English2014 by Paul Maddern

ENGL

2014

Poetry, Prose and Drama from Students in the School of English, University of Leeds 1

CONTENTS page

Kevin Gregorio

I Could Tell Her

Helen Keelan

Letters from a V.A.D.

Samantha Gooch

Our Glorious Territorials

They Scorned Death in Gallipoli

from The Artist‘s Daughter James Smith

View from the Bones

Albatross Still Grace Wong

from The Baptist Hospital Medical Report

Good Morning Sun Snapshot Church on Good Friday Gerard Crefin

from Lumpen Roy

Jennifer Pritchard

from Bad Faith

William Faulks

from Banega

Brook Driver

from Tough Listening

John Barry

Tear-sipping

Santorini The Deer I Didn‘t See Haiku Joe Evans

from Phastasmagoria

Jodie Chun

from Clara

Adam Button

Ridgeway Park

78 [Contributor‘s Notes

86]

Leaf â&#x20AC;&#x201D;for J.O. and L.O.

the leaf that now lies being made in its shell of scale, the hush of things unseen inside, the heartbeat of dead wood. the slow through-flow that feeds a form curled under, hour by hour the thick reissuing starlike shapes of cells and pores and water-rods which builds up, which becomes a pressure, a gradual fleshing out of a longing for light, a small hand unfolding, feeling about. into that hand the entire object of the self being coldly placed, the provisional, the inexplicable I in mid-air, meeting the wind and dancing â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Alice Oswald (from Woods, etc. Faber, 2005)

With thanks to Sarah Prescott, Brotherton Special Collections, University of Leeds, and to all of the students in ENGL32660 who, during my past three years with the School of English, have surprised, delighted and challenged me. Thanks, also, to Professor John Whale, Head of School, for his continual support â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but particularly over this past semester. Paul Maddern

—Kevin Gregorio— I Could Tell Her I could tell her that he lived a long life. I could tell her that he blessed every other life he came across. I could even tell her that I was blessed to know him for as long as I did. I could tell her that he was wise beyond his nineteen years—that he was an upright man who showed every other man how God wanted them to live and act. I could remind her that he died serving his country, valiantly representing the Fourth Battalion, South Wales. I won‘t remind her that it was me – that I put her son‘s name on that list a year earlier. I could tell her that her son died an officer. I could tell her that her only son was fearless. I could tell her all of these things but that‘s not what she wants to hear. I can‘t imagine what a woman in her position would want to hear; that is to say, before she told me what she wanted. It‘s hard enough to tell his mother that he died. I could avoid her question, evading her demand. I could be vague. I could describe him as a soldier, as an officer, as a man. I could tell her everything she didn‘t want to hear. I could draw a map and show her where we were that night. I could even show her where he fell— but not how— certainly not how he fell. I could do everything but that. I couldn‘t tell her that we were outnumbered, flanked by snipers on the hill to the west. I couldn‘t tell her that one of those snipers dialled in on her son, one hundred yards away; that he fell from the first shot like a ton of bricks, stumbling face-first into the hot sand. I couldn‘t tell her that we dragged her screaming son back into the trench from which we came, from which he wrote to her. Then he pulled himself back to his feet. He returned to his charge and drew his pistol firing wildly twice in the direction of the hill. We followed him. He looked back at us and was struck once more, in a vital spot, in the lower abdomen. He fell again as we ran to his position and dug ourselves in. Blood bubbled from his mouth, hot blood, the kind of blood you only see when a man is dying. He fired two more shots and struck a Turk by chance. 6

He begged us to stitch him. We did our best. That is to say we did our best to convince him that it was of no use. I could tell her that her son died on Chocolate Hill on the 11th of August 1915, but not how. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t tell her how.1

LIDDLE/WW1/GALL/00: Includes 19 letters from serving men and NCOs referring to death of Arthur Addams-Williams, who was educated at Winchester and Marlborough. He enlisted 1914, joining the Public Schools' Brigade at Epsom. He received a Commission in October into the 4th Battalion, South Wales Borderers and embarked for Dardanelles on 29 Jun 1915. He landed at Suvla 12 Jul 1915 and was leading No 1 A Company when killed at Chocolate Hill 11 Aug 1915. See: Liddle Collection: Brotherton Library Special Collections, University of Leeds: REF. LIDDLE/WW1/GALL/00.

—Helen Keelan— from ‗Letters from a V.A. D.‘ [Based on research into the life of Constable Edith Biggs, who served with the Voluntary Aid Detachment. See Liddle Collection, Brotherton Special Collections, University of Leeds, Ref. LIDDLE/WW1/WO/01]

No. 58 Scottish General Hospital St Omer, France Friday, 14th September 1917 My Dear Family, Sorry I have been so slack with my writing – the days are so busy here. There are always jobs to be done and the fighting is getting worse every day. About a fortnight ago we experienced the first air attack on St Omer but we have had worse since, especially at the bombing of the sentinel outside the hospital entrance last week. Do not concern yourselves however. We are in safe hands. They have evacuated us from our dormitories to the billets in town, where we are sleeping on the ground. But it hardly matters. I am so exhausted I think I could sleep upon a bed of nails! The day before last, Germany‘s finest fighter pilot was brought down by the French! He swooped down preparing to bomb some Canadians working in the street and one of the officers sent a bullet through his shoulder. He was the only flier to penetrate the barrage of French fire, and it was he who plagued us with air raids over and over that dreadful day. I am trying to keep my spirits up but I have had the most miserable time! One of those black days where everything goes rotten. But I try to remain cheery for the boys‘ sakes. I botched up one poor chap‘s dressing and managed to smash three medical glasses. I do so detest making mistakes as it wrangles my nerves so. Jones, one of the Black boys, died suddenly on my shift. He went peacefully, with a calm acceptance. I flew round the ward making the beds and got all of the patients washed before I clocked off for the afternoon and got myself dolled up. I was meant to be meeting Charles Lester. (Remember the handsome soldier from Oxford, who I met at the theatre in town?) I wondered if our clock was fast and waited until past seven when I had to go in for last supper, but he never showed. I am sorry to say he is like all the 8

other philandering soldiers, or perhaps he has gone up the line. I was rather miffed – and maddened at myself for feeling so – but I did not think he was that kind. Anyhow!! To cap it off, the air raid sirens went as were about to have supper, and I got half of my goulash down my apron trying to eat it in the pitch black. A ghastly day by all accounts! Tomorrow is a clean slate, as you say, Mother. Reports say we are advancing through the German front. Have you heard as much? Pray it be true… Love to you all, and extra hugs for Georgie. Edith. P.S. Thank you for the photographs! They are treasures. Will write again soon. No. 24 General Hospital Etaples, France Tuesday, 30th October 1917 My Darling Family, And how is life using you all? Well, I hope. You don‘t write to me as often as I could wish, that is all I have to complain of!! Well, that and the news that they mean to invalid me to London, which, judging by your letter, I expect you will receive with a gladdened heart. I assure you that I am doing quite fine, and express the hope that your next letter will not be so melodramatic. The doctors simply say it will take time for me to recover from the shock of it all. It‘s just my luck that I have gotten bronchitis too! I suppose this is the best time for it – better to get it all out of my system at once, while I am here being fussed over. And it will be nice to return to England; if only to see your darling faces. They are sending me to Vincent Square Hospital I think. For ―full recovery from shock‖. Oh pray it be quick quick quick, and I will regain my place here. I have already written the Matron in Chief, begging to be permitted to return to France for active service the moment I am passed fit. I understand your concern, as my last letter was rather vague, but you see, what happened at St Omer is all a bit of a blank. All I have are flashes of memory from that terrible day – and those which followed. We were off duty on September 30th (the day of the attack) and the Ward Sergeant had arrived to tell us to flee and take shelter in a cave near the pleasure gardens. 9

The first picture I have is of us running, panic-stricken, through the woods; a flurry of white aprons snagging as shrapnel rained all around us. The second picture is of the white faces of the Glasgow VADs as they emerged from the mortuary, having said goodbye to one of their own. The third picture is of a bright, blustery day in October, as we huddled together in the cemetery, on the day of the funeral. We lost an awful lot of patients, as well as seven of the sisters and VADs who were on duty that fateful night. I struggled to take it in. One of the VADs was a friend of mine, Paddy McGilchrist. We had been working the wards together before she started night shifts. Her poor mother. After the funeral, a rehabilitation plan was put in place at St Omer. Our surviving patients were moved to new hospitals and injured German soldiers came to take their place. Most of the nurses left in dribs and drabs to posts farther along the Western Front, which is how, as you know, I came to be here in Etaples. However, now the tables have turned and I am the one lying in bed, and it is so terribly dull! The Major comes to check on me every couple of days, to see how my nerves are. His concern is most unnecessary but I do indulge him, sitting up in bed in my most becoming boudoir cap. You‘ll die when you see it—deep crimson crepe de chine, which perfectly complements my chestnut locks, and trimmed with lace, sewn by my own hands and designed especially for the subjugation of the Major. And by Jove it did the buck! His whiskers twitch into a smile whenever he walks through the door! (I suspect he visits me rather more than any of the other VADs simpering with shell shock, perhaps I should stop letting him win at cards.) Yours, Edith. P.S. I‘ll write you as soon as I have the date they are sending me home. P.P.S. Please write every day please. No. 10 General Hospital Rouen, France Sunday, 10th November 1918 Dearest Family, What times we live in! I am sure you will have heard the news that the Kaiser has abdicated, and the Crown Prince too. And there is much ado this evening over a rumour that that the armistice has been signed! 10

Lloyd George and Clemenceau have left Berlin for a fact, and the Yanks‘ band was playing! There surely will be peace soon, what with Turkey giving in and Austria too. Germany is done for; overpowered and alone. Tomorrow we may know whether war is over, although it is not so thrilling as one might imagine. My mind can‘t help but stray to those who won‘t be here to celebrate with us. Oh, may it be over. I am so tired. But I had a cushy shift on Friday night and managed to clock up three marriage proposals. One of the boys even gave me a fetching China set from Beauvais! But the powers-that-be have arranged that I have finished night shifts, and I am now on days in B tent! So, I am back at my old duties, waxing burns. And this Matron is a slave driver! Sister Creevey, to her great indignation, was sent to camp and Bogtrot came to work in B with me. We had a fairly easy time of it in the morning, doing the usual work. I tended to a nasty burn and cleaned up, whilst Boggie did the others. The begonias we bought have begun to bloom and they are popping with colour. They really cheer up the ward. Then Sutherland and I were on after dinner and had just done the beds when in came a convoy of twenty! They have been battling since 9.30 am. ―Armistice‖ they say. I had a heartsick letter from poor Eric Johnston – he feels Laudel‘s death dreadfully. He was asking me if I had heard from Frank recently but I have not for some time, and I am becoming quite anxious now. I am frightened that he has been wounded, or worse. Is everybody killed that I know? I am fed to the teeth with it. And so to bed, Your own, Edith. No. 10 General Hospital Rouen, France Monday 11th November 1918 (ARMISTICE DAY!) Peace at Last! I cannot quite believe it. Indeed, I think nobody could. We started the day as if it were any other, doing our usual jobs. In fact, we had a convoy of 18 soldiers come in, and all the time everyone was waiting – waiting for the pistol that would ring out the news that war was over. It sounded at noon. To signal the Armistice, 21 shots boomed out at one minute intervals on Bonsecours Hill, where all these years they had laid into the Boche. As the 11

final blast died away, the ward was full of a queer stillness. The end of a war is as breathtaking as the start. Then one of the orderlies, a shy, gentle man, gave a wild whoop and did a cake-walk down the full length of the ward, and pandemonium broke out! I have just marched down to Matron and signed for my leave! I must go and prepare for the concert. Will write properly soon! With loads of love Edith! 49 Park Road, Chiswick London, England Saturday, 28th December 1918 Dear Matron, The minute I got my leave through, I fairly flew home without bidding my proper Goodbyes! I was so thrilled at the prospect of making it home for Christmas â&#x20AC;&#x201C; as I am sure you can imagine given the manner in which I harassed you for my leave during the weeks running up to it. Some of the girls came to see me off at the station. The carriage was packed with French soldiers and myself and another VAD had to sit on our boxes in the corridor for hours, all the way to Amiens, until they changed trains (those filthy French men). We had anticipated a rough crossing back to England but it surpassed itself! All the sisters were taken with sea sickness, while the Major and I stood up on the bridge and shared a nice little Scotch and got soaked! I had not told my Mother and Father that I was going to be back for Christmas, so imagine their surprise when I turned up on the doorstep on Christmas Eve. My mother nearly socked me and then set down on the step sobbing! She is one for theatrics â&#x20AC;&#x201C; you may say it runs in the family. Christmas day was heaven. Mother cooked a mighty feast. There was stuffed turkey and thick gravy and bread sauce, crispy roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings and all the rest of it, with plummy, plum pudding and brandy sauce for afters. Not to mention trifle and mince pies and slugs of champagne! Lord knows how she sourced it all. And I cannot remember the last time I felt so full to bursting! My family loved the presents I had brought back for them. (Oh, and Mother did rave so over the jam from that place you recommended on Rue 12

de Cambres.) And they spoiled me rotten. But my best gift was from Frank‘s mother. Frank was my dear friend, who we lost just last month, after the armistice was signed. She gave me his long silver chain, as a keepsake. After the meal we walked down to the river, and as I looked out across the water I felt so light, as though I could just fly – as though all the duties and pressures and fears of war were ebbing away. It‘s finally over, Matron. I bet you had a splendid party on the ward with the boys. I would love for you to send on a photograph, if you have any. I am guessing Sister Creevey will have been prancing around with her camera as usual. I am writing, mainly, to thank you for my experience at no. 10 General Hospital, Rouen. Whilst I struggled with my nerves, and work was always arduous, you treated us VADs with the utmost respect and encouragement, and I am truly grateful for that. When I requested my leave, you said I was not half bad for an amateur, and that I should consider going on to train to become a fully qualified nurse. Kind words, indeed. But for me, now that war is over, I feel it is fitting that I hang up my apron. My medical service was to my country and my countrymen. The work I have done, perhaps, is too bound up with all that has been lost. Yet the offerings of such pathetic gratitude from patients and relatives, and the immense human dignity of spirit in times of crisis, I will carry with me in whatever I do. Thank you for everything Matron, and best wishes for the future. I am off to town this Christmas night with my dear friends, to dance the soles out of our silk stockings! Yours Sincerely, Edith Oswald

— SAMANTHA GOOCH— Our Glorious Territorials -lines from Evening Standard, B H Pain file, The Liddle Collection

He is lying on the barbed wire looking more like a bunch of wet rags than a man, and every time he tries to tear himself away, crimson stains ooze through his soaked uniform. A comrade struggles to free him. He, too, is shot down. And there they lie together in the cruel mesh nodding feebly to one another. The machine-guns sieve their broken bodies and the rising sun crispens the blood and sea water in their khaki. Their eyes roll back on the Oriental sky to see a beautiful mirage of factory chimneys, chip shops and cobbled streets slushed with rain.

‗They scorned death in Gallipoli‘ -title from Evening Standard, B H Pain file, The Liddle Collection

For eight hours I have lain beneath the lip of the Turkish Trench, watching Private Potts roast to death under the cypress trees. He reminds me of a fish in Smithfield Market on the edge of suffocation. It, like Potts, longs for water. His lips, which have begun to blister, intermittently suckle the air. Every tortured, jerking movement of his body sends a new wave of blood from his left thigh: each leak of crimson turns a deep brown and crusts his uniform. A Turkish sniper caught Private Owens a few hours before, while he was trying to release himself from the heavy constraints of his backpack. I wonder why then they have not shot Potts too? Perhaps it‘s for sport.

Perhaps they don‘t want to waste a bullet. Most likely the snipers haven‘t noticed the desiccating Private amongst the debris of bodies. My tongue feels like sandpaper. I consider the canteen in Owens‘ pack, only metres away, and Andrews‘ – which is potentially easier to access. Andrews fell face down, leaving his pack exposed. Potts moans, and lifts his head with the difficultly of a baby whose head is still too big for its body. The muscles in his neck twitch under the strain, and his skull returns to the ground with a dull thud. It rolls, his burnt cheek joining his shoulder. His eyes settle on the shadow where I lie. His chest is now disturbingly still. He confirms he is still alive only by the occasional blink. I feel guilt for the luxury of shade. ‗Potts,‘ I implore inwardly. ‗Potts.‘ His eyes roll back. ‗Potts! Wait out the sun,‘ I command. The slim shadow of the cypress is a cruel sundial.

from ‗The Artist‘s Daughter ‗ Daisy 24, Libbi 52 Daisy was hammering Z-Clips into the frame she‘d varnished a couple of days ago. Even with years of practise this was still the bit of framing she hated most. Z-Clips were fiddly: the process of hammering them into the frame, then bending them up to allow space to lower in the canvas, then back down to hold it in place – it offered too many opportunities to hit her fingers with the hammer. After two near misses, she sat up on the studio floor. Libbi was sat in her director‘s chair, her easel lowered so she could paint from sitting. Daisy watched her mother‘s right hand dance deliberately around the canvas. Today Libbi was wearing her eye patch. Despite everything, Daisy still couldn‘t help but find it a tad funny. Libbi looked like a pirate who had decided to retire and take up the quiet life. ―I can see out of the right one you know,‖ said Libbi, not taking her eye off her work. Daisy abandoned framing and stood behind her mum. On the canvas was a vague representation of the two pomegranates balanced on the stool in front of her. 15

―Well?‖ asked Libbi. ―It‘s definitely abstract,‖ said Daisy. ―Of course it‘s fucking abstract,‖ said Libbi, scratching one of the drunken pomegranates with her palette knife. ―I‘m sure Picasso‘s best work was done one-eyed,‖ said Daisy. She looked at her mum‘s left hand, which lay motionless on her lap, and considered adding ‗and one-handed‘. ―Oh well,‖ Libbi sighed, ―I still think it‘s better than that Tracy Emin bullshit.‖ Daisy had heard this rant a thousand times before. ―A pair of dirty tights on a bed, and that‘s art,‖ said Libbi, scraping at the oil paint. Distracted, Daisy turned her attention to the semi-dry paint on the makeshift pallet that was once part of a Weetabix box. Selecting a weekold Burnt Sienna (or was it Indian Red?), Daisy pushed her finger through the crust, revealing fresh paint underneath. This gave her the same sense of satisfaction that she‘d had as a teenager when squeezing blackheads. ―This‘ll be worth a fortune once I‘m dead‖ said Libbi. Daisy wiped her Indian Red finger on her mum‘s jumper. ―I‘ll make millions,‖ said Daisy, resting her chin on top of Libbi‘s salt and pepper hair. ―The famed Drunken Pomegranate outsells the Mona Lisa, I can see it now.‖ ―I‘ve already found a place for my plaque you know,‖ said Libbi. ―Plaque?‖ ―Yes,‖ said Libbi, ―You know those blue ones that say ‗Shakespeare once lived here‘, or whatever. Well, I‘ve found my spot. When the boiler had all that work and the studio had to be knocked in then re-cemented, I made a hand print when it was drying.‖ Daisy searched her mum‘s eye and couldn‘t tell whether she was kidding or not. Instead of questioning, she helped Libbi remove her eye patch. Daisy moved the stool with pomegranates and easel out of the way and knelt in front of her mum. ―How many?‖ Daisy asked, holding up a finger. Libbi‘s left eye drooped lazily. ―About five,‖ said Libbi. They were quiet for a minute. ―Pass it,‖ said Daisy. Libbi passed her the eye patch.

Carefully, Daisy squeezed out some Powder Blue onto the pallet, and with a brush crudely painted an eye onto the black patch. She helped Libbi secure it into place. ―How does it look?‖ asked Libbi. Daisy looked at her mum and her mum looked back with mismatched eyes. ―It‘ll do for now,‖ said Daisy. Libbi nodded. ―Right,‖ said Daisy, ―I told Nick that I‘d deliver at least three new ones to the Gallery, so I should probably hit the road.‖ She looked down at the picture she‘d abandoned whilst framing. ―Just take the others,‖ said Libbi. Daisy arranged the paintings between layers of bubble wrap and slammed the car boot. Before setting off she decided to check something. Walking round the back of the studio she looked, and there it was. A faint imprint of her mum‘s hand in the cement wall.

Daisy 34 This was the third viewing they‘d been on today. Stuart, their enthusiastic estate agent, was now beginning to grate. The house looked nice from the outside, and the hallway was a descent size at least, but Daisy was feeling tired. The waves of nausea she‘d been feeling this morning were now back with a vengeance. Alex was asking the usual questions. Were the windows all double-glazed? How was the insulation? And he was now rattling through his checklist regarding schools in the area. ―As far as I know, the local comprehensive received excellent results in its last Ofsted inspection,‖ replied Stuart, nodding eagerly. ―That‘s great,‖ said Alex, turning to wink at Daisy. She was looking tired. ―But perhaps we should come back and check it out another time?‖ ―No,‖ said Daisy. ―It‘s fine. Though this might have to be the last today.‖ ―Of course,‖ said Stuart. ―If you would both like to follow me I‘ll give you the grand tour.‖ Alex gave Daisy‘s hand a quick squeeze before following Stuart. 17

―The lounge has a really cosy feel and plenty of light,‖ said Stuart. He opened the curtains theatrically. ―A lick of paint will really give this room the boost it needs.‖ Daisy wasn‘t listening. Her gaze had fallen on a painting on the wall opposite. ―Yeah, it‘s definitely got potential. Don‘t you think so, Dais?‖ asked Alex. Daisy studied the familiar Titanium birch trees (or were they Cremnitz White?) that scored the Paynes Gray sky. ―You like art Mrs Berwick?‖ asked Stuart, clearly put out by her lack of enthusiasm for the room. ―Daisy used to frame work for galleries,‖ Alex explained. ―Oh I see,‖ Stuart replied. ―It‘s rather depressing this one, isn‘t it? Quite dark.‖ ‗Just atmospheric,‘ Daisy said. She traced her fingers along the trees, feeling the brushstrokes in the paint. Like wrinkles. She followed the base of the birches, across to the left hand corner. Slowly, with her thumb, she outlined the familiar signature. For the first time in months she felt at home.

—JAMES SMITH— View from the Bones Jean leaned back against the statue of Captain James Cook, RN, FRS, and lit a cigarette. The plaque at her feet read: ‗To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.‘ ―That‘s Tennyson, that is,‖ her dad had said. ―From Ulysses.‖ As if conscious of the great weight of the literary expectations placed upon him, the Captain stood tall and stared manfully out to sea from his cliff-top plinth. But his body had turned green from sea spray, and his face was obscured by seagull shit. It had drizzled constantly for the past week, but they had at least had a nice day for it today. The sun was just beginning to dip below the clouds, flashing red off the windows of the houses. The view across the harbour made for a striking scene, Jean thought. The church and the dark outline of the ruined Abbey were framed by the arch of two jawbones, from a Bowhead whale harpooned in Alaska. This was probably the most recognisable picture of Whitby, endlessly replicated in the postcards that filled the town‘s souvenir shops. Local legend had it that Stoker had penned his most famous novel right here, looking at this very same scene. And this was her dad‘s favourite spot when he felt like going outside to read. When they cleared out the old house to move him to the cottage, they had had a huge row about just how many of his beloved piles of charity shop novels he would be able to bring with him. The lighthouse would switch on soon, guiding ships to the harbour. But it hadn‘t stopped the Russian schooner Dmitry, of Navra, beaching here in 1885. Nor the Demeter, of Varna, with a dead captain lashed to the wheel and a Transylvanian Count in the hold. That was one of her dad‘s favourite little factoids. He had loved the history of the town, lecturing her about it on their walks. They had toured the Abbey one day last June, and he had told her again how Caedmon, the oldest of the named English poets, had once lived there, back in Anglo-Saxon times. There was a Caedmon Primary School just down the road.

Jean couldn‘t help thinking that naming a school after an illiterate shepherd, who had only learnt to write through divine inspiration, was a particularly encouraging mission statement. Behind her, the door of the hotel opened, and, for a brief moment, the noise of the restaurant interrupted her thoughts. She wondered if it might be Tom come to check up on her, but it was just the young couple from the table next to them, and their cute little kid with the toy sword from the Abbey‘s souvenir shop. Jean remembered one night last year, when they had all come down for carnival. Little Alex wanted a sword he had seen in one of the windows, and she had said no, he had too many already. Then, when she wasn‘t looking, her dad had bought one and slipped it to Alex, who ran off, delighted. She had glared at her dad furiously, but he avoided eye contact and grinned mischievously into his Mr Whippy. Jean laughed when she recalled how she had smuggled a tub of Mackie‘s into the hospital to give him a little treat. But his lips had struggled to open for the spoon, and she saw the morning tablets he had failed to swallow, still on his tongue. Tomorrow, they would have to go back to finish the work on the house. It hadn‘t been easy at first. Jean had avoided the lounge, where her dad had stood up to greet her and coughed blood in her face. But most of the work was done now, and they had sorted the majority of his belongings into piles: a small one, of things to keep; one of stuff to bin; and another to donate to charity. His old books were in that one. She looked down and realised her cigarette had burned almost to the filter. She dropped it and watched it roll to a stop, still smoking. She knew she should go and join the others in the restaurant, but the cool breeze on her face was so much nicer than the stuffy air inside. Jean closed her eyes, laid her head against the tarnished bronze of the statue, and stood like this awhile in the growing dark.

Albatross There is no rain, but it is windy, and Keith tucks his chin a little lower into the collar of his coat, and retreats a little further under the curved roof of the bus shelter. The century-old Royal Park School is really starting to show its age. The windows are boarded, the roof is sagging, and weeds push through 20

the cracks in the tarmac. Finally someone has decided that after ten years of closure, it is time for the end. Across the road, behind the safety fences, the big yellow crane inches forward, crushing bricks beneath its caterpillar tracks. With a clinking crash like falling glass, a section of brickwork cascades from the top of the building and spills into the assembly hall. He can still remember that smell of varnish from the hardwood floor, where a hundred children sat cross-legged in shorts and skirts in the summer heat, picking noses and scabbed knees, while the headmistress droned on in front. Was she a Miss or a Mrs? He forgets her name, but he remembers her sensible haircut and bland, inoffensive smile and clothes. A section of the roof, stripped of its lead by thieves, gives way. As the dust clears, he can see the faded interior of a first floor classroom: magnolia walls, chipboard ceiling with most of the tiles missing, a fluorescent tube dangling from a wire, a notice board pinned with the yellowing pages of one surviving class project. He recognises the room: that place where he spent all those hours in interminable maths lessons. It still has the old-fashioned rolling blackboard, now ripped and peeling. A few years ago some locals had organised a sit-out in the mildewing building in an effort to save it; one of the more radical tactics from the optimistic campaign to convert it into a community centre. Keith remembers reading in the paper what that town councillor in the shiny suit had said about the school being ‗an albatross around the neck‘. He remembers wondering if the conceited fool even knew he was paraphrasing Coleridge. But the councillor, for all his poor grasp of literature, was probably right. What would they replace it with though? Probably some unbearably ugly eyesore of shiny brick and PVC windows, the type that looks passable in the sterile, eternally sunny CGI world of an architect‘s Mac; but not in reality, under the grey Leeds sky, in these surroundings. In front of him the crane‘s arm stands poised over exposed masonry, the great metal jaws turning slowly for a better angle. They clamp down, hydraulics hiss and the wall capitulates. Keith marvels at the complexity of the machine, and the skill of the operator amongst the levers of his cab. What was it Suzy had said? Boys and their toys, or something like that. How men never grow up. Perhaps she had a point. ‗SIZE MATTERS‘ is proudly displayed in black block capitals down the side of the crane. Keith snorts. The basket turns its attentions to the old matron‘s office on the ground floor, where he and Josh Bell had sat and nursed banged heads, half-listening to 21

Matron‘s tired, well-rehearsed lecture about not running in corridors. And without even thinking, he finds himself sitting alone on the hard plastic chairs in the maternity ward on that awful evening, staring, unhearing, at the moving lips of the doctor. Someone has rigged up a hose to dampen things down, but the resulting dribble cannot compete with the cloud of cement and mortar. The dust drifts out of the building site, over the wall and into the road. It coats the few withering bouquets tied with ribbon to the railings by the mourners, the day before demolition. Keith can just make out some roses, the odd tulip, and a few daffodils. Her favourite. He will take her some tomorrow, two fresh bunches from the market, to replace last week‘s. Another crash. The second of the entrances is gone. The building will not last long now. A part of him wants to walk round to the old playground where the boys used to charge, yelling and kicking after a muddy tennis ball, and where the girls had their handstand competitions and played clapping games. Keith wants to stand in the spot in the corner where he and Suzy first held hands. But he cannot bear to face the broken bottles, and the six foot graffiti, and the silence. He cannot bear to watch the arm continue its relentless progress through the classrooms and the corridors. But nor can he tear himself away. So, he stays, in spite of the cold and the gathering clouds. He stays in spite of the wind that begins to blow dust towards him. It will burn his eyes, and excuse his tears.

Still Billy‘s feet hurt. He did not want to be here. At first, it had been fun. There was the excitement of going to London, and the noise of the coach journey. He got to sit next to his best friend Alex, and they had all driven the teachers to distraction by singing ‗A Thousand Green Bottles‘, until eventually even the children grew tired of it. But this was not his idea of a good day out. He wanted to go to the Imperial War Museum again, like they had in Year 3. He had shouted with amazement at the tanks and planes, until Mr Mitchell had told him to be quiet and behave. But today, they were at the Tate Modern, and Billy was thoroughly bored. Alex was in a different group, and Billy had no one to talk to, and he wasn‘t interested in the strange things on the walls. It wasn‘t that he didn‘t 22

like art. He loved drawing, and he loved looking at paintings in the National Art Gallery. But those paintings were of kings, and hunts, and wars, and feasts, and mountains; and they were beautiful. These didn‘t seem to be of anything. Some of them weren‘t even paintings, but photos, and anyone could take a photo. One had been of a naked lady with fried eggs on her nipples, and all the boys had pointed and laughed hysterically when the teachers weren‘t watching. That had been the only interesting thing so far. They had had their first lesson on modern art this term, looking at some of Picasso‘s paintings. Billy hadn‘t really known who Picasso was but one of his teachers had once said that Billy was a ‗budding Picasso‘; and he had a vague idea that Picasso must be a great artist. But the paintings they had looked at – the odd faces with the eyes and ears in the wrong places – weren‘t good at all. They looked like one of the drawings from his primary school tea towel, the one printed with all the self-portraits by his schoolmates. And the art here wasn‘t much better. The guide with the silly hair and big glasses was talking enthusiastically to the children, none of whom were listening. Mrs Bateman was trying to get them to shush and pay attention, but the man was using long words Billy didn‘t really understand, and Mrs Bateman looked quite bored herself. And what was this painting in front of them supposed to be? It was just a big yellow square with silly squiggly lines all over it. He could have done that when he was in little school. He realised the guide had finished talking, and was leading them into another room. This new room was dark, and it took a while for Billy‘s eyes to adjust. He was at the back of the queue, and had to wait until the rest of the group had dutifully filed in, and they all stood around the exhibition in the middle. At first, Billy couldn‘t work out what it was. But he heard the guide say something about the army, and his ears pricked up at that. The artist had asked the military to blow up her shed, then she collected all of the bits to put on display here. In the middle of the room, there was a single light bulb. Around it, dangling from thin wires, were the mangled garden implements. Billy could make out a mower, and a fork, and a spade, and some shears, and a watering can, and bits of a bicycle, and what might have been a leaf blower; all of them crazed and twisted. And encircling these hung the burnt and blackened fragments of the shattered shed itself; splintered planks hanging crazily from the ceiling, a window frame, the door. All moved 23

gently in the disturbed air. The light bulb threw distorted shadows around the room. For the first time that day, Billy was wide awake. Mrs Bateman was leading the children out, saying they were going to have lunch, but Billy stayed where he was. He forgot that his feet hurt and that he was hungry. He began to walk slowly round and round the exhibit, wide-eyed and openmouthed. And until the panicked teachers rushed back to look for him, he stayed, staring into the frozen explosion, the long shadows dancing on the wall.

—GRACE WONG— From the Baptist Hospital‘s Medical Report (July, 2011) The right supraclavicular lymph node aspirate show several clusters of suspicious cells admixed with some red blood cells in the background. We brushed out our hair in front of the bathroom mirror, like performing some sacred feminine ritual. Something you do before the goddess retires for the night In the mirror, I see you watching me watching you. These suspicious cells show moderate degrees of nuclear pleomorphism and contain enlarged vesicular nuclei, distinct nucleoli and amphophilic cytoplasm. In the end my black hair grew longer while your white ones fell out. I take up the role of your lady-in-waiting and dab lotion on your sunken cheeks that have gone green as the walls of the morgue where I last said goodbye. The overall features are consistent with metastatic poorly differentiated non-small carcinoma. 25

Good Morning, Sun At a quarter to five, the square of sunlight appears on a blank spot of the wall opposite the window. It moves slowly down the wall and gilds the frame of the family portrait, sweeping across the smiling faces. Then it fingers the red velvet piano cover and examines the chipped conch shell and the snow globe, the little trinkets and knickknacks they have collected over the years. The block of sun inches across the room and lingers on the forehead of the boy curled upon the leather couch. He is sleeping in a hunched position, with his chin tucked into his chest. He is fully dressed, as if ready to go at a moment‘s notice. His jacket is slung over him, covering only half of his torso, with a sleeve trailing on the floor. His bare arm twitches slightly. One foot hangs over the seat of the couch, bare toes barely grazing the floor. Inches away from his face is a mobile phone. His fingers curl protectively around it. Not touching it, but just enough to say it is his. With every breath a mist spreads across the sleek black surface. It waxes and wanes. The clock ticks on the wall, snip-snip-snipping away at time. All else is quiet. At 6:02am, a jangle of keys breaks the morning stillness. The front door clicks open, and closes. **** I feel the pattern of the leather couch pressed against my face and arms. The leather is warm from my body temperature. But my mouth is so dry. I try to clear my throat and the back of it hurts, the tissues catching and ripping. The sun is too bright. What time is it? A jangle of keys. I try to sit up. My muscles hurt, especially in my shoulders and my neck. I should not have been sleeping all curled up. My phone tells me it‘s 6:02am. No missed calls or messages. I rub my fingers across the screen, smudging it even more. Footsteps thump down the hallway. My father looks tired. Haggard. The sound of the ticking, clicking clock stretches between us while I wait for him to form his words. His mouth moves and this is what I hear. ―Mom passed away, early this morning.‖

I didn‘t get to say goodbye. Not that it would have made much of a difference, since she has been mostly unconscious for the last few days. She would neither have heard me nor have replied. But still. It is a beautiful summer morning. A square of sky is dawning blue and gold. A snippet of birdsong tells me that the rest of the world is just waking up: to breathe, to work, to laugh. I don‘t know if I would prefer it to rain instead. **** The boy pushes himself off the couch, and the sun slides down to warm the vacant seat. Later, as the morning sun follows them in their little Toyota down the motorway to Wan Chai, where the Birth and Deaths General Register Office is, the boy remembers that moment and asks: Why are the birds still singing? And the sound of that question loops over and over in his mind. It is clichéd, but he asks it anyway.

Snapshot The wind is blowing 13km/h from the southwest. Atmospheric pressure is at 1012.75 hPa. Humidity at 75%. Visibility is 5 kilometres. The day is sunny with the top temperature reaching 17°C. At this moment a man is tuning the 37 strings of his harp in front of the steps of the Sacré-Coeur. A woman is lighting a candle for her daughter in Notre Dame. Dust motes lit by stained glass windows shroud her in a thin veil. A little boy in a mint green shirt and rolled up jeans is waddling to his mother, sand sticking to the soles of his feet. A man kneels on the Pont de l'Archevêché, searching. He pulls out his iPhone and takes a photo of a pair of padlocks. Among thousands. An elderly woman is sitting on a bench, her husband next to her in a wheelchair. They are holding hands under the magnolias. A man in a long brown overcoat mumbles to himself in the Jardin des Tuileries. He suddenly raises his arms and laughs at the sky. The sound startles a murder of crows and they flutter into the air for a few seconds, before settling down around the man in the long brown overcoat. Their wicked feathers strum the air and resonate with the hum of the 37 strings of the harp in front of the Sacré-Coeur. 27

Church on Good Friday Here we sit, the handful of us, in straight back chairs, on Good Friday, watching an excerpt from The Passion of Christ beamed through the grainy projector unto the wall of this semi-dark room. Dusk is falling. I look away but my ears do not shut out the sounds. And I think of you, who told us just last week you were exiting your faith. As if faith is a building, a stained-glassed monument with chiselled chimeras and windowsills wide enough to hold jars of daffodils in spring or scented candles in winter â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a place where you can lift up the latch doors to slip away unnoticed.

—GERARD CREFIN— from Lumpen Roy Grandma‘s Best Recipes Lumpen Roy had been staring out of the kitchen window for about five minutes. Finally, he put a teabag in his second favourite mug and turned the kettle on. Yesterday, his sister‘s husband‘s brother had overcharged Lumpen Roy to fix his car‘s handbrake. Lumpen Roy had said nothing, but played with his anger and resentment like a tongue with a loose tooth. This isn‘t the end of the matter, Roy thought. The kettle was boiling. Lumpen Roy took his tea into the living room. Somebody had bought Lumpen Roy‘s wife, Carol, a recipe book for Christmas. There it was on the coffee table. It was called ‗Grandma‘s Best Recipes‘. When Carol had shown it to Roy he had felt driven to read the title out loud as if he were James Brown. Christmas seemed a long time ago now and Carol had gone back to work. If you had been a fly on the wall in Lumpen Roy‘s living room, you would have seen a rather funny little man sitting quietly, looking a bit glum and staring into space, who suddenly and without apparent reason exclaimed: ―GRANDMA‘S BEST RECIPES, HA HA HA!‖ Lumpen Roy finished his tea and returned to the kitchen to do the washing-up. Roy was cheered by the fact that he would make his next cup of tea in his favourite mug. As he turned the tap, the handbrake cable incident was back on his mind.

Hurray for the Rhubarb It was still only January and Lumpen Roy was astonished to see that the rhubarb was coming back. Little pink tips were definitely visible sprouting from the wet brown stumps of last year‘s plant. Like lipsticks stuck in seaweed thought Roy. Lumpen Roy put the kettle on and felt cheered by the thought of the coming spring. Midwinter had passed and it was 29

light in the evenings now until after four o‘clock. The long summer days were not so far away. Lumpen Roy imagined the great green leaves of rhubarb unfurling in the sun as he hung the damp clothes on the line. Roy had made at least one rhubarb crumble every year since he and Carol had moved here. It just kept on coming back, year after year. Hurray for the rhubarb! thought Lumpen Roy. The kettle boiled at the same time as the washing machine stopped. Lumpen Roy would take his tea upstairs and hang the clothes on the airer in the spare room. The thought gladdened him. It was something to do. As Lumpen Roy made a cursory inventory of the wet clothes in the wash basket and decided which method of hanging to use, he remembered how last year Carol had made a few crumbles herself. She had even made some rhubarb muffins and a pie. Lumpen Roy‘s heart sank. Was she taking over his rhubarb now? Whenever he pointed out how well it was doing in the garden she didn‘t seem very interested. She was very good at baking though, thought Roy, and the muffins were very good with a cup of tea. Lumpen Roy matched a pair of socks from the basket and hung them on the bottom rung of the airer. He remembered how he used to play his guitar in the spare room. His guitar was in the attic now. Carol would be home soon. He would show her the rhubarb. Hurray for the rhubarb.

Pasta

Was that the car? Carol was doing pasta tonight. Lumpen Roy didn‘t really like pasta. When he was a boy he had been invited for tea to his school friend‘s house. Lumpen Roy‘s school friend, whose name he couldn‘t remember now, had lived in a very big house with a very big garden. His parents were the kind of people who joined book clubs and held dinner parties. It had been Lasagne. Lumpen Roy had left the lot. ―Get my bag out of the car will you?‖ called Carol as she carried the shopping into the kitchen. ―Get it yourself,‖ mouthed Lumpen Roy as he went out to fetch it. Every time he had to get Carol‘s bag from the car, he imagined that Barry from across the road was watching him and thinking how pathetic Lumpen Roy was for letting his wife order him about like that. Barry could talk, his 30

wife was always telling him what to do thought Roy. Lumpen Roy glanced over at Barry‘s house. He couldn‘t see Barry‘s wife telling Barry what to do, or anything at all really. Lumpen Roy carried Carol‘s handbag into the house in as manly a way as possible. Now he would have to face Carol for the pasta talk. As he walked into the kitchen, Lumpen Roy noticed that Carol had made him a cup of tea in one of the wrong mugs. It was one of those big mugs that Lumpen Roy‘s sister had bought them one Christmas in which the tea went cold very quickly. ―Tuna pasta alright?‖ said Carol. ―Lovely,‖ replied Lumpen Roy. ―Lovely.‖

The Postman Often Rings Twice Looking out of the kitchen window, Lumpen Roy could see that some of the rhubarb had been broken in the wind. In the plum tree at the bottom of the garden, the bird feeders were swinging wildly and most of the seed had been shaken out of them. Before Lumpen Roy had thought it best to put his guitar in the attic, he had written a song about the birds and the bird feeders. How had it gone?

Blackbird on the fatballs. Sparrow on the seed Take just what you want now. Take just what you need. Lumpen Roy put the kettle on. It was still early. When Carol got up for work Roy agreed that it was best that he got up too. This morning, Roy had been watching children‘s television. He had watched Postman Pat. Lumpen Roy suddenly felt driven to sing the theme song as if he were David Bowie. If you had been a fly on the wall in Lumpen Roy‘s kitchen, you would have seen a rather funny little man, looking a bit glum and staring into space, who suddenly and without apparent reason began to sing: ―IS IT A LETTER? IS IT A PARCEL?‖ Just then the doorbell rang. From the kitchen, Lumpen Roy could make out the postman through the frosted glass window in the front door. Roy froze. Had the postman heard him singing? Lumpen Roy glanced up at 31

the kitchen window but it had been closed against the wind. Could the postman have heard him through the door? The doorbell rang again. Roy stood still. The shape of the postman stood still – for ever it seemed to Lumpen Roy. Finally a little red card popped through the letter box and landed on the mat. The shape of the postman went away. In the garden, the wind had dropped. A crowd of greedy sparrows were squabbling around the seed feeder. Lumpen Roy was sure that they flew across from Barry‘s house. This evening, Lumpen Roy would have to explain to Carol why the postman had needed to leave a card.

Laundry Lumpen Roy was in the spare room. Looking out of the window, he could see down into the garden. It was April and the rhubarb was coming on well now. The grass would need cutting soon thought Roy. Carol wouldn‘t ask him to do it as long as it kept raining. Lumpen Roy put his tea on the windowsill and started to hang out the clothes on the airer. There were lots of socks and underwear in the basket. Roy decided to use the ‗bottom-up‘ method.

My sock, there‘s the pair – second rung up right-hand side. Knickers – second rung up, right-hand side. Vest and t-shirt: over the side of the basket – socks and undies first. There‘s a pair, two pairs, three – going well – second rung up left-hand side. Knickers, knickers – second rung up right-hand side – still room left-hand side. Bra, sock: third rung up right-hand side. Just need the pair to that sock. Carol‘s purple blouse – over the side of the basket. Bra, sock, sock, sock – three odd ones – third rung up left-hand side. Still need the pair for the sock third rung up right-hand side. T-shirt, trousers – do the trousers now, top rung right-hand side. There‘s one of the three socks, and another, and the one for the third rung up right-hand side – yes! Just need the pair for the third rung up left-hand side. Bra, bra, underpants, underpants, underpants, underpants – fourth rung up both sides. T-shirts now and that vest. Carol‘s grey skirt. Where‘s that sock? Bra. Was that the door?

Carol had got a new recipe book from the Internet and was going to make toad in the hole this evening. Lumpen Roy liked sausages, and Yorkshire pudding. Carol shouted up the stairs. ―Roy! The handbrake‘s gone again!‖ Lumpen Roy picked up the empty laundry basket and his favourite mug from the windowsill. It was full to the top with stone-cold tea.

Chutney It was Saturday and Lumpen Roy was hanging out the washing in the garden. The plum tree was in blossom and Roy had filled the bird feeders. Somewhere nearby there was a robin singing. Last year the plum tree had yielded no fruit. Maybe this year it would be different, thought Roy. Maybe I could make a

chutney. ―Hello Roy,‖ said a voice. It was Barry from across the road. There he was at the top of the drive by the gate. ―I have a parcel for you – the postman left it yesterday. It feels like a book,‖ said Barry. ―Thank you very much Barry,‖ said Roy taking the package. ―Thank you for taking it for us.‖ What business of Barry‘s was it if it was a book? thought Roy. Lumpen Roy looked at the package. It was addressed to Carol. Carol was having a well-deserved lie-in. Roy put the parcel inside the kitchen door and went to finish hanging out the washing. ―Cup of tea, Roy?‖ Carol was up. She was in a good mood. The robin landed on the fence and looked at Roy. It began to sing. Such a loud voice for such a little bird, thought Roy. He turned to show Carol the robin but she was no longer in the kitchen. Roy could see that she had made him a cup of tea in his favourite mug. Yesterday, Roy had got the handbrake fixed on the car and his sister had refunded Roy for the cost of the handbrake cable. Maybe he and Carol would go out tonight. Roy picked up the empty laundry basket and went back inside the house. Carol had unwrapped the package. There it was on the side. Barry was right – it was a book. It was called Grandma‘s Best Chutneys. Lumpen Roy looked out of the kitchen window. The robin was nowhere to be seen and the first drops of rain began to fall.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Jennifer Pritchardâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; from Bad Faith Scene1

The Donahue lounge; a modern and elegantly furnished room. On the chrome and glass coffee table is an empty bottle of wine and a large pizza box. There is a big, empty packet of crisps on the floor. The TV buzzes quietly with some reality show. BECKY, 19, sits on the leather sofa centre stage. She is on the larger side of

average for a teenage girl and looks out of place in her cheap dress. A wine glass in one hand, she is a little drunk. A backpack lies on the floor. She is ignoring the TV, reading a book. She sits like this for a while before, offstage, there is the sound of the front door slamming. CLAIRE: Becky? Hello darling, it's Claire.

BECKY panics and turns off the TV, then hides the crisps, wine bottle, and glass behind the sofa. BECKY: Hi Claire, I'm just in the living room. One sec. BECKY picks up the pizza box intending to hide it under the sofa, but it's too late. CLAIRE enters stage left, speaking. She is nearly 40, a

flawless, angular, raptor of a woman, in an expensive evening dress. CLAIRE: God it was awful, they really are so dull and I could feel myself getting one of my migraines. I just had to leave. I'm guessing you got Eliot to bed alright, then? CLAIRE stops, confronted by a flustered BECKY, who is brandishing

the pizza box. CLAIRE: What's the matter? Did you think it was a burglar? Christ, Becky you look appalling. BECKY: Yeah, actually. You scared me, I thought, y'know... (Offering the box.) Do you want a slice? I was hungry. I hope that's okay.

CLAIRE: Of course it's okay! I've always expected you to just help yourself from the fridge anyway, darling.

CLAIRE lifts the lid of the pizza box and inspects inside CLAIRE: You know what? Fuck it, I will. You must let me give you the money for this, really. I always thought you ate the crisps and things we buy. What flavour is it? BECKY: Mighty Meaty. CLAIRE: Mighty Meaty? BECKY (Putting the box down on the table): Yeah, you know. Like pepperoni and ham and salami and beef. Like, all the meats. Mighty Meaty. CLAIRE: It looks... delicious. It just sounds a bit like a cock thing, doesn't it? Magic Mike and his Mighty Meaty. BECKY: Ha. I guess so. I promise it isn't though. CLAIRE: Oh darling, don't look so bloody serious! (Sitting on the sofa) I know you've not bought a cock-flavoured pizza. I'm just a teeny weeny bit drunk, so don't listen to a word I'm saying. Sit down sit down sit down. BECKY sits, CLAIRE picks up her book. CLAIRE: Oh, Pride and Prejudice. My mum used to read that to me. I think. Do you like it? BECKY: I've read it before. But my mum read it to me, too. I like it. It reminds me of being little. CLAIRE: I thought it was shit to be honest, but there we go. I thought I heard the TV on when I came in. Can you do both at the same time? Jacob does that and it infuriates me. I try to concentrate on both and end up not concentrating on either! BECKY: I'm the same. My dad says I have the attention span of a spoon. I just have it on quiet so it feels like there's someone else there, y'know?

CLAIRE: Oh (Pauses.) I love the silence, to be honest. It's a rare and precious occurrence. There's always someone nattering away or moaning or wanting me to do something.

They sit quietly for a moment. CLAIRE: Well there's one, so they're probably not that rare after all, are they. (Laughs and pauses) Wine. Let's have some wine. Do you want wine? BECKY goes to reply. CAIRE: Oh of course you've got that scooter thing, haven't you. Silly me. Don't want to get you into trouble for drinking and driving. Drinking and scooting. BECKY: Actually, it's got a problem with the ignition so I had to take it into the garage. I tried to fix it myself but I'm not good at electrical... (Realises CLAIRE has glazed over) So, I'm not riding back, I'll get a taxi. CLAIRE: Fab! Fab, fab, fab. Shan't be a sec. CLAIRE exits through a doorway stage right. BECKY rushes to stuff

the empty crisp packet in her bag. She goes to do the same with the wine bottle and glass, but thinks better of it. CLAIRE (Offstage): It's abhorrent that I have to ask this, but Becky darling, where do we keep the bottle-opener? BECKY is still attempting to tidy up and hide the wine. CLAIRE(Offstage): Becky! You've not fallen asleep have you? BECKY: No, no, I'm awake, I'm awake. It's in the top drawer in the island, on the side of the Aga. (Pause.) I think.

CLAIRE enters, a bottle opener and a bottle of Chablis in one hand, two glasses in the other. She throws herself down on the sofa next to BECKY with a melodramatic groan. She opens the wine while speaking. CLAIRE: Oh God. What am I doing staying up? I only came home early because I was so tired. 36

BECKY: I thought you came home because you had a migraine. CLAIRE: Oh did I say that? (The cork comes free.) Well I was lying. I'm lying now as a matter of fact. I came home because they were all so ghastly. I tell you I absolutely cannot stand this group of friends. They're so fucking dull. BECKY: Well I don't know how long I should stay. It's really, really nice of you to share this wine with me and stuff but I probably need to get home and... (inspects the new bottle) this stuff looks well expensive. CLAIRE: Oh shut up, who else am I going to share it with? And I simply will not let you leave until you've helped me finish at least one bottle. (Takes the bottle from Becky and fills the glasses.) How long have you worked for us now? BECKY: A year in August. If you count from when it was just cleaning. CLAIRE: So nine months? Ten months! And we're only just doing this now? Ridiculous! What do they call it? A girls' night. We're doing one of those. BECKY: If you're sureâ&#x20AC;Ś CLAIRE: Yes now shut up and drink. Do you like it? It's a four year old Chablis. Absolutely my favourite in the world. Jacob actually cooks with it, the total retard. BECKY: Mm, it's really nice. Thank you. CLAIRE: What's the matter? Do you not like it? BECKY: No it's great, honest. I just... I really don't think you should say retard. It's... It's really rude. CLAIRE: Why should you care if I'm rude about my husband? BECKY: I work with kids with learning difficulties at the school andâ&#x20AC;Ś CLAIRE: I know, I know. Honestly, I'm so sorry. Hit me (holds out a hand.) Go on, just a little tap to chastise me. BECKY: I can't hit you, you're my boss. 37

CLAIRE: Oh don't be so dull. I've said you can. And I was very rude. BECKY taps the hand tentatively. CLAIRE: Pathetic! Hardly felt it. I got off lightly there! But seriously though, you work with special needs children? God you're so good aren't you! BECKY: Yeah, well, at an after school club. It's boring, though. You'll find it boring. CLAIRE: Oh shut up. I asked. I want to know about you. You must do so much more than come here, clean twice a week and look after Eliot. Tell me about your friends, your boyfriend. (With a feigned dramatic sigh.) Tell me what it is to be young and beautiful. BECKY: Well. No boyfriend as of yet. I'm too busy for that and most people have gone off to uni anyway. I should be going next September. Textiles at Oxford Brooks. CLAIRE: You're right, that is boring. (Becky is offended.) I'm joking! But come on, tell me your plans for summer. Any holidays? Festivals? Jacob and I are going to Glastonbury at the end of the month. BECKY: Really? That's so cool. You guys are so cool. I'd love to go to Glastonbury. CLAIRE: Would you? Well to be honest, I got given the tickets from someone at work and Jacob says he wants to go but you can tell he doesn't care, he just thinks it sounds good to say to people "I've been to Glastonbury" or Glasto as he insists on calling it. Christ. How about you and me go? BECKY: Seriously? You'd give me a ticket to Glastonbury? CLAIRE: Why not? We could go together it would be amazing. BECKY: Would we â&#x20AC;Ś would we, like, share a tent? CLAIRE: A tent? God no, we have a trailer reserved. BECKY: Isn't there anyone else you'd want to take? Any of your friends?

CLAIRE: Ha! They're all boring old bastards who just regurgitate the same shit over and over. (Pause.) God, I probably have had more to drink than I thought. I'm feeling a little worse for wear. BECKY sits up, concerned. She puts a hand on CLAIRE's thigh. BECKY: Are you okay? Can I get you anything? I'll call a cab now. CLAIRE stares at the hand. BECKY snatches it away like she's been

burnt. CLAIRE: No no no no it's fine, you don't need to go. I'm just being silly. I always go off on one when I'm a bit pissed! I can't drink like I could when I was your age. (She laughs too loudly.) BECKY: I think I should go home. I don't want be here when Jacob gets home. And I've gone and drunk all your nice wine. CLAIRE: I expect he'll be a while, getting pissed and making rude remarks about me with that lot. God don't I sound bitter? But if you really must go, I'll call you a cab. BECKY: I've had a great time, but I think I really should piss off. Shall I go and check on Eliot before I leave? CLAIRE: Lovely, and I'll call you a cab. Perfect! BECKY goes to leave but stops at the door. BECKY: And I know you were joking about Glastonbury. If you need be to take care of Eliot while you're gone, I'd love to. CLAIRE: Of course, yes of course. That's would be excellent Becky darling. What would we do without you? We'd be lost! We'd waste away! BECKY: I just like helping you. Thanks again. I really liked theâ&#x20AC;Ś Chablis? CLAIRE applauds gently, BECKY grins and exits left to the bedrooms. CLAIRE pours herself a full glass of wine. She taps briefly at her iPhone. CLAIRE: Hi, yes. How soon for a cab?

Lights down 39

—William Faulks— [William invented a Wiki-page for Banega, a fictional Columbian city, and then wrote the ‗extant‘ pieces referred to in the following sub-section of the entry. Only a flavour of these pieces is offered here. Then follows a related but separate short story, in full. ]

Banega in fiction and popular culture  The founding of Banega is mentioned in Pedro de Cieza's "Seventeen Years on Tierra Firme", one of the most famous histories of the early years of the Spanish Empire.  The British capture of Banega is described in book 12 of the 1789 epic poem "The Second Crown" by English poet John Rovery Cowle. Hart's attack on the city was also the setting for the 1989 Sharpe novel "Sharpe's Raid".  Chilean Marxist revolutionary writer Alberto "Che" Flores visited Banega in 1963 on his tour of South America. Flores sees Banega as a "scar" of European colonialism which is still present on the continent. To him it represented the theft of wealth and vitality from the continent by European powers.  Banega is featured in the prologue of "Speech is Silver", the fourth book in Roger Mountbatten's "Alfie Silversmith" series.  Banega has been featured in many T.V. Shows and films. It was the setting for the thriller "The Pearl", starring Jon Voigt.  Banega was South American City of culture in 2012.  Banega is the birthplace of Colombian soccer player Eder Álvarez Balanta. ****

from Pedro de Ciezo‘s Seventeen Years on Tierra Firme, 1599 (translation by Edmund Rawls, 1723) EAST from Panama the coast is thick with forest to the verge of the shores, and many shallow streams and morasses run from them. In these rivers there are great numbers of Serpents and Alligators, so large and fierce that it is dreadful to behold them. We found one of these Alligators upon dry Land at the mouth of a river and kill'd it. It was 20 Foot in Length and it was wonderful fierce. Being very hungry we ate it, but there is little flesh. These 40

Crocodiles have Devour'd many Spaniards, Indians and Horses as they cross'd these waters. On the Trees that grow along the sides of the Rivers, there is a sort of Creature they call the Iguana, like a Snake, or the lizards there are in Spain, only the head is bigger, and more Hideous to look to, and the Tail longer. These Creatures dress'd are as good to eat as Rabbits, and in my Opinion much more delicious. In short they are excellent Meat; and yet such as know them not would rather be Frighted at their sight, than have any Stomach to eat them. I cannot decide whether they are fish or Flesh, nor can any Man comprehend it.

"The Second Crown", by John Rovery Cowle (1789) from BOOK 12: Behold! They cried on Tierra Firme2 As from the margin of the sky, Strung 'cross the waves, their sails full blown The English fleet with every eye Affixed on Spanish gold, approached. The maiden of the Western seas, Both puerto and puerta at once, Centuries swelled with Empire's wealth, The slumb'ring object of Hart's hunt, Awakes too late, to cannon-fire And from good fortune's3 deck Hart saw The shield4 across the virgin bay. It's great grey walls and armoury Did not alter his course, or sway His purpose. He heard the bells cry. The shout goes up, upon the wall And washes through the empty streets. 2 The Spanish name for the South American Mainland. 3 The English translation of "Bonaventure", the name of Hart's flagship. 4 The English translation of "Escudo", the local name for the headland around Banega Bay.

"Los Ingles vienenen" and then With awesome voice the batt'ry speaks, Its cannonade the town awakes. The heathens in their village heard And thanked their gods whose bolts of fire Were rained upon Castilian5 roofs. Their mutiny6, decades conspired Erupts; in blood and savagery. As Alexander's Greeks had built A causeway 'cross the Tyrian moat7, Hart's ships had thrown great ladders up: With fleet of foot from every boat A salt soaked swarm disgorged ashore.

from Roger Mountbatten‘s Speech is Silver (1973) The Hotel Eslava looked unfinished from a distance, half-covered in scaffolding a decade old. Its dark, empty corridors did nothing to dispel this impression. Silversmith had flashed a smile at the receptionist and breezed past: as expected, the colour of his skin and fit of his linen suit were the only identification necessary. Pleasantly surprised that the lift made it all the way to the top floor, Silversmith stepped out, and followed the corridor to his left. The door to the roof was just where Ramón had told him. It was locked, but a brogue planted in its centre sent the whole thing, frame and all, flying onto the flat roof outside. Lying on his front, Silversmith pulled a silver tube from his jacket and unfolded a telescope, attaching its stand to the lip of the roof. As he adjusted the focus, his radio-earpiece chirped. ―Hello 22, are you in position?‖ ―I'm just setting up. How long do we have?‖

5 This refers both to "Castilian" as a metonym for the Spanish residents of the city, but also to the "Castille" district of the city. 6 The Indian slaves in the city rose up in rebellion during the raid, thinking the cannon fire to be divine intervention. 7 This relates the way British marines climbed ladders from their ships directly into the city to the story of Alexander The Great's seige of Tyre, where he built a bridge out to the offshore city.

―The Object just passed me, on the bay road. You'll have eyes on him shortly.‖ ―Roger that Ozone, I'll find the boat.‖ The British agent's 'scope was trained on the blue streak of Banega Bay, smooth water flashing in the light of the sinking sun. The quays that sheltered behind the escudo were lined with enormous freighters, and Silversmith scanned each in turn. The clean grey hull of one ship was conspicuous amongst the chipped and rusted vessels that surrounded it. The docks crawled with life, but this ship was quiet, its decks empty. He couldn't see the name, but the red flag twitching above the bridge told Silversmith everything he needed to know. ―I've got eyes on the skiff Ozone. Nice and quiet. Don't like the look of the traffic en route, though. We could be here all night.‖ ―Shouldn't be a problem 22. In my experience the Object's escort are refreshingly pragmatic about these things.‖ Smiling, Silversmith scanned back across the bay, and found the crease in the rooftops where the Avenida Falquez ran. He followed its thread across town; from the tall colonial commerce houses at the mouth of the Azul; through the dark clusters of Carrujo; to Miraflores' green spaces at the edge of the old city, beyond which it disintegrated in the scattered black smear of shanty towns and the plains beyond. His gaze strayed for a moment, drawn to the mountains that rose sharply from the plain, their jungled heights enclosing the city. ―You see him yet 22?‖ ―Not yet‖, Silversmith replied, returning his view to the docks. He scanned the wide road that skirted the bay until he saw the cluster of dark Jeeps and motorcycles that told him he'd found what he was looking for. ―Eyes on, Ozone. He's making good progress.‖ The spy tracked the convoy for a few seconds, then accelerated his view ahead of it, sweeping down the wide highway as it curled round the inside of the harbour and along the inside of the headland. When he reached the grey freighter he explored its decks again, and this time something caught his eye. On the top deck a towel shone bone-white, and from behind the dark windows of the bridge a tall brunette emerged, her tanned skin and scarlet swimming-costume vivid in the glow of the setting sun. ―I say Ozone, there's quite a view from up here. I think our friend has more than just business on his mind, in fact...‖ 43

Banega, 1991 Wayna Huapac was cold even under her thick poncho and she longed for the warmth that would come as they descended to the city. It was midday but thick fog still hung in the valleys south of Banega. She had climbed aboard the battered pickup truck on the track near her village just after dawn. She was the first aboard, but the truck stopped regularly in the first hour, and soon there were ten of them, crammed onto the back and in the cabin. They were all women, all Indians (though not all Huapac), and all over 50. She knew their faces but not their names, and silently noted every addition and omission from the usual group. They never spoke; dark, deeply lined faces staring down at the chipped paintwork of the truck's bed. The northern Andes run right to the Caribbean coast, and from the moment the pickup began its descent the horizon was filled with sea. Banega was already visible beneath them, a black smudge pooling around the finger of land its bay. The first to embark, Wayna was also the first to dismount. As soon as she saw the rusted rail yard in the distance she began to prepare herself. In silence she straightened up, her limbs stiff after six hours of motionlessness, and climbed unsteadily to the ground. The driver, a tall mestizo, did not offer her a hand. He passed her a grey hemp satchel, then returned to the cabin without a word. The truck's engine was still running and he steered back onto the road, clouding Wayna in dust. Wayna was always dropped here. She was beyond even the limits of the favelas, amongst the chemical plants. She walked for an hour in the dust beside the road, between chimneys and refineries and pylons, before reaching the fringes of the city. When she had first made the journey ten years ago it was two hours walk. She had no doubt that in ten years' time the favelas would be lapping at the feet of the mountains themselves. Then they would probably drop her in the mountains, if she was still alive, she thought. Closer to the city, the occasional construction sites strung along the side of the road became scattered houses, and after another hour of determined walking the buildings thickened into strings and then clusters. Dirt roads, worn but not built, emerged between strips of breeze-block houses on either side of Wayna. Despite the heat of the sun, she maintained her determined shuffle.

At last, on the edge of the shanty town proper, Wayna turned down one of the dirt roads. Still some way from her destination she gripped the satchel's handle, easing its pressure on her shoulder; eager to be rid of it. Soon her destination saw her, and leapt from the wall he was sitting on, scampering impatiently across the empty street towards Wayna. He took the bag from her without a word and vanished through a rusted gap in the corrugated iron fence between two houses. Her task complete, Wayna turned and began her return journey without hesitation. The day would come when she was too slow to make it to the rendezvous in time. She pressed on and tried not to think about it; focusing instead on the five faded American dollars that awaited her in the pickup's cabin.

Eder Ă lvarez was only ten years old, but he had been collecting packages for almost three years. His small size and knowledge of the mutable routes through Villa Maria made him the perfect courier. He darted across a busy road, up a pile of cement bags that had been lying against that particular wall for as long as he could remember. Eder kept his fist gripped around the neck of the bag, in part to prevent its contents from escaping as he scampered across the slums, but also to ensure he never saw what was inside. Forced to ease his sprint as he passed through a crowded market, Eder slipped between stalls and piles of goods, pushing between legs and bags, sometimes slowed but never coming to a stop. Seeing a van forcing its way down the street ahead, he veered to the left, squeezing himself between bags of half-rotten fruit and into the darkness of a never-to-be-completed shopping mall. Villa Maria was full of these relics of some hopeful administrator's dreams, each one promising regeneration, each one left defeated by the slum's pernicious poverty and prodigious growth. With space to run in the cool concrete corridors empty corridors Eder accelerated again, flying from the cool darkness to the sunshine at its far end at full speed. Eder's was a true Villa Marian: a mestizo of mestizos, with as much Accra as Andes in him. There was no school for him to attend, and no job much more legal than this one. All his mother knew was that he made more on his monthly errand than she did in a week selling Cokes on the beach. The broken roads beneath Eder's feet became smoother and newer as he dashed onwards towards the city proper, the houses on either side of him more permanent. Villa Maria's boundary with Banega proper was the old 45

city wall; long reduced to a band of crumbled masonry but still a significant physical and social boundary. The gatehouses had crumbled half a century ago, but their remains were still manned by policemen in short sleeved blue shirts and peaked hats, waving the traffic back and forth. Sometimes Eder ran straight past them, but today was a slow day and he couldn't take the risk. Instead, he peeled off the road into the enormous strip of detritus that had accumulated (and eventually overfilled) the wall's moat. Flitting between stinking pools of sewage and tangled scrap metal, Eder ghosted through the mass without breaking stride, heading towards the point at which the wall was at its lowest. Here the filth of Villa Maria had risen to almost the same height as the wall, threatening to spill into the city within. Scrambling to the peak of the escarpment, Eder crossed the wall. Eder was in Miraflores now, running between villas stained grey by soot and half removed graffiti. There were cars parked outside some of the houses here and the streets were quieter. Eder crossed a dusty field which signs still referred to as the Parque del Rey and opened the gate to one of the enormous mansions which lined the wide boulevards around the space. He climbed the grand steps leading to the front door and knocked, then leant back on one of the portico's grand pillars, breathing heavily.

Antonio Mota half-opened the door and held out a hand to the boy whose eager face smiled up at him. He took the proffered bag and handed over a green ten dollar bill in return; relishing the kid's unabashed joy at the payment. Mota closed the door without a word and watched the little black boy scampering down the steps and across the park, following his lightfooted progress until he vanished from sight. Mota crossed the hall to a dining room, empty save for a long table piled with bags identical to the one he held. Bag one was always the last to arrive, and now it was here he was ready to go. He went and sat in the car, combing his hair while the packages were transferred to his trunk. Traffic was always bad along Avenida Falquez, which was precisely why Mota took it. Cars spewed smoke as they crawled forward, and Mota turned the radio up to match the roar of horns and engine around him. Only half of Banega's traffic lights worked so policemen ran half the city's intersections. From behind his sunglasses Mota watched each of them. Mota had plenty of time to think in the two hours it took to crawl into the centre of town. He watched the cranes working to the west, just as they had been for almost twenty years now. The towers they raised were ugly, 46

and outdated before they were half-finished, but nobody in the city seemed to care – tall buildings gave the city the impression of modernity, even if that illusion faded up close. Mota decided he would buy an apartment in one of the new blocks in Nuevo Rotura overlooking the beaches to the south of the docks. He would move out of the stash house in Miraflores, just as soon as he could afford it. Mota's family had lived in Rotura for two centuries, and he remembered his grandparents' cramped apartment in one of the blocks now demolished to clear space for ―Nueva‖ Rotura. The irony did not escape Antontio that the first Motas to arrive from Seville in 1670 would have spent their lives aspiring to live in a house in Miraflores like the one he had now, although perhaps not one shared with a changing cast of drug-dealers, thugs and prostitutes. Turning off Falquez before the Plaza Mateo, Mota worked through shaded backstreets the rest of the way to the docks. Despite the armed guards and tall fences, Mota was only apprehended briefly on his way into South America's most ancient port, for a coffee and a chat with the duty sergeant. Two guards followed him to the quay and helped unload the black duffel bags from his car, each returning to their posts twenty dollars richer. Mota stood outside the blue cabin at the end of the quay smoking a cigarette, and watched the longshoremen play cards. George saw him, but finished the hand before coming outside.

George Myers had only worked at Transocean for four years. When his ship arrived in to Banega he would play cards with the dockers while the rest of the crew headed into town. He waited for a man to appear on the quay with a few duffel bags, kept a couple in his quarters and paid crewmates a fifty dollars each to keep bags in their rooms. The hard part done, he would join the rest of the Spirit's crew in Castille's luminous bars and clubs. The Transocean Spirit slid slowly out of port and down the coast, past the city. George leant over the rail on the city side of the ship and watched Banega pan past him. The sun was setting behind him and the city gleamed reflected gold. Even the smog coiling around the dishevelled skyscrapers looked pretty in this light. Behind the city the Andes crowded up, their lower slopes framing the city around the bay. It wasn't even that ugly from afar, George considered. He could buy any house in the city, if he wanted to live here. He laughed at the thought and dropped his cigarette into the gleaming waters of Banega Bay, heading back below decks as the city drifted into the distance. 47

—Brook Driver— from Tough Listening SCENE: 1 TONE OF VOICEMAIL. MOTHER:

Matilda. I've been waiting up now for half an hour to let you in, this is really unfair. Your dad says that's it, we gave you a chance and you've ruined it. I'm really upset with you, we're just (BEAT) we're fed up Tilly! PHONE HANGS UP. TONE OF VOICEMAIL.

MOTHER:

Tilly it's your mother. I know you say you don't check your voicemails but I've sent texts and you haven't replied. Your Father and I are really furious with you right now so call me back. PHONE HANGS UP. TONE OF VOICEMAIL.

MOTHER:

Tilly it's twelve thirty. Where the hell are you? Call me back please. PHONE HANGS UP.

SCENE: 2 HUBBUB OF COFFEE SHOP. ISSY:

What'd you go for?

DAVE:

Oh I don't know. Ham or something.

ISSY:

I'm telling you you've made a mistake. This HalloumiPesto one is the best sandwich on the planet. You wanna try some?

DAVE:

I'm ok.

ISSY:

Suit yourself. PAUSE

DAVE:

Can you believe he said that?

ISSY:

Who, Simon? 48

DAVE:

Yeah. 'Stop whining and get on with it'. Can you believe that?

ISSY:

More like (SCOTTISH ACCENT), "Stop whinen and gi'on wi et". ISSY LAUGHS

DAVE:

It's just so insensitive don't you think? He's not the one who has to listen to them.

ISSY:

I know baby, but what can you do. Someone has to do it.

DAVE:

Oh Issy. The pain in these messages though. The Motherâ&#x20AC;Ś I can't...

ISSY:

(INTERRUPTS) Stop. You know you can't talk about it. Even with me.

DAVE:

(HURT) I know that. I wasn't going to say anything revealing...

ISSY:

Dave. If it's really too distressing then ask him to take you off it. I got taken off that case last year, you remember? When it was really getting to me.

DAVE:

No, no. (PAUSE) I mean I'm fine. I'll just get it over with.

ISSY:

There you go. Now shut up and enjoy your rubbish 'ham-or-something' sandwich. We've gotta be back at the station in twenty minutes.

SCENE: 3 TONE OF VOICEMAIL. FATHER:

Tilly it's your dad. You've got your mum all worried now. Can you please give her a call when you get this message? You're not in trouble; we just want to know where you are. PHONE HANGS UP.

SCENE: 4 IN THE POLICE STATION: DISTANT SIRENS. DOORS OPEN. ECHO'S OF CORRIDOR. (SIMON IS SCOTTISH) SIMON:

Detective! Hold up a tic. How are you doing with those voicemails?

DAVE:

Yes fine (PAUSE, DELIBERATE EMPHASIS) sir. Just working my way through them. There's hours of recording.

SIMON:

I can put one of the other DI's on it if you...

DAVE:

(INTERRUPTS) No Simon. I'll manage.

SIMON:

Okay. Well I want the log of all the times and anything pertinent by tomorrow lunchtime. Anything that doesn't correlate with their statements...

DAVE:

Yeah I got it. Note it down.

SIMON:

Good good. Well, Keep it up. PAUSE. FOOTSTEPS LEAVING.

DAVE:

Simon!

SIMON:

Sir. It's Sir now, David.

DAVE:

Okay (BEAT) Sir. Is he in the station now?

SIMON:

He is, Detective. Still being interviewed but we've got him.

DAVE:

He's admitted it?

SIMON:

Nope, not yet. But it's all adding up. There's CCTV of his car leaving the garages, traces of mud on his tyres and shoes from the river. And those witnesses saying they saw a man in a brown, corduroy jacket. (BEAT) Brown, corduroy jacket found in his car.

DAVE:

Well that's lucky.

SIMON:

Not luck, Detective. Evidence.

DAVE:

Yeah. That's what I meant. 50

SIMON:

Make sure you bring me those transcripts by lunchtime tomorrow.

DAVE:

Yes sir. (PAUSE, UNDER HIS BREATH) Unbelievable!

SCENE: 5 APARTMENT. FOOD FRYING. DAVE:

Don’t you find him condescending?

ISSY:

Hmm?

DAVE:

I find him so condescending. He gets one promotion and starts talking to me like I haven't been the same rank as him for five years.

ISSY:

He's always nice to me.

DAVE:

Yeah of course he is. I just don't know how he can be so sure about this. He's all like, (SCOTTISH ACCENT) 'it's a done deal'. But we've only had him in for one day!

ISSY:

Darling, the case.

DAVE:

Oh I know, I know. But I'm not telling you anything you couldn't find out in the papers.

ISSY:

I know, baby, but it's not that. I'm bored of it.

DAVE:

They’ve only actually got two witness statements, that's it. Can you believe that? And a bit of CCTV that has his car near the crime scene. He could have been there for any reason.

ISSY:

Can you please peel the carrots?

DAVE:

I mean why would he have done it? This guy's a normal bloke, well, he's an accountant. He's university educated...

ISSY:

Babe?

DAVE:

Got no priors for anything... 51

ISSY:

Babe?

DAVE:

There's no evidence of sexual assaultâ&#x20AC;Ś

ISSY:

Oh my god! David! Shut up! Just for a minute!

DAVE:

Ay?

ISSY:

I don't want to hear any more about that blooming case! Peel those carrots please. And cut them up.

DAVE:

Okay, Okay. Jees I'm just making conversation.

ISSY:

I don't want to have a conversation about that! It's all people talk about at work. It's all anyone's talking about. Have you looked at the newspapers? It's been front page for two weeks. CHOPPING BOARD

DAVE:

That's because it's news hun.

ISSY:

But it's a bit sick, isn't it? This obsession everyone has with it. They can't get enough. There are facebook groups about it; people pitch in about which suspect they reckon has done it, about how awful it must be for her family.

DAVE:

People are interested by it...

ISSY:

And then I come home and you can't talk about anything else!

DAVE:

They want to know what happened.

ISSY:

A young girl is dead, Dave. People seem to be treating it like it's a crime thriller. Do you think it's not hard enough for her family as it is, without their poor little girl's face plastered everywhere?

DAVE:

You can't blame the public for being interested.

ISSY:

It's morbid. That's all Dave. It's morbid fascination. CHOPPING BOARD STOPS. PAUSE.

DAVE:

How do you want to do these carrots? 52

—John Barry— Tear-sipping A spectacled caiman basks on the banks of the Puerto Viego River. On its left eyelid, a Julia butterfly. Hovering close to its right eye, a bee. The turtles won‘t take it: when insects flutter about their faces they shake their heads or plunge into the river‘s cloak. But the caiman sits perfectly placid: a fast-food fly-through for the bee and butterfly, tear-sipping.

Santorini We wound ourselves around the island waking clouds of ochre as our quad bike clung to the cliff top track, and you to my waist. Thrumming through the solstice heat, I heard your smile between beats of wind, as you sang in my ear. We paused at the apex. The Aegean Sea concertinaed a thousand feet below us, our finger pads still wrinkled from its touch.

The Deer I Didn‘t See Remember the deer you saw last spring as we drove down that country lane, corridored by birch? Sad that I didn‘t share the moment, you rebuilt it word by word and gave it to me. Bowing to her reflection in a pool between the trees, the doe held the dawn in a weightless quiet. With her sleek coat taught as she arched to the water, the rising sun revealed the delicacy of her frame. At the thrum of our engine she startled, bolting upright. Her black onyx eyes fixed at zero, glistening. For a moment that extended, she was bronze-still, ears pricked, alert. Then with a curtsey-spring she turned and lost herself in the forest‘s cloak.

Haiku A pane of water on a field gives the moon back to the moon. Six dimples in the water‘s skin – the pond-skater stands on the lake.

The wind crumpling in an unlit fireplace: January storm. Crosswind – Canadian geese shift From V to Y to W.

Cashmere arms outstretched, the dandelion seed waits for spring‘s exhale. Silk on silk: a dandelion seed caught on a spider‘s web.

Winter dawn: a gold finch queries the silence. The money spider flings sun-glinted gossamer at a blade of grass.

Searching the shed for the snow shovel â&#x20AC;&#x201C; grass clippings: the memory of summer.

pleasure the

foot of

in prints

snow fresh

—Joe Evans— from Phantasmagoria Prologue

A bare bedroom at night. LIL is sleeping. A lamp next to her bed is the only light source. We hear the sound of applause, crashes and bangs which gets louder and louder. The lamp switches off and the sounds fade. GHOST enters. The lamp switches on. GHOST: 12 o‘clock all thoughts are dreams, My eyes the outward watch, tick tock. 3 o‘clock weak and idle themes, My eyes the outward watch, tick tock. 4 o‘clock and float up stream,

(Sung to The Beatles ‗I‘m Only Sleeping‘) Leave me where I am, I‘m only sleeping.

Pause. The day needs light to shadows bring. But nights alight with shadow kings. The night illuminates more than you might think. (Beat.) Tonight, the moon will move into the shadow of the earth. The lunar eclipse. Moon gazers will drift out to the forests and see what comes of the earth‘s dark shadow. The moon will rust and decay like its red with blood. Camera phones will flash, and sketch pads will fill as kids run out of red pencil. (Beat.) You see there is much colour in the darkness too.

He moves to the bed and brings his hands together in mock-prayer. And now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the watch my soul to keep. His love to guard me through the night, And wake me in the morning‘s light.

He clicks his fingers and LIL sits up and slams down onto the bed. 58

12 o‘clock all thoughts are dreams, my eyes the outward watch, tick t-

Blackout. Doctor‘s Scene

Lights up. The bed is empty and the lamp is off. DOCTOR MAURY enters on a wheeled office chair pushed by LIL. He is smoking a cigarette and there is a wad of paper is in his hand. LIL exits. MAURY stands and paces. MAURY: Yes. (Pause. Laughs.) Yep. (Beat). No, I got into clinic half an hour ago, I always come in at 8. (Beat.) The first one just left. (Beat.) Well it‘s nonstop all day, really. (Beat.) Fifty. (Beat.) So you have time to type up these letters for me? It‘ll be all morning. (Beat.) That‘s excellent, thank you.

He draws on the cigarette OK, can you still hear me alright? (Beat.) Great. So. Dear Dr... Oh… whatsisname? Yes, that‘s the one. Patient. This is in bold font. Mark Peter Tyrell. Date of birth, NHS number, address yada yada. You can look up his details. Still bold. Respiratory Medicine clinic letter 15th April 2014. New line, still bold. Diagnosis one. Sleep disorder unlikely. New line, still bold. Two. Excessive Daytime Sleepiness attributable to lifestyle. OK so far? (Beat.) Great. New line, not bold. This young man was seen in clinic this morning, referred as matter of course, complaining of excessive daytime sleepiness. (Beat.) The patient regularly ingests Ecstasy and Ketamine and also smokes cannabis. With regard to explicitly Narcoleptic symptoms only EDS noted, with no referenced cataplectic episodes. Keeping up? (Beat.) OK. Hold on.

He draws on the cigarette. Patient has had, open quotations, mental, close quotations, sleep paralysis and occasional hallucinatory episodes, but only when, open quotations, K holing, close quotations. Better put in brackets, this is an overdose of ketamine, or something like that. (Beat.) OK?

He draws on the cigarette. 59

So… it would be my opinion that apnoeic episodes, blockages of the nasal passage and occasional paralysis and hallucination, can be attributed to narcotic usage. EDS is attributable to cannabis usage. I recommended a lifestyle change. No further treatment necessary. Yours sincerely, yada yada, etc. etc.

He draws on his cigarette. Exactly. I thought the silly prick was going to tell me his face hurts when he punches it. (Laughs.) Yeah. (Beat.) Just type it up and send it off, if you would? (Beat.) I‘m out at 1. (Beat.) No, only for the morning clinic, today. (Pause.) Beautiful.

Offstage, there is a knock at the door. Fuck. MAURY throws his cigarette off stage and fans the air. No no, the next one‘s here now. I‘ll call again after OK? Bye. Yap. Bye. (Beat.) Come in! LIL enters. MAURY (Smiling): Hullo. Please sit.

A chair is pushed on from the wings, unassisted. LIL takes hold of it and they both sit. Sorry about the smell. Patient before you was a bit troublesome. Almost smoked a whole cigarette before I could get to it. (Laughs.) LIL: Yeah, I know him, actually. MAURY: Oh. LIL: Not well. Marky something. (Beat) Bit of a waster. MAURY: Waster? LIL: That‘s what I‘ve heard. 60

MAURY: Certainly of time. (Beat.) Shouldn‘t really say that. Patient doctor confidentiality. MAURY looks down to read the documents in his hand. You certainly are not though, are you Lilith? This is fascinating stuff, you know. You went in for your sleep latency test last month, yes? LIL: Yep. MAURY: And did they tell you the results? LIL: They did not. MAURY: Your average sleep latency was less than 4 minutes. That‘s pathological. Extremely pathological. (Beat.) It‘s fascinating, it really is. MAURY throws the papers off-stage and looks up anticipating a

reply. LIL: It‘s getting worse I think. MAURY: Is it? (Leans in.) And what‘s getting worse, Lilith? Specifically. LIL: Well, it‘s not so much worse. Just...more often. MAURY: More often? (Beat.) What happens? LIL: It varies. MAURY: Example? LIL: I have trouble getting to sleep. MAURY: Oh ok. LIL: Then my body gets stiff. MAURY: Yes? LIL: I freeze up. 61

MAURY: Go on? LIL: I can‘t move for hours. I try so hard to move. I‘m like, ―Open your eyes and get out of bed!‖ you know? But there‘s this pressure on my body... like a gibbeting. MAURY: A guillotine? LIL: A gibbeting. A Gibbet. It‘s what they hung dead bodies up in. MAURY: Ah a gibbet, yes. Go on. LIL: If I try to sit up there‘s this awful pressure on me. And when I do it‘s only a couple moments before I‘m locked back in. MAURY: What kind of time is this? LIL: Early morning kind-of-time maybe? MAURY: Early morning, right. LIL: The room‘s always bright colours. These pinks and purples and greens and blues. Neons, ravey swirls, patterns. (Beat.) Oh, there‘s this man I see, sometimes. Over my bed. (Beat) My G.P might have said. MAURY: He might have, yes.

A pad of paper flies in from stage left. It lands near MAURY who picks it up and begins to write. LIL: I see this girl too. She‘s always there when I can see myself sleeping, holding me. Pale- looking. Dressed in white. Bit like a fairy. This kind of thing happens most nights now. The visions are worse when I‘m in the gibbet-state. But they can come about in the daytime too. In the daytime I still get the colours but it‘s more… animals and that. MAURY: Well, you are dreaming. (Beat.) But whilst your mind is awake. What you‘re describing are called hypnagogic hallucinations. LIL: Hallucinations?

MAURY: Occurring, as you say, more so in your episodes of sleep paralysis. The... gibbet-state. (Beat) Although you‘re not a dead body, I assure you. You‘re a narcoleptic. LIL: What? MAURY: Two secs. (Hewrites in his notepad.) Tell me. Do you ever just… fall asleep? LIL: Fall asleep? MAURY: Say, you have got excited, something has made you laugh, or cry, or get angry, and you‘ve just... MAURY imitates falling asleep suddenly. LIL: No. Why? MAURY: OK. (He writes in his notebook.). LIL: OK what? MAURY: You don‘t have cataplexy. LIL: Well, yeah. You said Narcolepsy before. MAURY: Yes, a narcoleptic can have cataplexy. LIL: I can? MAURY: Yes, but it sounds as if you don‘t. LIL: So what have I got? MAURY: Narcolepsy. Definitely narcolepsy. LIL: So, what does that mean? MAURY: Well it means you‘re narcoleptic. (Beat.) But without the symptom of cataplexy. (Smiles.) LIL: Yes, thanks. But what does that mean for my hallucinations?

MAURY: I don‘t follow. (Smiles.) LIL: I want to get rid of them. MAURY: No of course, sorry. (Beat.) Sorry, I still don‘t follow. LIL: I want to get rid. That‘s why I‘m here. Narcolepsy, cataplexy. narcoplexy, catalepsy, whatever it is. I want to get rid of it. (Beat.) Please. MAURY: Well, it‘s not as simple as that I‘m afraid. We‘re not even sure where narcolepsy comes from, Lilith. LIL: Then what am I doing here? MAURY: You‘re in the best place possible. This is one of the leading sleep disorder clinics in the U.K. (Smiles.) In fact I dare say you wouldn‘t find better treatment anywhere in the world. LIL: So treat me! MAURY: It‘s difficult. We would usually recommend a stimulant. This is to counteract the daytime sleepiness. We could go with dexamphetamine or a course of Pendine. But I‘d prefer to avoid the amphetamines. There‘s a high chance these will increase the hallucinatory aspect and we don‘t want that do we? LIL: No thanks. MAURY: Indeed. I understand. (Beat.) So what I propose is that we go with a course of Modafinil. A dosage of 100 mg daily should start you off. LIL: Pills? MAURY: Yes, but non-amphetamine. It was originally trialed in France in the 80s and has so far proved to have very few side effects. LIL: And will that make the visions go away? The hallucinations I mean. I want them gone. MAURY: I‘m afraid, there‘s no, quote unquote, cure for narcolepsy. LIL: So. I‘m cramming pills in me for what then? 64

MAURY: To keep you up in the day. LIL: And the night? What about that? MAURY: It‘s tricky when there‘s not a cure for your condition. LIL: The nights use me up way more than day, you know? MAURY: I understand. LIL: Do you? GHOST enters; unobserved by LIL and MAURY. GHOST: Does he? LIL: Do you? MAURY: Sorry hold on two seconds. GHOST: He scribbles down what he can now to then paint you grand scale in his office later. He‘ll say, this patient could make my name amongst the sleep doctors. I have never heard of such crazy hallucinations. Never. Never in my two hundred years of doctoring. LIL: Write this down. ‗Bottom line, for Lilith… it‘s shit.‘ GHOST: Wouldn‘t make a very pretty picture. MAURY: I‘m sorry it feels that way. GHOST: Is he? LIL: Are you? GHOST: It‘s hard to see ourselves as picture worth painting. GHOST exits. MAURY: OK, all done. What exactly is it that‘s... shit, then? LIL: I feel like I‘m never awake. (Beat.) But I‘m never really asleep either. 65

MAURY: OK... maybe... it‘s yes and no to your question. LIL: Yes and no, to what question? MAURY: You asked whether the Modafinil will make the visions will go away. Well. Yes. It‘ll help. LIL: And the no? MAURY: As a stimulant Modafinil will hinder the onset of daytime sleepiness, which has proven to have a strong linkage to hypnagogic hallucinations. LIL: So they‘ll go away? MAURY: Completely? It‘s unlikely. LIL: Is there nothing? MAURY: We can‘t do a great deal more. You‘re narcoleptic. All your thoughts could be dreams. (Beat.) Dreams that present themselves as a symptom of narcolepsy. LIL: And it‘s completely incurable? MAURY: The brain is a very mysterious organ. Neurons and hypocretins and glands. Narcolepsy, we think, originates as a malfunction in the… LIL: I want a lobotomy then. MAURY: (Laughs.) I feel like that sometimes. LIL: I‘m serious. If you take my brain, you take my dreams with it. Easy enough. MAURY: Oh for it to be that simple! (Laughs.) LIL: Brain transplant. I‘ll have yours, you have mine. It‘s all very interesting to be me, I assure you. You could write an autobiography. Make your name amongst the sleep doctors. LIL: I need a smoke. 66

She removes a cigarette from her front pocket. She places it in her mouth and pats her body in search of a light. MAURY: I‘m afraid you can‘t do that. This is a hospital. LIL: Got a light? MAURY: It‘s a little frowned upon in here. LIL: Got a light? MAURY: Of course not. LIL takes the cigarette from her mouth and frowning, stares at MAURY. MAURY: Dreams are very mysterious too. We‘re not at all sure of their / function. LIL: (Overlapping.) You‘re deliberately changing the subject. Have you got a / light? MAURY: (Overlapping.) It‘s the last frontier of / neurobiology. LIL: (Overlapping) I thought it was dreamers who lied. MAURY: I‘m not lying. Some say we will understand perception before we understand dreaming. LIL: Got a light in here? LIL leans over quickly grabbing at MAURY‘s front pocket. MAURY

stands and backs up. MAURY: Stop this. I‘ll be forced to call security. LIL: Do it. They‘d probably know more than you. LIL: Some say we will probably understand perception before we understand dreaming...

MAURY: Indeed. We‘re confronted with a phenomenon without function. (MAURY sits.) What‘s very interesting is that around the time that mammals became warm blooded, they also started dreaming. But why? LIL: Tell me. MAURY: Tell you? LIL: (Imitating.) ―But why?‖ (Beat.) Tell me. MAURY: Oh well, we don‘t know why. (Beat) It‘s a rhetorical question. LIL: Is it? MAURY: Maybe not. A hard one though. LIL: I thought Doctors had the answers to hard questions. Tucked away in all those pockets of yours. MAURY: Not all, unfortunately. We do try, I promise. LIL: Matter of perception. LIL: OK. I have another question. MAURY: Yes. Of course. LIL: Well. It‘s a hard one. MAURY: Go on. LIL: I have a good feeling it might be tucked away inside one of those pockets. MAURY: Maybe, yes. LIL: Have you…(Beat.) got a light? MAURY looks down and he flicks through the notepad. Kidding‘. Christ. MAURY: Are you tired today? 68

LIL: And that‘s not a joke? MAURY: No. (He regards her sympathetically.) How do you feel at the moment? LIL: I‘m always tired. Listen up. MAURY: You wanted to know why, did you not? LIL: Why what? MAURY: Why you‘re tired all day. LIL: Please. MAURY: It‘s sleep deprivation. You‘re in a constant state of sleep deprivation. LIL: Excellent. MAURY: You say the night‘s use you up? LIL: Like an old whore. MAURY: It‘s the dreams that do that. Dreams use up the energy we should be saving in sleep. (Beat.) They have a kind of counteractive substance to them. That‘s why dreams are so odd. That‘s why they don‘t make a lot of sense. LIL: No disrespect here. (Beat.) You can‘t make a lot of sense about much of this can you? MAURY: About what, sorry? LIL: Help me with this Narcolepsy? (Imitating.) We don‘t know anything about Narcolepsy I‘m afraid. (Back.) Well then what do my dreams mean? (Imitating.) Oh that‘s a mystery too. (Back.) What do you know Doctor sleep specialist?

MAURY: True, we don‘t know a lot about the origins of Narcolepsy. And dream function is quite the perplexity. Although as I said, we can help you through. (Smiling.) That‘s why we‘re here. LIL: Help me through? I‘m not mental. MAURY: I do realise that. And I don‘t believe I ever said you were.

Pause. LIL: I think I need a nap. I get like this when I need a nap. (Beat.) Nap. (Beat.) Nap‘s a funny word. MAURY: Shall we leave it there, then?

Pause. LIL: Okay, you‘re going a bit purple there, sir. (LIL gets up). Now you‘re blue. MAURY: Are you OK? LIL: Are you not writing this down? Textbook stuff this, I expect. Patient needs a nap. Sees colours. Book them in again. This could be a chapter. MAURY: Are you sure you‘re OK? LIL: Yep, thanks… I‘m going to go now if that‘s alright? I need a lie down. MAURY: No problem at all. You might want to look over this. MAURY hands LIL a leaflet. She makes to leave slowly, wheeling her

chair behind. LIL: Odd to do a sleep clinic so early, you not think? MAURY: Yes, maybe it is. Your prescription is in your pocket and I‘ll see you soon. LIL: Yeah. (Beat.) What?

LIL exits with the chair. MAURY is bemused. He dials a number on

the phone. MAURY: Hi. Ready? (Beat.) Dear Dr ...ohâ&#x20AC;Ś whatsisname? Yes yes thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s the one. Patient. This is bold font. Lilith Rose Atwell. Date of birth, NHS number, address yada yada. Still bold. Respiratory Medicine clinic letter 15th April 2014. Still bold. Diagnosis, New line, still bold. 1. Narcolepsy LIL comes back on stage, shallow breathing. She wheels off MAURY

on the chair. New line, still bold. 2. Narcolepsy. New line, still bold. 3. Narcolepsy. New line, still bold. 4...

Blackout

—Jodie Chun— from Clara Brighton Most fathers will tell you that becoming a parent happens in the moment when you hold your child for the very first time. They‘ll tell you, ―It‘s a moment you‘ll never forget.‖ This was as true for me as for any other, although my moment was missing all the conventionality of a normal first time: no hospital bed, no smiling nurses, no sweaty and exhausted wife. When I became a father I was at the beach. It was two o‘ clock in the afternoon, the sun was warm and mild, and the most gorgeous little blue-eyed girl marched over and plonked herself right down beside me on the pebbles. I was immediately aware of all the vigilant pairs of eyes that could be watching. Perhaps those of the female lifeguard, or of the two policewomen who often took their lunch break together in a café on the promenade. For about ten seconds I did nothing, hoping my unwelcome visitor would go away. Then I peeked down at her surreptitiously. She looked to be about six, and was wearing a long-sleeved top despite the pleasant weather. I was perturbed to see that she had affected exactly the same position as me; feet drawn up, elbows resting on her knees, looking out to sea. She was even clasping her left wrist with her right hand. Leaning away from her slightly like a boy at a school disco, I finally asked her, ―Are you alright?‖ Without deigning to look at me, she gave a stately nod of her head. I turned back to face the sea. ―Oh. Good.‖ Uncomfortable, I tapped my fingers against my wrist. I examined a honey-coloured freckle on my arm. I flexed the toes of my left foot. Then, ―Where‘s your mummy?‖ This time she shrugged, a little-child shrug, her shoulders flying right up to her ears. Aha! She must be lost. Pleased with myself for deducing this, I continued with a measure of self-assuredness. I knew exactly what to ask next. ―Are you lost?‖

Her features flared into irrepressible smugness as she finally turned to look at me. ―Yes.‖ Startled, my head jerked back like a turkey‘s. She gave a shout of delighted laughter, collapsing all over herself in that way only kids can. ―So…‖ I became embarrassed as my momentary bout of confidence faded and I realised I had no idea what to say to this elfin little creature. I had years of experience with social niceties, and yet all my small talk was made obsolete when faced with the derision of a six-year-old. Neil would laugh his head off when I told him about this later. Whenever we went to family gatherings or children‘s birthday parties, I would end up with the mothers, giggling about so-and-so‘s outfit over a glass of wine. But Neil always ended up in the middle of a flock of kids. He never got tired of playing tag, he didn‘t yell when he got hit with water balloons, and he actually looked forward to watching The Lion King before bedtime. Uncle Neil was a big hit with the young and pint-sized. Uncle Stephen, not so much. I realised that the little girl was still watching me. ―What‘s your name?‖ she asked. She had a clear, smooth voice, not like the screeching I usually encountered in small children. ―Stephen,‖ I told her. ―Yours?‖ ―Clara.‖ She twiddled a lock of her hair and I noticed for the first time that it was sandy blonde, the same colour as mine. It was also entirely free of knots. ―Do you want to go find your mummy?‖ Her eyes washed over me thoughtfully. Years of practicing law means I‘m used to people trying to see though me, but this was something else. I think that look was the closest I‘ll ever come to bathing in window cleaner. ―No thank-you,‖ she said eventually. ―I‘m on-purpose lost.‖ ―Oh.‖ ―I‘m finding a new daddy.‖ At that, I chuckled. ―Oh yeah? Why‘s that?‖ She looked up at me, her little face earnest. ―I don‘t like mine. He‘s nasty.‖ Still amused, I repeated the rebuke I used to receive from my own mother when I‘d been rude as a boy. ―That‘s not very nice.‖ I glanced around. On the next picnic blanket along, a woman with glossy brown hair was accepting a shell from her little boy. ―What, did he not give you enough 73

chocolate, or something?‖ The woman noticed me looking and smiled. Maybe she was Clara‘s mother. Clara shook her head. ―He‘s just bad. Do you want to build a sandcastle?‖ ―A sandcastle?‖ Perplexed, I scanned the pebbled beach. ―There isn‘t any sand.‖ ―Next to the water. There‘s sand next to the water.‖ ―We don‘t have anything to build with.‖ She frowned at me. ―We have hands,‖ she pointed out in a tone of supreme disparagement. I could only agree. Still, I felt that it would be a bad idea to venture down the beach with Clara when her parents had no idea who I was. ―I think you should go back to your mummy, don‘t you? She‘ll be worried about you.‖ I looked back over at the brunette woman, prepared to smile reassuringly, but she was busy shaking sand out of her son‘s hair. ―She‘s not worried.‖ Clara‘s gaze followed mine to the brunette. ―That‘s not her.‖ I began to get anxious. ―Look, Clara, I‘d love to be your friend. But you need to go back to your parents so that they know you‘re safe.‖ ―I don‘t want to.‖ Her brow was set in stubborn lines. ―Why not?‖ I demanded. She folded her arms, and I almost gave up on getting a reply. Then, very slowly, she slid them up, lifting the hem of her top to expose her belly. Spread over it was the foulest of red and purple bruises, contrasting obscenely with her soft golden skin. I froze in shock, my eyes widening further and further as my brain sent neurons firing back and forth. You‘re

not seeing that properly. There‘s something wrong with the image you‘re sending through. She pulled her top down again. ―My Daddy‘s bad,‖ she told me matterof-factly. ―So I need a new one.‖ She was regarding me with a world-weary expression that didn‘t belong on a child‘s face. I began to speak, and then realised there were no words in my mouth. Instead I bit down hard and blood sang on my tongue. Feeling sick, I tried to think. My head felt encased in ice, too cold and slow for my brain to be engaged. Then I felt a soft hand on my arm. Shame burst through the ice like a drill. I was drowning in nausea while the little girl in front of me was taking active steps to rescue herself. 74

Think. The lunch break policewomen might still be in the café. Yes. I got ready to stand up, realised I was shaking, put my hand over my eyes in an attempt to compose myself, and that‘s when he called her. ―Clara.‖ She didn‘t turn at the sound of her name. Instead she went very still, staring at me, no longer world-weary but terrified and every inch the child. I looked up in a panic, certain that any minute I was to be confronted by an angry bull of a man, barrelling over the rocks. But he was nothing like that. He was tall and slim, his hair brown and floppy. His eyes were a cool blue. He was standing casually, with his hands in his pockets, looking totally unconcerned to see his daughter sitting with a stranger. ―Clara. We‘re going home.‖ She remained motionless, a possum playing dead. It was the behaviour of prey; stay still long enough and he‘ll get bored and go away. His eyes flickered over me, and then he began walking towards us. Clara shivered as she heard him crunching over the pebbles. I felt her slide her tiny hand into mine and clutch it tightly. My fingers closed around hers reflexively. ―Don‘t let him get me, Stephen,‖ she whispered. Right there. That was the moment I became a father.

Aftermath Clara is standing at the window. It is her favourite part of the entire house. The glass panes are distorted around the edges, warped from immeasurable years of being glared at by the summertime sun as she parades across the lawn outside, and stung by winter‘s frost as he chases along behind her. When Clara squints, the scene outside blurs into a kaleidoscope of colours, a thousand shifting components that offer to settle into a fresh new pattern that she has never seen before. The window frame is made of oak wood, but years ago someone coated it with a matte white paint. Now there are thick whorls of it peeling off and the glass is speckled with white where the painter tried to daub it into the corners of the frame. Allan has never understood why she didn‘t have it sanded down and redone, the way she did everything else. She has not tried to explain.

It is an exceptionally mild, nondescript day. In fact, it is perfect. That‘s what Clara thinks, anyway. She unfolds her arms to tuck away a strand of hair that has escaped the sleek blonde coil on the back of her head. Today she is wearing a white blouse, made of chiffon rather than silk, and a knee-length pencil skirt. It is red, and it matches her lipstick. She prefers not to use foundation, instead opting for concealer – but only where it is most needed. Her eyes are outlined in brown kohl with just a touch of contour shadow. She uses bronzer rather than blush in order to heat her face. Her stockings are 5 denier, flesh-toned, and entirely free of ladders. A delicate gold watch has a firm hold on her wrist; it offsets nicely her red-lacquered nails. The two rings on her left ring finger are polished to a shine, the engagement diamond centred. She has eschewed pearl earrings for rose-gold studs.

a mark of professionalism, showcasing class rather than flashiness, and a deliberate symbol of modesty. A little stroke of perfection. She refuses to cake her face in makeup, but does take necessary measures to cover obvious blemishes. Her eye makeup is kept natural, its purpose to define and brighten. She dislikes to look a rosy-cheeked child but does enjoy a healthy glow. Her stockings are thin enough to look like skin, yet she manages to keep them perfect. She could never go anywhere without a timepiece that matches her outfit. Her wedding band must be in front of her engagement ring, because that is the order in which she received them. She has replaced a cliché with her own favourite.

She is impeccably turned out, as she always is – every day. Or at least she would be if not for one uncharacteristic lapse: she has no shoes on. Clara pinches a sliver of flaking paint between the fingernails of her left thumb and index finger and slowly strips it away from the window frame, finding immense satisfaction in the crackling sound it makes as it separates from the base. For a moment she stares at the curling ribbon of white. Then she releases it, and watches as it spins madly to the floor. It settles with a tiny rasping noise. In an abrupt fit of wildness Clara stamps on it, crushing it with the ball of her right foot until it is in smithereens and scattered all over the Maplewood floorboards, an unadulterated trail of selfindulgence. For a moment she is still, and then she fetches the dustpan and brush from the top shelf of the cupboard under the stairs. Balancing on her toes – she must not rip her stockings by kneeling – she gathers up every single crumb of paint, takes the dustpan to the back 76

door, and shakes it out onto the lawn. If she were at home, she would use the bin in the kitchen. Allan rarely has use for the bin in the kitchen, because Allan is rarely in the kitchen. Many of Clara‘s friends are indignant about this tradition. She supposes that they think it stems from an unwillingness on Allan‘s part to cook, but it was Clara who instituted it, the day she walked into the kitchen to see her measuring cups hanging on their hook as Allan tossed ingredients haphazardly into a pan. Ever since then she has done the cooking. Clara picks the last clinging paint fleck from the dustpan and flicks it out along with the others before closing the door and depositing the dustpan and brush back in place, on the top shelf of the cupboard under the stairs. The grandfather clock that stands in the hall chimes 4 o‘ clock as she emerges from the cupboard. Once upon a time this would have sent her into a blind panic, but today she will not be rushed. She pauses to smooth her skirt and straighten the cuffs of her blouse before passing the clock without looking at it. She wound it up this morning, but apparently it has not learnt to discriminate between friend and foe. She makes her way up the stairs, skids slightly on the fifth tread. The wood has been polished to death. She reflects that a runner would prevent people from slipping, but quickly dismisses the idea. Let others put a runner in if they want to. She finds Allan in the smaller of the bedrooms. Stacked against the wall are three cardboard boxes.―It‘s time to go,‖ she tells him. She is troubled to find that her chin is trembling, but Allan does not seem surprised. He smiles at her with a look that, over the years, she has come to learn is one of sympathy rather than pity. ―I know, love.‖ He is wearing a shirt that she bought him from Thomas Pink last Christmas, and she is touched to see that his cufflinks are rose-gold to match her earrings. He puts an arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head, careful not to spoil her hair. ―Why don‘t you go and turn the car around? I‘ll bring this lot down.‖ She nods and takes the proffered keys. Downstairs she checks quickly for anything she may have forgotten, then locks the back door and slips her shoes on. On the way to the front door she stops to linger at the window again. She presses her forehead against one of the panes, and this time she doesn‘t feel the need to squint and change the world outside. Instead she strokes the frame one last time, and she smiles. 77

—Adam Button— “RIDGEWAY PARK” FADE IN: 1. EXT. THE PARK – NIGHT JOSHUA, an eight year-old boy, is sitting on a rusty swing in a park in a suburban neighbourhood. His backpack is on the ground and he is alone. FLASHBACK: 2. INT. JOSHUA‟S HOUSE – THE HALLWAY – NIGHT JOSHUA storms out of his house. His mother, MOLLY, can heard crying off camera. CUT A shot of a hand slowly crushing a spider. CUT A plastic army man on a beige carpet falling over. BACK

be TO: TO: TO:

3. EXT. THE PARK – NIGHT JOSHUA is still on the swing, staring at a gnarled tree stump. The shadows from the trees around it are casting strange shapes. We hear whispering from its general direction. The sound is distorted, but a few fragments can be made out, including the words „Joshua‟, „David‟ and „gone‟. Joshua climbs off the swing and backs away. A figure starts to form, sitting on top of the stump. It is humanoid, but before we get a proper look, Joshua picks up his backpack and runs away. 4. EXT. ANOTHER AREA OF THE PARK - CONTINUOUS JOSHUA runs towards a cluster of trees that seems too dense for a normal park. He stops at the edge, deciding whether or not he should go in. He looks over his shoulder. Joshua‟s POV: whatever is chasing him is getting closer.

Joshua steels himself and makes his way into the woods. FLASHBACK: 5. INT. JOSHUA‟S HOUSE – THE UPSTAIRS LANDING – DAY A white door has been left half-open, the word „JOSHUA‟ spelt out on it in brightly-coloured wooden letters. The camera goes into JOSHUA‟S BEDROOM. JOSHUA is in his school uniform lying on the floor. He is looking under the bed and waving a carrot stick. It‟s clear he‟s trying to tempt something out. A BLACK RABBIT emerges from under the bed and begins to nibble on the carrot. Joshua gently picks it up and strokes its back. MOLLY appears in the doorway, holding a packed lunch. She raises her eyebrows at him, and gestures towards the door. Joshua grabs a stuffed tiger and leaves with her. 6. EXT. THE STREET – DAY Montage: JOSHUA and MOLLY walking to school. He wears the same backpack that we saw in scene one. The sky is overcast. The general aesthetic of the road is „quaint‟ – red brick houses, iron railings, small local shops. They reach THE SCHOOL GATES. Molly kisses her son on the forehead and he goes in. 7. JOSHUA‟S HOUSE – THE KITCHEN – DAY MOLLY is reading the mail. She sifts through it; some junk mail, bills, and an envelope marked MOLLY WARD 17 ROYAL TERRACE RIDGEWAY PARK Inside is a letter from her eldest son, DAVID, and a couple of photographs. Close on photographs: DAVID smiling in military uniform; with his squadron at attention in the desert.

MOOLY lays these pictures on the table and begins to read the letter. BACK TO: 8. EXT. THE FOREST – NIGHT JOSHUA hides behind a tree and catches his breath. He looks from around the tree. Joshua‟s POV: there is no sign of the thing that was chasing him but the trees are stylised, slightly threatening, and reminiscent of a fairy tale landscape – how a young child might picture a dark and scary wood. He reaches out to touch a leaf on a nearby branch, but it shrivels and turns to ash. An orb of white light rises out of the ash and floats up into the sky. He repeats this action with a few more leaves. The same thing happens. Enchanted, he runs through the forest, brushing his hands through the leaves. We follow the lights as they ascend. FLASHBACK TO: 9. EXT. THE GARDEN – DAY The garden is small and neatly kept, with a path leading to an open gate. JOSHUA is playing with his RABBIT on the lawn. A BLACK DOG appears by the gate and stops to look at him. Joshua notices it, smiles, and starts to walk towards it. The dog‟s eyes are fixed on the rabbit. 10. INT. THE LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS The room is comfortably but not extravagantly furnished. MOLLY is sitting in an armchair, reading a magazine with a cup of tea beside her. JOSHUA starts crying and screaming outside. She puts down her magazine and gets up to see what‟s wrong. 11. EXT. THE GARDEN – CONTINUOUS MOLLY opens the door and sees JOSHUA crying, clutching his rabbit close to his chest. The dog has clearly gotten hold of it. She shoes the dog away and comforts her son. BACK TO: 80

12. EXT – THE FOREST – NIGHT JOSHUA is lost. The trees are thicker and the ground covered in brambles. The whispering noise from the stump starts again. Joshua is scared. The silhouette of the CREATURE starts to form between two trees. Joshua sees it and runs. FLASHBACK TO: 13. INT. THE LIVING ROOM – DAY JOSHUA is sitting on the floor. He‟s been crying. On the TV, a home movie is playing. Close on clips of Molly and her children. There are a few shots of David, including one of him playing football with Joshua. MOLLY comes in from the kitchen, carrying her handbag, takes Joshua‟s hand, and leads him out. 14. EXT. THE STREET – CONTINUOUS The skies are grey. JOSHUA is confused as to where they are going. MOLLY leads him to the edge of the park, opposite their house. 15. EXT. THE PARK - CONTINUOUS JOSHUA and MOLLY approach a tree stump, the same one we saw in scene one. Molly takes a carrot stick out of the top of her bag and hands it to Joshua. He places the carrot on the stump. She gives him a look, and he closes his eyes. Joshua‟s POV as he opens his eyes and finds there is a BLACK RABBIT on the stump. 16. INT. THE KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS JOSHUA comes in, holding the rabbit and grinning; MOLLY follows, smiling. He runs off into the house, she goes over to the kettle and begins to make a cup of tea. When she opens the bin to throw away the teabag, we see a box on top labelled „HAMILTON‟S PET STORE‟. BACK TO: 17. EXT. THE FOREST - NIGHT

JOSHUA walks further into the woods and the whispering is getting louder. Joshua is clearly distressed and hides in a thicket. JOSHUA‟s POV, looking through the brambles. The first real glimpse of THE CREATURE, although obscured by foliage. It resembles a monstrous humanoid rabbit, its face hideously distorted. It wears an outfit resembling a military uniform. The Creature sits on a log by the pond, staring into the water. After a few seconds, it lifts its head and looks straight at Joshua. Joshua gasps and ducks behind the plant cover. When nothing happens, he looks again. Joshua‟s POV: THE CREATURE has gone. FLASHBACK TO: 18. INT. JOSHUA‟S BEDROOM - DAY JOSHUA is sitting on the floor next to a crumpled pile of clothes. His new rabbit is in a cage in the corner. He is staring at a spider which is slowly making its way across the room. He reaches out towards it and lets it crawl onto his hand, letting it run over them a few times. Eyes fixed on it, JOSHUA slowly brings his right hand down and crushes the spider. BACK TO: 19. EXT. THE FOREST - NIGHT JOSHUA is still hiding in the thicket. The whispering starts again. This time, however, „it‟ is quite clearly saying his name. He turns to see THE CREATURE‟S face right next to him,. JOSHUA screams and runs. The Creature stands up straight and watches him go. 20. EXT. A SMALL CLEARING IN THE FOREST - NIGHT JOSHUA stops running. Joshua‟s POV, looking back for THE CREATURE. 82

Joshua slides down a small bank. Tree roots at the bottom provide a hiding place. He‟s terrified and trying to remain as quiet as possible. FLASHBACK TO: 21. INT. Sunlight lying on They are into two

THE LIVING ROOM - DAY streams through the French Windows. JOSHUA is the floor, playing with green plastic army men. laid out as if in the middle a battle, separated opposing forces.

MOLLY enters and smiles at him as she walks through into the kitchen. Joshua picks up one of the soldiers and moves it forward like a counter in a board game. 22. INT. THE KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS MOLLY is slicing an apple into segments. On the counter next to her is a framed photograph of her, JOSHUA and DAVID standing in a field. David is wearing a military uniform. There is a knock at the front door. She looks over to it. 23. INT. THE LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS JOSHUA‟S soldier advances towards a group of the enemy. 24. INT. THE KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS MOLLY opens the door to TWO SOLDIERS in full military dress. 25. INT – THE LIVING ROOM – CONTINUOUS JOSHUA mimes his soldier being shot and knocks it over. BACK TO: 26. EXT. THE FOREST CLEARING - NIGHT JOSHUA holds his breath as a shadow passes over him. He looks up at it, frozen in place. 27. EXT. THE FOREST CLEARING - CONTINUOUS JOSHUA‟s POV: The CREATURE is standing in the clearing. It hasn‟t seen him yet. 83

FLASHBACK TO: 28. INT. THE KITCHEN – NIGHT JOSHUA takes DAVID‟s picture off the wall and goes out the front door with it. 29. EXT. THE PARK – CONTINUOUS JOSHUA is walking towards the tree stump, tears in his eyes. MOLLY comes running after him. She snatches the picture out of his hands and shouts at him. BACK TO: 30. EXT. THE FOREST CLEARING - NIGHT JOSHUA moves from his hiding place, trying to creep away from the CREATURE. It stays where it is, turning its head occasionally in search of him. Just as it looks as if Joshua is going to get away, he stands on a pile of dry leaves, and the noise attracts the creature‟s attention. It turns to face him, lets out a clicking noise, and starts to run towards him. Joshua tries to flee but trips on a tree root. The creature is almost on top of him. He scrambles a few meters along the floor, but can get no further before it reaches him. The Creature screeches, spittle flying from its mandibles. JOSHUA closes his eyes. FLASHBACK TO: 31. EXT. THE PARK – DAY DAVID and JOSHUA are playing soccer. JOSHUA shoots, DAVID lets it go in but pretends like he tried to save it. JOSHUA laughs. 32. INT. A PET SHOP - DAY DAVID and JOSHUA are looking at a BLACK RABBIT. 33. INT. JOSHUA‟S BEDROOM – NIGHT JOSHUA is sitting on his bed crying. DAVID comes in, ruffles his hair and smiles at him. 84

BACK TO: 34. EXT. - THE CLEARING - NIGHT JOSHUA slowly gets to his feet. The CREATURE hisses at him. Joshua reaches out and lays a hand on its head. The CREATURE dissolves and blows away on the breeze. 35. EXT. – THE FOREST – NIGHT It is starting to get lighter. JOSHUA is running and reaches the border of the forest, hesitates for a second, and keeps on going. 36. EXT. THE STREET – DAWN JOSHUA stands on the grassy bank opposite his house. He looks uncertain as to whether he should go in. THE CREATURE emerges from behind him. As Joshua looks round at it. Joshua‟s POV, as it morphs into DAVID. DAVID smiles at his brother and holds his hand. The two of them look at the house together as the sun comes up. FADE OUT.

THE END

CONTRIBUTOR’S NOTES

Adam Button lives in Northamptonshire and is enrolled in the English Literature and Theatre Studies programme. His influences for the portfolio were Tom Stoppard, Samuel Beckett and in particular Keith Ridgway, to whom the portfolio‘s title is a deliberate homage. He also has work published in LUU‘s The Scribe Magazine.

John Barry grew up in Wellington, Shropshire. He has won several piano competitions and has performed a far afield as New York and Boston. At Leeds he is studying Music coupled with English Literature. He has written short stories from an early age but his interest in poetry is a recent one. His work is influenced by the likes of Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and Michael Donaghy.

Jodie Chun is studying for a BA in English Language & Literature (as per the wishes of her Year-7 English teacher). She has lived in Moscow, Madrid, Boston, and London, but at the moment she is in Beliz, South America. After finishing her degree she hopes to continue to find homes in unexpected places – writing in every one of them, of course.

Ged Crefin left school aged sixteen. A career in the arts remained a pipedream until his wife encouraged him to pursue his real interests. He was accepted onto the English Literature and Theatre Studies programme at Leeds University (his home town), and discovered that he enjoyed writing as much as he enjoyed reading. He intends continuing to do so.

Brook Driver studied English and philosophy at Leeds University. He has written blogs and short stories for a number of years but during a year abroad in South Carolina he studied writing for film and television with professor Northrop Davis. His ambition is to have a script produced and he is looking to work in the film industry.

Joe Evans is from Stockport, Manchester and will be entering his third year of a BA English Literature and Theatre Degree. His short play is 86

inspired by the experiences of a close friend who suffers from Narcolepsy. For the foreseeable future Joe will be based in Leeds, writing lyrics for his band, but will undoubtedly retain a keen interest in the Theatre.

William Faulks is a recent English graduate, enjoying his first taste of unemployment at home in London. He was a keen reader, until he discovered the internet, and enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction. He is currently deciding between the obsolescent world of journalism and the moribund world of the novelist, and would greatly appreciate any advice (or, even better, work). He can be contacted at wgpfaulks@hotmail.com

Samantha Gooch is based in the sleepy village of Speldhurst in Kent, and is currently studying for a BA in English and History. She has been heavily involved in Theatre productions for LUU Theatre Group, and hopes to pursue a career in Film, Television or Theatre Production.

Kevin Gregorio is from Haddonfield, New Jersey and was a Junior Year Abroad student with the School of English for the 2013/14 academic year. Upon graduation, Kevin hopes to enter the field of education reform.

Helen Keelan was born in Formby, Liverpool and is studying for a BA HONS: English Language and Literature. Helen writes: â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Stories are evergrowing and ever-reaching, stretching across space and time and language to provide the link between all and peoples. I hope you enjoy the story of a VAD Nurse in WWI.â&#x20AC;&#x2013;

James Smith is originally from Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire and is enrolled in BA English Language and Literature degree. He has not published any work previously, and does not anticipate ever becoming a professional writer, but hopes to continue writing, even if only on an amateur basis.

Grace Wong is a Junior Year Abroad student from Hong Kong and was with the School of English for the 2013/14 academic year.

THE SCHOOL OF ENGLISH THE UNIVERSITY OF LEEDS WOODHOUSE LANE LEEDS, LS2 9JT YORKSHIRE ENGLAND

http://www.leeds.ac.uk/arts/info/20040/school_of_english 88