Something grey, ragged and spectral rose in front of her, then swooped down onto her arm and clung there with cool fingers. Without meaning to, she screamed.
‘What is it?’ Jonathan sounded alarmed.
She shook her head, unable to move. A piece of sea, come to get her. Jonathan plunged back down the hill towards her, sharp stones flinging themselves towards the sea. He skidded to a halt beside her.
‘Hey, nothing to get excited about,’ he said, plucking the piece of torn plastic from her arm. He squeezed her shoulders, holding the plastic up for the wind to swallow.
‘See?’ he said. His arms were brown. Hers were pale and burnt. She felt like dough, put in the oven at the wrong temperature.
‘No bones broken, Mum.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
But the old words felt wrong, and she looked away, embarrassed. A lot of their other habits felt wrong, here. The bag of All-Bran she brought to breakfast every morning, past the colourful trays of tomato and cucumber, the wet, salty triangles of feta cheese, the glistening black heap of olives. The way he’d asked the couple next door, with their bunches of sodden towels and swimwear, not to encroach on their share of washing line, nor use up all the pegs, please. The way they turned decisively away from each other at lights out, as if they both still had work in the morning. He glanced up the hill; eyed his next move. She didn’t want him to go. She put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s so hot,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s dangerous to be exposed like this, with no water.’
Jonathan laughed. Heat didn’t affect him; he was like a camel. He patted her hand. ‘We’ll be down again in a jiffy,’ he said, ‘you’ll see. You want to try the Middle East.’
‘But if only we’d brought some fruit. Mandarins, or something.’
‘You don’t want to go lugging fruit around,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you won’t get mandarins in Turkey. It’s hardly the Garden of Eden. It’s all watermelons, and those disgusting green things.’
For dessert one evening, the hotel had served them a strange fruit, a cross between a pear and an apple. They bit into the flesh enthusiastically, but the taste was so bitter, the insides of their mouths crawled. Jonathan spat his out onto the plate and looked at her in dismay. A moment when they might have talked. She wanted him to put his arm around her again. ‘We might die out here,’ she tried again, ‘in this heat.’
Predictably, he frowned. He looked up to the ridge of the hill and the rickety-looking structure he’d spotted from the beach, back in view now. An observation tower, he’d thought.
‘Wonder what that’s made of,’ he murmured. ‘Looks like wood from here, but could just as easily be metal.’
And he was off again, forging through the patch of shale directly above.
‘Come on, Fay. Just follow in my footsteps. Keep your centre of gravity low.’
‘It’s alright for you! I’ve only got one hand…’
But he couldn’t hear. He was already yards ahead, and the wind was on his side. She began to follow. The sandwiches were compacted in the bottom of the bag. To avoid slipping on the shale, she had to adopt an undignified half crouch. She had to put her hands down every few steps to keep her balance. The sandwiches always hit the ground first.
Sometimes, when she followed him, she ended up exceeding her limits and being proud of herself. Other times, he let her down. A trip they’d made to Blackpool Pleasure Beach when the girls were young came to mind, something she hadn’t thought about in years. He had taken them all on a series of increasingly frightening rides. She had coped with the Grand National; the Mouse Trap; the Avalanche. But as they shuffled forwards in the queue for the Revolution, and she watched the carriages of screaming people plunge forwards then backwards round the gigantic metal loop, hanging for a few moments at the top like a caterpillar on the underside of a leaf, she felt terrified.
‘Would you and the girls mind if I didn’t come on this one?’ she whispered.
Jonathan looked incredulous. ‘But what can possibly go wrong?’ he said. ‘These rides have got an excellent safety record: I checked it out.’
She gave in. But on the ride, while Jonathan clutched her and laughed deafeningly in her ear, she felt a moment of pure fear; an utter departure from which she was surprised to return.
Part way up the shale, a gust of wind inflated the bag suddenly. The pull at her fingers made her jump and she snatched the bag back. An idea. She tried to undo the top. But the knot was tight and hard. She enlarged the opening instead, tearing and stretching the thin plastic. She held the bag out in front of her. The next gust filled the thin, cloudy membrane. Air, circulating around that poor cheese. She smiled; released her grip. The bag leapt a few yards, then fell onto the rocks where it lay flapping like a grounded bird.
She looked up the hill. But Jonathan was lost in pursuit of optimum routes and secure footholds. The sight of his pumping calves drained her. She began a careful slide down on her bottom. The shale ran from her feet like rain down a window. She picked the bag off the rock and stood up. The sandwiches swung heavily. This time she held the bag above her head, turning slowly. The plastic rippled, a busy sound, then billowed and tightened, hard as a sail. She let go. The bag rose towards the sun, as if flung by a hand more powerful than hers. It turned in the air currents. She held her breath.
‘Go on,’ she whispered.
But the bag reached the top of a curve and began to drop, falling quickly out of sight.
Fay stared up the hill again, shading her eyes against the light bouncing off the shale. Jonathan was way ahead now, and well over to the right. She couldn’t see how he’d got there. Why was he always in such a rush, she thought? Now she couldn’t use him for reference points any more. She glanced around, looking for clues.
But she must have slid down a different way: the ascent from here looked easier on the left, not the right. Wizened bushes, that might provide handholds, led to a dark grey ledge of rock, spotted with rust. The climb would be easier without the sandwiches. She took a big step and made a grab for the first bush. The roots held. So did the roots of the next bush and soon she was on the ledge, breathless but able to see a path up through the rocks ahead. She bent to examine the rust. Not rust at all, but moss. Deep mustard at the centre, with lime green filaments around the edges.
She climbed steadily. She moved through a belt of a sharp, familiar scent. She picked a sprig from an unpromising-looking bush and pressed its tiny green spikes. Thyme! Wild thyme, with a perfume as strong as an anaesthetic. She had no pockets or buttonholes, so tucked the sprig into her bra. Gorse sprang into view, like a flock of yellow butterflies on a dead bush. And then lupins, the colour all lupins were in this part of Turkey; a colour neither blue nor purple. And poppies, with stems that looked too fragile to carry the solidity of their colour; a bright, arterial red. She was enjoying herself. The secret was not to look at the other person or your own feet, but to look ahead. Not too far ahead; into the middle distance. That way, the next foothold would present itself. That way, you fell into a rhythm.
Above the next ridge, a shock of dark green leaves. Their lushness lent fresh energy to her step. She scrambled over more rocks and as she drew nearer the ridge, saw more trees behind the first one, bright orange globes hanging beneath their leaves. Mandarins! She stopped for a moment to take it in. Sweat tickled the backs of her knees and stung her eyes. She wiped them; on her hands, the wet evaporated instantly. Mandarins. Despite his travels, Jonathan didn’t know everything after all.
There was a taste in her mouth. Blackberries. She saw herself and her best friend from primary school stealing them from an elderly neighbour’s garden. Only a few of the berries, warmed by the afternoon sun, went into their plastic bag. The rest went into their mouths, despite a suspicion of maggots. Then the old woman, known as a witch for her unkempt garden, her cats and her white wispy beard, came lumbering down her garden path, all lolloping bosom and uneven hemlines.
‘Run for it!’ shrieked her friend, a
lready squeezing through the hedge.
But Fay stood, lost in the taste of purple juice, the hypnotic transfer of berry to mouth.
‘She’ll get you!’ called her friend. ‘She’ll put a curse on you!’
But the woman’s face didn’t look wicked, thought Fay. It looked sad. At the last moment, she ran; bolted for the hedge. ‘Bag lady! Bag lady!’ They ran down the back path, her friend spitting the words out like the hard bits, the wizened drupelets of the stolen blackberries.
‘Bag lady, bag lady, bag lady!’ Fay joined in, in an ecstasy of daring. But the words hurt her. She felt sorry for the old woman; hoped she wouldn’t be sad.
The mandarin trees beckoned. Fay walked a few steps, then broke into a stumbling run across the rough ground. She felt the sun’s weight on the back of her neck. She reached the shade of the first tree and stood, panting. The sudden change in the light made black shapes dance in front of her. She rubbed her eyes, and reached up into the branches. The leaves were sharp-edged, and their pinpricks on her wrist surprised her, wakened her, though she’d not been aware of a lack of wakefulness before. Where was Jonathan? She couldn’t see him. Had he found his tower, perhaps?
‘Jon,’ she shouted, ‘Mandarins!’
She looked up into the tree and cupped her hand under a fruit, relieving the branch of the slight weight. She twisted, and the fruit was released into her palm. The temperature of blood. She brought the fruit to her face, and punctured the peel with her thumbnail. The scent was faint and not quite as she expected. She felt dizzy. She had gone too long without a drink. She closed her eyes, trying to know the scent, pull it in through her nose, her mouth, the pores of her skin.
‘Fay! You’re not picking those, are you?’
She opened her eyes again. Jonathan was running towards her; his face concerned. She stared at him. For a moment, she didn’t know him. He arrived next to her, breathing heavily.
‘Did you come up the other side? You must’ve put a fair lick of speed on.’
He noticed the thyme between her breasts. ‘You’ve got a bit of vegetation stuck in your top.’
He went to pick the sprig out, but she stepped back. He blinked. She dug her thumbs into the fruit and pulled the flesh in two. The pith was a lot thicker than she’d imagined.
‘I’m not sure you should touch those,’ he said. ‘They might be poisonous.’
Inside were segments. Her confidence returned. ‘They’re not poisonous. They’re mandarins.’
‘Mandarins? Don’t be silly. They don’t look like any mandarins I’ve ever seen. They don’t even look edible.’
She felt she had been looking at his disbelieving expression for ever. She wanted him to trust her. She broke the fruit and handed him half. Saw him eye the dry flesh suspiciously. The hillside had begun to move, was revolving slowly around her.
‘You’re not going to…’ he said, but she was already biting into her half. There was no juice, no sweetness, just the dry, invaded feeling of putting something unpleasant into her mouth. But she didn’t want to spit the fruit out. He stood looking at her.
‘Eat yours,’ she said. But no sound came. As she fell, he was already stepping forwards. She was only half aware of his strong arms, catching her before she hit the ground, holding her up, propping her carefully against the trunk of the tree.
Ten Tickets
Steven Hall
1. The Businessman
Janice…Look Janice…Janice can you hear me? Yes, yes, look, I’m on a train and the signal is awful. I’ve spoken to Todd Green about the Hendon project and he says – What? Who told you that? Dave who? Dave Reynolds? So has the order gone out or not? Oh, for God’s sake. The whole, yes, half the bloody storeroom behind the staff kitchen is full of oscillating wing stud brackets, they’re the last thing we need to – Well, did nobody check? What about the grifting servo-anglers? Well, what do you think? Did you order them? No, no I told you to order two crates of grifting servo-anglers. Why the hell would we need drifting servo-anglers? Well, you should know the difference, that’s your bloody job isn’t it? What’s Mr Ichomatzu going to say when his Lambernoshtat 7000 loses an inflection clump and spindles legwards at four hundred miles an hour? We can tell him that Janice didn’t know the difference between…Hello? Janice. Yes, yes I can hear you again now. Listen, there’s a tunnel coming up. Basically the whole thing isn’t a disaster and no one’s going to lose their bonus as long as the point six pertinent limp stand correctors have arrived today. Have arrived to – What? Janice…? Hello, can you hear me? Janice…? Janice…? Hello…?
2. The University Graduate
Rain down the train windows in diagonal speed-stripes. Grey morning and another commute. We’re always under the same sky, that’s what Emma used to say. And we are, even though everything else is gone, we always are. Always under the same sky. Connections, some things you just can’t break, can’t tape over when you don’t want them any more. They become hard-written. Burned onto your soul, onto the hard-drive of self, written there forever and there’s nothing you can do about it. A couple of weeks after we’d split up we went away together, up into the Peak District to research some degree project she was working on. We’d booked it months before and seeing as how we were going to stay the best of friends we decided we should both go anyway. When I think about her now, about the two years we spent together, it’s that weekend that burns the brightest, makes the loudest chemical fizz in my insides. When we were getting changed to go out for a drink in the evening and she told me to turn away while she took her top off, that’s when I realised everything was different. The ache of something so important lost. Now she’s gone and I catch this train to a job I hate every day. We’re always under the same sky. Peel my skin off and you’ll see everything about her tattooed underneath. There’s nothing I can do about it.
3. The Noisy Kid
Three men went to mow, went to mow a meadow. Three men, two men, one man and his dog, SPOT! Went to mow a meadow. Four men went to mow, went to mow a meadow. Four men, three men, two men, one man and his dog SPOT! Went to mow a meadow. Five men went to mow, (I think that’s enough now, Sarah) went to mow a meadow. Five men, four men, three men, two men, one man and his dog, SPOT! Went to (Sarah, stop shouting.) I’m not shouting, I’m singing. (You’re shouting. These people don’t want to listen to you all the way to Leeds do they?) We sang it all the way to York on the school trip. (Yes but that’s different isn’t it?) Why? (It just is.) Ms Clements taught us to sing it. She’s really pretty. (Well, good for Ms Clements.) Six men went to mow, went to mow a meadow. Six men, five men, four (Sarah). Mum. You’ll make me lose count. Ms Clements says singing passes the time. She says ‘singing is a gift that can turn any frown upside down.’ (Oh, for God’s sake.) What Mum? (No, nothing. I just had something in my throat.) You like it when I’m happy don’t you, Mum? (Of course I do.) Seven men went to mow, went to mow a meadow. Seven men, six men, five men, four men…
4. The Student
I want to call him. I should call him. What time is it? God’s sake Claire it’s 8.30 in the morning, you’re not going to call him now, from a train. Phil says the coolest guys wait six days to call, even the girls they really fancy, says he saw it in a film. Cool, cool and uninterested, that’s the way to play it. 8.30 am – could I get away with it, it might be quirky, the early bird catches the worm and all that. I bet that ain’t no worm, girlfriend. Hah. I crack myself up. No Claire, it wouldn’t be quirky, it’d just be weird. Nobody phones anybody at 8.30 in the morning. Except for shouty businessmen like Mr Chubby-Red-Face over there. Is that the future? Am I going to end up married to an arsehole like that? All the more reason to call Mike now, while he’s still skinny and young and fit. Time waits for no man, God, where does all this crap in my head come from? Maybe he’s lost my number. Ahh, but if I call him then he’ll be in charge, won’t he? Me running after him, I don’t think so. That ain’t going to happen. Maybe he thinks I’m a minger. I am not a minger. Anyway, what would Ph
il know, he goes to those historical war enactments and he’s never spent the night with anything you don’t have to double-click. Hah. That was funny. I am funny. Got to remember that one. Maybe he’s – no, still nothing. Stop getting your phone out to check. Everyone can see what you’re doing and they all think you’re a pleb.
5. The Other Student
Can she tell I’m looking at her? No, the really sad thing is I don’t think she even cares. And why should she? She’s beautiful. She keeps getting her phone out so – what? – is she late for something? Nah, I don’t reckon. I reckon, she’s waiting to hear from somebody. It’s going to be a boyfriend, girls like her always have a boyfriend. Some huge tadpole-brained rugby psycho who treats her like shit in front of his mates. Actually, she is too cool to go for that type. I don’t understand what some girls see in some guys. So it’s going to be a long-haired guitar player who’s on the verge of getting a record deal isn’t it? Is that better or worse? I wonder if he loves her? Notice, me. Come on. Notice me. The phone again. I should lean across and say – whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve you. Why not? I’m not a bad looking guy. Go on. This could be it. If I open my mouth now, she could be my future, sitting there opposite me. God, she’s beautiful. Okay, I’m going to do it. After three. Wait. Is that a terrible line? Doesn’t matter. All chat-up lines are terrible. The idea is just to say something. One…Two…Three…Oh, who are you kidding? In five minutes, the train’s going to stop and your future is going to walk off and away into the rain. And you’re not going to say shit.
6. Eric Sanderson
Trees. Houses. Fields. Rain. Every day it’s like this. I just keep going. Buy a ticket, put the miles in. They say running away from your problems never solved anything. They are idiots and I hope they never have to find out what I know – some things are so bad that when they happen you don’t have any choice. If I stopped moving, the size of events would catch up and rip me to shreds. Sometimes I worry – is this crazy? Is all this travelling just to keep me moving actually crazy? Three months since it happened now. Six weeks since I gave our landlord notice and gave back the keys to our house. My Greek island tan has faded. I’ve faded too, it’s the only way. But the distant hurt whispers in my numb head late, late in the night. The enormity of the pain and the loss is always only one step behind. Am I going crazy? I’ve set myself a task. Just a random task to stop my mind eating itself. I’m trying to find a long lost book – Odyssey of Tryphiodorus. It was written with missing letters. Gaps. It seems fitting. I buy a ticket, go to a place at random. Then I find the library and read whatever I can on the Odyssey. It’s a distraction. Something to turn myself away from the hole in the ground. From the hole in me, the hurt, always and only just one step behind, one stop behind, just out of sight back down the tracks. Have I gone crazy? It doesn’t matter. I buy the ticket. I put the miles in. Every day it’s like this. Trees. Houses. Fields. Rain. Every day it’s like this.
A Couple of Stops (Light Transports Book 1) Page 3
