The Pimple Continued

Somewhere Safe

2007-08-11T13:16:00.000+02:00

Alex was all wrong. Apparently the woman with grey curly hair was his mother, the gangly teenager his brother and the pooch at his side was the family dog.

“You didn’t just put them somewhere safe.” The boy suddenly screamed. “You had an accident, you nearly died, you were in a coma for weeks, that’s how you lost your memory.”

Alex sat in the armchair gripping the sides, his nails digging into the fabric as if he could extract his memories and then he stood up and walked away. At the door Alex attached a lead to the curious dog and looked at the keys. “Car keys,” a voice in his head piped up. He could drive, he knew.

Alex pulled out the driveway smiling at the woman chasing after the car then looked down tenderly at Pooch.

The song on the car stereo irritated him; its familiarity was sufficiently discordant to tell him that this was not the song he thought he remembered. The white lines in the middle of the road, however, kept no secrets from him and he knew when he had arrived. Pooch leapt out the car pleased by Alex’s choice. They bounded between trees and through brambles until they arrived at a spot where strands of sunlight pierced through the leaves forming a perfect circle.

“Just where I left them!” Laughing Alex picked up a filament of light, closed his eyes and coiled it around him, the true melody of the song filling his head.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

Orange Squash

2007-08-08T09:44:00.000+02:00

Do you remember the day
you put up the garden fence?
I ran up the stairs
and down the stairs
over and over
with the glee that only a child can muster?
One at time
two at a time
three at a time.
Sometimes there was a glass of orange squash
waiting for me,
sometimes there was a glass for you.
Who were you working with?
I only remember you
and the brilliant blue sky.
At four at a time
I tumbled round and round.
When I opened my eyes there was a halo of heads looking down.
You all seemed very tall
for I was very small.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

Part III

2007-07-19T16:56:00.000+02:00

Photo ©copyright, 2002. Frantisek Staud

Read Part I

Lunchtime, Mark thought happily snapping his bag shut. “See you in an hour,” he trilled to no one in particular.

Summer was Mark’s favourite time of year. Each day he left for lunch fifteen minutes later until he reached the witching hour of one thirty, when he would start at twelve again. In this way he was ensured a slightly different crowd each day.

He stopped off at Mama Brown’s to pick up his sandwich and from there he would positively skip to the little park behind the church where he would meet his flock. There he would unfurl his sarong and worship at the altar of the Sun and Good Looks God.

While he ate he cast an alert eye over the good and the bad taking extra care to turn his nose up just as the bad were looking. By the time he carefully folded away his sandwich wrapping he had already decided which direction he would lie in order to appreciate the art.

Today Art was directly opposite him; a little on the skinny side, but tall. Now what was Art reading? And why on earth was his phone ringing? Never mind, he took the call as a chance to stare a little more overtly over at Art. Periodically he cast his glance elsewhere, whereas Art was now staring across intensely, his stare punctuated by odd glances at the leather bound book he was reading. By the end of the phone call a strange thought crossed Mark’s mind. He had the impression that Art was not overcome by lust, but a strong desire to kill him.

Mark put his phone away and stared at the sky, every now and again turning his head to fish elsewhere. Then Art stood up. Mark watched him slip on his sensible black shoes, shrug on his charcoal grey shirt and finally affixing the white collar. Mark fought to repress a deep guffaw.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

Part II

2007-07-18T17:03:00.000+02:00

Photo ©copyright, 2002. Frantisek Staud

Read Part I

Camille fiddled with the antique dress ring she had picked up in the market that weekend as she waited for her document to open.

Buh dup: Hiya Camille. A little box in the corner of her screen bleated.

Ros!!! Camille typed back

Her phone began to ring. “Camille Delon,” she answered.

“Cammy darling, I can’t find the Triston Report.”

“I sent it last Thursday.”

Buh dup: Come down for a cigarette.

Give me a few minutes.

“I know, but I don’t know where I saved it. Send it again.” The voice whined down the phone.

Buh dup: It’s important.

OK. Wait.

“OK. I’ll just send it now.” Camille assured her boss.

Buh dup: Have you seen the news?

Ros! I’m working!

“Are you sending it now honey?”

“Yes.” Camille clicked open a new mail message and typed in her boss’s address.

“And can you check with the printers to see if the Dalware brochure is ready?”

Buh dup: I’m sending you the link.

Buh dup: Then come for a cigarette.

Camille flicked through her overstuffed diary. “Dalware is due Thursday Sara.”

“Yes, I know, but just so the printers don’t forget us.”

YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM ROS popped up in the corner of her screen.

“The report?” Sara asked.

“Shit!” Camille muttered as she accidentally shut down her own mail message and somehow opened Ros’s. “Shit!” She said louder as her eyes widened. “Sara is Karen in today?”

“No! And the little bitch hasn’t even phoned in. Do you know something?”

“Meet me and Ros downstairs, now.” Camille clicked on the little printer picture.

On my way down now.

Camille and Ros were smoking furiously when Sara arrived. “Where’s the fire? You didn’t send me my report?” She nudged Camille’s arm. Camille handed over the print out.

“Promising Career of South West graduate ended in Jack the Ripper style killing.” Karen’s photo smiled out at Sara. “Well, I think saying that she had a promising career is a bit rich!”

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

Read Part III

Part I

2007-07-17T15:33:00.000+02:00

Photo ©copyright, 2002. Frantisek Staud

He was looking into the not so distant past as he ploughed through his fried eggs and ham. He was still annoyed with Keeler: Keeler the middle aged, middle grade, middle sized lump who couldn’t stand the fact that he was better at the job.

“Kid what makes you think it’s the same killer?” Keeler leered at Kid with that big fat sarcastic smile all over his face, while his caustic blue eyes froze on Kid. Kid leaned languidly against the door frame and rolled his eyes. He looked young, that much was true, but he was no kid. He’d seen stuff and the gore didn’t shock him, whereas Keeler stood with his back to the body. “This girl has her guts spread all over the room.” That much was true and the killer must have hit an artery from the spray all over the place. “That last one we found on the hill and that girl in the alley, she just took a bad beating. Different see?” Keeler heaved his belly up and tucked his hands into his belt to keep it up. “And...” Keeler always had to hammer away his point. “Black girl, Chinese girl, blonde girl. Nothing’s the same. See?” Kid stared off into the distance, somewhere just beyond Keeler’s left ear. “Rape, no rape, beaten up, not beaten up. See?”

Tyler, the forensics guy brushed past Kid into the room. “Geez!” He exhaled slowly. “What a mess.”

Kid unfolded himself from the door frame and snapped a rubber glove from his pocket and leaned over the disgorged corpse. He carefully moved away a strand of blood hardened hair away from the girl’s face. Tyler looked down to where at the nape of the girl’s neck a chunk of hair had been hacked away unevenly. Tyler sucked in his breath then reeled off a few shots. “And?” Tyler turned to Kid impatiently. Kid lifted the left wrist and turned it to reveal a perfectly manicured hand bar the little finger where the top of the nail was torn off.

“Shit man!” Tyler gasped snapping away frenetically. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He said in time to every shot. “We’ve got a serial killer on our hands.”

©copyright, 2007. Verilion

Read Part II

Unshackle that Body

2007-06-24T11:15:00.000+02:00

The secret struggles to escape,
held down by the immeasurable weight of fear,
constricted by empty lungs,
silenced between the bars of chords,
knocking on the immobile tongue,
pleading for release behind wide open eyes.

Prise open those lips,
loosen that tongue,
sing harmony through the chords,
breathe trust into those lungs,
provide a clear path,
fill openly with the lightness of sharing.

©copyright, 2007. Verilion.

From Hurucan

2007-06-20T19:45:00.000+02:00

When Hurucan sparked into existence
did you know that one day I would be with you?
When you first looked into my golden eyes
did you question how I came to be?
As your hands caressed my very force,
did you feel the crackle of unity
skip along your every fibre?

We are connected now, you and I.
We were connected then, you and I
though we did not know it.
A filament so fine joined us
through time and history
drawing us closer together,
though embroiled in other tragic stories.

Travelling closer than further apart,
until the cord between us uncoiled.
Lost in a swirl of confusion
we reached out, caught hold, drew in.
You explore me with your eyes
boring into what is beneath the skin,
the landscape of my very existence.

What did you feel standing before me?
Your soul engulfed in emptiness.
Regret that you were not aware
of my closeness.
Indifferent coincidence brought us together,
the union of senses and being
now holds us in our place.

©Copyright, 2007. Verilion

A way of Being

2007-06-09T11:13:00.000+02:00

Through waves of exhaustion
eyes are drawn to bright shiny things.
Tales of full moon aggressions wane.
Saints and sinners blend into one.
Passion requires an energy that cannot be sparked.
Put life on hold till the bags can fade away
and summer’s rich glow replenishes wasted stock.

Endelyn

2007-06-04T19:25:00.000+02:00

The fire within burns vibrant on her skin,
tattooing vague patterns of blazing dragons
across her flank.
Wild imaginings bursting forth,
swirling to indefinite
beginnings, middles and endings.
Prowling forth into uncertainty,
her radiance undiminished,
her force yet unrealised,
her soul a rich muse
of consciousness.

Silence

2007-05-28T11:37:00.000+02:00

brooding need twisted
in a screaming arid host
tacitly phrased.

Copyright, 2007. Verilion

Jamie Rush and the Special Beans

2007-05-28T11:16:00.000+02:00

Jamie heard the toaster pop and knew that it would be the 17p ‘Special Beans’ from Lidl.

“Dad not home yet?” Jamie said slamming his books down on the peeling formica sideboard.

Mrs Rush looked up and smiled weakly. “Not tonight Jamie. Why don’t you read me one of your stories like you used to?” She pleaded

“Which one do you want? Further Maths or A level Economics?” Jamie spat out and turned on his heel slamming the door behind him.

At first, Jamie had felt sorry for his Dad and understood the draw to go to the pub and listen to Old Man Carragher weave those wondrous stories dripping his special beans between his fingers. As Carragher told the boys on the estate his stories, Jamie would watch the beans shimmer the different colours of a ray of light until Stevie Mack laughed at him. “They’re Haribo jelly beans from the corner shop lad.” Jamie tore his gaze away from their sheen. “Fuck lad! Next I’ll hear you still believe in Father Christmas.” No, Jamie had stopped believing in Father Christmas the year his Dad lost his job at the docks.

“Drink up Dad and come home,” Jamie ordered, standing behind his father.

“Sit down lad.” Carragher beckoned.

“Who are you my old man?” Mr. Rush sighed. “You’re in such a rush to grow up Jamie.” He pulled at Jamie’s arm then began to howl and whacked Carragher on the shoulder. “Rush,” he giggled.

“You’re pissed.” Jamie scolded.

“Oh come on.” Carragher soothed.

Jamie’s temper flared as he looked at the laughter lines around the old man’s eyes and he snatched the beans up and trickled them into the back of his throat. “That’s what I think of your stories and your beans old man.” He snarled and stalked away.

Days later Mr Rush pulled Old man Carragher through his home into his garden where a fresh green stalk, entwined with vine like leaves and blooming white flowers, reached up and up. All the creases in Carragher’s face ironed out in surprise as he realised what it was. There above the tree line was a split open trainer. “I, I don’t believe it!”

“What are you going to do?” Mr. Rush pushed Carragher towards the giant shoot.

Carragher’s jaw worked up and down for a few seconds before he replied: “There’s only one thing I can do.” And he began to climb up. He passed finger like tendrils reaching out.

“Carragher?” He heard a voice like the rustle of leaves and looked up to see a dark slit between the blooms beneath a nose shaped protuberance.

“Jamie?”

“The beans?” Jamie creaked as Carragher carried on climbing, over the chin, up to the plate sized green eye. “Carragher? Help me. Where are you going?”

“Lad.” Carragher called down as he crested the boy’s head. “The name’s Jack and me beans grew.”

“Where are you going?” Jamie pleaded. “Help me.”

“Lad me beans grew. What else is true?”

Unwoven

2007-05-10T10:00:00.000+02:00

By the time the first frayed thread
snagged on your nail,
that sweater fell over your angles like
a reassuring comfort moulded to your form.

There it lay,
twisted at the back of your drawer,
ready to cosset you,
do your will.

But forced to see
by the pinch of the thread;
to become aware;
the holes materialised,
here and there.

You could have mended
those unraveling gashes.
But were you tired, unhappy,
with its uncompromising yarn;
its unwillingness to fit your changing self?

And as the fibre sliced into flesh,
numbing feeling,
you pulled and pulled,
until the fabric of your life,
slowly became unwoven.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

The Curtain Twitcher Watches

2007-05-08T10:57:00.000+02:00

The path to learning
through voices of oral foliage;
autumn long ago.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Mind the Toes!

2007-05-02T23:14:00.000+02:00

Mind the toes get their dose of
dew and wet blades of grass
between their inner most creases.

Mind the toes dig into the generations
of blunted glass
cooly cascading as they emerge.

Mind the toes dip and float
in the crystaline salty
blues and greens.

Mind the toes feel beneath them
the life, soul and grain
of the creaking floor.

Mind the TOES!

copyright, 2007. Verilion

A letter to no one

2007-05-02T23:13:00.001+02:00

Today I received a letter,
a long one;
a letter crying for something.
Begging for understanding?
Begging for forgiveness?
Begging for peace?
I cannot say.
What I do know is that I can give those things:
Understanding, forgiveness, peace,
But it is not from me that they will come.
Not now when we have a channel between us.
Those things have to come from you,
So I choose to save my words
And write a letter to no one.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Gosh!

2007-05-02T23:11:00.000+02:00

A picnic? A picnic? A picnic it is then.
Tins emptied, veggies chopped, mayonnaise squirted,
garlic pressed, chipolatas fried, mango chutney packed,
sarongs, water, keys, tickets, phone, ready.

Text messages, roads closed, under the east pillar.
The smell of fried sausages assaulting the nostrils.
This bridge might be a good spot.
That field might be a good spot.

Here under the tower is a hard spot,
but here under the tower is a good spot.
Trip, tread, careful, slow.
A wave, a smile, no grass to be seen.

We three spread and open,
a salad, some wine, bread, dips
Munch, chew, swallow, sip.
Mm, perhaps we have too much.

The sun sets behind
And glows in the windows
of the tower in front.
What time is it?

Is it time yet?
Is it time yet?
No, it’s not time yet.
It’s not dark yet.

A voice booms out,
echoing incoherently across the wide open spaces.
Is it time yet?
No! It’s not time yet.

Le Tour glows green.
A roar from the crowd,
like a Mexican wave they rise.
Sit down we shout back.

The first notes swim across the champs.
Strings of lights beam up into the sky.
A lump sticks in my throat,
and a fountain of fire rises.

Dandelion heads
descending into a shower of golden fireflies,
twinkling brightly
Then dying out.

Hoops of red white and blue,
hearts reaching out to love you,
twirlers skittering into the sky
exploding loudly into a rainbow

Finally the fountain reaching ever higher, higher.
It’s white brightness glowing on our open mouthed faces.
Explosions of colour upon colour.
A moments silence.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

A Vague Impression

2007-05-02T23:10:00.000+02:00

Last night someone smudged the moon.
They got a big eraser and blurred its edges
into the black night sky.
Embarrassed by its uncertainty
the moon hid behind the trees
and the high ivy covered
stone wall.
The street lamps blinded me
and the sweeping electric gaze of the tower
led my eyes away.
But one lamp flickered out,
leaves shivered in the breeze
and if I stood on tiptoe
I could see a sliver of its translucent glow.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

A Palette of Blues

2007-05-02T23:09:00.001+02:00

If I timed my throws just right
I would hear the shush and gurgle of the sea as it lapped over my feet
followed by the ploop, doomp and putush of my pebbles.

And then I looked at the palette of blues before me
and I tried to name them all.
The sea laughed at my folly and splashed at my page
creating a water colour of its own.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Scared of the Dark

2007-05-02T23:06:00.000+02:00

I’m scared of the dark;
of the darkness inside.
The rotten mass of questions,
imagined possibilities,
of scarlet liquid endings.

I’m scared of the pain;
of the pain inside.
A memory not yet erased,
a reality not imagined,
the invisible incision not healed.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Thoughts in my head...

2007-05-02T23:05:00.000+02:00

I am,
Je suis,
I am an optimist,
Je suis optimiste,
I am too trusting of people.
Je suis quoi?... ouverte… naïf.
I do stupid things,
Je fais des trucs stupides,
I laugh,
Je ris,
I think,
Je pense…
I want…
Je veux…
I want…
Je veux…
J'espère
I hope...

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Inspired by Parenthesis

2007-05-02T23:03:00.000+02:00

Every day I fall in love,
as your voice whispers in my ear.
The melody of sounds
turns the corners of my mouth.
My eyelids flutter downwards in delight.
The construction of phrases so carefully placed.
My fingers follow your body;
caressing, lingering, underlining.
And as I trace patterns on your front and back
my love comes to an end
as I turn the final the page.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Communion

2007-05-02T23:02:00.000+02:00

If the cold crept in and numbed my very soul,

Then the sun suffused my skin and washed it warm again.

If the moon caused my moods to sway back and forth like the ebbing tides,

Then the stars muted light offered hope and deliverance.

Who are we ?

2007-05-02T23:00:00.000+02:00

We are inhabited by an other,
‘til their voice fades,
their story told,
Or ‘til they whisper:
'Not today, another time.'

Observational Records on the Analysis of Dreams – 12/03/07

2007-05-02T22:59:00.000+02:00

Subject x describes dreams full of bright streaming daylight,
yet senses the inner spirit is dark.
In the bright and almost fluorescent radiance of these dreams
subject x is profoundly lost.
What are the possible meanings to this opposition?
Are we to conclude that the darkness is merely the night?
Is subject x engaged in a struggle to wake up?
Or is the darkness a fear that subject x has buried so deep,
that even in the brightest glow cannot be found?
Further observations will continue to consider
each of these hypotheses.

Two sides of the wall: a poem for two voices

2007-05-02T22:58:00.000+02:00

This brushed steel wall is my protection.
(... is my prison.)
I stand far behind it surveying
(... pressed up against it)
the fact that it is tall, wide, strong, impenetrable.
made impotent by the fact that I do not know how to begin to
bring it down

Time

2007-05-02T22:57:00.000+02:00

I watched him play with time
between his fingers:
stretching it,
snapping it,
stopping it
as if it was a pliable material,
like plasticine,
instead of the steady march of
seconds,
minutes,
days and
years
that I knew it to be.

Recollections of the Sea

2007-05-02T22:56:00.000+02:00

Let us worship at the altar of the sea.
the sound of the waves rolling in
sssh
the wind whispering in my ears,
broar,
the sun beating down on my bones.
The sun setting behind the sea’s edges,
when the vermilions merge
and there’s no telling where the sky ends
and the sea begins.
The evenings spent in Mazatlan,
my head resting on my hands
hoping to see that elusive
green flash.
The moon rippling on the waves,
pulling them here and there
and me sitting hugging my knees
captivated by the splendour of it.
The sound of stones
plopping into the water.
The feel of salty spray
washing my face
as my fingers dangle in the wake.
My feet plunged in the water
being tugged by the current.
Come in, come further, let me cleanse you.

Copyright, 2007. Verilion

Scenes at the Garden Party

2007-05-02T22:55:00.000+02:00

Celebrate!
Froth spills over the razor thin crystal edges
as adhesive smiles are pasted over
barely disguised dripping disdain.
Rays of heat illuminate the
staggeringly joyous resignation while
on the other side of the cool horizon
of sombre iron bars
lies freedom;
stretching into the last hours of the day

Degeneration

2007-05-02T22:44:00.000+02:00

It began gradually, little grey spots in the outer corners of her vision getting larger until she seriously thought about getting her eyesight checked. Sometimes they were like solar flares leaving the remnant of a familiar image embossed on her retina. And then as the haze enlarged preening her view, she knew.

It began gradually. As Pete watched her carefully picking at her food as if unsure where to place her fork, he realised that at some point in the past when he had not been paying attention she had stopped laughing, stopped finding his jokes funny. She wore that permanent squint on her face as if she was always questioning.

It began gradually; the affair. She found herself drinking more frequently after work with her colleagues, and he – Simon - was present more often. Their eyes met, they met and suddenly she found she was cheating on Pete. Simon was fun, until he wasn’t; until he began making demands on her time, her life, her future. She gradually realised that she was going to have to free herself of Simon.

The last time she met Simon was in a pub in the forest. As she clasped her glass she realised her hands were shaking and although she tried to keep calm, she knew her eyes were wide open. Her voice shook as she explained to Simon what she wanted, who she didn’t want. His head lowered with every word she uttered and as she left him lolling over his pint she had the impression she had deflated him.

She had parked in a lane away from the pub. In retrospect not a good idea, but the man who grabbed her arm and flung her against the car door was not a stranger. She heard her car keys skitter across the tarmac and saw where they came to lie. His hand was round her neck, his breath hot on her face, his words angry. She closed her eyes to keep out the fear, drawing everything she could into herself. He never saw it coming. His vision exploded into a million tiny flares as her fist impacted under his chin, his hand loosened around her neck and he felt it yanked away as her forearm butted his, as her knee connected with his crotch and the fire spread within him leaving him squirming on his knees. He heard her feet on the tarmac as he hauled himself to his knees, the key in the lock as he staggered to his feet. He tried to hold onto the door as the car moved from beneath him, and he stood uselessly watching the tail lights disappear and was still standing uselessly as the headlights reappeared at great speed and he realised she wasn’t going to stop.

She woke up one morning and screamed and screamed and screamed until Pete came and held her. All that was left of her sight was the negative imprint of a face on her windscreen.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Too late, he said, too late

2007-05-02T22:40:00.000+02:00

“Where’s Inspector Harvey ?” Officer Garland asked the young PC at the front door who replied with a bored shrug of the shoulders then added: “Kitchen; maybe.” Garland followed the sounds of clinks and clatters and found Harvey with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hands plunged in a sink full of suds.

“No family then.” Harvey stated.

“No. How do you know?” Garland smiled. “Intuition I suppose?”

Harvey looked back and smiled sadly at the younger officer. “The curtain had fallen down.” He turned back to the sink a sudden lump in his throat preventing him from carrying on. She had had no one to call for help. She had lain in her bathroom for weeks before the neighbours had finally noticed they hadn’t seen her for a while.

“Sad.” Garland sighed patting Harvey on the shoulder. “I see you put the curtain back up.”

Harvey nodded.

Later Harvey surprised his boys by picking them up after school, telling his wife to go shopping and treat herself and even though he’d seen his mother two days before, he took the boys to buy Chinese take away and they all ate it round at Nanna’s.

“What came over you tonight?” Harvey’s wife asked as she bustled around the room putting away her purchases. Harvey shrugged. His wife turned round and pulled the well worn Adoption Services envelope from his hand. “Are you going to call your birth mother?” She asked.

“Nah,” Harvey shook his head. “No point now love.”

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Cheese Sandwich

2007-05-02T22:38:00.001+02:00

Her eyes were closed and she was rhythmically stroking the spine of her book; up and down. He found this arousing, which was a shame: his words were the reason she had closed in on herself.

“I just don’t seem to be getting through to you anymore. You seem to get more pleasure out of eating a cheese sandwich in the bath than from me. I just don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Untitled #3

2007-05-02T22:37:00.001+02:00

The last time I saw him if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself maybe I would have noticed that for a bloke of his size he wasn’t supposed to be that size.

“Do you remember that nutty woman who used to stalk you in the cemetery?

I laughed remembering how my pubescence had hidden her black cloak and wild hair, I had seen breasts, a pretty face and my imagination ran wild until the day I had mistakenly tried to engage her in conversation and found myself momentarily locked into her insanity by her wild eyes. “Where is he? They put him here.” She scared the shit out of me and until today I hadn’t set foot in this cemetery again.

“Adam fancied the local crackpot, looking for her dead husband’s grave.” Christy burst into a lung spilling cough that he called laughter. “She said he’d died of influenza.” Christy’s red face could barely spit out the last words. “In 1875!” I should have noticed the way Caroline was looking at him.

Through grey drizzle I found a splash of floral colour, it had to be him: the grave was fresh and no headstone marked his spot. Plastic covered cards bid Christy Whelan farewell and I sank to my knees to do the same. “Sorry I was late,” I mumbled.

Behind me a voice I remembered sang out: “Christy Whelan. He died of influenza.”

Turning to see her face I said: “I thought you were her.”

Untitled #2

2007-05-02T22:34:00.000+02:00

Afterwards when she wondered how she had ended up alone in the remnants of his life, she put it down to this. It was raining. The lights were red. She hit the brakes. The bike slid. She slid along the slick surface, her head coming to rest by his boots.

Untitled #1

2007-05-02T22:33:00.000+02:00

She had nothing more than luck and good timing on her side the day she locked me away. But one day I would be free, I just hope that she didn’t kill herself before I could. On my timescale fifteen years was nothing, but she had achieved what lesser demons only dreamed of and that PISSED-ME-OFF. And believe me, I am not someone you want to piss off; not when you’ve let me into your deepest fears.

Her hold had been diminishing for some time now and one day my world shook and a crack appeared, just a slither of light seeped through into my prison, but it was enough for me to slip through and there she lay. In fifteen years the Crystal lady had eaten away at her nostrils and flesh leaving a skin covered sack of bones. No make up could cover up the fact that this mistress had tried to forget me; it almost made me smile.

When she woke up she turned the place upside down looking for the powder for her nose. I heard her crying and moaning, she knew it was somewhere and I knew exactly where it was and finally she saw me. “Fuck!” She exhaled. “You! It can’t...” She trembled and her red-rimmed eyes brimmed over and spilled salt.

“Now don’t tell me you didn’t realise this day would come.”

“I, I, I...” She staggered around the room until her eyes fell on the box in my hand. “Fuck!”

“It’s in here. What you’re looking for.” I opened the box and the sweet poppy smell filled the room.

She fell onto her bony knees, grappling at my legs. “I’m sorry, you scared me. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“When did you not know what you were doing? The day you sold me your soul or the day you locked me away?” Dribble oozed from the side of her mouth as her eyes begged forgiveness. “It’s in here Lara,” I waved the box in front of her again. “Take it.” I waved the box before her.

“What is it?” Her feral nose wrinkled at the end.

“What you desire.”

“You tricked me before.” She curled up onto her haunches. I raised an eyebrow. “Just tell me?” She begged.

“Are you scared to look?” I took her by the wrist. “You were scared that day weren’t you? The day you held on and couldn’t look.”

“I couldn’t look. All that water, all those bodies.” Her body quivered as I laid her on the bed.

“And I took that away for you didn’t I?” I stroked her feverish forehead and opened the box a crack.

“What is it? It’s so blue?” She craned forward.

“It’s the sea my darling.” I cooed as I pushed her in and kept her under.

In the end the coroner wrote ‘drug overdose’ on her death certificate. He couldn’t bring himself to write drowning on an official document when she lived two thousand metres above sea level.

The Blank Canvas

2007-05-02T22:29:00.000+02:00

“I know it’s not much of a view, but one day I’m going to make it better.” I frowned as I flexed Carl’s left leg. The only way that wall could be prettier was to knock the building down. “You never asked me how I broke my back?” Just because I was paid to feed them their drugs and make sure their muscles didn’t give up the ghost completely they thought they could pour their stories into me. He stared out the window as I swapped legs. “It’s my blank canvas, it’s stayed blank.” He turned his gaze towards me. “One day I’ll tag it.” His gaze full of belief froze the frown on my forehead.

We didn’t talk about the wall again, but as his mood darkened as the days got shorter I looked up at the wall relief flooding through me each day it stayed blank.

I smelled acetone before I saw them: three of them, faceless behind their oversized hoods. I could have walked away, but for some reason I kicked the crates out from under them and sprayed one of them with mace before I was grabbed by the shoulder and realised how stupid I’d been. I wondered how badly they’d hurt me when a can of spray paint bounced heavily off a hooded head. The other two were gone before he crumpled to the floor.

As I looked up at Carl clutching his window frame I wondered when I had started to believe again.

copyright, 2007. Verilion

Recalling Time

2006-08-28T16:49:00.000+02:00

I remember my father being a distant man; beginning with his colossal stature of six foot four to the simple fact that he was never at home. He was a man that simply never understood the needs of a child. This became clear to me on our first and last trip as a family to Paris.

We came for four days – I think he was on a business trip - and stayed in a slap up hotel behind the rue de Rivoli. My mother and I barely saw him. A flash of suit as he flew in and out in the morning while my mother desperately tried to arrange me into some semblance of order. She found the whole experience excruciating; she was a nervous woman raised to keep up standards and the fact that she found even the chambermaids immaculately beautiful sent her into a frenzy the moment my shoelace came undone.

On our last afternoon in Paris my father had cleared his schedule so that my mother could go shopping. Of course this sent her into a complete dither. She had to navigate the Paris Metro by herself, complete the never ending task of making me presentable and then pretend that she was going to enjoy the ordeal of shopping in a foreign place in a language she could make neither head nor tail of. And I was in a lather of excitement, my nostrils flaring at the explosion of smells, the straining to hear the occasional squeaks of the accordions, and rocking in time with the motion of the metro.

By the time we arrived in the Jardin de Luxembourg I could barely contain myself. I swung backwards and forwards in the sun warmed green metal chairs kicking up the gravel and dust over my white socks and shorts with every sway. I itched to jump off my chair and join the boys around the pond with their bamboo sticks. I could feel their pleasure as they pushed their brightly painted wooden sail boats and watched them gently drift away, sometimes bumping into one another, the sails wobbling dangerously, sometimes sailing all the way to the middle. I wanted to scream with those boys; I could understand every ooh and aah that came from their mouths even though I spoke not a word of French

But I also understood the rhythmic shake of my mother’s heeled foot. The way her lips smacked as she dragged on her cigarette, sitting there in her favourite pale green Jaeger suit. And suddenly the shaking stopped. She wearily unfolded her legs, leaned towards me and straightened my collar, pulled up my shorts and looked at me sympathetically as if she knew that she was being spared a tedious afternoon and she was sorry that I had to go through it.

My mother and father didn’t exchange a word as I was swapped from one hand to another. I looked from her to my father to the boys leaning eagerly around the pond and then I was whisked around and my father and I began a treacherous march up hill. My little legs could barely keep up with him. As I watched my sandaled feet and my slightly yellowed socks all I could think of was those sail boats gently swaying in the breeze.

I remember his monotone voice which kept time with his steps. He was explaining something about the building, a story about some lovers - Clovis and Clotilde. I never could remember their story, but I remember suddenly being enveloped by a cool shadow that brought relief from the stifling heat. I looked up at the walls and columns that seemed to go up forever, even my father was dwarfed in comparison to this building.

My father wasn’t a very good storyteller which is probably why I don’t remember a single part of the Clovis and Clotilde story. Even though he tried to remind me of the details as we looked blindly at the gargantuan murals in the cavernous interior. My father would drone some intricate detail and my eyes would dart from the walls to the large gold orb that swung lazily backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. I was hypnotized by it and finally my father noticed where my attention was really held and he walked to the edge of the transept.

“Foucault used this pendulum to prove that the earth rotated,” my father explained. That didn’t make much sense to me, but he continued regardless. “You see the white circular band with the numbers on the side?” He asked me and I nodded eagerly. This I could understand. “Well, the orb tells the time.” Time, time was something I had a vague grasp of. I knew that at seven o’clock for instance I woke up and had my breakfast. I knew that at eight o’clock in the evening I had to brush my teeth and then my mother would put me to bed.

“Foucault’s pendulum tells time in a very special way.” My father continued. He reached inside his shirt and took off his St. Christopher medal. He began swinging it before my eyes. “Am I moving, William?” He asked me.

“No,” I answered my eyes glued to the medal.

“Is this building moving, William?”

I stopped, the world around me stopped including my breath as I scanned the building for signs of movement. “No,” I finally gasped as I dared to breathe again.

“So how can the pendulum tell the time?”

I felt a fog fill my brain as my eyes followed the to and fro movement of the medal. My father waited for what seemed like an eternity before he seemed to realise that I was five and couldn’t possibly answer his question.

“Because the earth is moving William. The building isn’t moving William. The pendulum swings backwards and forwards, but the whole world is moving, and as the whole of the earth moves round in a circle the pendulum swings to another minute, another hour; so it tells the time.”

Once more I peered at the golden orb. All my father’s words twisted and turned in my head creating a knot of confusion. As I weaved through my puzzlement my fathers words seeped away until only the ones I understood remained. As I turned back to watch my father’s medal I saw his hand reach out and grasp it. I gasped and the sound echoed out away from me filling the walls.

“What’s the matter William?” My father reached down and took my chin.

“Have you stopped time?” I whispered. I had felt it, truly felt it, he had, I could still hear my gasp echoing out there.

He gave me a slightly irritated look and shook his head. “You have understood nothing William, have you?”

But I understood one thing that day. I understood that the distance between the floor where I stood and the tip top of the dome that seemed to reach up to heaven was still nearer than the distance between my father and I.

Feeding the Pigeons

2006-07-08T00:29:00.000+02:00

“It’s nice here really my lovelies isn’t it? Even though you can hear the roar of traffic and the rythmic chugging of the trains pulling out behind us heading up north, we’ve still claimed a bit of London for ourselves here haven’t we?

“This patch of land used to be so different when I was a girl. My mother wouldn’t have wanted me sitting here everyday, but over the years one way or another I’ve come to fit in with this little park. Sitting here watching the canal flow past. Before it would be young girls - not nice girls - who would be here sitting on piles of rubbish. And then the bad boys who left their nasty rubbish all around. Dangerous rubbish it was. But now look. Each day as the weather has improved they bring their tidy little packed lunches and sit on the bench across from me nibbling away. They’re not bad girls, and they don’t have bad habits. And then when they have finished I collect their scraps to feed you.”

Maya sat slightly slouched on the bench next to Kate, her long legs spread before her trying to understand what she was feeling. On the rare occasions when Kate would break the silence she could hear her words, she could see the world around her, yet she still had the impression that she was slighlty apart from this world; as if she was floating in her own individual translucent bubble. She could see the reeds at the water’s edge gently waving at her. She could see the odd beer cans floating in the water beyond and smell the fumes seeping in from the gates behind her. She could see the lady across from her, but nothing sharp or hurtful could seep into her bubble. As Maya took a miniscule bite of her feta and rocket wholemeal sandwich her attention was caught by the flurry of activity at the lady’s feet. Maya watched as an arc of crumbs flew through the air and landed in an ellipse in the gravelly dirt that was instantly filled by pigeons.

“Is she feeding those bloody pigeons?” Maya snapped a look of disgust creasing her face.

The two women’s attention glided from the pecking pigeons to the lady who was now arranging her belongings around her. First the lid of the bottle of ice tea was removed, replaced and carefully arranged to her left. Then she moved the bottle to the right where the women noticed three other variously sized bottles. From behind her the lady conjured up a handbag and began rummaging through it, pulling out a hand mirror and comb. Maya’s attention was fixed on the lady as she preened herself and ran the comb through her already perfectly in place jet black bob. Finally the mirror was snapped shut by a slightly wrinkled but well groomed hand and placed back in the handbag along with the comb.

“I still like to look after myself. I learnt that a long time ago. But, I keep my hair shorter now. It’s easier to manage. Oh, when I was her age, that young one over there, I had a mane of hair all the way down my back. I used to comb and comb it until it shone in the dark. And then I would tease it into a ponytail that would cascade and wave as I walked. I cut quite a picture I can tell you.

“Now he, he loved my ponytail. He used to like twisting it around his palm and when he reaced my nape he would bunch his hand into a fist and pull my head back. I still tremble thinking about the way his lips moved over my throat and just when I thought I could take no more he’d let go and we would plunge into each other and cling on as if we’d drown if we let go. He always knew exactly what to do. He always knew how to get me to do more than I wanted to do. He was dangerous, the way he would trap me and then let me go.

“In the end that’s exactly what he did to me. Instead of going to dance school, I left school. He trapped me and then he let me go.”

Maya gasped and sat up. She looked quickly at Kate to see if she had noticed what had happened. The lady was still chatting away, rearranging those bottles but a moment before she had looked directly at Maya, smiled and started talking to her. Even though Maya couldn’t quite hear the words or make sense of the sounds that drifted over, she was sure the lady was talking to her.

"She’s talking to herself.” Kate sighed. “Did you notice?” Kate’s pitying gaze lingered on the lady a moment longer before dropping back to the tin foil parcel in her hands.

“No, I didn’t notice.” Maya replied guiltily her gaze drifting over to the lady. She realised that she had been completely oblivious to everything in the past. Oblivious to everything, except her one driving wish which had sealed her eyes to her husband’s infidelity. Sometimes Maya wished to scream it at the top of her lungs, ‘No, I did not notice.’ And her confession would shatter the bubble surrounding her. Shards of glass would radiate away from her as the world slowed down and each piece would land in the direct centre of every heart that had ever hurt her causing a minor prick of discomfort. But for him she would save the largest, sharpest shard which would traverse straight through his heart leaving a gaping wound that would prevent him from ever feeling love again; so that he would feel as she felt now - empty and disorientated in the world.

“You’d think she was a nanny wouldn’t you?” Kate said starting to turn the foil packet over and over in her hands.

“Why?” Maya asked her eyebrows knitting together into a frown.

“That pushchair she’s got with her.” Kate nodded in the lady’s direction. “But there’s no child.” Kate looked up at Maya and quickly lowered her eyes.

No, no child, Maya agreed as she looked at the shabby pushchair, its only load a large plastic checked carry all stuffed to bursting point. Maya scanned the scene again. “No, no child, just fucking pigeons.” She said vehemently.

“Sorry?” Kate’s brow furrowed as she turned to Maya.

As Maya turned her gaze to Kate she imagined an apology beginning to form on Kate’s lips and that she couldn’t bear. “Nothing!” Maya replied. “They are just dirty animals aren’t they.”

Kate looked questioningly at Maya.

“Pigeons.” Maya forced a smile.

“I really thought he loved me. I was so naïve though. It turned out that he already had a wife and family. The last thing he needed was me and my little bundle of joy.

“The break-up was hard though. Sometimes I felt like a ghost passing through the world I was so separate from everyone else. I do wonder now if it would have been different if there had been no child. Whether it would have been easier to bear. But no, because when Jason came he was a real pleasure. He was so beautiful. He had the biggest blue eyes. And the curls on his head. Oh, when he fell asleep on my lap and I would just sit there pulling gently on them. I was so happy then. Even if he always was a dirty little thing. Oh wherever there was dirt he would find it. But he was happy and I was such a happy mother.”

Maya watched as the lady straightened out and patted down her grey pencil skirt with a smile on her face. She wondered what was so amusing.

“Why do you think she’s here?” Kate mused turning the packet in her hands slower and slower.

“Well, I don’t think she’s on her lunch break.” Maya retorted a smile crossing her face for the first time in what felt like months.

“Mmm...” Kate agreed absent-mindedly.

Maya looked at Kate’s hands. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like your sandwich?”

“Oh it’s Craig’s sandwich,” Kate said finally putting the sandwich down beside her. “I must have picked it up by mistake this morning.”

“Or maybe he picked up yours.” Maya suggested. That’s what Phil used to do, he would pick up the largest sandwich regardless of filling.

“I doubt it. He wasn’t even out of bed when I left this morning.” A short laugh escaped from Kate’s lips to be replaced by her usual frown. “It’s just that he’s vegetarian and I worry that he isn’t eating enough.”

Maya raised an eyebrow.

“But they change as they get older.. I bet that one there staring at her sandwich, the older one, I bet she has a teenage boy. Yes, I understand that look. Where is he? What’s he doing? But you worry because you love them, that’s right isn’t it? You know, even though Jason’s face grew thinner and his curls got greasier and his beautiful skin became spotty, I still loved him so. Even when the trouble started.

“Oh to begin with it was just boy’s pranks. Shoplifting in Woolworths. The manager phoned me up to tell me he had been caught and the look he gave me when I went to pick him up. But all boys get into a spot of bother don’t they? And then the policeman who lived round the corner. Well, one night he brought Jason home rip roaring drunk. But again all boys start drinking eventually and they get it wrong don’t they? It wasn’t the end of the world was it? I can’t say that I really liked the girlfriend who suddenly appeared one day with her airs and graces, but that’s what all mothers say isn’t it? I told my friends that at least he wasn’t going with every girl in the neighbourhood. But they seemed to think that it would be better if he was. They would come round supposedly for a cup of tea or to borrow something, but really it was to say, funny smell round here. Is that another new burn in your furniture? Always casting judgement. They wouldn’t have understood how hurt Jason was when she left. They didn’t find him lying in the bath those billowing pools of bright red spilling out of his wrists. Of course, he went a bit off the rails after that.”

“How is Craig?” Maya asked,it seemed the right thing to do. Sometimes she needed to go through a little checklist in her head just to make sure she didn’t completely disappear. Talk to people, check. Enquire after people, check. It didn’t really matter if you listened, you just had to play by the rules so that people didn’t think you were completely crazy like the lady sitting opposite them.

Kate unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite as if she needed time to think of a suitable reply. Finally she answered with a shrug of her shoulders and; “He’s OK.” Then returned her gaze to her sandwich and Maya watched as her shoulders sagged. “He’s just having a bit of a rough time at school at the moment.”

“Oh that’s difficult,” Maya sympathised. Again it seemed the right response, but she could feel a panic begin to grip her stomach. What if Kate wanted to say more? What if she was expected to say more?

“He just doesn’t know what he wants to do.” Kate sighed. “They have to make choices so young nowadays don’t they?”

“Mmm.” Maya agreed her eyes wide. “And kids get up to such mischief nowadays.” She shook her head silently wishing for this conversation to end. “Getting into trouble with the police and all sorts.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realised that she had strayed from the unwritten script.

“He’s not like that at all.” Kate’s voice had risen in pitch. “He’s a good boy really. I’m lucky really. He’s just a bit confused about what he wants to do with his future that’s all.”

“Yes,” Maya nodded manically wondering how on earth she was going to extricate herself from this situation. Once she had listned to Kate’s problems. She had been the one who could help Kate, talk to Kate, calm Kate. But now who was she? How could she possibly advise a woman who had succeeded in everything she had failed in? What could she possibly say that would make Kate feel better? She understood confusion, she shared that with Craig, but there was nothing in Maya’s experience which could say whether the confusion would lead to better or worse. In the ending of one relationship, Maya now felt unable to function in all her relationships and this scared her more than she could ever reveal.

“Oh I know that tone of voice. Oh dear, I used to pretend too. Even when it became blindingly obvious that things were wrong, but I just had to pretend that everything was alright. Otherwise it got too hard.

“But then things started disappearing from the house. At first I tried to ignore it. It was the radio from the bathroom first, just a little old thing. And then the radio from the kitchen. The money from my special drawer that I was saving for a rainy day, that started to disappear little by little. The TV was a little harder to ignore, as was the furniture.

“I know what those curtain twitchers would have said, but I was his mother, he was my son. What could I do?”

“There’s going to be a meeting at school with his teacher and we’re going to try and sort things out.” Kate blurted out quickly.

“I am sure everything will work out Kate.” Maya sighed gratefully staring at her feet. She concentrated on relaxing her breathing and when she felt calm again she looked across at the lady on the bench “Oh my God!” Maya guffawed.

“What?” Kate almost jumped out of her skin.

“Where the hell did she get that from?” Maya nodded in the direction of the lady. Sitting on the bench as if it had been magicked from thin air was a stuffed velour rottweiler. It was about the size of a large puppy and as the lady continued her chundering she arranged and stroked his velvety head lovingly.

“Of course there were times when things got better. He said that he had been confused and he tried ever so hard to work things out. He even got a job and he bought me this dog. I’d always liked dogs, but we couldn’t have one, not in that tiny poky flat. But it’s very realistic don’t you think?

Maya and Kate looked at the old lady again. Now she was carefully arranging a rain coat over her knees.

“And then things went bad again. I still loved him even though I had to look after him again. Maybe I loved him more then, because he needed me again. And It seemed like such a long time since he had needed me.

“I was there when he was sick, mopping his brow and holding his hair out the way. I washed those curls of his again and cleaned under his finger nails and behind his ears. I ignored the lines of pin pricks along his arms and legs and hoped that they would one day fade. I ignored the blood that came from his mouth and hoped that too would one day stop. I ignored the blood that came from elsewhere. I ignored what was killing him, what made him sicker, what took his breath away, what took his life away.

“It seems I ignored it all. How did that sickness come into my house? How did that sickness take him away from me?”

The two women watched the lady pack her stuffed toy away into the checked hold all and forced the zip up. They watched as she rearranged the bag in the pushchair. Maya’s attention was diverted by what sounded like rolling thunder getting louder and louder. She looked down the tree lined path to see two gangly teenage hoodies weave their way towards them on skateboards. One of the hoodies continued weaving in wide slow arcs down the path while the other stopped directly opposite her. She watched as he slammed his foot on the back of the board so that it jumped into his hand in a fluid movement. She felt herself draw in a sharp breath and heard Kate inhale deeply. Maya watched breathlessly as the youth seemed to incline his cloaked head in Kate’s direction like Death viewing his prey. His shadowy features appeared to be glaring at the sandwich in Kate’s hand. Maya felt herself instinctively bunch her handbag strap tightly in her hands.

The youth stepped away and shrugged reaching into the bulging pocket that spread across his middle. As he pulled the object out Maya saw sunlight glint off shining metal and a tiny shrill squeak escaped from between her parted lips. The youth turned his back on the women soundlessly and leant over to lay his gleaming package next to the lady before dropping his skateboard back onto the path, pushing off with one foot and rolling off as quickly as he had appeared.

“She’s just going to feed it to the pigeons.” Maya commented. When Kate didn’t answer she looked at her and found her exchanging a knowing smile with the lady.

“She’s going to feed the sandwich to the pigeons.” Maya repeated feeling a hysteria rise in her.

Kate put a hand over Maya’s and smiled. “And that’s OK.” She squeezed Maya’s hand. “It’s going to be OK.”

Untying the Bonds

2006-07-03T12:18:00.000+02:00

So far everything Sophie did was routine: opening the boot and throwing in her overstuffed little black suitcase, now moving round to the passenger seat and throwing in the road map. No. This was a little different; usually it would be on his knee for the whole journey his finger tracing their route from A to B. The water bottle would also usually be on his side and he would make sure that he watered her regularly. He always seemed to be able to judge just when she was wilting, Sophie thought as she jammed the bottle into her door. She sat in the driver’s seat and threw her CD case onto the passenger seat. She watched as it skidded over the glossy cover of the road map onto the floor. She cursed as she leaned over and scooped it up from the floor and placed it a little more carefully on the seat beside her.

“There,” she said aloud to herself as if the sound of her voice could chase away the inane thoughts of bad omens.

Next Sophie set about adjusting her mirrors, her seat, her seat belt. Fine, fine, fine, everything was fine in the car; she was fine in the car. Was she? The tears had stopped and the tight anxious feeling which prevented her from eating was lessening. I’m doing this, she reminded herself. She had packed a case; she had shut up her tiny little apartment, making sure to leave upturned bottles of water in the window boxes before she closed the windows. She had pulled all the plugs out, done the dishes, because no one was going to do it for her. Nope, she wasn’t going to come home and find that he had miraculously changed his mind and done her dishes.

Sophie checked her wing mirror, indicated, checked her blind spot and pulled out. There was nothing behind her, but old habits die hard. He always laughed at her English politeness. “When do you ever see anyone indicating to pull out of a parking space?”

“Well, maybe people wouldn’t drive around for forty-five minutes desperately trying to find a parking space, madly reversing at the least possibility of one or honking their horns to find out if someone is parking or pulling out.”

“If you don’t like it Sophie...”

How many times had he threatened her with that sentence and when had he started meaning it?

When she had first arrived and it was all new, she had had the same anxious knot in her stomach and each time he said that it was as if the knot tightened one notch. Her face would crumple and he would notice her gaze on him for that one second too long. A smile would spread across his face and he would rub his thumb along her chin, along her bottom lip, between her lips gently forcing her mouth open.

“You know I don’t mean it.”

But each time was a little reminder; you are a guest in my country, you don’t belong here. Now, as she pulled effortlessly onto the peripherique she wondered if she still felt like a guest. The radio was on Le Mouv and she knew that in between her CD’s she would flick onto France Info for the traffic news as she continued her journey southwards. What radio station would she listen to in England? Is that what made her feel at home? She had read somewhere a few weeks before that home was where your post was delivered. For months his post had still arrived at their home. She had felt lost then, afraid to leave the apartment for fear of what she would find when she returned.

The reception on Le Mouv was getting worse. She flicked onto her second pre-programmed station. Traffic was fine. Not that she had been worried, it was Monday and nobody left Paris on Monday. Nope, Parisians preferred to wait until it was a journee rouge or orange when the traffic was at its worse and leave en masse. He liked to leave with the rest of the crowd. Just because they had rented a gite from Saturday to Saturday, they left on Saturday. She had fought at first. “You don’t drive, you don’t know how tiring it is to drive in traffic.” His solution had been to get Christophe and Celine to join them on their weekends away so that the car was heavier and when Christophe took over the driving she cringed every time he clunked gears or she heard her poor engine whirring as Christophe cruised on blissfully unaware that there was a fifth gear. So that had been one more battle she had lost, and that was without even going into the whole Christophe and Celine thing. Christophe was a sexist prig and an afternoon with Celine made you want to go and hug a cactus for comfort. But she had persevered, she had eventually warmed to them both and then without warning came the big freeze. Dinner invitations, parties, cinema outings, a whole year where they were not invited at all. He had eventually confronted Christophe about it and discovered that it was due to some insensitive comment that she had made about Celine. He had been so upset with her.

“Well, you can be a little gauche at times.”

“It was a joke.” She had defended herself.

“But you don’t know Celine. She was humiliated that you made a joke about her to your friends.”

The rest of the discussion had taken place in her head as she had furiously pushed her trolley around Monoprix. My friends understood it was a joke, and that if I was making a joke about Celine it was because I considered her a friend. After three years you say I don’t know her. I don’t know her. I haven’t spent countless weekends with her miserable face in the back of my car reading her every single bloody thought. How my little Peugeot wasn’t big enough for her perfect long legs, bum or ego. How many times? How many times had she not said what she meant or rather said what she hadn’t meant. Well, no more, Sophie thought.

She decelerated a little and reached over for her CD case. She hadn’t really paid attention to what she had grabbed that morning. The CD collection had been split rather unceremoniously. On returning from a bank appointment to sort out her new single life she had found him rifling through the collection. A packed bag by the door had already signalled his presence. She had known that this was coming, but when she had seen what he had started to choose she had snapped. He had always been the one to mercilessly take the piss about her choice of music and yet that was her REM CD, her Belle & Sebastien, her Radiohead.

Sophie fell to her knees before the CD rack. “Here why don’t you take this?” John Lee Hooker flew across the room smashing into the table as his surprised expression ducked just in time. “Or this with her fucking tweetie pie voice.” St. Etienne bounced off his shoulder before sliding under the sofa. “Or this piss boring tosser.” The corner of the Jacques Brelle CD caught his hand covering his face and she knew she had hurt him and she had an uncontrollable urge to scream for joy. Good, good, good, at last. Of course it had all ended in tears as she retrieved broken pieces of plastic from the most unlikely corners for days.

So what did she have in here? She was terrible at labelling her burnt CD’s; apparently this was another fatal flaw of hers. But a smile spread across her face as it started. It was Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. She remembered the first time she had heard it from start to finish. It had been a Saturday morning. Five or six am, she couldn’t exactly remember, but it had been early. She had waited shivering on Mutley Plain for the mini-bus to pick her up and when it arrived the door was opened her bag was pulled in, she followed and as the door was slammed shut behind her she was handed a joint without even being fully aware of who was in the bus. After the last passenger had been picked up the music had started and so she always associated that album with that weekend, that experience with that album: Nine go off to jump out of a plane.

She had had crazy ideas back then. What the hell had she wanted to jump out of a plane for? Was she crazy? Who knows, but she had done stuff then because she wanted to, not because it was the best thing to do or because she had compromised.

“You know, in a relationship Sophie you have to compromise.” He had said to her after one of her explosions. But what had he compromised? She had moved to Paris, she had moved into his life. He hadn’t been unkind to her, he hadn’t treated her badly, abused her, but gradually her life had been packed away into neat little boxes. First her paintings. “Oh but Sophie we don’t have room to put them all up.” So they were stored in the cave while the walls of the salon stayed bare. Then a flat pack box containing a small chest of drawers from IKEA had appeared.

“I thought you could put all your paints away tidily.” How thoughtful she had thought with a tinge of pain as the brightly flecked easel was folded away and the paints were organised and put away.

Eventually the wardrobe became uniform black and one day she threw out her last pair of Doc Marten boots. Not big things, none of it was huge, but little by little what had she become? When he had come home from work and sat on the sofa staring out the window she used to bounce onto the sofa and stick her head on his lap declaring: “ME time!” When had that stopped? People change, they can’t be expected to stay the same, but where had the girl who jumped out of planes gone? When had she become afraid to take risks?

She had known, no that was a lie, she had guessed that something was wrong. She had fought; she had tried to pull him back to her, while secretly knowing that something had changed beyond repair.

There had been a longing inside of her. There were nights when she woke up, in her dreams she had been holding it, clutching it, it had named her and to wake up with empty hands filled her with a pain so deep she thought she would never have the strength to get out of bed. In those moments the space between them in bed was immeasurable.

As Sophie sang along to Getting Better she smiled. Now she could name it. Then the longing had been for a him or her, a small bundle of joy. Yes, she had been longing to give birth to something, but now she realised it was her. She wanted to break out of herself.

Sophie had been aimlessly roaming around yet another supermarket having forgotten what had made her enter and as she scanned the aisles she hoped it would return to her; instead she found a familiar face. Despite the fact that they hadn’t seen each other for years Christine had been shocked. Sophie had lost weight and looked positively gaunt. She hadn’t managed to get anything out of Sophie in the supermarket, but she had been worried enough to pay a visit to the apartment.

As Sophie opened the door, she explained that she was tackling the mountain of dishes. Christine roamed round the rooms that looked in a state of semi-demolition. The study was in particular disarray, but then Christine looked again. No, the study was the one place where something was going on. Sophie’s easel was out, paints, brushes, linseed oil mixed with the harsh smell of white spirit were scattered irreverently around the room. It was then that Christine understood he was gone.

Sophie had finally appeared with two gin and tonics and found Christine in front of her half finished canvas. “What does it mean?” Christine took her gin and tonic without tearing her eyes away from the canvas.

Sophie frowned. “I’m not sure yet.”

The two women continued to stare at the canvas.

Sophie laughed out loud as the first bars of For the benefit of Mr. Kite started. He, Bob, the prodigious joint producer had loved the song. In the evening after their first day of training, as the shadows grew darker and the yawns grew ever wider, one by one the other seven had gone to bed leaving her facing Bob. She had suddenly felt confident to reveal herself and had grabbed his notebook scribbling a silly picture. She had passed it to him and he had scribbled a line or two. This had gone on for an hour or two, he providing lines that she illustrated or vice versa. Finally his creativity had extended to joining several sheets together with rizlas to provide her with a huge canvas.When the others had risen the following morning, they had found all the chairs tables and sofas pushed out the way. The floor was covered with a huge sheet of paper covered in the biro and pencil turmoil of Bob’s words and her pictures. The bottom left corner of the paper was relatively clear and the tip of a wing could be made out. As the eye followed the outline of the wing through several shades of biro the form of an angel could be made out. Bob’s words filled in much of the feathers and body and Sophie’s frantic shading filled in the rest.

Sophie had stuck her head out from her sleeping bag and scanned seven sleep filled eyes in awestruck faces. Bob had woken up shortly afterwards and manically folded the whole damn thing up before announcing he was off to move the mini-bus, ready to take them to the jump centre. The weather had turned that night while they slept so that they didn’t even jump that day, although in a way Sophie already had.

By the time Sophie pulled into Christine’s she was nearing the end of her Catatonia CD. The afternoon sunlight was spilling into the car casting a golden glow over her dashboard. Sophie left the key in the ignition so that she could belt out the last few lines of the song. As she watched Christine come out she rolled down the window and continued even as Christine leant in laughing at her. As the last bars faded away Christine could barely contain herself.

“Did you bring them?”

Sophie nodded and got out the car. She opened the back door and carefully pulled out the blanket which had been protecting the canvases on the journey down. Sophie carefully took one and Christine the other, then she followed Christine into the house into the best lit room for this time of the afternoon. Sophie knew that Christine’s preciseness was covering a thinly disguised zeal to see what was beneath the brown paper covering.

The paintings were placed side by side and then together they ripped the paper away. They stepped back in unison and admired the two paintings. The first was set in a black gradually turning to burgundy background framing a standing woman, looking defiantly out from the canvas bound by thick leather belts with chunky silver buckles. As the eye followed her outline down to her right hand which was free from the rest of her body, it became apparent that the belts were falling away releasing her.

The second painting was of the same woman, the background was now pale blue, celestial. The woman was now naked with her head slightly bowed to one side as if looking over her shoulder. Her fingers were spread wide and she seemed to be in the process of spreading her wings.

Miss Havers Serves Justice

2006-07-02T19:03:00.000+02:00

Elaine had been wondering where she had put her free bus pass when the shoe had crashed down on the bench. She was trying very hard to pay attention, but these court cases were complicated and the language they used wasn’t always as clear as could be and Mr. Keebles had been sick that morning. He had looked sheepishly at her with his big amber eyes and then away from the big pile of foul smelling vomit he had deposited on the rug by the door, then he had looked back at her, finally as if he was disgusted by the whole affair he had stalked off with his tail straight up in the air. Poor Mr Keebles, Elaine thought. She had had to clear up the mess and with all the muddle she couldn’t remember where she had put her pass and that’s when the shoe landed on the bench. It was Exhibit A, she wasn’t sure what that meant but she tried to promise herself that she would do her best to listen from now on.

As a child, her Dad’s friend Alan had been selected for jury service and the whole Close had been proud that one of their own had been deemed fit to serve justice. Maybe that’s why Alan had never confessed how intrinsically tedious the whole affair was. Elaine also wanted to do her duty, but they had spent so much time telling her this, telling her that. They told her to go here and then to go there and sometimes they just told her to go away altogether. She hadn’t expected jury service to be like this at all, but eventually she had been chosen as a representative member of the jury and she had tried ever so hard to listen to all the goings on.

The defendant seemed like a nice girl; she had a full head of curly brown hair and a rather round face which gave her a jolly look. She was tall, but dressed very sensibly in a black trouser suit with a white wrap around blouse. And her shoes were sensible flat court shoes too. You could tell a lot from a person’s shoes Elaine’s mother had always said. Elaine wasn’t surprised therefore when the defendant entered a plea of ‘not guilty’. Elaine noticed that shoulders around her sagged, some heads shook and the young woman next to her did both then gave the defendant a look positively filled with evil. As the young scowling woman lowered her eyes she noticed Elaine watching her closely. “It’s not going to be straightforward now love.” She hissed under her breath. “The trial could take ages now.”

Elaine’s mouth formed a little o, but inside she was shocked at this woman’s reaction. How was the defendant going to receive proper justice if the jury were already against her from the moment she entered her plea?

Elaine’s next surprise was the first witness. Her name was Miss Amy Foote. She was the victim’s sister and the defendant’s lover. Elaine’s brow furrowed as this piece of information entered her brain. She didn’t really understand homosexual relationships; her understanding of love poured out from the pastel covered books she kept hidden under her bed. Some of the scenes in them were quite raunchy and she didn’t want anyone who visited her thinking that she was into pornography. Not that it was pornography, the scenes were usually very tastefully described and the lovers were always meant to be together. Elaine patted a tissue to her face, she had the impression she had drifted off for a moment there and she hoped no one had noticed.

“Miss Foote, you are Miss Robson’s partner are you not?”

“Mmm” Miss Foote mumbled.

“Please answer clearly Miss Foote; you are Miss Robson’s partner?”

“Ehm, yeah, yes.” Miss Foote looked up briefly before returning her scrutiny to the floor.

“And you have been Miss Robson’s partner for three years, is that right?”

“Yep.” Miss Foote replied not lifting her head.

The tale ran somewhat along these lines. Miss Foote; Amy, had once been Miss Robson’s personal assistant in an up and coming PR firm in Manchester. The two women recognising they had a strong attraction to each other had decided that in order to start a relationship without damaging their careers they should seek alternative employment. Miss Foote had found secretarial work back in her home town of London. Since then Miss Robson had travelled down to London every weekend to visit Miss Foote. Leading up to the crime Miss Foote and Miss Robson had planned to go on holiday together to Mexico. Elaine thought that was ever so exciting, imagine having the courage to go so far without a man. Shortly before they were due to go Miss Foote’s sister Claire had lost her employment and her boyfriend had left her. Feeling sorry for her sister Miss Foote had paid for her sister to accompany her on holiday. Elaine had to admit that was very nice of Amy, but then again there was something about her that she didn’t trust. Amy had kept her head down the whole way through her testimony. Why couldn’t she look anyone in the eye?

The next witness was a character witness. Elaine’s mouth puckered as the character witness took the stand. She was the sort of woman who made Elaine want to clutch onto her handbag tightly, but she wasn’t allowed to bring her handbag into the courtroom. All the same she wondered how on earth this woman could defend someone’s character when she seemed positively dubious herself. She had short cropped orange hair where for some unfathomable reason a long thin strand of red snaked down her back. She wore reds and oranges and again she remembered her mother’s words: “Never trust a woman in a red dress.” Or was it red shoes? Elaine was no longer sure; her mother’s words were so very long ago now. In any case the sack the witness was wearing did nothing for her figure and then to top it off she wore bright red booties, the sort that little children should wear. This woman looked like a clown not a character witness. Elaine could also tell straight away that Ms. Katherine Wright did not take criminal justice very seriously.

“Did Miss Robson say that she would kill Claire Foote?”

“Yes,” Katherine rolled her eyes. “In the same way that you would say you’re going to kill your son when you wake up on a wet Sunday morning and discover he’s traipsed mud all through the house.”

“But I am not on trial for murder.” The prosecution lawyer pointed out.

“Then what she actually said was that she was would kill Claire if she ruined the holiday.”

“Did you take Miss Robson’s threat seriously?”

“Obviously not.” Katherine rolled her big brown eyes again.

“We are not dealing in what is obvious Ms. Wright. Did you take Miss Robson’s threat seriously?”

“No, we’ve all said we’re going to kill Claire at some point or another. She was a complete bitch.”

“Ms. Wright we are not here to assassinate the victim’s character.”

“No, I did not take Miss Robson’s threat seriously.”

“Prior to the date of departure were you aware that there had been violent arguments between Miss Robson and Miss Amy Foote?”

“They had argued, I was not aware that they were violent.”

“Voices were raised.”

Katherine looked the prosecution lawyer in the eye. “I believe that is the nature of arguments, otherwise they would be discussions.”

“They were arguments during which Miss Amy Foote felt physically threatened.”

“Ellie would never hit Amy.” Katherine retorted and Elaine sat up. As a child her mother had called her Ellie.

“But the threat of violence was in the air?”

“Ellie is able to control her temper and would not hit Amy. When raised to such levels of frustration she would leave.”

“So Miss Robson was raised to such levels of frustration?”

“Yes,” Katherine looked down and sighed. “She left Amy’s house and came to stay with me to calm down.”

“And you still believe that Miss Robson would never hit Miss Amy Foote?”

Katherine looked up. “I know that she never hit Amy. I know that she would never hit Amy.”

“Can you say the same about Miss Claire Foote? Would Miss Robson ever hit Miss Claire Foote?”

Katherine’s face darkened. “Only to defend herself. I’ve said it before, Claire was a bitch and she wasn’t beyond slapping and hair pulling. She was a nasty piece of work.”

“And I’ve told you before Miss Wright, we are not here to discuss the victim’s character, unfortunately the victim is not here to defend herself.”

Elaine could not understand what happened next, but the prosecution lawyer jumped up and many words were uttered that she didn’t understand before the proceedings continued. She knew that the jury had been told to do something but she couldn’t be exactly sure what. She bit her lip and tried to focus again, but it seems that they were now being told to go home. As she left the court the young scowling woman who sat next to her sidled up.

“What do you think about all that then?”

Elaine gazed up at the woman unable to answer, she had been preoccupied with finding her free bus pass in her bag, it was such a bother to replace.

“Well seems to me like that Ellie did it and her mates are all covering up for her “We’re not supposed to talk about the case are we?” Elaine muttered in hushed tones.

“Sorry love?” The woman was ferreting about for something in her bag.

“We’re not supposed to talk about it, the case.” Elaine repeated slightly louder.

“To our families dear. You can’t go home and talk about it to your old man.” The woman slid a cigarette between her lips.

“Oh.” Elaine looked down the street to see if her bus was coming.

“Well see you tomorrow; I’m Natasha, by the way.”

“Elaine,” Elaine said as Natasha began stalking off in the opposite direction her slicked back ponytail bouncing from side to side.

***

As Elaine opened the door Mr. Keebles brushed past her legs and pattered off in the direction of his bowl and sat by it expectantly. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything.” Elaine giggled. “But it’s very complicated. A very mixed up love story Mr. Keebles, not like the sort I read to you at all.” Mr. Keebles stretched up resting his paws on her knees. “I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Meow.” Mr. Keebles answered wrapping himself round her legs.

“Mm, I think you’re right. I’ll just have to wait and see.”

But Elaine couldn’t stop thinking about it. She thought about it the whole time she prepared her tea. She thought about it while she set the trays out before the TV and as her and Mr. Keebles sat down to watch that evenings episode of Eastenders she thought some more not paying attention to what was going on in the Square at all.

“Maybe she didn’t do it.” She said out loud to Mr. Keebles’ bowed head. He raised his head from his bowl and looked at her licking his lips and yawning. “Maybe she didn’t do it.” Mr. Keebles jumped off the sofa and scampered out of the room.

***

The next morning Elaine spotted Natasha’s angular hard features and her slicked back hair from behind a magazine. She headed across the room and arranged her coat and handbag carefully on the chair before sitting carefully next to Natasha. “I don’t think Ellie did it?” Elaine whispered.

“Sorry love?” Natasha lowered her magazine and a grotesque questioning look twisted her glossed lips.

“I don’t think Ellie did it.” Elaine repeated

“Who’s Ellie?” Natasha frowned.

Elaine rose up in her seat indignantly. “The defendant.” Elaine said primly.

“Yeah, well we’ll wait and see.” A grin spread across her face revealing her large teeth. “I think Ellie...” Natasha winked. “...is being called up to the bar today.”

Elaine frowned.

“Have you got a soft spot for her?” Natasha nudged her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elaine’s mouth became thin.

“Well, I noticed you weren’t wearing a ring.” When she got no reaction, Natasha flashed her large gold band and showy engagement ring at Elaine.

Horror spread over Elaine as she began to realise what Natasha was insinuating.

“Miss Havers, you have been requested in court.” The usher called her from across the room.

Elaine scuttled across the room clutching her handbag and coat. “But I don’t want to sit next to that woman today. She’s beastly.” Elaine spluttered pointing at Natasha as she strutted across the room.

“I’m afraid you have to Miss Havers, remember we explained this to you at the beginning and we can’t start without you.” And he flashed her a huge smile. “Do you want me to lock your coat and bag up for you?” He said holding his arm out. He was black, but he had been so kind and polite so Elaine smiled a discrete smile back and handed her things over.

“Ooh flirting with the usher now are you?” Natasha giggled from the front of the line.

Elaine looked away from her and inserted herself into the line.

This time Ellie was wearing an aubergine skirt suit. The cut suited her very well and she had on a matching pair of kitten heels which showed off her legs nicely. Again, Elaine was pleased that the defendant had chosen to make an effort with her appearance, it made such a difference. Ellie was being called to testify today. Despite being from the North, she had a very cultivated accent. You wouldn’t otherwise be able to tell, Elaine thought.

“Miss Robson, can you explain to the jury your feelings on discovering that Miss Claire Foote was to accompany you on your holiday?”

“I was upset of course.” Ellie looked up into the distance as if remembering the scene clearly. “Amy left it until the last moment to tell me. I was tempted to back out as Claire and I had never got on particularly well. Claire didn’t approve of us and she was convinced that I had turned Amy into a lesbian.”

“Why did you choose to go on with the trip?”

“Well, I’d paid for it.” Ellie rolled her eyes as if now recognising that this was a rather pathetic excuse. “And also...” She sighed. “I realised that Amy knew I would back out of the trip if she had told me earlier. I realised that the reason she left it so late was because in actual fact she really wanted to go with me, so I decided I’d go for Amy.”

Elaine heard Natasha humph loudly.

The prosecution lawyer had obviously made his mind up like Natasha next to her. He continuously interrupted Ellie and tried to make it sound like she had planned the murder all the time.

“Did you or did you not claim loudly to your friends in the Oxford Arms on Tuesday fifteenth July at eight thirty pm that you would kill Miss Claire Foote?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be able to confirm that it was eight thirty pm exactly, but yes I did say that if Miss Foote ruined our holiday I would kill her, which also proves that I did not plan to kill her before we went on holiday.” It was inevitable, but Ellie had lost her calm. She was red faced and now her curls were escaping from the tight bun at the back of her head and bouncing around in fury.

“Yet, you did kill Miss Amy Foote, the following day at ten thirty am.”

“No, I did not.” Ellie replied emphatically.

“Why Miss Robson? Why? If as you have confirmed, you had such a bad relationship with Miss Claire Foote were you charged with picking her up and taking her to the airport?”

“Fuck knows!”

Elaine’s hand shot to her mouth. Oh she shouldn’t have sworn Elaine thought, but now the poor dear was in tears.

A recess was called shortly after and Elaine found herself next to that despicable Natasha in the queue for lunch. “It was all rehearsed.” Natasha shook her head.

Despite herself Elaine found herself drawn in.

“You should just completely ignore everything she said to the defence lawyer. Did you see the way she was staring into the air like that? She rehearsed her answers, that bit was all planned, even that line where she stared out to her lover and said: ‘I did it for Amy’. Makes you want to be sick doesn’t it? That prosecution guy is bringing out the true side of her though.”

Elaine felt herself instinctively clutch her tray closer to her. That foul prosecution lawyer would have brought out the worst side of anybody Elaine thought.

The case was adjourned for the afternoon and of course Natasha had to give a commentary on that too.

“Yeah so she can go and make up some more porky pies to explain how her girlfriend’s sister ended up dead in a suitcase.”

“Excuse me?” Elaine’s eyes goggled.

“It was all over the news last summer. ‘Rotting woman found in suitcase’. What were you doing?”

“Gardening.” Elaine replied primly.

She heard Natasha guffaw as she walked off in her direction home. Elaine didn’t like to use these words but she was beginning to think that Natasha was a real bitch.

***

Mr. Keebles sat on her lap that evening as she explained the day’s proceedings. Elaine was convinced that Mr Keebles’ contented purring indicated that he too shared her conviction that Ellie was innocent.

***

The following day Ellie was wearing a dark blue trouser suit with a white top and flat courts, it made her look extremely business like, but she had left her hair down which gave her a kind of childish vulnerability. Elaine felt kindly towards Ellie and when she noticed her scanning the jury she flashed her a smile and gave her a discrete thumbs up.

During the first break of the morning Natasha pulled her brusquely into the ladies toilet. “Do that again you silly cow and you’ll be chucked off the jury and we’ll have to start the whole bloody proceedings all over again.” Natasha leaned over her menacingly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elaine tried to make herself smaller as she had as a child when her mother told her off.

Natasha grinned grotesquely and waved a thumb in the air. “What the fuck was that?”

“I really don’t appreciate your language young lady.” Elaine snapped back.

“And I really don’t appreciate your stupidity.” Natasha backed off and then shook her head, her expression changing to one of dismay. “Do you have any idea of what’s going on here?”

“Of course I do.”

“Miss Havers.” Natasha sighed. “You have to behave in a certain way in court. There’s no room for impropriety.”

“I’m old enough to be your mother young lady, I know how to behave.”

“Then please don’t do that again. I don’t think you realise the consequences.” Natasha left the toilets. Elaine had to stay for a while as she realised she was shaking, that woman had given her a real fright. Maybe she should report her to the usher. She didn’t have time though as shortly after the usher was knocking on the door telling her they were waiting for her again. At least he was a nice boy; he had obviously been brought up well.

***

“So Miss Robson, can you describe the scene when you arrived to pick Miss Claire Foote up.”

Ellie sighed deeply and began; it obviously pained her to continue. “When I arrived Claire wasn’t even ready, she wasn’t dressed and she hadn’t packed.”

“So it seems she was already ruining your holiday?” The prosecution lawyer said. Again the defence lawyer jumped up and words were exchanged before Ellie could continue.

“As I said Claire wasn’t ready. I began throwing things into her suitcase and told her to get ready quickly.” Ellie hesitated. “It was then that Claire went berserk.”

“Oh!” Elaine gasped.

“She went berserk?” The prosecution lawyer pressed further.

“She began screaming at me, telling me that I had caused a rift between her and her sister. That Amy had told her not to go, that she hated me and she began throwing things at me.”

“The shoe?” The prosecution lawyer held up the shoe for the jury to see. Ellie blanched. Elaine scrutinized the shoe carefully. From the top it looked like nothing more than a white peep toe wedge sandal, but then turned onto its side its full hideousness was revealed. It was a platform wedge shoe, built to make a Lilliputian look like a giant. Each extra inch was marked by a line of white that divided the heavy wooden heel into bands. What a silly shoe, Elaine thought, what a silly girl that Claire must have been.

“Yes, she threw the shoe at me and it caught my sunglasses and smashed them.” Ellie’s voice quivered.

“What happened next?” The prosecution lawyer snarled.

“Well, I lost it.” Ellie admitted. “I picked up the shoe and threw it back at her.”

“Miss Robson, I believe you are the goal attack for the over thirties Stockport netball team.”

The defence lawyer jumped up, but before he had a chance to say anything the judge had told him to sit down. Elaine’s mind raced, she had played Netball at school. She would have been quite a good goal attack too, but her size let her down.

“Miss Robson you play goal attack?”

“Yes.” Ellie snapped back.

“So can we assume that your shot is rather more on target than Miss Foote’s?”

“I wasn’t shooting a bloody netball. She had just smashed my Dior sunglasses; I was angry I just picked up the shoe and threw it back.”

“And?”

“And it hit her on the head.”

A snort escaped from Natasha. A look of pure hatred crossed Elaine’s face.

“And?”

“And it knocked her out.” Ellie said quietly.

Oh dear Elaine thought, it was an accident, she didn’t mean it and the shoe was ridiculous.

“What happened next?”

“I don’t remember exactly.” Ellie’s face began to crumple and she her hand danced across her face. “I just thought I had to get to the airport.”

“So you put Miss Claire Foote’s body into her suitcase and sealed the suitcase?”

Elaine noticed that now Natasha had her fist shoved into her mouth. When she caught Elaine’s eyes she noticed that Natasha had tears in her eyes. Pathetic woman, Elaine thought venomously.

“She wouldn’t wake up and I couldn’t think how else to get her to the airport. I wasn’t going to carry her unconcious, so I - I just emptied the suitcase and put her in it.” Ellie buried her face in her hands.

“And you locked the suitcase, Miss Robson?”

“It was one of those suitcases that lock automatically. I didn’t realise until afterwards.”

“And then you left her in the suitcase.”

“No, it didn’t happen like that. I was confused, we were late, and then Amy phoned.” Ellie looked out over the court for Amy, but Amy was hidden at the back of the court room her features impassive, Elaine noticed.

“Did you tell Miss Amy Foote that you had just killed her sister and locked her in a suitcase?”

“No she wasn’t dead.” Ellie screamed in response, then looked to her lawyer and took a deep breath. “I told her that Claire wasn’t ready and she told me to just leave her that it wasn’t worth bringing her, that she had already told Claire that she couldn’t come.”

“So you left Miss Foote locked in a suitcase?”

“Yes, no.” Ellie shook her head tears streaming down her face. “I was confused, I wasn’t thinking, everything had gone wrong. I didn’t know what to do and then I realised that I couldn’t open the bloody suitcase so I just left it.”

“Did you kick the suitcase before you left?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember, I was just upset.”

“Did you kick the suitcase? The dent in the corner of the suitcase is ultimately what cracked Miss Foote’s skull and killed her.”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember, I don’t know.” Ellie wailed over and over.

Elaine wished she knew a way of making the prosecution lawyer stop, couldn’t he see that she was upset. She hadn’t meant to kill the girl, it was an accident, the girl had provoked her.

“Oh please stop!” Elaine cried out. Hush descended over the court room apart from Natasha burying her head in her hands and groaning. “It was an accident. She didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.”

Elaine felt a strong pair of hands grip her arms. “Come with me please Miss Havers.” The usher pulled her roughly.

“Get your hands off me boy.” Elaine slapped at his hands.

“Ma’am I have to escort you from the court.” He shrugged his shoulders.

All around her the court had descended into chaos. The lawyers were shouting at the judge. The Judge was shouting and Natasha was looking at her as she was an imbecile.

“But why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’ve disrupted the proceedings ma’am. You’re not allowed to just shout out what you think in the middle of a case.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“But I haven’t done anything wrong.” Elaine whispered searching for Ellie’s kindly face. And then she found her, her eyes were dry now and narrowed into two vicious little slits.

“You stupid fucking cow.” Ellie mouthed carefully across the court room. Elaine gasped and turned to the usher for support.

“Come on.” He said pulling at her arms roughly.

“I – I d-don’t understand Elaine stuttered as she was led away. “What did I do wrong?”