Chapter Five

 



“Name?” The woman was about fifty and of the most officious sort. Bobbed hair cut bluntly and in the most unimaginative way possible. Sagging jowls over a blue buttoned up to the neck. She barely glanced up and typed noisily on the keyboard. No wedding ring. No jewellery of any sort. Her name tag simply said Broxburn in simple sans serif type. No first initial.

“Sophie. Marley.” 

“Date of birth?”

“You know all this, I visit every day.” Sophie knew she should keep her temper in check, but the woman at the desk was taking precious minutes away from her already strict times. She made a show of glancing at her watch as she spoke. “Can I just go in and see her please.” She knew she didn’t have much time. He would be visiting shortly, and she wanted to make sure she was away by then. She didn’t want to be there while he was there. Not today. Of all days. As she watched the dull looking woman type, her hand absently drifted down to her stomach. It was flat - he had always joked that there was nothing to her, that she wasn’t eating enough - but very soon she would start to show. Just a little. Enough. There would be no hiding it then. No avoiding the questions. No avoiding him. 

But not yet. She had time. 

She shifted her weight impatiently from foot to foot. The Broxburn woman was still labouring over her keyboard, hitting each key with plodding slowness. Sophie began to think she was doing it on purpose, but she had no idea why that would be the case. It could be of course that the woman was the type to simply hold a grudge against her because she was younger, or that she simply didn’t like the look of her. Perhaps she was just bored and needlessly antagonised the visitors of the terminally ill for her own amusement. She had met people like that before. Many times. 

“I still need you to confirm your date of birth.”

“June seventeen two thousand and ten.”

Broxburn didn’t respond, and went back to laboriously typing into her computer. The large clock on the magnolia painted wall above and behind her ticked on, almost in time with her keystrokes. Five fifteen. 

Hurry the hell up for god’s sake, Sophie thought. She was about to speak, to perhaps ask what the issue was, when without looking up from her screen, the woman nodded and confirmed she could go in. 

“Need I remind you of the rules?” She called out as Sophie walked towards the large set of double doors at the far end of the main exception area. 

“No, I - “

“Visit every day. Right.”

‘Fucking arsehole,” Sophie muttered under her breath, quickly smiling as an orderly walked past and hoping that she hadn’t been heard. Three months she had been coming to visit her mother every single day. Same time without fail. Yet still she was treated as though she was visiting a convict, and not her mother, her poor mother who spent her days confined to a hospice bed, watching the hours tick away until the cancer that had first manifested in her lymphatic system before spreading throughout most of her body took her from this world and into the next. Sophie walked the corridors so familiar to her, knowing which way to go without even taking in her surroundings. She had walked these corridors enough, and if there was any small blessings to be taken - if God truly did manifest his will in such demonstrably obtuse ways - then it was that soon she would have to walk them no longer. Yet it was her mother that she was relieved for. For at least Sophie could walk them at all. 

She knew the way. She knew to follow the orange route - signalled by a dashed line that ran waist height, painted on to the corridor wall below the green solid line and the red dotted line. The hospice was relatively knew, and had accrued a lot of high level sponsors before it’s construction. Even now, only a few miles away in the centre of Inverness, there were numerous fund raising shops with it’s branding above the door. Every charitable event that took place - be it sponsored running, cycling or something else to endurance events and everything in between - was done so under the name of the hospice. If nothing else, she would think, the city knew how to look after the dying. Even if it it failed the living on a regular basis. She saw enough of that in her capacity in the care sector. Yet whilst the hospice was publicly funded, she ad to make do with whatever pennies the local authority threw her way. Budgetary constraints constantly put upon them by a council that would rather spend it’s money on facilities that nobody asked for, leaving the services most in demand short of the money needed to truly make a difference. Another orderly passed, smiling benignly. She wondered if they were all told to smile the same way. A fake sympathy smile that no doubt went down well with other visiting relatives and those on their way out. She gulped, the gesture sticking in her throat. Second orderly to pass in an immaculate gown, the name of the hospice embroidered above the breast pocket. This whilst she tried to co-ordinate enough caseworkers to fulfil a roata that would forever be lacking. Those that waited on their home visits, or their twenty minutes of conversation a day going without. The had tried to fund raise of course, like every sector tried, yet without the public will to support something that they saw less value in than a building for the dying, she constantly had to make do and juggle her limits resources. She hadn’t expected this upon graduating three years ago. She had been optimistic then. 

Is that all it took? Three years? 

Three years and the fact she had returned home a year after obtaining her degree. She had her pick of jobs, yet chose this one to be close. 

Of course, it was down to her to build the bridge at the end of it all wasn’t it. 

She arrived at the door, all metal frame and frosted glass. Her mother’s name etched into the frosting. She wondered how much that cost to replace each time. 

C. MARLEY

Hell. They could afford it. 

She knocked lightly on the glass once. She didn’t have to, but something deep within her that couldn’t let go of the formalities instilled by the past informed her that it was the right thing to do. No answer. Her mother was probably sleeping, but she tapped lightly again with the knuckle on one finger.

A murmer from inside that she took for ascension. She opened the door and stepped in to the brightly lit room. 

The evening sun was casting long fingers of light through the wooden blinds across the delicately patterned florals of the bed linen. Pastel shades that matched the inoffensive wallpaper and light carpets. The carpets, Sophie thought, were a particularly nice touch. Normally in these places you would expect linoleum, but not here. You were urged to feel at home here, instead of a body taking up a bed. In the corner of the room was a large comfortable looking armchair and underneath the expansive bay window with views of the river that winded it’s way through town, there was an expensive looking sideboard, on top of which sat a tray with the remains of an early supper. Beside the tray was an array of white cylanders of various sizes and colours of labels next to a water jug and glass. From somewhere overhead came the soothing sound of classical music that was piped through via the in-house digital audio system. Sophie knew there was a digital controller beside the bed that allowed her mother to pick and choose any one of hundreds of audio channels to stream. It also allowed her to open the wall cabinet at the far end of the room behind which sat a fifty five inch OLED television, complete with a near infinite choice of films and television programs from the last sixty or seventy years. Anything from mainstream American sitcoms, to obscure Far Eastern melodramas. There was no shortage of something to watch should you be in the mood. Sophie never understood how anyone could find anything to watch. Every time she opened an app on her own set, she faced endless choice paralysis, scrolling through endless tiles representing every possible thing that she might want to watch, and she never was able to make the decision. 

There was another chair between the bed and the sideboard. Something more perfunctory. Something designed not too be sat in for a prolonged period of time. That was the chair for visitors, and it was where Sophie softly walked over to, not wishing to disturb the sleeping figure on the bed. She thought she must have imagined the sound from within the room, yet when she sat down slowly on to the chair, she realised the person in the bed wasn’t sleeping at all. Her eyes were open and she was looking at the ceiling directly above, not giving Sophie so much as a glance. 

Her mother’s breathing was shallow, yet not distressing to hear. Sophie presumed that they had her pretty doped up on tramadol again most likely. She had complained of pain when lucid more and more recently, so consequently spent more time in her own sub conscious world. Sophie reckoned it was probably better that way. Her hands were on top of the bed sheets, stretched out down her torso, thin and spindly like flesh coloured branches. There were various bruised and blemishes on her light skin - she bruised so easily now - and where there weren’t those angry purple marks, there were a crosshatching of thin white plasters from where her skin had split into sores that would probably never heal. 

Sophie absently rested her hand on her stomach again, then, when realising what she was doing, took it sharply away, and instead busied herself re-arranging the flowers on the mother’s bedside. There was a small bow of grapes gone pale and soft, and she mentally made a note to take them out with her and discard them into the bin. A few Woman’s Own magazines that didn’t look as though they were ever read, and a handful of cards wishing her to be well soon. A fat chance of that,  Sophie thought, how thoughtless and short-sighted do you have to be. She chided herself for being too dismissive almost immediately. As far as she was aware, the supermarkets and card shops didn’t sell cards that read Sorry You Are Dying or even any that read So I Hear You’ve Got Cancer… and so she couldn’t begrudge friends of her mother wanting to express their sympathies to her. She idly looked at some of the names but apart from one that read with love, Joan and Kyle she didn’t recognise any of them. As far as she could recall, Joan and her husband Kyle were friends of her mother’s from way back, but she couldn’t recall exactly where they knew each other from. College perhaps. Her mother would have told her once but - like most memories that involved her younger years - she had filed it away in a large impenetrable mental filing cabinet and thrown away the key. 

Turning back to face her mother, Sophie gazed upon those calm and serene features. Those eyes, once an almost iridescent blue, were pale and milky, remaining fixed upon an unknown point in the ceiling. She had the sudden urge to reach out and touch one of those pale twig-like hands, wrapping her own fingers around it and squeezing tightly. She might then stand and lean in to her mother, using her free hand to gently brush away the ashen coloured hair from her waxen face. She might then lean in further and place her lips on her mother’s forehead before speaking soft reassurances in her ear. Yet Sophie remained seated. That was for a different daughter, and a different mother. 

Sophie sat with her mother as the sun set and the room succumbed to dusk. Her mother never moved, never recognised that Sophie was sitting beside her, and that was fine. Sophie had nothing to say, not this time, not before and doubted she would have much to say in the future. Would she tell her? If the circumstances were different, of course. Was this not the type of news that daughter’s dreamed about sharing with their mother? Once again, a different daughter.

A different mother. 

The bedside lamp came on automatically, at first a dim glow to offset the gradual loss of light, keeping the room around the same luminescence. It was all the latest technology. The hospice could afford it of course. Sophie didn’t pay it any attention, just gradually becoming aware of the fact that time was moving on and she would need to go. He would be here soon. 

A sigh escaped her mother, soft and low. Sophie thought for a moment that she was going to turn over and face her. Say something. Anything. An apology perhaps. An apology for the last twenty five years. Yet she did not move, and instead fixated at that same spot on the ceiling. Sophie had a crazed notion to suddenly lean over and wave her hand up and down across this flat, milky eyes. Fish eyes. That’s what they were. The same eyes that used rot look up from the supermarket fish counter. Back when there had been fish enough to sell for consumption. When was that? When was the point where overfarming had meant no more fish at a price that the normal working proletariat could afford? Before High school certainly. Ten years ago, perhaps more. Thos eyes had stayed with her though. She recalled trips to the fishmongers, to buy the fresh fish that would soon be priced beyond the point. A young girl between cold and distant parents. 

Not exactly. 

No. Not exactly. Parents. Was that the right term? Surely that should be reserved for…well…parents. One or two individuals who were parental. 

She was over thinking. And she was tired. She stifled a yawn. She was never aware of how much her mother noticed when she wa deep like this, but despite everything, Sophie never wanted to give her the notion that her visits were in anyway grudged or forced. Despite everything. 

She stood up, once more having the near overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss that smooth glossy forehead, or squeeze that brittle hand. Instead she stood for a few moments, listening to the orderlies outside, to doors opening and closing further down the hallway, to the traffic outside, the gentle rush of the river beyond. She stood there and she listened to the lightest touch of her mother breathing. 

Then she left. Slowly, quietly. 

On the way out, she paused at the front desk to notify the dour officious older woman that she was leaving, whilst signing out on the register. As she was doing so, a set of car headlights swept across the far wall from beyond the large window to the right of the desk. Sophie’s heart skipped a beat yet she continued on to the door, not bothering to say a goodbye to the thing behind the desk. Both sets of doors slid apart and she walked out into the car park, the air warm against her cheeks, despite the time of year. This was something that they were all still adjusting to, and despite the fact that the raise in medium temperature was nothing short of alarming, Sophie  could at least appreciate the fact that it was rare these days for her to wear a winter jacket. Glib, selfish, short sighted and all the rest. Yes, she was aware of that. However she figured that it was her brain rationalising and normalising what was, in essence, the new normal. As there was nothing she herself could do to change the situation, she may as well give thanks for the smallest glints of silver deep within the coalface. 

A figure was walking slowly across the car park towards the doors, intermittently lit by the small flood lights dotted at waist level that separated the car park from the small length of shrubbery that sat beneath the hospice windows. She carried on to her car, in the opposite direction, but he saw her anyway as he neared the from doors. She heard the telltale whoosh of the panels sliding apart to admit entry, then she heard him. 

“Sophie?”

She couldn’t keep walking. Not now he had seen her. She stopped, her fists absently clenching by heresies. She bit her lip between her teeth, hard, as she closed her eyes and counted to five. 

“Hey,” she said as she turned, trying to keep her expression midway between a contented natural and joy at seeing him. He’d see through anything that was too put on, so feigned genuine pleasure as best as she could. “Sorry, I didn’t see you pull up. I was in another world.” She tilted her head coquettishly and smiled a little wider. 

Just keep going in the damn door, she thought, then sighed inwardly as he walked slowly over to where she stood, standing a mere foot away. 

“How are you?” He asked, his face a mask. He lifted one hand, and caught her hair lightly between his fingers, pulling it back down towards him. Not quite gentle. She winced slightly. “You haven’t been in touch for a while. I keep missing you here.”

“I’ve not been able to visit as often,” she said. Her hands wanted to go to her belly. Protectively. She immediately wished she hadn’t said that. A lie. Too quick out her mouth. Said now and she would have to commit to it. “Work’s been… not great.”

“I can guess,” he replied, “but still, your mum.” He angled the corners of his lips down in a mock from that would have been comical anywhere else where it not for the fact that he was genuinely trying to show real emotion, and failing.  

“I know, believe me. But if I can’t get cover for shifts then other people go without the help they need. I wouldn’t not come if I had any way around it. You know that.”

“I know that,” he whispered. “I know that.” Again, louder, almost to himself.

He pushed his hand into her hair again and caught the back of her neck, pulling her head towards his. She didn’t resist. She couldn’t resist, and had to take one small step forward lest she lose her balance and fall into him. That wouldn’t be good. That wouldn’t be good at all. He planted his lips on hers, pushing his tongue towards her closed lips. She did not part. He stunk of cigarettes and she knew he had been smoking on the way across town. He told her he would stop, told her he would stop. Years ago. He never had. Sophies mum thought he had, but he hadn’t. Sophie knew he hadn’t and he had sworn her to secrecy. Said ti would be there little secret. The smallest of their little secrets. Others were bigger. Much bigger. 

Her hand rested on her stomach, he didn’t see, she was too close. 

Eventually he relaxed his grip both on the back of her head and inside her mouth, letting her step away. Her hands dropped to her sides, then her front. Then she was fidgeting with her jacket, a girl once again. Her eyes searched him as he turned to face the building, as though taking it all in. He turned to her and smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as though the bottom half of his face was alien to the top half. He turned again and walked towards the door without a word. She watched him go, until he had reached the sliding doors once again.

Whoosh.

She was about to turn when he did, fixing her with one more glance. 

“Sophie,” he said.

“Yes?” She just wanted to get in the car and go.

“Cut your hair. It’s too long.”

“Yes daddy,” she replied. 

She stood there moments more, long after he was out of sight inside the. Building. Long after he had entered her mother’s room, sat on the chair beside her bed, reached out and took her hand in his. In her mind’s eye, she watched as he stood, leaned over her and brushed the hair from her forehead, before kissing it softly. Gently. 

Another figure at the door. And orderly finishing her shift. 

Woosh.


Sophie yawned and looked at her watch. Just gone ten. She reluctantly switched off the television where she had been watching reruns of some American sitcom from the nineties. A good fifteen years or so before she was even born. She enjoyed watching older television programmes, and this particular one was a favourite. She had probably watched all ten seasons three or four times at least. It was always the last thing she put on at the end of her day, as it helped her to properly unwind and switch off from everything. She contemplated texting Mike to see what he was doing and to say good night but changed her mind. No point in disturbing him when he was getting ready for work. She looked forward to when he was back on days the following week, and missed seeing him. Not that they had been together long, but he was good company, and he made her laugh. Most importantly, he made her laugh. Something that was in short supply. 

She looked at her phone to see if he had contacted her anyway, briefly hoping that he had. As lovely as he was, it did sometimes seem as though she was doing all the work. Not that she minded. She wasn’t some outdated romantic with notions of being constantly wooed by a man. Then again, perhaps she did mind. A little. Only a little. It wouldn’t hurt to feel needed. Desired. 

Desired.

Oh but she did feel desired, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Not any more. 

Once it had been. It had been all she’d ever wanted. Just a look. A smile. The briefest of touches. More. 

Back then it had made her day just to be spoken to. To be asked about her day at school would be everything. Nothing would follow and barely a hint of recognition to the words that she said in return, yet none of that mattered. Then, when her mother was out the room. Something more. Just a little thing, but hers, all hers.

She shook those memories from her mind, not liking how they made her feel, and yet simultaneously unable to stop them intruding in to her thoughts. A sure hint that it is bedtime, when your mind starts to wander places that it shouldn’t do, she said to herself. Rising and putting the television off, she made her way to the bathroom, switching the lights off as she did so. She began to think about the day ahead, and what she would be required to do. Then she stopped. Reasoning that she would deal with tomorrow when it happened. No point in stressing when she wasn’t in a position to do anything. 

Sophie went in to the bathroom, taking out her toothbrush and starting to spread the paste on the bristles when the door bell rang, causing her to start. She dropped the toothbrush into the sink with a light clattering and went to the intercom, pausing before pressing the talk button. She looked at the time on it’s digital readout. Ten past ten. Her mind raced through all the possible visitors that she would have at that time, and couldn’t think of anyone. 

No that wasn’t correct. She could think of one person. 

I’m sleeping, she thought, he knows that I would normally be sleeping at this time. 

Was that really going to dissuade him? If she thought it would, she was only lying to herself. It rang again. The loud and shrill artificial sound going right through her as she stood there in her nightgown and dressing robe. 

Go to bed Soph, she sternly told herself. 

It won’t do any good, another part of her chimed in, a smaller voice yet one that she listened to more. He knows you are still up. He will have seen your living room light on from down below. If you don’t answer he’ll want to know why. 

That did it. She took a breath and pressed the large blue button below the display.

“Hello?” She said. 

Silence. Nothing. 

Perhaps he’s gone.

“It’s me.” Two words. All she needed to hear. Her heart raced.

“I’m tired, can we -“ she began. 

“Are you going to let me in or am I going to have to stand here til I freeze to death?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, feeling her cheeks flush. 

Sophie pressed the button below the blue one and heard the faint buzz from below. She stood there in her small hallway, hearing the large from security door slam shut with little heed to consideration for the other residents of the large converted church in which she stayed. A year before she had moved back up north, the church had been sold to a private developer who did what a lot of private developers seemed to do to churches that were no longer viable to be maintained but the Church. They turned it into luxury apartments. Although the only thing luxurious had been the price. She had been lucky enough to get a mortgage about three months before the recession hit for the umpteenth time, and although she was juggling variable interest rates to the extent that she wasn’t sure which month would come and when she wouldn’t be able to afford it, she was glad that she had been able to get tis flat, as small as it was. 

Footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate. No rush. Plus the owner wanted to be heard. By her. 

She still stood in the hallway. All of a sudden she didn’t know what to do, so just stood there, absently pulling her dressing gown tighter over her stomach. 

A light knock at the door. Polite. Unassuming. 

She opened it and there he was. Dressed in the same clothes that she had seen him in earlier. He would have come straight from the hospice, would have sat there with her mother all evening. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, a light blue, under a darker navy blue suit jacket. Light brown belt, blue trousers and brown brogues. It was a cheap suit, bought from a cheap department store. He had a dozen of them, all variations on the the same theme. He never wore a tie, didn’t need to, as he frequently told her, their dress code wasn’t that strict, not any more. He often worked from home anyway, so the suit was more as a gesture when he had to do video calls to the management, which he had to do most days. There was a time when he was management, but not any more. Not since he had started to drink every night. Nothing expensive. He drank like the way he dressed, cheap. Blends mainly, chasing down lager. Weekend he would begin with the spirits, and see where the night took him. Quite often to her place. Like this. But never this late. 

She wondered if he had come straight from the hospice, or whether he had stopped off somewhere to sink a couple before coming over. She wouldn’t put that much past him either. As he stepped towards her she sniffed slightly, just to check, but there was nothing. He eyed her with those dark eyes of his, the ones that looked like formless pools of black in the half-light. She tried to get a bearing on his mood. He stepped in towards her once more, until he was able to put his arms around her waist and draw her towards him. There it was there, just a hint. HIs usual. Cheap whisky.

“How are you?” He breathed, 

“Yeah, fine,” she replied, feeling her body stiffen within his hold. 

If he felt her tense, he made no indication, and instead lowered his head until his lips were on her bare neck. The touch was light, considerate, sensual, and yet she wanted to recoil further, to push him away from her. Instead, she let him, until he stepped away of his own volition. 

“Any chance of a tea or coffee?” Phrased like a question, except it wasn’t.

“Sure, just go on through to the living room. I was just about to go to bed.” The last part she added, hopeful that he would take the hint and leave. 

He smiled at her. That smile. That smile that she had once chased, that could turn a terrible day into a great day. Without a word he let go of her waist and went into the living room, putting on the main light and settling himself down on the couch. She stood watching him through the doorway momentarily, as he took one of her magazine from her small coffee table and began to absently thumb through it. 

Doing as he asked, she wet into the kitchen and put the kettle on, taking two fresh mugs from the drainer. She put a camomile teabag infers and a normal tea bag in his, followed by two spoonfuls of sugar. She thought briefly about making him coffee and then decided that caffeine into his system wasn’t necessarily the best idea. For her. 

Taking the two mugs through, she placed his on one of the coasters on the coffee table, then sat opposite him, cradling hers in her hands and blowing gently over the surface.

He moved over to one side of the couch and placed a hand on the empty space. She sat on her seat for a brief moment in unspoken defiance before getting up to join him on the couch. 

They made small talk for a spell. How was his drive over, did he get on okay at the hospice. He asked her about work and how she was doing.

“Not too bad at the moment,” she said, tentatively taking a sip of her tea and wincing slightly. Too hot. Yet she thought if she finished it quickly he might do likewise. His coffee rained untouched on the table. 

“Busy though, I get that,” he said, turning to look at her. His expression was unreadable.

“A bit,” she replied.

“Must be more than a bit,” he said lightly, “if you are struggling to make it to the hospice.”

She realised her error, and took another sip of tea, trying to mask her panic. 

“I was being sarcastic,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “You know I would do anything to visit.”

“Oh I know,” he said, one hand on her let, just above the knee. “It means so much to your mum though, you know? Knowing that you’re there.”

She is spaced out on whatever they are doping her up with, Sophie thought to herself, she doesn’t even know I’m there.

“It means so much to me to. Having you there. Particularly as you don’t return my texts. Anyone would think you were avoiding me,” he followed that up with a laugh so fake it wouldn’t convince a five year old.

“I’ve just been at work.”

“Not able to go to the hospice.”

“Right.” Another sip of he tea before resting it back in her lap. 

“That woman on the front desk is quite something isn’t she?” His voice was still light. Playful. 

“Rude is what I call it.”

“Really? I didn’t get that from her. She certainly isn’t the most communicative type though.” He squeezed her leg a little. Just enough for it to hurt. “Sullen, perhaps. Obviously doesn’t like her job very much.”

“Nope.” She wondered where this was going, and took another sip of tea. She wished he would at least start his coffee, show some sign that he would be going soon.

“What’s funny, is that a smile made all the difference with her demeanour. Really opened her up, you know?”

You will flirt with anything, she thought. She held her tea close to her chest, a couple of mouthfuls left. She din’t want to rush them to make it obvious she wanted him gone. She decided to try a small yawn, just to test the water. He either didn’t care to comment, or didn’t notice. 

“Yeah. Really liked to chat after a while. I happened to mention that it was a shame that you weren’t able to visit so much, you know? Not as much as you liked. Because you’d ben so busy recently.”

“Mmmhmm.” She went to take another sip. Her mind started wandering, deciding that this conversation isn’t going anywhere and so she may as well tune out. She began to drive back to what she had to do the following day. A day full of scheduling no doubt. Scheduling and rescheduling owing to the amount of staff that seemed to find it fine to call in sick at the very last minute, leaving her to juggle every call and appointment, trying to make sure no one was left out. It was an absolute headache, and yet another reminder that she was in the wrong job. She shouldn’t have been so eager to take this one when it was offered, knowing that she was more than overqualified for it. Yet, as she knew well, she needed the work. So what was she to do. Now she had the creeping, dreaded feeling that she was going to be stuck there. She knew it. She had always thought herself too subservient, and hated herself for it. Now she would be trapped in an understaffed, underfunded position out of some kind of mis-guided loyalty. No, that was a bit harsh. It wasn’t misguided, and her loyalty wasn’t to the rest of the staff that couldn’t care less if their shift got covered or not. Her loyalty was to those poor elderly and vulnerable people. Those souls who waited a whole week sometimes just for someone to look in on them, or to take them out for a few hours. That’s why she did it, and that’s why she wouldn’t be leaving any time soon, so long as her sanity could cope that was.

“Don’t you think?” He looked expectantly at her. What was he asking?

“Sorry,” she said, trying to smile her most disarming smile. “I was miles away. What were you saying?”

“I said,” he squeezed her leg again, “that she must have herself confused.”

“About wh -“

“Because it was impossible for you to have been there every day at five o’clock. Simply impossible. You were at work.”

“That’s right,” Sophie said, her hear quickening. “She’s mistaken.”

“I’m afraid I was a bit cheeky,” he continued, smiling wider, “I asked her to show me her booking in screen. I actually got her to turn it around and show me the last two weeks. How awful is that? Yet it’s truly amazing what a little bit of eye contact and a smile can get you, isn’t that right. Sweetheart.”

She went to take another sip of tea and he suddenly took his hand off her leg, grabbing a firm hold of her wrist. The remains of the tea slopped over her dressing gown. She tried to pull away yet he yanked her arm towards him, forcing her closer. The almost empty mug fell to the ground, hitting the edge of the coffee table and unloading the rest of it’s contents on to her carpet. The carpet had been bought and fitted not long after moving in, replacing the varnished floorboards with something a little more luxurious. She had always taken great care never to drop any food or liquid on to it. It was the colour of sandstone, and she was always worried it would stain easily. Right then, the carpet was the last thing on her mind. 

“Don’t,” he snarled at her, “ever lie to me again.”

“I-I’m sorry.” It was all she could think of to say. 

His face had completely transformed. Gone were the relatively handsome features, the light almost boyish slant to his face. His eyes were narrower. Black robes in cut slits. His lips thin and drawn back over his gums, teeth exposed. He said nothing more, and her small flat filled up with silence. He was crushing her wrist. 

“Please,” she added pleadingly, “that hurts.”

Suddenly he was back again. His face back to how it always was. Those easy good looks. That easy smile, this time going all the way to his eyes. His hand released her wrist and dropped back to her leg, and she immediately brought it down beside her, yet didn’t so much as touch it, let alone rub it. He would not get the satisfaction of knowing how much he had hurt her. He stood without so much as another word, taking one long gulp of his coffee to drain the mug and placing it almost courteously back on to the coaster. She began to rise with him and he placed a hand on her shoulder, gently but firmly pushing her back down. 

“Don’t worry,” he smiled, “I’ll see myself out. I’ll leave you to… clear up.” He walked to the door of the living room and turned. “But, I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? The hospice? Your usual time?”

She nodded. Saying nothing. 

He nodded in return. “Good. See you tomorrow. Get a good rest. You look tired.”

With that, he was gone, the door shutting softly behind him. Feet on the stairs. She waited unmoving until the sound of his engine receded into the distance. Only then did she rub at her wrist. It would bruise. She stood and picked up the cups. His from the table, hers from the floor. She cleaned up, taking extra time to rub at the stain, making sure that she got all of it.



The next morning it was all Sophie could do to get dressed in between bouts of nausea. She hadn’t had it this bad before, and briefly contemplated the fact that it could be related to the trauma of the night before. She had risen early, attempting to eat the best part of a bowl of muesli before having to move at speed to the bathroom and disgorge the new contents of her stomach into the bowl. She sat there for some time, dry heaving, until her stomach and throat hurt. Flushing the toilet, she remained in the bathroom until the last waves had left her, having to move closet to the toilet one or two times more when she felt it coming back. Finally she gave in, and just rested her head on the plastic seat rim, waiting until she would need to move her face over the water once more. 

It wasn’t yet fully light, and wouldn’t be for another hour or so, and she was in no rush. She had only got up because she had began to feel sick in the first place, not because she had anything pressing to do at six o’clock in the morning. Sitting there, slumped against the seat, she thought back to only a few years ago, when this had been a regular occurence. She had sworn to herself the last time it happened that that would be the final time. No more. Yet this was different. This was for a different reason entirely. Surely therefore it was no compatible with what had occurred before? This was - for want of a better way to describe it - happy sickness. The reason that she was feeling this way was because she had a new life growing inside her. Currently so small she would be able to cup it in one hand. Yet soon it would not be. Soon it would be big enough so show as an ever increasing bulge in her belly. Then she would not be able to hide it. Then she would need to be more open, because there would be questions. 

Not yet. For now this was her secret, and hers alone. 

Eventually dressing, Sophie put on some toast and made herself a third cup of tea that morning. Technically it was only her second as she had been unable to drink the first. She had brewed it as normal, yet when she had brought the cup up to her lips, her hand had begun to shake, and so eventually she had thrown the contents into the sink. It was only after her prolonged sojourn into the bathroom that she had made another cup, throwing three spoonfuls of sugar into it this time and only then being able to drink it. She had followed that one with this third, not putting as much sugar in and sipping it slowly, as she opened her tablet and went through the list of tasks that she had to get through that day. She noticed the first item on the list was the rota, something that she knows was going to take most of the morning and the best part of the afternoon. She sighed and decided it could wait another hour until she was ready. Thankfully, this wasn’t one of her days that she was expected into the office. She still liked to wear her work attire, to get her in the right frame of mind for what she would have to do, but at least she didn’t need to put on any make-up, or hide the burst blood vessels around her eyes.

Going back into the bathroom, she switched the overhead light on - wincing as it also put on the extractor fan that had developed quite the annoying squeak - and started at herself in the mirror. 

She didn’t think she was much to look at, standing all of five foot four and barely reaching up to the mirror in the frost place (she could rehang it lower down but that would in turn reveal the mess she had made of the wall behind when she had hung it in the first place, which she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at). Large light brown eyes under a near constant frown. A spatter of freckles across her small nose, almost like an after thought. Her full lips where almost the only feature that she didn’t dislike, and preferred to make the most of them with a striking colour of lipstick or gloss. She was drawn back to those eyes again, and stared directly into them. She brought her face closer to the mirror and really looked. There. Around the rises like dying starts where dozens of tiny red blotches. Around her actual eyes as well, on the skin, the same red blotches. It could be hidden bye make-up, but not the vessels that had burst in her actual eyes. Again though, that was fine, because she didn’t have to go out. 

Except she did. Just because she didn’t have to go to work, she still had to go to the hospice later. He had specifically said that he would see her there. 

She looked away from the mirror, not able to view herself any more, suddenly feeling disgusted with herself. 

Undressing, she put the shower on for the second time that morning, making sure I was hot enough to nearly scald her skin before putting her self underneath the hot spray. It was hot enough to make her gasp, but she didn’t get out, and instead started under until her skin took on an angry red hue. The hotter the water was, the more she felt cleansed, as though it was burning away malignancy from both body and mind. 

She found herself at her desk a short while after, a towel around her head and her older dressing gown on. She decided that getting dressed again could wait, suddenly finding herself not in the urge to put herself in that working frame of mind. She would do her job regardless of what she wore that day, and was suddenly welcome for the distraction.

Mid afternoon and her mobile phone rang on her desk. She started back slightly, not realising how lost she had been in her work. Juggling roots and managing to fill nearly every vacant slot that she had with one of the care assistants. She had actually managed to make it work, yet she didn’t really know how. Managing to completely lose herself in it had helped, and after main a few phonemails, she had managed to secure enough from the back-up and on-call pool to make sure the none of the calls went unattended to . It looked as though she had managed to secure promises of cover for a large portion of the rest of the week as well. 

“Hello?” She picked up the phone before it reachd it’s fourth ring. 

It as the hospice. Her first thoughts were that something terrible had occurred. 

That’s it, the moment has arrived, she thought, and found - to her surprised disgust - that the thought didn’taffect her quite like she thought it would. Was it right that the first thing the went through her mind was at last? A therapist would have a field day with her. That much was obvious. 

Yet it wasn’t it. Not yet at least. Apparently her mother hadn’t had a good night, and spent most of it quite lucid and distressed. She had been drifting in and out of sleep, and talking to a lot of people that hand’t been there. 

“Is this something knew for for her? Sophie had asked. 

“Not really, no. Not for her and not for those in her condition in general.” The head nurse had responded. Her voice was a combination of authoritarian and empathic, and one that Sophie presumed was found comforting and reassuring by both patients and relatives alike. “Nonetheless, we don’t feel as though she would be up for her usual visitors this evening.”

That wave of relief again, washing over her. She hadn’t been aware of how much trepidation had been building up in her until she had been told that she wasn’t able to attend. A thought passed over her mind like the shadow from a cloud on an other wise clear day. 

“Have you, called anyone else?”

“Not yet, would you like to call him yourself? Mr Ma -“

“No. Not thank you.” She replied, perhaps a little too hurriedly. “I mean, sorry, I really should be getting back to work. Do you mind?”

If the nurse was bothered by her request, she didn’t let it show. “Of course not, I have his number here. I’ll give him a quick call and explain as I have you.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” Sophie replied before thanking the nurse again for the call and hanging up.

She sat at her desk a moment longer and decided to go and get dressed after all. She decided that she had done enough work, and it was perhaps time that she took in some air. There was a new coffee shop opened up nearby, only being about fifteen minutes walk away, and it would do her good to have a change of scene. 

The day had turned out to be typically grey and overcast, the low dark clouds constantly threatening rain that never amounted to more than a drizzle. She wore her waterproof just to be on the safe side and headed from where her flat was towards the river. The Ness wound it’s way lazily through the city centre, and was only five minutes from her front door. The banks had recently been re-worked with greater flood defences, resulting in walls that were four feet high and nearly four feet thick. There had been a flood only a few years back, one of the reasons the church in which she lived had stopped being a church and was now a converted accommodation block. The basement and most of the nave had ended up flooded, with pew reduced to rafts that began to rot even after being dried out. The countless hymn books and bibles the were stored underneath the seats were destroyed, and the pulpit had ended up coming away from the stone pillar on to which out had been affixed, due to the ferociousness of then water. The water had gotten into everything, and the floorboards had been raised, with everything being dried out whilst fundraisers were held over the subsequent months for the repairs. There hadn’t been enough, nowhere near enough. It turned out that the majority of people just didn’t care enough about one of the few remaining places of worship in the city to help get it fixed up and useable again. The church itself dated back to the early 1800s, back when the city had been nothing more than a few rows of houses and a barracks that lined the riverside. Religion in all it’s tradition forms was fast becoming a thing that the older generation clung to, but the newer generations did not care for.

They had new gods now, with no need for the old ones.

Technology was worshipped more than anything else, and science and reason had explained and debunked everything that could be attributed even marginally to a supernatural occurence. There were no great mysteries left in the world, or beyond it. The human race had even begun to colonise other planets, sending out it’s first team of international volunteers only back in the summer. Sophie recalled seeing their beaming faces on every news outlet as they boarded their craft that looked like a child had designed and put it together. Some of them had been her age and even younger. She couldn’t believe being able to do something like that, but then again, the world was full of all kinds of people. They would be the first of hundreds sent to Mars. Their accommodation was currently under construction by a fleet of remotely controlled drones, and it looked like a whole load of white lego. It was a one way mission apparently. There was not way to get them back from the surface and home to earth. Each of them was going out to die on a barren rock. Sophie wondered if any of them believed in a god. IF there was a god, then there’s no way that this was all part of his plan. There was simply no reason for it. 

“He works in mysterious ways”, the old minister of the former church had said when asked about how he felt about the imminent closure in the papers. “If it is his will for our place of worship to now be utilised for another, but equally vital means, then so be it. It is not up to you or I to question it.”

God’s will. There was a cop-out if ever there was one. God’s will for a church to be flooded due to inadequate flood defences? Just as it was, presumably, God’s will for her mother to be riddled with cancer. God’s will for a pheasant to wander out in front of a landcover discovery doing sixty on a country road. God’s will. God’s plan. 

She arrived at the coffee shop, but instead of going inside, she took one look through the class panelled door and saw that it was nearly full. Quite a few school uniforms present told her that she had timed that terribly, and that the schools must be out. She didn’t quite fancy sharing her table with anyone else, and so decided to continue along the riverbank. 

The path that ran along wide the river was quiet save for the occasional dog walker, who would smile and nod at Sophie as she passed, her returning the gesture. The more she walked, the better she felt, allowing the fresh air to fill her lungs and mind, blowing away the claustrophobic thoughts that had threatened to fill her mind since she woke up that morning. She thought of Mike for the first time that day, and resolved to call him when she got home. She would see if he was free to come over to hers that weekend. She thought that perhaps then it would be a good time to tell him of her secret. She didn’t know how he would take it. They hadn’t been together all that long as a couple, but had known each other since school. They had never lost touch, even after Sophie moved away, and would text and email each other regularly. It was only after she moved back home and saw him again properly for the first time in years, that she realised how she felt. He hadn’t changed much, but then it wasn’t as though decades had passed. He had been the more confident of the two of them, an it had bene him that had asked her if she would like to go with him to see a film at the weekend. She hadn’t thought anything of at first. It was hardly the first time they had seen a film together. Yet something in the way he had initially asked her hinted that this wasn’t to be as before. Something in his tone. It was as though he had been nervous. Nonetheless, she all but made him spell it out.

“Would you like to come?” 

“Yeah, sure,” she had replied. 

“No, I mean, as…well. Like, you and me.”

It hadn’t been the first time it had been just the two of them, so she didn’t quite know what he was getting at. They had other friends that they socialised with and went on trips to the cinema with, but the two of them was not uncommon, back when they had bene younger. 

“Sure, that’ll be good.” 

He had been on the phone, so his expression was unreadable, yet his voice was more urgent - if that was the right word.

“I mean, the two of us. Like, you know, a couple. Of people. A couple. But a couple.”

She had laughed then. She hadn’t meant to, it just sort of slipped out, as she finally cottoned on to what he was hinting at. 

“Michael John MacDonald, are you asking me if I would like to go on a date with you?”

“No, I mean, of course not but also, well…” he had begun to stammer. His earlier confidence fast failing. 

At the time, initially, she had ben a bit taken aback, and had been unsure where this had come from. There had been no prior signifiers. NO, that was a lie. When they had met for lunch a week or so before, there was definitely something different between them. Something small but undeniable, just there, hanging in the air. She had, however, chosen to if not completely ignore it, then to downplay it into something that was just two old friends catching up, sharing mutual yet completely platonic respect for one another. 

“I’d like that,” she had replied, putting him out of his misery as her heart had fluttered briefly in her chest. 

Things had moved quickly despite her initial reservations. She had already decided on her way to meet him that she would not push anything, but to see how things went. Her past experiences had been nothing but short and ineffective dalliances. Amounting to nothing more than a second date at best. She did not believe that she was best suited to dating or to finding a partner in general. There was too much of a shadow over her. That perpetual shadow, that one cloud on that clear day. So she would humour him, and go on that date of his. They would watch the film, grab something to eat and then just, see. She had also decided that it would be very difficult to see him in anything other than the same light that she had always viewed him. That silly boy that used to flick small pieces of paper at her from across the desk in primary school. That same boy that had once started her laughing so much at lunch time that her milkshake had come flooding out her nose. That same boy that had tried to show off his new BMX trick to her and fallen off his bike, landing hard on the kerb at the worst possible angle and having his arm in a cast for the next month. That same boy that had gotten her to sign said cast and she had - instead of writing her name  - drawn a diagram of how his trick had went as a constant reminder to not try it again lest he wanted other body parts in a cast as well. 

And it had been when she was thinking of those moments - all those small moments - as they sat side by side watching a terrible film in a half empty cinema, that had made her slide her hand into his before leaning over and kissing him gently on his cheek. 

A few months later and they had made love for the first time, but not her first time. She thought that it as out of the question. That there would be no way that she would be able to. If it wasn’t him, then she wouldn’t have. Yet he was perfect, and made it perfect. Despite the shadow that loomed over her, it was perfect, and he was as gentle and as perfect as he needed to be. A year later and here she was. Pregnant. Yet she hadn’t told him, even though it was certain. Even though she was eight weeks on ad the morning sickness was crippling her. She hadn’t told him. 

The path wasn’t paved any more, and had began to thin out. She kept walking, the dog walkers few and far between now. This part less well used. It still followed the river yet the bank rose up on her right hand side, and everything started to get a little bit more over grown. She was still enjoying the walk nonetheless, and continued on, despite the drops of rain - a step up from the drizzle - that made her wish she had worn a better jacket. The path rose along with the bank and eventually left the side of the river. She began to realise that she had never been at this particular section before, and wondered where it would come out. She was completely alone now, and the rain was heavier, although due to the path entering a wooded area she was staying dry for the time being. Another two hundred or do feet and she was above the river, still hearing it, but not seeing it as it followed a different trajectory. The woods were thicker here, darker. The light - meagre as it was - was diffused by the closely grown pine trees. The path was now littered with needles, and had become quite unstable underfoot in places. She made sure to take care with every step, acutely aware that it was no longer just her that she had to watch out for. 

The trees drew in closer the higher she climbed and she suddenly wished that she had worn better footwear alongside a better jacket, even though she was enjoying the walk. The fresh air was doing wonders for her head, bringing some much needed clarity to her thoughts. 

Darker still the woodland got, the silence thicker with every step, until she saw a lighter patch of ground ahead. The rain died down sufficiently so that she no longer heard it. A few more steps and she found herself emerging on another bank, the wooded dirt path joins a gravel one that ran perpendicular. She stepped on to it, and to her amazement she found herself on the bank of the canal. The light sound of a bell off to her right informed her to step back into the grass as a family of cyclists flew past her at speed, a muffled thank you from the father. She looked the way the had come and saw the bridge that spanned the water. One way would take her back into town and towards the river, the other way would take her south and west, far out the city and down the shores of Loch Ness. She would need to head back towards the bridge and go right. There was a good fifteen or twenty minutes walk involved before she would reach the river, and so she began, but not before standing and following the route of the cyclists with her eyes as they rounded a corner and disappeared out of sight. Something moved slightly within her. A feeling, however slight. Frowning, she walked towards the bridge, taking out her phone as she did so and found Mike’s name in her contacts list. She had an overwhelming urge to hear the sound of his voice. 

Chapter Four

 



Winnock was a small purpose built housing estate on the southern edge of Warrington, divided from the rest of the town by the cursed motorway that had taken Harry’s father. It was designed to be an ever decreasing spiral, with arms that from above made it appear like a galaxy in miniature. None of the houses in the estate were more than five years old and Winnock had been, as Harry’s father had told him once not long after they had moved there, essentially built as a commuter town. Six year old Harry had asked what a commuter town was, and did it have anything to do with the Russians? He had watched something on the television once about the Soviet Union and he was sure the word that had been repeated was commuter. That the Soviet Union was full of commuters. His dad had just laughed at that, rubbing a hand on Harry’s head til Harry laughed too. He had no idea why it was all so funny, but so long as his father was happy, he was happy. 

“The only thing Harry my boy, is that they did not not have the foresight to put so much as a shop in this here little Russian town, let alone a school, which is why you have to go for the one in Crown Temple.” 

The shop of course had arrived after, a small newsagents a few streets closer to the centre of the galaxy. The school was mooted, which Harry found out later, but had never got further than the planning stage. That meant that Crown Temple and the walk over the bridge it was. Harry didn’t mind though. Seven years there and the worst that had happened was that he had been ignored, which was no small thing, considering some of the catchment area for that school. Areas like Prohill where Archie Cameron and Davey G lived. Harry had never had much of an opinion about Prohill until he had over heard his mother and father talking one night when they thought he was asleep. Harry nearly had been, but not quite, and instead was hovering upon the threshold of unconsciousness, picking up words and sentences, some out of context, but others plain in their meaning. 

“I don’t see why we can’t just put him to a different school,” his mother was saying. 

His father said something low in reply - he could never hear his father’s voice properly when he was keeping it low. It seemed to drop even deeper, becoming inaudible most of the time. 

“Well, we can move then,” his mother had responded, her voice louder. His father had responded and she had continued, her voice lower. Harry guessed that he had said something to her that intimated that he might be able to hear, or at the least be awoken. “We can move then,” she hissed, still not much quieter than she had been before. “I hate him associating with those… tinks”. Harry was sure that’ what the last word had been, but it may have been something worse. 

He had drifted off to sleep not long after, yet had recalled all to well that brief snippet of conversation in the morning. When he had gone to school, he had eyes his classmates with newfound suspicion but it hadn’t taken him long to realise who his mother had been referring to . He had heard enough stories about Prohill to know.  Which was why he was glad to be flying under the radar of the likes of Archie and Davey. 

That had all changed after the brief dalliance in class that day of course. Harry never really understood why but he assumed that he had just finally drifted in to their firing line. He was the wounded animal flailing in the water, his blood merging with the water, and they were the sharks that had picked up his scent. All of a sudden, they were swimming directly towards him. 


It was early December when it really started to kick off. The beef between Archie, Davey and Harry. It was a Wednesday and the last hour at school. Harry had asked if he could use the toilet and although Mr Thyme had sighed and intimated that he should really be at the age where he could hold it until after school, he had let Harry go. He wasn’t in the habit of asking to go during class, which is why he had probably been allowed. He was a good pupil and although he wasn’t the brightest in the class, he was smart enough to keep his head down, work hard and do well enough in his classwork. Any parents evening in the past had his peers talk nervously about in the run up, about how they would get a bad report and their parents would give them hell. Harry had never worried, and he’d never had to worry. He knew that he never had a bad word said about him. One time back in primary three or four, his father had gone to the parents evening and tried to make a joke son coming home. Harry had asked him nervously what they’d said about him and his farther had given him a mock stern look, sucked his breath in through his teeth, and replied “nothing good son, nothing good,” before shaking his head in disapproval. Harry had turned in panic towards him mother so didn’t see his dad crack into a smile. Tears filled his eyes before he even knew what was happening. He recalled his mother giving his dad a reproachful look and comment.He turned back to his dad and saw his grin quickly fade when he reapplied he’d said something stupid. He’d underestimated the fact that Harry cared so much about school and what his parents thought of him that the mere notion of him getting anything other than a glowing report terrified him. 

Later that evening his father had sat on the end of his bed and apologised, which was a new thing completely to Harry. He’d never heard an apology coming from an adult - any adult - in his direction before. He felt that something had changed that night, that he had grown up a little more. Just a little, but enough to be viewed and, heck, valued differently. It meant ultimately that he fell asleep feeling good about himself, better in fact, than he had ever felt after parents evening, despite the tears earlier. 

As he had been making his way towards the door at the front of the classroom - the same one that Mr Soloman had entered via that day, the day he found out his father was dead - he had been lost in thought. Imagining that Mr Soloman was there again, and he would have to repeat the experience.

“Watch it Butler,” a voice hissed from beside him as he felt his foot collide with something solid that shifted with an audible groan.

He looked down as Archie was looking up at him. He’d walked into and subsequently kicked his desk. Only a little, and purely by accident, but that wouldn’t matter. He inhaled sharply, knowing already the ramifications of what he had done. Behind Archie sat a plump girl called Vicky that had only once ever spoken to Harry, and that was to tell him that his parents must be poor because they couldn’t afford to buy him a par of trousers that fitted him. That had been the previous year and it was because Harry’s mum had inadvertently shrunken Harry’s trousers in the wash the night before. She had offered to wash and iron his other pair but Harry insisted that he was okay with them as they were. That had been a mistake. Vicki was part of a elite sect of girls in the class that deemed themselves higher up the social and academic ladder than the likes of Harry. 

Archie scowled up at Harry and Vicky giggled behind him. Harry hated them both. 

“S-sorry,” Archie stammered as he went to move past the seated boy.

“No you ain’t,” he whispered, briefly grabbing a hold of Harry’s wrist and squeezing it hard.

“Are you going or not Master Butler?” Mr Thyme asked from behind bis desk, pausing the passage of the book he was reading aloud. “We haven’t got all day for this disruption.” 

Harry’s face burned red and Vicky giggled again, louder. Her friend Amy was beside her. Harry had known Amy since nursery school. They had gone to the same class and used to be close in the way that only young children can be. A friendship based on nothing else but pure unspoken affinity for each other. They even used to go to each other’s houses, as their mothers were friends woo. Harry and Amy would sit and watch films all afternoon together, play outside, play upstairs. They would play with Amy’s toys, and some days they would play with Harry’s toys. Looking at her now though, and she was a stranger. At some point their mothers had drifted apart, for reasons Harry would never understand. The visits were less frequent and even when they did happen, it was like going to a strangers house (or having one come to visit). The last few years, Amy hadn’t even acknowledged Harry’s existence. Just like everyone else. She smirked at Harry unkindly, and he found himself taking the few steps back to his desk and sitting down so hard that he hurt his tailbone. 

“Changed your mind?” Mr Thyme said, not unkindly. 

“Sorry sir, I guess I don’t need to go all of a sudden.”

“Because he’s already pissed himself,” Davey said from beside Archie. That earned a few laughs from those nearby, including Vicky and Amy. 

Mr Thyme either didn’t hear, or pretended not to hear. For the rest of the afternoon, Harry tried his damndest not to piss himself. If he did that, it was all over. That would be him, finished. He would never live it down and he would never be left alone again. 

He ended up drifting off into thought, taking himself back to a few weeks ago when he had been standing on the bridge, shuffling towards that painted star. He recalled how he had felt, the strange sensation on his skin, almost as though it was becoming too tight for his body. He recalled how he had begun to feel faint, and the other thing. The figure that had been approaching him. All a figment of his imagination no doubt but -

He had been looking out the window. Directly outside from the class window was the stretch of concrete used as the primary seven playground, but also where the main gates to the school were. White gates higher than a tall adult that remained locked during school hours. Beyond them was a busy road that was one of the main commuter routes between the suburbs of the town the damn motorway where Harry’s father had died. Beyond that was a row of houses. Thin redbrick five storey townhouses, with a thin line of trees obfuscating most of them. 

There. Under the tree. Between a red car and a white van that said NORTHERN SPARKIES in large foot high lettering along the side of it. There was also a plug that somebody had tried to make into some kind of mascot by turning two screws into eyes, the earth pin for the nose and well as, well, it just didn’t work. Yet it wasn’t the bad graphic design that had wrenched Harry from his thoughts, but the figure that was standing there. The black outline that was int he shadow of a tree between two vehicles. The strangest part wasn’t the fact it seems all to be bent out of shape - Harry put that down to an optical illusion caused by…something. It was the fact the figure also seemed to float over two feet above the ground. The fact that Harry could physically see the low stone wall that ran in front of the houses where the figure’s legs should have been proved in his mind that that wasn’t an illusion at any rate. 

Of course, there could possibly just not be a figure there at all, except there was. He was sure that there was, because he could feel it’s unseen eyes bore into him. He tried to concentrate on what Mr Thyme was reading in his distinctive monotone, but as soon as he turned from the window, he felt it again. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose and pricked, and he found himself absently rubbing at the skin just below his collar. 

The bell rang, and Harry nearly lost control of his bowels, managing to constrict his bladder at the last minute. He was sure that a little bit of pee had escaped, so although he was still bursting, he thought he better wait until the classroom emptied before he went to the toilet. Instead of rising, he made a show of putting his books back into his bag, making sure he dropped his pencil case on to the floor as he did so. Thankfully the entire contents spilled out on to the floor, so he didn’t even have to take his time gathering it all up. As he was doing so, one of his classmates - he didn’t look up so didn’t know who for definite, even though only Ronny Johnson was directly behind him and therefore must have been him - stood on two of his pencils. He heard the thin brittle wood crack and thought oh well, there goes two perfectly good pencils. There was nothing he could do. It’s not like he would be able to retaliate. Ronny was quite a mild mannered boy but he still had a malicious streak and had been known on more than one occasion to get into a fist fight with one or more of the other boys. Harry had no doubt that should he want to, Ronny could probably dislocate Harry’s jaw.

He waited until the classroom was empty and Mr Thyme was busy packing his own things away before he rushed out to the toilet, not noticing the figures standing at the far corner of the corridor that lead to the playground and the main gate. By the time he emerged they were gone.



It was nearly dark by the time he emerged from the school gate on to Byfield Road, taking a nervous look towards the NORTHERN SPARKIES van. The streetlights were on but the new white light ones the council had installed the previous summer were further spaced than the old orange ones, and the space between the van and the vehicle next to it was bathed in shadow. Harry stood on the opposite side of the road down the street and started back, trying to force his vision to accustom to that black space and see what (or who) was inside. He began to feel unseen eyes stare back at him, the feeling making him feel uncomfortable. He took a few steps back up towards the school gate, closer to that space. Stopping once he neared it. Something moved inside the shadow. Something furtive and small. A sudden shape darted out in front of him, a black cat. He laughed to himself, his nerves dissipating. 

I guess that explains the feeling of being watched. 

He stood there momentarily, suddenly debating on what direction to walk in. He should obviously go home, yet the thought of going back to an empty house and making his own dinner again didn’t appeal to him. The last few weeks he had seen his mother less and less, and she was becoming increasingly distant even when she was at home. She always seemed to be looking anywhere but at him when they spoke, with her answers to his questions vague and non committal. He had asked her recently when she would be working less and she had given a mumbled response that was either soon or not sure or something else. 

There was some money in his bag, part payment for an end of primary seven school trip that he was to go on in May. It was in a brown envelope. A thought crossed his mind. He could take a little bit out, go left towards the town centre and treat himself to a new CD. He knew it was wrong, he knew that the money was earmarked for something else, but he found himself feeling down after the incident in the classroom, no matter how minor. All it had done was remind him of the fact that he had no good friends. left. He could replace it with some money from his paper round that he had saved Ince he got home, then replace that later on. He might even go grab a burger afterwards, for the McDonalds was only a few feet from the music shop. 

This idea perked him up, and with no more thought, he put his headphones on, pressed play on his discman, and turned left.

Byfield Road continued on for three or four hundred meters before it joined Greenhall Road, another residential road with narrow brick built town houses. These ones weren’t in quite as good condition as Byfield Road, with a more of the front gardens in state of disrepair - those that weren’t in a state of outright neglect. Fences were broken, grass was running wild around stained and discoloured old children’s play equipment. One of the gardens had a swing that seemed to be rusted at a forty five degree angle and as he passed, Harry had strange feeling of deja vu, something that he couldn’t quite identify about it but was instantly familiar. He had never seen this particular swing in his life yet something about the whole scene gave him an almost nostalgic feeling, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. 

He was lost in his music as he walked, still absorbed in What’s The Story Morning Glory. He reckoned he could listen that that album for the rest of his life and never be bored. Once more the opening strummed chords of Wonderwall filled his ears and he found himself humming along, before he joined in with he vocals. If anyone at that point would have heard him sing, they would have been impressed by his pitch and lyrical memory. Something that he had inherited from his dad, who apparently played and sang in a lot of bands when he was younger. He had once let Harry hear some of the recordings he had done before Harry was born, taking a couple of 45’s down from the loft. Harry had pretended that he had loved it, of course he had. Yet in truth it wasn’t to his taste at all. He loved it regardless though, because of who it was he was listening to.  He began to recall the love he felt for his dad then, watching his expectant face as he played his nine year old son recordings he had made before he was even born. As Harry thought of that expression now, that expectancy. He reapplied, that his dad had genuinely wanted him to like it. To be impressed. Not for his won ego, but because his son’s opinion meant so much to him.

“Well? What do you think?” He had asked Harry after it the final song had finished. 

“Yeah, I like it,” Harry had replied, seeing a flicker of disappointment pass over his dad’s face, the expression momentarily clouding over. “I mean,” he added, “I love it”. The joy on his parents face had been unreal. 

“Really? I mean,” he said, taking the last 45 out of the record player and putting it gently into it’s unadorned white sleeve. The Cold Iron had been written on it in black marker pen that was still surprisingly dark given the years that had passed since it was written. “It’s not great, sound-wise. We couldn’t afford much in the way of the recording studio and the records were manufactured quite cheaply. We didn’t have a lot of money back then.” He grinned. “But you liked it?”

“Yea dad, loved it.”

He had lied, something that he had almost never done before to either of his parents, but he thought that at that instance, if there was such a thing as a good lie. Then that was it. 

He reached a junction and stopped, making sure that there was no traffic coming before he walked diagonally across Wayfarer Street, that would eventually turn from lines of more houses into a few sporadic shops. Then all he had to do was follow it until it joined Norburgh Road and he would be at his destination. If he had taken Wayfarer in the other direction, then he would have ended up in the heart of Prohill, which was a way he didn’t wish to go. Ever. His mother’s hissed word rose inside his head again, and he forced it back down. 

Tinks.

Harry himself had never before even had that word in his vocabulary, preferring not to think of more or less affluent areas than his own, and the families that lived in them. Ever since that night though, he had not been able to get it out his head and now, quite against his will, he found himself putting the inhabitants of Prohill, under that one word umbrella, as horrible as it was. 

It’s not my word, not my term, he would tell himself, excusing it. Yet there was no excuse, not really. Even at a young age he understood how harmful stereotypes were transmitted from one generation to the next. 

It was fully dark now, and the traffic on the road was starting to increase slightly as the rush hour began. Commuters making their way home on an uneventful week night. Harry found himself staring absently at the cars as they passed. Wondering as to their occupants. Every so often a car’s interior would be lit up by a vehicle passing by on the other side of the road and Harry would see that there was one person behind the wheel. A worker returning home from a day at the office or whoever they worked. He thought of his father on the way hime from work. A journey he would never make again. He wondered - and not for the first time - what went through his dad’s head on his return to the house. Was he looking forward to seeing Harry? Looking forward to hearing about the trials and tribulations from that day’s school? Perhaps he thought about Harry’s mum instead, or how his own day had been. Perhaps he thought about what was on television that night, or even what he had done at work that day and what he was going to do the following day.

Harry then thought about what his dad would be thinking about in the morning, on his way to work. Then he wondered what his dad had been thinking about just before he died. Then what he was thinking as he died, or had it been too quick for that. He wondered if his whole life had flashed before his eyes, as that’s what they say happens, even if he had no idea who they were. Actually, come to think of it, he reckoned they could go to hell. Because they had no right to speculate on what his dad had thought about as he was crushed under the huge wheel of the articulated lorry. 

He resolved to stop thinking about any of that, as it was making him sad, and so instead looked up into the distance. He could see where Norburgh Road began and -

Is he waiving at me?

There was a figure far ahead, nothing more than a black outline. Another sense of deja vu washed over Harry, yet again he could find nothing familiar in this moment. He stopped, putting his CD player volume down lower, and was now more tuned into his environment than the music. There was a newsagents further ahead, the first of the small row of shops that indicated that he was approaching the centre of town. The light from the small shop spilled out on to the pavement, bathing it in a soft glow that was nothing more than a sliver from where Harry stood. It was enough to cast the figure in sharp relief, for it was within this faint soft light that it stood. It’s arms were above it’s head and it was moving them from side to side, trying to get attention from whom, Harry did not know. He presumed at first that the figure was waiving at the stream of traffic, perhaps it had recognised a car, or - and this could very well be the case - that it was attempting to flag down a vehicle so it could get a lift somewhere. Yet the more he thought about that, the less it made sense. The figure was waiving towards Harry, which meant that not only was it facing the wrong direction to pick up traffic that was travelling on the other side of the road, if anyone did stop, then they would be going in the wrong direction. And it would be the wrong direction. Ten minutes from here and you would be in the centre of town. There as a rail station and bus station, the combination of both taking you anywhere in the country. 

It’s that thing again, Harry thought to himself. It’s that thing you saw between the van and the car. The thing in the dark. 

His legs didn’t want to go any further and found that he couldn’t find it in himself to start walking again. All previous good cheers had gone from him. It was such a good idea, and had initially made him very happy, just the thought of what he was about to do. Yet now he just wanted to go home. 

The empty house, and it’s probably going to be waiting for you there.

The figure kept waiving, it’s arms slowly moving over it’s head. A sudden roar of an articulated vehicle went past Harry, causing him to step back from the kerb in alarm. He hadn’t even been aware of how close to the road he had been, and felt the rush of wind as it passed. When he looked back towards where the figure was, he saw that it had been replaced by two smaller figures. At first the notion ran took hold that the figure had split itself in two, some kind of shadow mitosis. But the strange feeling of deja vu and otherworldliness he had previous felt had vanished, even though there was something that made it difficult for him to relax his muscles. He shrugged, and continued walking towards Norburgh Road, towards the two figures walking towards him. 

He could hear them before he could make out who they were, yet there was no mistaking those voices. He knew them well enough. He groaned to himself. Not here, not now, he thought. He really wished he had just decided to go home after school. This whole experience was his karma for borrowing the money to buy something for himself. He anxiously glanced around, wondering if there was anyway at all he could duck out of sight, or cross the road without being spotted. He was still in front of the rows of houses and all there was beside him was a low wall and the occasional waist high gate. Unless he actively entered one fo the gardens and crouched down behind the wall, he would never escape unseen that way. Knowing his luck, he would either be seen by the pair approaching him, or by the occupants of the house, or both. None of those scenarios had a good outcome for him. So there was no hope that way. The constant stream of traffic informed him there was no hope that way either. He decided the best thing to do was keep walking, keep his head down and hope that they were too busy wrestling a bottle of juice from one another (or whatever it was they were doing) to notice him. 

He was wrong.

Harry walked as close to the kerb as he risked as Archie and Davey pushed each other against the wall on the far side of the pavement. It was thankfully wider there than previously and for a brief moment, he thought he may actually go unnoticed as he passed them by. Too afraid to keep playing his music he reached into his overrides jacket pocket where he had slid the CD player, and paused it, keeping his headphones on so as to keep up the appearance of listening. He hoped the fact he had his headphones on would deter the other boys from shouting anything towards him, yet by having no value he hoped then to be aware if either of them attempted to come up behind him after he passed. Quickening his pace, he drew closer to the small shop that they had left. Only a few paces away. He decided to nip[ inside once he drew level and wait until they had gone further away. He didn’t know exactly what had brought them in this direction instead of taking the other way to Prohill, but he decided that it was irrelevant. They were here, and so was he. 

Nearly there. 

“What you listening to?” Davey was staring at him, nudging Archie who for a moment was still too preoccupied keeping the bottle of juice away from the other boy. “I said, what you listening to?” He shouted the repetition, obviously assuming that Harry had his music turned up. 

“Prick can’t hear you,” Archie added, rowing the bottle from hand to hand. 

Keep your head down, you’re nearly there, Harry said to himself as he walked. The shop was tantalisingly close. He had passed both boys but could still see them out the corner of his eye. They had begin to walk after him, drawing closer. He quickened his pace again, trying to ensure that it didn’t look as though he was quickening his pace. It would be ten times worse if the boys actually thought that he was trying to actively escape them. 

They drew level on the far side of the pavement. Harry could still see Archie rolling the half full bottle of juice between his hands. He was so close now, but he would actually have to cross right in front of the boys to enter the shop, and he became convinced that one of them would grab hold of him before he could enter. The light from inside was so appealing. He was level with the first large glass window, festooned with posters offering discounts of fizzy drinks (presumably the same fizzy drink that they boys had been arguing over), chocolate bars and a myriad of other items. He could see between the posters that the shop was otherwise empty, and could see right down the aisle to the back , where the chiller cabinets were. He could see the figure standing there, it’s arms waving about it’s head. The light was illuminating it clearly, and he was much closer. He inhaled so sharply and unconsciously walked right in front of Archie and Davey before he even knew what he was doing. 

“Dad?” The word left his lips before he had a chance to stop it. Nothing more than a whisper. 

“What did you call me?”

A hand tried to grab hold of his collar and Harry ducked away instinctively, only as the boys were now between him and the shop, he had rot duck towards the road. Despite the very real and present threat, he found himself looking past the two figures that glowered menacingly at him, straining to see inside the shop. He took a step towards the entrance and that’s when the bottle came spinning through the air towards him. 

His reactions saved him. He ducked, once more relying on his instincts. The speed at which the bottle arced through the air was frightening, and he was quite sure when thinking about it afterwards that if it had made contact with his head at that speed, being half full, that it would have hurt. Quite a lot in fact. 

The trouble, was that because it had missed him, it continued it’s trajectory towards the busy road behind him, colliding with the passenger side door of an old Volkswagen hatchback. The road was even busier now, and subsequently the car had come to a halt just behind where Harry was standing. There was a loud and very audible thunk as it collided dully with the door. Harry heard it and instinctively glanced towards Archie and Davey, whose mouths dropped open in such an identical simultaneous fashion that it would have been comical under different circumstances. The sound of a car door opening behind Harry caused both boys to break into a run and in no time at all they had covered the distance back to the junction with Greenhall Road, running straight on towards Prohill. 

Harry was rooted to the spot, turning round to face the irate driver of the volkwagen, a woman in her late thirties or early forties rising from the driver side and marching around to the pavement. 

What followed was the shop owner emerging from the shop and explaining to the woman that he had - much to Harry’s relief - seen the whole incident, and ensured that Harry was absolved of any blame for the damage to the side of her car. Even so, he remained until the police were called and was required to give a statement. He did briefly contemplate giving the names of the other two boys, identifying them, yet he reasoned that his life wouldn’t be worth living afterwards. If he wasn’t marked yet, then he definitely would be after “grassing”.

In the end, he settled on saying that it had been a random attack, and he’d never seen the other boys before. When it was mentioned that they wore the same uniforms for Crown Temple as he did, he simply shrugged and replied that he did not know or speak to a lot of his year. That at least, was the truth. If they wanted to identify Archie and Davey, they would have to do it without his help. 

By the time he returned home later that evening, empty handed, his mother was in, eating from a plastic carton that had originally contained a microwavable lasagna. She looked up, startled, seeing him properly for the first time in what felt like forever. In a strange way, hew as glad of that, at least. 

“Where were you?” She asked, her voice flat. She wasn’t able to even sound concerned. 

“Out, just fancied a walk after school,’ he replied, heading up to his room. She nodded, and went back to the remains of her lasagne. 

By that evening, Harry had forgotten all about the waving figure. Until a few weeks later, when he would see it again. 

Chapter Five

  “Name?” The woman was about fifty and of the most officious sort. Bobbed hair cut bluntly and in the most unimaginative way possible. Sa...