by Haddon, Mark
SIX SHORTS
The finalists for the 2013 Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award
Your chance to read the six shortlisted stories by Junot Díaz, Mark Haddon, Sarah Hall, Cynan Jones, Toby Litt and Ali Smith
Copyright© Times Newspapers Ltd 2013
All rights reserved, not to be copied or reproduced without permission
Contents
Introduction
Miss Lora by Junot Díaz
The Gun by Mark Haddon
Evie by Sarah Hall
The Dig by Cynan Jones
Call It 'The Bug' Because I Have No Time to Think of a Better Title by Toby Litt
The Beholder by Ali Smith
EFG Private Bank
This year’s judges
Wordtheatre short story events
Your chance to vote
Introduction
The Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award is the world’s richest and most prestigious prize for a single short story, with £30,000 going to the winner and £1,000 to each of five other shortlisted authors. Launched in 2010 by Matthew Evans, chairman of EFG Private Bank, and Cathy Galvin of The Sunday Times, the award has quickly grown to be one of the most significant literary awards in the calendar, with shortlisted authors including previous winners of the Pulitzer, Orange and Man Booker prizes.
The Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award is open to any fiction writer from anywhere in the world who has been published in the UK or Ireland, and whose submitted story, written in English, is 6,000 words or under. The prize’s three previous winners - C K Stead from New Zealand, Anthony Doerr from the United States, and Kevin Barry from Ireland - have emphasised the prize’s international reach.
Over 500 authors submitted stories for the 2013 Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award. The judging panel - of novelists Andrew O’Hagan, Lionel Shriver, Joanna Trollope and Sarah Waters, plus EFG Private Bank Chairman Matthew Evans (non-voting chair) and Sunday Times Literary Editor Andrew Holgate - then produced a longlist of 16 in January, from which this exceptional shortlist of six is now drawn.
The judges’ winning story will be announced at a gala dinner at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, on March 22. Before then, though, here is your chance to read all six stories for yourself. You can also listen to the stories being read by a selection of highly acclaimed actors at two special events at Foyles in London’s Charing Cross Road, organised by short story performance specialists Wordtheatre. If, after reading them, you then want to register your own choice of favourite, you’ll find details of how to do so at the end of this ebook.
Please note that some of the stories contain strong adult material.
Miss Lora
by Junot Díaz
1
Years later you would wonder if it hadn’t been for your brother would you have done it? You remember how all the other guys had hated on her—how skinny she was, no culo, no titties, como un palito but your brother didn’t care. I’d fuck her.
You’d fuck anything, someone jeered.
And he had given that someone the eye. You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.
2
Your brother. Dead now a year and sometimes you still feel a fulgurating sadness over it even though he really was a super asshole at the end. He didn’t die easy at all. Those last months he just steady kept trying to run away. They would catch him trying to hail a cab outside of Beth Israel or walking down some Newark street in his greens. Once he conned an ex-girlfriend into driving him to California but outside of Camden he started having convulsions and she called you in a panic. Was it some atavistic impulse to die alone, out of sight? Or was he just trying to fulfill something that had always been inside of him? Why are you doing that? you asked but he just laughed. Doing what?
In those last weeks when he finally became too feeble to run away he refused to talk to you or your mother. Didn’t utter a single word until he died. Your mother did not care. She loved him and prayed over him and talked to him like he was still OK. But it wounded you, that stubborn silence. His last fucking days and he wouldn’t say a word. You’d ask him something straight up, How are you feeling today, and Rafa would just turn his head. Like you all didn’t deserve an answer. Like no one did.
3
You were at the age where you could fall in love with a girl over an expression, over a gesture. That’s what happened with your girlfriend, Paloma—she stooped to pick up her purse and your heart flew out of you.
That’s what happened with Miss Lora, too.
It was 1985. You were sixteen years old and you were messed up and alone like a motherfucker. You also were convinced—like totally utterly convinced—that the world was going to blow itself to pieces. Almost every night you had nightmares that made the ones the president was having in Dreamscape look like pussyplay. In your dreams the bombs were always going off, evaporating you while you walked, while you ate a chicken wing, while you took the bus to school, while you fucked Paloma. You would wake up biting your own tongue in terror, the blood dribbling down your chin.
Someone really should have medicated you.
Paloma thought you were being ridiculous. She didn’t want to hear about Mutual Assured Destruction, The Late Great Planet Earth, We begin bombing in five minutes, SALT II, The Day After, Threads, Red Dawn, WarGames, Gamma World, any of it. She called you Mr. Depressing. And she didn’t need any more depressing than she had already. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment with four younger siblings and a disabled mom and she was taking care of all of them. That and honors classes. She didn’t have time for anything and mostly stayed with you, you suspected, because she felt bad for what had happened with your brother. It’s not like you ever spent much time together or had sex or anything. Only Puerto Rican girl on the earth who wouldn’t give up the ass for any reason. I can’t, she said. I can’t make any mistakes. Why is sex with me a mistake, you demanded, but she just shook her head, pulled your hand out of her pants. Paloma was convinced that if she made any mistakes in the next two years, any mistakes at all, she would be stuck in that family of hers forever. That was her nightmare. Imagine if I don’t get in anywhere, she said. You’d still have me, you tried to reassure her, but Paloma looked at you like the apocalypse would be preferable.
So you talked about the Coming Doomsday to whoever would listen—to your history teacher, who claimed he was building a survival cabin in the Poconos, to your boy who was stationed in Panama (in those days you still wrote letters), to your around-the-corner neighbor, Miss Lora. That was what connected you two at first. She listened. Better still, she had read Alas, Babylon and had seen part of The Day After, and both had scared her monga.
The Day After wasn’t scary, you complained. It was crap. You can’t survive an airburst by ducking under a dashboard.
Maybe it was a miracle, she said, playing.
A miracle? That was just dumbness. What you need to see is Threads. Now that is some real shit.
I probably wouldn’t be able to stand it, she said. And then she put her hand on your shoulder.
People always touched you. You were used to it. You were an amateur weightlifter, something else you did to keep your mind off the shit of your life. You must have had a mutant gene somewhere in the DNA, because all the lifting had turned you into a goddamn circus freak. Most of the time it didn’t bother you, the way girls and sometimes guys felt you up. But with Miss Lora you could te
ll something was different.
Miss Lora touched you and you suddenly looked up and noticed how large her eyes were on her thin face, how long her lashes were, how one iris had more bronze in it than the other.
4
Of course you knew her; she was your neighbor, taught over at Sayreville HS. But it was only in the past months that she snapped into focus. There were a lot of these middle-aged single types in the neighborhood, shipwrecked by every kind of catastrophe, but she was one of the few who didn’t have children, who lived alone, who was still kinda young. Something must have happened, your mother speculated. In her mind a woman with no child could only be explained by vast untrammeled calamity.
Maybe she just doesn’t like children.
Nobody likes children, your mother assured you. That doesn’t mean you don’t have them.
Miss Lora wasn’t nothing exciting. There were about a thousand viejas in the neighborhood way hotter, like Mrs. del Orbe, whom your brother had fucked silly until her husband found out and moved the whole family away. Miss Lora was too skinny. Had no hips whatsoever. No breasts, either, no ass, even her hair failed to make the grade. She had her eyes, sure, but what she was most famous for in the neighborhood were her muscles. Not that she had huge ones like you—chick was just wiry like a motherfucker, every single fiber standing out in outlandish definition. Bitch made Iggy Pop look chub, and every summer she caused a serious commotion at the pool. Always a bikini despite her curvelessness, the top stretching over these corded pectorals and the bottom cupping a rippling fan of haunch muscles. Always swimming underwater, the black waves of her hair flowing behind her like a school of eel. Always tanning herself (which none of the other women did) into the deep lacquered walnut of an old shoe. That woman needs to keep her clothes on, the mothers complained. She’s like a plastic bag full of worms. But who could take their eyes off her? Not you or your brother. The kids would ask her, Are you a bodybuilder, Miss Lora? and she would shake her head behind her paperback. Sorry, guys, I was just born this way.
After your brother died she came over to the apartment a couple of times. She and your mother shared a common place, La Vega, where Miss Lora had been born and where your mother had recuperated after the Guerra Civil. One full year living just behind the Casa Amarilla had made a vegana out of your mother. I still hear the Río Camú in my dreams, your mother said. Miss Lora nodded. I saw Juan Bosch once on our street when I was very young. They sat and talked about it to death. Every now and then she stopped you in the parking lot. How are you doing? How is your mother? And you never knew what to say. Your tongue was always swollen, raw, from being blown to atoms in your sleep.
5
Today you come back from a run to find her on the stoop, talking to la Doña. Your mother calls you. Say hello to the profesora.
I’m sweaty, you protest.
Your mother flares. Who in carajo do you think you’re talking to? Say hello, coño, to la profesora.
Hello, profesora.
Hello, student.
She laughs and turns back to your mother’s conversation.
You don’t know why you’re so furious all of a sudden.
I could curl you, you say to her, flexing your arm.
And Miss Lora looks at you with a ridiculous grin. What in the world are you talking about? I’m the one who could pick you up.
She puts her hands on your waist and pretends to make the effort.
Your mother laughs thinly. But you can feel her watching the both of you.
6
When your mother had confronted your brother about Mrs. del Orbe he didn’t deny it. What do you want, Ma? Se metío por mis ojos.
Por mis ojos my ass, she had said. Tú te metiste por su culo.
That’s true, your brother admitted cheerily. Y por su boca.
And then your mother punched him, helpless with shame and fury, which only made him laugh.
7
It is the first time any girl ever wanted you. And so you sit with it. Let it roll around in the channels of your mind. This is nuts, you say to yourself. And later, absently, to Paloma. She doesn’t hear you. You don’t really know what to do with the knowledge. You ain’t your brother, who would have run right over and put a rabo in Miss Lora. Even though you know, you’re scared you’re wrong. You’re scared she’d laugh at you.
So you try to keep your mind off her and the memory of her bikinis. You figure the bombs will fall before you get a chance to do shit. When they don’t fall, you bring her up to Paloma in a last-ditch effort, tell her la profesora has been after you. It feels very convincing, that lie.
That old fucking hag? That’s disgusting.
You’re telling me, you say in a forlorn tone.
That would be like fucking a stick, she says.
It would be, you confirm.
You better not fuck her, Paloma warns you after a pause.
What are you talking about?
I’m just telling you. Don’t fuck her. You know I’ll find out. You’re a terrible liar.
Don’t be a crazy person, you say, glaring. I’m not fucking anyone. Clearly.
That night you are allowed to touch Paloma’s clit with the tip of your tongue but that’s it. She holds your head back with the force of her whole life and eventually you give up, demoralized.
It tasted, you write your boy in Panama, like beer.
You add an extra run to your workout, hoping it will cool your granos, but it doesn’t work. You have a couple dreams where you are about to touch her but then the bomb blows NYC to kingdom come and you watch the shock wave roll up and then you wake, your tongue clamped firmly between your teeth.
And then you are coming back from Chicken Holiday with a four-piece meal, a drumstick in your mouth, and there she is walking out of Pathmark, wrestling a pair of plastic bags. You consider bolting but your brother’s law holds you in place. Never run. A law he ultimately abrogated but which you right now cannot. You ask meekly: You want help with that, Miss Lora?
She shakes her head. It’s my exercise for the day. You walk back together in silence and then she says: When are you going to come by to show me that movie?
What movie?
The one you said is the real one. The nuclear war movie.
Maybe if you were someone else you would have the discipline to duck the whole thing but you are your father’s son and your brother’s brother. Two days later you are home and the silence in there is terrible and it seems like the same commercial for fixing tears in your car upholstery is on. You shower, shave, dress.
I’ll be back.
Your mom is looking at your dress shoes. Where are you going?
Out.
It’s ten o’clock, she says, but you’re already out the door.
You knock on the door once, twice, and then she opens up. She is wearing sweats and a Howard T-shirt and she tenses her forehead worriedly. Her eyes look like they belong on a giant’s face.
You don’t bother with the small talk. You just push up and kiss. She reaches around and shuts the door behind you.
Do you have a condom?
You are a worrier like that.
Nope, she says and you try to keep control but you come in her anyway.
I’m really sorry, you say.
It’s OK, she whispers, her hands on your back, keeping you from pulling out. Stay.
8
Her apartment is about the neatest place you’ve ever seen and for its lack of Caribbean craziness could be inhabited by a white person. On her walls she has a lot of pictures of her travels and her siblings and they all seem incredibly happy and square. So you’re the rebel? you ask her and she laughs. Something like that.
There are also pictures of some guys. A few you recognize from when you were younger and about them you say nothing.
She is very quiet, very reserved while she fixes you a cheeseburger. Actually, I hate my family, she says, squashing the patty down with a spatula until the grease starts popping.
; You wonder if she feels like you do. Like it might be love. You put on Threads for her. Get ready for some real shit, you say.
Get ready for me to hide, she responds, but you two only last an hour before she reaches over and takes off your glasses and kisses you. This time your wits are back so you try to find the strength to fight her off.
I can’t, you say.
And just before she pops your rabo in her mouth she says: Really?
You try to think of Paloma, so exhausted that every morning she falls asleep on the ride to school. Paloma, who still found the energy to help you study for your SAT. Paloma, who didn’t give you any ass because she was terrified that if she got pregnant she wouldn’t abort it out of love for you and then her life would be over. You’re trying to think of her but what you’re doing is holding Miss Lora’s tresses like reins and urging her head to keep its wonderful rhythm.
You really do have an excellent body, you say after you blow your load.
Why, thank you. She motions with her head. You want to go into the bedroom?
Even more fotos. None of them will survive the nuclear blast, you are sure. Nor will this bedroom, whose window faces toward New York City. You tell her that. Well, we’ll just have to make do, she says. She gets naked like a pro and once you start she closes her eyes and rolls her head around like it’s on a broken hinge. She clasps your shoulders with a nailed grip as strong as shit and you know that after, your back is going to look like it’s been whipped.
Then she kisses your chin.
9
Both your father and your brother were sucios. Shit, your father used to take you on his pussy runs, leave you in the car while he ran up into cribs to bone his girlfriends. Your brother was no better, boning girls in the bed next to yours. Sucios of the worst kind and now it’s official: you are one, too. You had hoped the gene missed you, skipped a generation, but clearly you were kidding yourself. The blood always shows, you say to Paloma on the ride to school next day. Yunior, she stirs from her doze, I don’t have time for your craziness, OK?
