 22 puns by now. ‘Would you sit down? We have some bad news.’
I perch on the edge of the bed. In the silence I wonder if Upstairs has left the sink running again. Do I feel a drop plop onto my skull? I want to scream at them to get on with it.
‘There has been an accident.’ Another phantom drip hits the crown of my head. ‘A fire.’ It burns. ‘The Fire Brigade made every effort.’ No they didn’t. I was there. ‘They couldn’t get through the flames.’ What? It was out in a few minutes. I shake my head, I swear I can see droplets spraying around the room. ‘It was very quick.’ What? Who? ‘He would have been unconscious and not known anything.’ Oh no.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Oh no.
I have fallen beyond the gutter. I have dripped into the sewers. I have soaked into the slimy bowls of the earth. I will drown, drip by gentle drip as all the oceans of all the earths fall in never-ending drips to remind me of what I have done.
There is a final solution to the paradox. All I wanted to do was to get him back from the Crocodile who lied. Now neither of us have him.
The Fall – by James Watson
1
She held the little bird tightly in her hand; so tightly its wing could have snapped. What was she doing here? Not why this room; she understood that. The light from the bay window sneaking as it did under the door into the hall had suggested a kind of divine sanctuary. But what was she doing in this house? She squeezed her fist tighter over the bird. She had loved this place but now it fought her memories; undermining them, deceiving them. Her hand was hurting. She opened her fingers and looked at the little bird lying there motionless. She was going to say something to it but was interrupted by shouts from the garden. Closing her fingers again she looked up. From the window you could get a good sense of the garden’s size. Over to the east away from the house a bonfire was in full throw shielded by two men. The men were in winter coats and wellington boots, one of them wore a hat, and they laughed as they poked at the fire. A small group of women stood a bit further away avoiding the smoke, chatting. Several of them holding drinks tried awkwardly to rock prams on the grass. Collections of children were chasing around; the source of the shouts. Away from the bonfire on the other side of the garden was a large marquee where more people were gathered. The sun was low in the sky making it hard to see much else but it worked itself beautifully with the surrounding trees. Quite the perfect scene, she thought to herself, and immediately realised that made her desperately sad.
“Oh hello Sally,” a calm American voice spoke.
She turned to see a woman and looked automatically at her feet; you shouldn’t wear shoes in this room. The woman had red woollen socks pulled up over a pair of black leggings. With that she wore a long knitted jumper with a large roll-neck and had a shawl draped over her shoulders. She was wearing various pieces of jewellery and had a wide crocheted head-band or something like that to hold back her hair. Whate
ver it was, it wasn’t doing it well. Her fringe fell across her face; her glowing, wholesome face. Mother Earth herself, thought Sally.
“It’s beautiful out there isn’t it?” came the voice again.
Sally glanced back out of the window. “Yes.” She replied. “The autumn.”
“I meant the garden.”
“Right,” she turned and gave it another longer, more serious look.
“Look, thanks for coming Sally,” the voice added. “It means the world to Martin.”
That seemed unlikely, thought Sally. She turned back round to face the woman. “So where is Verity?” she asked. That sounded OK, she thought. Almost like genuine interest.
“Still asleep. She’ll know when to wake up.”
“Really?” Definitely less sincere she admitted to herself but it did seem unlikely that a six week old baby would know when to wake up. They just wake up right? They don’t know when they’re doing it.
“The ceremony’s not for another half hour. We wanted to give people a chance to enjoy the garden. Enjoy the...” the woman paused, “the autumn.”
“Yes of course. Forgive me. I just wanted to see the view from this room. So should I go out through the kitchen or back round the front?” The front door had been open when Sally had arrived and she’d let herself in. Yes, that probably was a bit insensitive, she thought.
“Well probably round the front if you plan to wear shoes.” The woman smiled and nodded at Sally’s own socked feet. She had left her boots at the entrance. What had she been thinking? She suddenly felt ashamed.
“Oh yes,” she laughed uncomfortably. “Good spot.”
She moved out from the bay window and stepped towards the woman. She felt very self-conscious, like she’d forgotten how to walk. She didn’t know what to do with her hands but then remembered the bird and instinctively opened her palm to reveal it. The woman looked at it in surprise.
Fall - A Collection of Short Stories (Almond Press Short Story Contest) Page 5
