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Church is, I’m sorry to say, a mixed blessing.  I wish I could testify that it’s been all fellowship and edification, but in truth God’s people come with a steady stream of frustrated tears and angry words as well.  Over the years, Kees and I too have earned a few scars, which of course are wounds that have found healing—though they’ve certainly left their mark.  

The latest struggle has centered around our dear friend Linda.  Mina and I befriended her when we while we were a part of a women’s self defense class back almost two years ago.  Well, with a few starts and stops, God’s really been to work in her life, for the good.  Late last spring she concluded a whirlwind romance, marrying a fine man a few years older than herself, a fellow named Danny Grable.  They have been awfully good for one another and have become an active part of the church.  

Lo and behold, as a mirror match to their whirlwind romance, within a few months Linda was expecting, and she delivered a healthy baby girl at the beginning of February.  They named her Olivia, after Linda’s mother.  How wonderful it was to see the ladies of the church fawning over her and piling up the gifts of sleepers, homemade blankets and crafty knickknacks with the baby’s name and birthday painted, embroidered and stamped on them.   We may not do music as well as the big Pentecostal church up the highway, but we sure do know how to welcome a little one.

Little Olivia was baptized now two Sundays past, and the service was one like I’d surely never seen before.  But the journey to the baptismal font was long and painful, and it is a story that bears retelling.

Of course, soon after Olivia was born, Pastor Morton went to visit with Linda and Danny, and amidst the congratulations and oohing and aahing, he asked them about baptism.  They talked over the meaning of baptism, and different dates that would work best for members of their families, and then Linda surprised Pastor Morton with a request he’d never received before.  She said they wanted Olivia baptized by immersion.  When he told me about it later, Pastor Morton said at first, he thought Linda had her baptism terminology mixed up, what with her being a new Christian and all.  But no, it soon was clear to him that she meant what she said:  they wanted little Olivia baptized by dunking her completely under the water.  Linda explained that after she had come into the church, and she learned about baptism, she was really struck by what it said about the sacrament being not only a sign of cleansing from guilt, but also dying to sin.  Because of the symbolism, she wished she had been baptized in our church by immersion.  Then, a few months before the baby was born, her cousin told her about attending a service in a church in Saskatchewan, where the baby was dipped under the waters, head to toe!  Right then, Linda decided, she wanted her child baptized in the same way.

Well, Pastor Morton said he wasn’t about ready then and there to sign on to dunking a baby in church.  Who knows what odd cult her cousin might have stumbled into!  He told them he’d give it some thought, do some checking, and talk it over with the elders.  Linda and Danny said they understood, as this was not something that the pastor or our church had ever done before.    

Over the following days, he checked around and soon discovered that although the practice of infant baptism by immersion was not real common, it certainly was a legitimate practice.  It had a long history in some branches of both the Anglican and Eastern Orthodox churches.  Through the internet he contacted a priest who performed such baptisms on a regular basis and found out how to do it.  It turns out, the trick is to blow quickly into the baby’s face, just before the dunking.  The baby is so startled by the blowing that he will gasp; he’ll quickly breathe in and hold his breath for a moment, just long enough to dip him under the water and then quickly lift him out again.  The priest said if the water is warm, and your timing is right, it goes very well.  If your timing is off, well, then there’s a lot of choking, coughing and screaming.  But either way, the deed is done.  

Armed with this knowledge, Pastor Morton decided to seek the elders’ go ahead to baptize Olivia via immersion.  He explained the reasons why Linda and Danny had made the request, the symbolism they saw so visible in immersion instead of sprinkling, and the matter of technique as explained to him by the priest.  He had also already made the arrangements to borrow a brand-new livestock watering trough from the Seed and Feed Store over in Dempsey.  Kees and the other elders gave him the green light to go ahead, but they asked him to please try a practice run with Olivia in Linda and Danny’s bathtub.

Well, of course word of the plans for the upcoming baptism soon spread through the church like dandelions across a spring lawn.  Pastor Morton had talked to the chair of the Worship Committee about decorating the water trough with greenery or ribbons or some such thing, and of course the elders could hardly wait to tell their wives what was in the works.  And that’s when the squabbling started.  Reactions to the news ranged from delighted to curious to downright ornery.  A number of my friends in the knitting circle told me they thought it was the worst idea they’d ever heard of.  Edna Walsh told me I’d better get over to Linda’s and talk her out of it to save the church from the embarrassment of it all, before we were written up in the Gazette in the same section where you read about people’s vegetables that looked like movie stars or that lamb that had been born last spring with six legs.  

Now, I have to admit, when Kees first told me what was in the works, I had my doubts as well.  But to hear some of the members of the church talk, it was as if Pastor Morton would be doing the baptism dressed as Bozo the clown!  What really got my apron in a knot was the way many people didn’t bother to find out the truth of what was planned, and all manner of rumors and wild stories were being circulated.  And, because other members thought the immersion baptism was a great idea, the arguments and the fighting broke out all over.  

But it was one person in particular who made a crusade of the movement to get Pastor Morton and the elders to change their minds: Henk Blystra.  Henk called up the pastor and surprised him with an earful of opinions over the phone, and demanded to meet with the elders to, as he put it, ‘talk some Scriptural sense into them.’  Given the way conversations were spinning out of control in the congregation, Pastor Morton thought it best to give an opportunity for Henk to express his objections.  Thus, a special elders’ meeting was called, and Kees and the others made time to come together again to hear him out.  

At the meeting, Henk made his case, or perhaps I should say, Henk launched his attack.  He said that the plans for baptizing Olivia were not Reformed, because the emphasis in the Heidelberg Catechism is on washing, and no one washes babies by pushing them underwater.  He went on to say that baptism by immersion was not Biblical, because the Apostle Paul himself was baptized in someone’s house, back when no one had a bathtub or any other way of completely dunking an adult believer.  So, he said, Paul must have been sprinkled, just as real Bible believing Christians are baptized today.  He quoted Genesis 18:4: “Let a little water be brought, and then you may all wash your feet and rest under this tree.”  He also read John 13:5: Jesus “poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.”  If washing by sprinkling was good enough for Jesus, it ought also be good enough for us, Henk said.  He then went on to criticize Linda’s character, and question her faith, suggesting that the elders had been taken in by the foolish request of a baby Christian who was herself, in reality, barely beyond paganism.

Well, of course Kees was fit to be tied.  But he wasn’t the first one to speak up.  Karl Schneider said that he’d been thinking about their decision too, especially with all the talk going on, and he thought that perhaps the church would be best served by a regular baptism, as he called it.  Too many people were getting upset by the decision to dunk the baby.   But then Kees lit into him, saying that the gossiping of a few busybodies ought not be listened to by the elders of the church, let alone blessed by their giving in.  Of course old Henk didn’t appreciate being called a gossiping busybody, and he started up again.  The whole thing apparently got fairly ugly before Pastor Morton put a stop to it by ending the meeting with prayer and sending everyone home to cool their jets for a while.   

Neither Kees nor I slept well that night, because of course he told me everything that was said in the meeting as soon as he got home.  We knew Linda would be devastated if she knew what was being said about her.  She already was upset enough at some of the comments people had made.  And that’s when Kees and I talked about leaving the church.

Understand, what I mean is leaving the Annora congregation, not leaving the church as a whole.  The conversation’s twists and turns that night surprised us, we’ve been part of that little church for so long.  My parents were among the first families to launch the church soon after the wave of immigration after the war.  Kees and I were married in the old sanctuary, before we put on the addition.  And yet, on top of all the ways we’d been blessed by the Annora church through the years, there were also a whole heap of hurts as well.  We’d put up with criticism about some of the ministry we did, there was the teasing that our Andrea underwent from the other kids at the church, and the gossip that went on after our prodigal son Martin disappeared and then later came home.  Church can be a wonderful source of blessing when it is healthy, but when church goes bad there’s nothing quite as painful in all the world, I’m sure.  How could we stay on in a congregation that didn’t know what it means to be the church to each other?  

It was a couple days later that I ran into Henk at the hardware store.  I’d been stewing for all that time about the things he’d been saying, not only at the meeting with the elders, but what others had passed on to me.  And so right there between the plumbing supplies and the power tools, I let him have it.  I told him the church and the kingdom of God would be better off if he minded his own business and started searching the Scriptures for verses to apply in his own life rather than preaching to everyone else.  And before he could say a word, I left.  It was a bit awkward, because I took a bag of birdseed with me, and the cashier had to chase me down in the parking lot, but I felt I’d made my point.  

Right that afternoon we got a call from Jenny, Henk’s wife.  She was short and to the point, saying both Kees and I needed to come over and clear the air.  It was a bit late by the time Kees got home, but we double checked with the Blystra’s and yes, they still wanted us to come to talk.  When we arrived, there was none of the usual niceties, though Janny did serve us tea before telling there was more to this story, and she looked over to Henk, expectantly.  He cleared his throat, and his story came tumbling out.  

It was right after the war, back in the Netherlands, that he had been left to watch his younger brother Arie, who was only a few months old.  His mother had needed to supplement the family income by doing some housekeeping for a wealthy family in a nearby town.  Henk’s aunt was supposed to come over to watch him and his brother, but she hadn’t shown up and his mother had little choice but to leave him in charge, though he had only just turned five.  His memory of what happened was foggy, but Henk did remember that little Arie started crying, and though he was supposed to leave him in his cradle, Henk picked the baby up and realized that he was wet.  Wanting to be a big helper to his mother, he decided to give his brother a bath.  He pulled up a chair to the sink, filled it with water from the pump, and put Arie in.  

At this point in the telling, Henk stopped speaking, and he buried his face in his hands.  Janny started to say something, but Henk cut her short, holding up his hand.  He composed himself and continued.  

Arie drowned.  Henk didn’t even realize it, not until his aunt finally arrived and found them in the kitchen.  When his aunt started screaming, he ran and hid in his bed.  No one got him out until the next day.  And it was right after the funeral, while everyone was eating soup and buns, that the minister’s son, who was a couple years older, told him that his dad had said that Henk was a murderer, and he needed to repent of his sin.  

Henk stopped speaking.  He sat with his face again in his hands.  And Janny said, “Henk has always had trouble with the church, with ministers, and with babies.  He could not be around when I would bathe the kids.  I had to always do it when he was out in the barn.”

I could not speak.  The tears were trickling down my face and into my lap.  Kees, however, was not without words.  He reached out to Henk.  He moved next to Henk on the sofa, reached out and put his hand on his shoulder.  He reached out as a fellow sinner, as an elder of the church, and as a brother in Jesus Christ.  He put his hand on Henk and recited the words of Isaiah 42: “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.”  Only he recited it in Dutch, from the version they’d both grown up with.  

Kees and I did not say much to each other as we drove home.  When we went to bed, Kees fell almost immediately to sleep, according to his unique giftedness.  I could not sleep.  I was a mess of tears and grief and guilt.  

The next day, Pastor Morton called and left a message for Kees.  Henk was withdrawing his objections to the baptism, and he asked that Kees would explain matters to the elders.  In the end it was decided that Olivia would be baptized by immersion, not because it would please the congregation, but because it would please the Lord.  

And so, two Sundays back, Olivia was baptized.  She responded appropriately to her dying to sin and resurrection to new life, with confusion and wailing.  Pastor Morton’s timing may have been just a little bit off.  Of course, Henk did not attend that Sunday, but Jenny did.  And in the fellowship hall afterwards I watched her as she held Olivia, cooing away at her even as the tears fell on her baptismal gown.  

It was a great celebration for we were all reminded that God reaches out and embraces in grace his undeserving and unknowing children.  A wide-eyed baby.  A young couple in love.  An old man haunted by memories.  A foolish young preacher’s son.  And a repentant old housewife, whom he is trying to teach patience and wisdom.

Everett Vander Horst is a pastor living, working, writing and serving with his family in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. For many years he has been experimenting with reading original short stories as preaching. You can watch the telling of these sermonic tales here.

They used the same picture of Meggie in all the newspapers, back in 1997 when she first went missing.

It was a photo her dad took on the last holiday they’d had as a family, four nights in a Pembrokeshire caravan the summer before Meggie disappeared. They cropped the version they put in the papers so only a hint of the backdrop can be seen: a pebble beach framed by rolling hills, a few centimetres of overcast sky encircling Meggie’s head like a halo. Meggie stands alone in the centre of the frame. She’s wearing a crop top with spaghetti straps, the pale crescent of her arms and throat on display, so it must have been warm out despite the clouds. That expanse of soft white flesh makes the picture difficult to look at, Lauren thinks. Meggie seems delicate, unfinished, like a lump of dough yet to be shaped by careful hands into something a little more defined, a little surer of itself and its purpose. 

Lauren thinks about this picture a lot. It’s hard not to; she sees it almost every Sunday. It’s framed on the wall in the Queens Head where her mum tends the bar, above a long-since-faded police appeal for information. Meggie’s face fascinates her. Something about how she’s not smiling nor frowning, but looks like she could be on the cusp of either, as if the camera caught her in the very last second of ambiguity. 

The old men in their regular seats raise a glass to her on occasion when the night is winding down and the Doom Bar has softened the steel around their hearts. They look at Meggie, who is looking at nothing, and Lauren looks at them. Is it Meggie they mourn for, she wants to ask, or is it the myriad small losses of their own lives Meggie makes them grieve – the daughters who don’t speak to them anymore, the long-ago girlfriends and ex-wives who got away? 

One time, maybe a year ago, Jack Holcomb had a few drinks too many and said it must’ve been local immigrants that took her, trafficked her into one of their rings, pretty little blonde girl like that. He’d said it loud so the whole pub could hear him, but his eyes were narrowed across the bar at Anwar’s dad. The atmosphere between them was tense and ugly until Rob, the owner, stepped in. After Jack went home the rest of the men filled his space with restless murmurs: well, you can’t really blame him, can you, didn’t his daughter run into some trouble with boys, away in the city for college? The whole time Lauren kept looking at the picture on the wall. Sometimes she thought it might be nice to join Meggie there, in that walled-off moment of eternal pause, that strange nowhere-place.

It’s not like any of them even knew Meggie, not really, but when someone disappears from a community as small as theirs, it leaves a mark. Lauren was only five when Meggie vanished and she doesn’t know anyone her age who didn’t grow up shouldering the weight of it. It made itself felt, first in their parents’ pinched worry, then in the taunting words of uncles and older siblings – you’d best be home before dark, or whatever took Meggie James will take you too – and finally, when they reached their teens, in the stories they made up at sleepovers. Thrilled whispers: Meggie was stolen by a serial killer who skinned his victims and dissolved their bodies in acid, and if you got into the bathtub and chanted her name three times—

        It’s silly, Lauren thinks. She thought it then, and she thinks it now that she’s almost sixteen, the same age Meggie was when she disappeared. She feels like she’s on the cusp of something; a new kind of maturity, perhaps, or some sudden rush of understanding as to the mysteries nested like Russian dolls inside the notion of becoming a woman. Maybe boys will start liking her, start looking at her the way they’ve been looking at some of her friends since Year Eight. Maybe she’ll start liking them. Maybe Meggie’s expression in the picture on the wall in the Queens Head will become a cipher she can solve, as if the commonality of their newly shared age will shift them sideways onto the same transcendental plane. It’s the latest iteration of the same private wish Lauren’s held onto ever since childhood, since she first heard Meggie’s name invoked as a cautionary tale: to see what Meggie saw, to know her like none of the men drinking a pint on a solemn Sunday evening ever could, ever will.

So when Amy suggests the ouija board, Lauren shelves her disdain for urban legend and goes along with it. The tenth anniversary of the disappearance came and went a couple of months ago, still no leads, and the renewed national interest still has all the Year Elevens feeling giddy, hopped up on seeing their state comprehensive on the nine o’clock news. Energy like that needs an outlet, Lauren supposes, and there are surely worse kinds than this – a gaggle of school-uniformed girls sitting cross-legged in Amy’s attic on a Friday after school, their attention focused on the fussily ornate wooden board that Amy places reverently down on the ground between them. Amy, Lauren, Feyi, Alana, Chanel, arranged alphabetically by surname in a subconscious holdover from the beginning of secondary school. They’re in a circle, close enough to smell each other’s pubescent sweat and bubblegum-flavoured lipgloss, knees brushing lightly on every exhale.

‘Like this, yeah?’ Amy puts a finger on the planchette. The board belongs to her mum. Linda’s a hairdresser but she’s into tarot and reiki and stuff like that on the side, fancies herself a mystic. Some people in the village don’t like her because she says she can see patches of purple energy in the air that she thinks are the ghosts of dead people. She’d freak out if she knew what they were up to, Amy said, which is why they’re in the attic.

‘Okay.’ Chanel raises an eyebrow. ‘Who’s going to ask the questions?’

‘I will.’ Amy is bossy, but no one complains, so she sits up a little straighter, slides her eyes shut in a display of ceremonious grandeur. Everyone else joins their finger to hers.

‘Alright,’ Amy begins. ‘We want to talk to Meggie James. Meggie, are you there? Can you hear us?’

A nervous giggle. Amy opens her eyes and narrows them at the offender. ‘Feyi, shut up or this won’t work.’

‘It’s not going to work anyway,’ Alana says, then raises her hands placatingly when Amy turns her glare on her. ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m taking it seriously, I promise.’

‘Let’s try again,’ says Lauren, ending the argument before it starts. The role of mediator comes naturally to her. Amy shoots one last offended glance in Alana’s direction then closes her eyes again and sighs loudly.

‘Okay. Can you hear me, Meggie? Move the planchette to yes if you can hear me.’

Nothing happens. Lauren glances around the circle, averting her gaze when Feyi catches her eye and smirks. She doesn’t particularly like this, the way they’ve all reduced Meggie to an afternoon’s entertainment, but she’s excited too, and a little morbidly curious.

Amy shifts in place as if frustrated by the board’s refusal to yield to her obvious authority, her rolled-over skirt riding up another inch. ‘Meggie? We want to talk to you. Are you there?’

Nothing. Lauren is about to suggest they give up, simultaneously relieved and disappointed, when suddenly there’s a jolt beneath her finger and the planchette begins to move smoothly across the board. It travels in a straight line, stopping at the letter I.

‘What the fuck,’ breathes Alana, eyes rapt.

The planchette hovers over the I, jerks away, then returns to it, over and over again; I-I-I-I, a staccato rhythm, like the beating of a heart.

‘I?’ Amy’s expression is victorious, ignoring the uneasy murmurs of the other girls. ‘Is that Meggie? What are you trying to tell us?’

I-I-I-I-I. Amy’s questions go unacknowledged. Lauren feels a cold roiling in the base of her gut. The planchette moves faster until suddenly it changes direction and shoots across the board to the W. It pauses there for an instant and then keeps moving, spelling out a word.

‘I want? Want what?’ Amy leans in as if she can urge the planchette to keep going from the sheer force of her desire alone, her body a taut line of hungry, thrumming energy, the ends of her long blonde hair skimming the board. As she does, her bare thigh presses up against Lauren’s. A sudden firm line of contact, Amy’s skin soft and yielding and unexpectedly warm – Lauren twitches away on instinct and the planchette, still trapped under her finger, wobbles off to the side.

‘Oh.’ Amy slumps, and looks at Lauren, her brow furrowed. ‘You were pushing it, weren’t you?’

‘What?’ Lauren shakes her head. ‘No, I –’

But Amy’s already pushing herself up and away from the board, her shoulders tight. ‘Whatever,’ she says, and she walks off, slamming the attic door behind her. There’s a moment of silence, then the moody decrescendo of footsteps down the stairs.

‘I didn’t,’ Lauren says, looking around at the other girls. ‘I wasn’t pushing it, I swear.’

Feyi raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment. ‘I’ll go after her,’ she says instead. She stands, then nudges the ouija board with her foot. ‘And this was stupid, by the way. I know one of you was pushing.’

Feyi leaves. Again the attic door closes, this time with a curt click. Alana glances sidelong at Chanel, her lips tight as if stifling a smile.

‘Was it you?’ Lauren asks.

Alana looks at her, face unreadable, then tosses her glossy black hair over her left shoulder and shrugs. ‘No,’ she says, after another moment’s pause. Lauren isn’t sure if she believes her. She doesn’t think it was Chanel, who’s currently turning the planchette over in her hands, frowning down at it, confused.

It was Alana, probably. What’s the alternative? Lauren thinks about the message – the repeated I like a frustrated grab at personhood – and her stomach turns over. The other possibility, the one that somehow scares her even more, is that Amy had been right; that maybe Lauren, subconsciously, had altered the direction of the planchette’s movement. It doesn’t feel implausible – her body with its unruly growth and traitorous whims barely feels like it belongs to her these days. I WANT fizzes up through her bloodstream like a biological imperative. The secret realm of her desire is vast and monstrous; she is afraid of it, and tries not to let herself dwell there.

Her leg still tingles, not entirely unpleasantly. She rubs it with the heel of her palm, then pulls her skirt down to cover it, but the sensation doesn’t fade.

It’s only a few months later that a woman walking her dog in a patch of woodland near Easton-in-Gordano finds what turns out to be an exposed human femur protruding from a loose pile of twigs and dirt. The police are called in immediately, of course, and a further search unearths the rest of a young girl’s skeleton. She’s identified provisionally by the remnants of clothing found with the body, conclusively by dental records. The task force responsible eleven years ago for investigating Meggie’s disappearance is promptly reassembled.

‘We’ll probably have some answers soon,’ Lauren overhears her mum telling the regulars in the pub. ‘They can tell all sorts from bones these days, can’t they?’

Lauren doesn’t share her mother’s certainty. Meggie’s never been one to relinquish her secrets easily. And as it turns out, she’s right – Meggie’s remains offer up few answers save for the eradication of the theories that hinge on her still being out in the world somewhere, living. The absence of evidence soon gives way to speculation. What was it that had taken Meggie out there to rot? Wilbur from the pub whose son’s a constable says there were nicks on some of Meggie’s bones that could have been made by a knife, but they could just as easily be the results of post-mortem animal predation; there’s no way to know for sure. If they’d found her earlier, perhaps – and then he shrugs expansively and downs his drink, ostentatious theatre for a hungering audience. Leave her alone, Lauren wants to shout. It doesn’t feel right, these rapacious old men picking over Meggie’s bones; she wants to shield her, bury her even deeper beneath the leaves and moss, keep the vulnerable insides of her as private as they were when she was alive.

In the aftermath of the discovery, Lauren feels drawn to the woods behind the school. Pupils aren’t supposed to go there, technically, but no one really watches the fence that separates the trees from the football field, and the council doesn’t do much to maintain it, either, so it isn’t difficult to find a section of sagging chicken wire and to pull herself up and over. She starts going there after class ends on a regular basis, trudging through the undergrowth and keeping herself roughly parallel to the path she’d usually take home, so that she doesn’t alarm her parents by getting back significantly later than usual. If anyone asks, she knows she wouldn’t be able to explain the strange magnetism of the trees, not in a way that makes sense – these aren’t the woods that Meggie was found in – but no one notices her, so no one asks.

A few times, she sits at the base of one of the taller oaks and leans back against its trunk, closing her eyes and trying to make herself as still and silent as a corpse. Then, when she’s as still as she can manage, she sends out questing tendrils from her mind: Where are you, Meggie? What do you want? Will you tell me what happened to you? On one occasion she’s answered by the sharp crack of a twig nearby, as if someone’s foot had come down on it, and for the briefest second she’s convinced that she’s succeeded, that she’s managed to reach through to Meggie somehow across the impenetrable barriers of space and time, and when she opens her eyes the thing that killed her will be standing right there, looking back. Her body thrums with excitement and apprehension. But there’s nothing there when she looks, only her own pale legs sticking out in front of her, the same scuff marks on the toes of her patent school shoes, scabs on her knees as proof of the blood that pulses beneath her skin.

In July, school ends for the summer, and Lauren goes to a party. It’s the day of the regatta down on their stretch of the Avon, so everyone’s outside and half-cut already, shoulders and ears tinged pink from the sun. Lauren and her friends manoeuvre their way through bustling groups of rowdy middle-aged men. A crowd of men can be dangerous, she knows, especially drunk ones, but the girls linking arms grants them a kind of invisible armour that allows them to pass through unscathed. Together, they wander all the way to the back fields out behind the pub. There’s already a large group of kids from school there, girls sitting on the prickly grass eyeing up the shirtless boys passing around sun-warmed six-packs of Natch and Scrumpy Jack. It’s a strange kind of temporal dissonance for Lauren, who used to play in this field with Feyi when they were kids, one of their dads keeping a cursory eye on them from the pub’s back garden. 

When Amy delves into a nearby cooler and comes out with an armful of sweaty ciders, she takes the one that’s offered to her, pops the tab, tries to drink without shuddering the way everyone else seems to have mastered already. 

For the first time, she gets drunk. The setting sun casts long streaks of orange and violet across the sky, and the light makes everyone look beautiful. Alana leans back on her elbows and stretches out her legs, crossing them at the ankle like she learned from The Princess Diaries. She’s kicked off her sandals, and her bare big toe presses lightly against Lauren’s knee. After a minute Lauren begins to feel dizzy, so she lies down on the grass, staring up at the darkening sky. The sound of people talking fades into a comforting buzz. She stirs only when she hears someone say Meggie’s name, the sound of it bringing her back abruptly.

‘– sure, yeah, I heard that’s where they found her body.’

Lauren opens her eyes – when had she closed them? – sits up and looks around for the speaker. A guy, several feet away, talking to a girl. They both look to be around Lauren’s age, maybe a little older.

‘Really?’ the girl says, her tone somewhere between sardonic and aloof. Lauren squints to see her better in the low light. Her mouth is cherubic, her eyes lined in black. 

‘Those woods over there.’ The boy raises his hand and points to a thatch of trees on the horizon. ‘My brother saw –’

‘That’s not true,’ Lauren says, without meaning to. ‘It was further away. Out by the services.’

‘Oh yeah?’ The boy looks unimpressed by her interruption. He stands up straighter, crosses his arms. ‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’ 

‘You just do,’ the boy repeats. ‘Right.’ He smirks at the girl he’s with, but she’s looking at Lauren, a glimmer of interest on her face. 

‘Do you know a lot about her?’ the girl says. 

Lauren shrugs, uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. ‘Not more than anyone else around here.’ More than this guy, she wants to say, but she manages to keep the words back. She glances around for her friends, looking for a way out of the conversation she’s blundered into, but they aren’t there. They must have wandered off while she was dozing. She feels a brief jolt of panic at being abandoned but then she spots Amy, over by the cooler with Chanel and two boys from their Maths class. 

‘Relax,’ the girl says. Lauren looks back at her; the girl’s gaze is amused, penetrating. ‘Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to, like, interrogate you.’ 

‘No, I –’ 

‘It’s just interesting, isn’t it? Something like that, happening here.’ 

‘I suppose so.’ 

‘This seems like the kind of place where nothing ever fucking happens.’ 

‘It is, mostly. Um – are you not from here, then?’ 

The girl shakes her head. ‘From Leeds. We just moved down, me and my mum.’ 

‘Oh.’ Now that she’s looking for it, Lauren notes the traces of an unfamiliar accent.

‘I’m Nat.’ She grins at Lauren, a rapid flash of dimples and pointy canines. Beside her, the boy scowls, walks off. Nat doesn’t seem to notice. 

‘Lauren.’

‘So did you know her? The girl who died?’

‘No,’ Lauren says. ‘She went missing when I was a kid.’

‘I thought everyone knew everyone, around here.’

‘Well, kind of, but…’ Lauren bites her lip. It dawns on her suddenly that she’s afraid of losing Nat’s interest, of revealing herself to this pretty newcomer with gothy makeup as being just as dull as everyone else, so she blurts out: ‘Me and my friends tried summoning her, a while back. With an ouija board.’ 

Nat raises her eyebrows. ‘For real?’

Lauren can’t tell if Nat’s impressed or if she thinks Lauren’s stupid, just a kid messing around. The latter, probably. Lauren flushes, wishing she could take it back.

‘Did anything happen?’ 

‘Uh…’ Lauren hesitates, shrugs, and says, ‘Yeah. Kind of.’ 

‘Shit,’ Nat says. Her eyes are wide – suitably impressed, Lauren decides – but then she glances to the side and frowns. The boy from earlier is standing nearby with a gang of his mates. He’s staring down at them both with a sneer. ‘Come on,’ Nat says suddenly, turning back to Lauren. ‘Let’s walk.’

‘You want us to go for a walk?’ Lauren repeats. The sky’s gotten properly dark over the last few minutes. ‘Now?’

‘Now,’ Nat says, decisive. She’s already on her feet, extending a hand out in front of her to help Lauren up. 

Lauren nods, then pushes herself up without taking the hand that’s been offered, staggering a little on the uneven ground. Her heart thuds, but she doesn’t want to seem afraid, or uncool, and she’s already gone against her parents’ wishes by drinking, so – ‘Not past the edge of the field, though, okay?’ 

Nat shrugs like she doesn’t care.

They walk across the field towards the trees that line the furthest edge. ‘Sorry,’ Nat says after a moment. ‘I didn’t want to keep sitting there with Jake staring at me.’ She spins around to face the crowd of people they’re walking away from and raises her middle finger, safe under the cover of darkness. 

‘I get it,’ Lauren says.

‘Fuck him. Him and all his douchebag friends. But whatever, tell me more about your ouija board. I love scary stuff like that, you know, like, occult shit.’

‘Oh. I mean, it was probably just my friend messing around. But the thing – the planchette thing – it moved.’ The ground dips suddenly and Lauren stumbles. Nat’s hand steadies her, a warm weight on the back of her arm. Closer to the treeline, they stop, as if in unspoken agreement. 

‘Did it give you a message?’ 

‘Sort of? Like – just words, not a whole sentence or anything.’

‘What did it say?’

Lauren pauses. Remembering it now sends a shiver up her spine. ‘I want,’ she says. Out here in the night, spoken aloud, the words sound like a declaration.

‘I want,’ Nat repeats, hushed. Her eyes are big and dark. ‘Spooky.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Lauren says. The atmosphere between them has changed, somehow, as if they’d let something in by saying the words out loud. Lauren remembers the rumours about Meggie’s ghost, about what would happen if you said her name in the bathtub, and she wonders – what might she summon now, if she looked at this girl and said I want, I want, I want?

‘Wow.’ Nat laughs, low and throaty, and tosses her hair back. ‘Probably your friends messing around. Hey, do you smoke?’ 

‘No.’

‘Do you mind if I do?’

Lauren shakes her head.

Nat rummages around in her pocket, comes out with a cigarette and a cheap plastic lighter. She puts the cigarette in her mouth. Her lips are a deep, dark red in the flickering light of the flame. Lauren watches, mesmerised, as she takes a drag, and exhales a plume of smoke. ‘I know I should quit,’ she says, noticing the direction of Lauren’s gaze. ‘But we all have our vices, right?’

Lauren feels herself blush but she doesn’t avert her gaze. ‘Can I try it?’ she says, emboldened.

‘If you want.’ Nat doesn’t seem surprised, just passes Lauren the cigarette, watching her in the same way Lauren’s friends do when they’ve dared her to do something.

Lauren takes the cigarette. She holds it between her index and middle finger like she’s seen people do, and brings it to her mouth. The filter is slightly damp when she puts it between her lips. The smoke burns her throat but she doesn’t cough, tries to look cool as she blows it out.

‘There. Now I’ve corrupted you.’ Nat’s expression is mischievous. When she takes the cigarette back from Lauren, their fingers brush. Lauren’s breath catches, and in the silence of the night, it’s audible, but Nat doesn’t laugh, only smiles with her lips together and steps closer, smoke coiling around both of their heads like a translucent veil rising to shield them from the rest of the world.

Maybe it’s because they’d just been talking about her, but Lauren finds herself thinking of Meggie, even as she reaches up to take the cigarette again. Did this ever happen for her, the crackle of a flare being lit in the pit of her stomach, her lips closing over the shape of someone else’s mouth on a cigarette? Or, perhaps, a real kiss, her eyes sliding shut, someone’s fingers in her hair? Lauren hopes, fiercely and suddenly, that it did; that before everything ended for her in that acre of shitty woodland she’d had the chance to feel out for herself the shape of the adulthood she’d never reach, sparks in her chest and fireworks lighting up the black space behind her eyelids.

And Lauren also knows, deep down, that Meggie won’t always mean as much to her as she does right now. Within a few short years Lauren will be gone from here, away at university or travelling the world, and she won’t think of Meggie much at all; a fleeting memory now and then, a gentle heart-tug spurred by the shape of someone’s face or the private look in their eye as they turn away. Meggie belongs to a moment that’s passing, that might already be gone, and when Lauren, too, lets go— 

But stars are at their most radiant just before they sputter out, and for now, the moment endures. Lauren looks up, up at the girl who’s watching her and smiling with her chin tilted high like anything might happen, and the face that shines in her head is vivid, bright, alive.

Robyn Jefferson is an aspiring novelist in her late twenties. She has a BA in English Literature and an MA in Creative Writing, for which she earned a distinction. She was born and currently lives in Bristol, but grew up in the South of France.

The funny thing about the night I bump into her is that I’ve got some cracking power ballads going on in my head. Proper wind machine stuff. I’m in an eighties music video. I’m in a shoulder-padded dress. I’m in an air-punching, air-grabbing frenzy when suddenly I spin to face a different camera for an epic key change and some high-stakes drumming. 

I’ve just been kicked out of the pub. It was after last orders, so technically, everyone else was kicked out too, but the barmaid (face like a Brutalist ruin) was especially stern with me, leaned in close and said, “Drink up, love. Yeah?” 

I asked in a how-could-you voice, “Have you never been heartbroken?”

“Get out,” she snarled, her leather trousers creaking and flexing with menace. 

I am now pounding the semi-rural roads of my small market town. I am a wronged and vengeful Shire horse. I have been dumped. I have also decided to eat that dump. Figuratively. The giant, steaming dump he did when he said, “Yeah, I’ve had second thoughts. I’m not really sure we’re that compatible, you know?” Well, joke’s on you mate, because I don’t actually ‘know’. Because I thought we were made for each other and I do not relate to what you are saying. Ha ha ha. 

I start to cry. Oh fuck. No. I remind myself that I am an attractive and majestic equine and he is just a little Shetland pony and not even a cute one. He is a stinky, mangy, evil, dreadful Shetland pony. He kicks all the other Shetland ponies for no reason, and he stamps on baby rabbits. He can’t even move very fast. He struggles to get beyond a trot. He is nothing but a shit canterer – and that is a word I made up because it is very close to sounding obscene. He is not like me who gah-lops. I pronounce gallops gah-lops because I am innovative. I am a shimmering, gorgeous, captivating, intoxicating Shire horse. And I am gah-lop-ping and I am neighing, and I am causing awestruck bystanders to whisper, ‘Steady girl, easy there, girl,’ and I am not Black Beauty because I am massively more original, and I have just walked into Celine Dion.

“Oh my God, fuck, shit, merde.” I take her in. 

She is magnificent. She is ethereal. She doesn’t belong here. I mean, what is she actually doing among the faux Tudor houses of Herringsgrove? Is she actually Celine Dion?

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I thought you were Celine Dion.” 

This is not the right thing to say. She does not speak. Her skin is golden next to a lamppost graffitied with the word ‘Beans’. 

“Umm.” 

Her eyes are glaring. If she had a tail, it would whip me in the face right now. 

“You are even more beautiful than Celine Dion, though.” I give a dazzling smile. 

It works. She speaks at last. 

“You think?” She touches her face and looks up. 

I look up too. There’s nothing to see. Just a moth bathing in the crackling streetlight; I guess it believes it’s found a star. 

I’m still looking up – it seems like the glamorous thing to do. 

“I bet you can sing better than her, too.”

She says, “I can’t hear you. Look at me when you’re speaking.”

I stand to attention and try not to sob. 

“Oh darling, what is it?” she asks.

I just want to melt into her and absorb her possibly phony, Celine-Dion allure. I want to ride the Titanic with her. I’m flying, debatably-fake, Celine-Dion lady, I’m flying. And I’m crying. Again. I wish she would carry me round in a sling and assure me my heart will go on.

She studies me, pulls me to her and says, “Fuck him.”

“I already did,” I wail.

“No, not literally.”

“Oh, right. Sometimes I get confused.” 

“It’s ok,” she says. She takes my face. “You are a wonderful Shire horse.”

I gasp, “How did you know?”

She puts a finger to her lips.

“You really are Celine Dion, aren’t you?”

“Did I make you think twice? …Did I make you think twy-yice?” she sings, with tremendous vibrato as she walks slowly backwards, disappearing into the shadows. 

Something lands on my head. It is the moth, dead. 

Twice, twy-yice? I think huh, karaoke. Amateur. I shake my head. Celine Dion would never slide her words about so sloppily. Probably just some mad, old bat, I think. And I turn on my hoof and gah-lop away into the night.

Liz Churchill lives in Birmingham, UK. She has words in VirtualZine, Ellipsis Zine, Janus Literary, STORGY and ‘Unmute’ – a Comma Press Ebook anthology. She was long-longlisted for the Brick Lane Bookshop Short Story Prize 2020. You can find her on Twitter: @LillabetRose

There is a note on the microwave door. ‘WIPE CLEAN AFTER EACH USE’

Your voice carries through walls, travels along pipes, pierces wallpaper, drips from taps. Your smell is a film that rubs off every surface I touch, no matter how much I scrub and clean.

I cannot find my key. I check every pocket, my bag, the top drawer. Retrace the familiar steps I take. Stand still and ask the universe to show them to me. Light spills through the lead glass door. I bend and peer through the lock. It is blocked by a key. My key. I did not leave it there.

Sun hits the dining table. I spread out the pieces, smooth creases with my palm. Nibbled edges, stains, fingertip traces. Everything a life could have been. There is a cup stain, neat and small, made by a hand painted porcelain cup with a handle just big enough for one finger. An ivory lace collar is moth eaten, frayed edges waiting to be gently brought back together. Muslins are in fine cotton, initials in red on each corner. When the light hits the bookcase, I will clear everything away.

I have put too much salt in the soup. You tell me three times as you spit it out, let it dribble down your chin and seep into your shirt. When you leave, I scan the cupboards. I have not bought salt for three years. Doctors’ orders.

There is a note on the bathroom mirror. ‘SQUEEZE FROM THE END OF THE TUBE’.

The bus has free Wi-Fi, no password needed. I buy an all-day ticket and sit upstairs, right at the front. Silver branches brush against the window, emerald leaves tickle and dapple light. I lay the work out on my knee. Thread heavy cotton onto the needle and follow the video tutorial. Needle the thread, do not thread the needle. Sturdy backstitch to join the edges, then a second row to make sure. I switch buses once, taking in the entire town, the edge lands shrouded in smoke, the glimpse of sea and heavy endless sky. I get off at the supermarket, collect food shopping and arrive before the sun hits the bookcase.

Our neighbour stops me as I fill the recycling bin. Each item wiped then washed out with boiling water. Puckered fingertips. You will check before your bedtime cigarette. She has not seen much of me lately. I look thin. Am I keeping well? Eating enough? Are we still trying for a baby? Such a shame about your loss.

There is a small case in the bottom of the wardrobe, one you would never open. Filled with things that never were. Shoes that sit in the palm of my hand. Soft ears and lemon wool. I move them aside to make space for my work. As the pieces come together, shifting into a new form, it gets harder to close. 

There is a note on the inside of the front door. ‘BE HERE WHEN I GET BACK’.

I sit in the window of the café looking out across the park. My sister is always late. I wish I could stitch while I wait, but the work is voluminous now, spilling out of itself and difficult to manage. She arrives like a whirlwind, kisses, excuses, and a smear of foundation on my cheek. She orders for us. The coffee is too strong. Everyone uses two shots now. I stir in three sugars, tense, then remember she is not here to scold me. She holds her face very still as I talk. Nods only occasionally. Leaves a long silence before speaking. ‘Give it time. It’s been hard for him, you know?’

At home, I work despite the trickling darkness, unpicking stuffing from our pillows, the settee cushions, the padding in the window seat. Just a little, here and there. I read my notes and sandwich wadding between the patched layers. Check the measurements, then check them again. There will only be one opportunity. I must get it right.

You are smiling when you open the door. You forget to raise your hand to latch it behind you. You hand me a letter and wait. A soft expectance. I have long given up on having my opinion valued. ‘Promotion. Transfer to head office. With a relocation package’. Sweat pools under my arms. I clamp them to by body, turn my mouth into a shape that I hope is a smile. Offer a swift kiss on the cheek. You bound upstairs. 

You think you are all I have. That my world revolves around you. But there is life here. Vegetables growing in the garden, birds returning year after year to nest, bulbs bursting through creating carpets of lemon and lilac, familiar nods and hellos in the street. Family a bus trip away, salt and crashing waves carried in on the breeze. If I let you take this, then you will have taken everything.

There is a note on the fridge door. ‘ESTATE AGENT COMING TOMORROW. WEAR YOUR BLUE DRESS’.

I let the knob of butter melt slowly, disappearing to a sizzle of foam. Lift my nose. You are still upstairs on the toilet, your stench a fog that chokes me. I crush the tablets with the heel of my hand, stir them into the sauce until they are rosemary and red wine. Red meat has not passed my lips for three years. Doctors’ orders. But I still make your favourite dinner every Friday. Just how you like it. 

Tonight, you go to bed early with a headache, open your mouth to blame me, soften when I suggest it’s the excitement. You work so hard. I listen for your thump and rumble, then move upstairs. 

The box is heavy now, stuffed with my work. When I unfold it, I realise for the first time how beautiful it is. Pieces of our life in a patchwork quilt, collected scraps, unused sleepsuits and repurposed linens. A keepsake. I slip it over your toes, lift your mottled calves and edge it around your waist and up until it sits around your shoulders. You stir, eyes sliding open. But you cannot move, crushed pills bubbling and settling in your veins, your arms and legs stones in a sack. I pull the thread tight, and the fabric ripples. There is a knot somewhere, fibres fighting against each other. The pale sun that had lit the room is setting, pink wisps and muted shadows. I cannot stitch in unnatural light, all flickers and brightness. I work faster. My index finger pulsing still, blood dried on the tip, pierced by the needle to the bone. I wet my fingertips with my tongue and work the thread between them until it relaxes and the knot comes free. One more row and it will be finished. Your muffled voice comes through, confused and frantic. Hot breath stinging the air. You head rests in my lap, heavy and unmoving, your shroud already soaked through with your tears. I knot the end three times. My signature. It’s for the best, I whisper. 

Sarah Davy is a writer, facilitator and lecturer living and working in rural Northumberland. Her short fiction is published online and in print and her first short play, A Perfect Knot, was performed at Newcastle Theatre Royal in 2020. Sarah was shortlisted for the Northern Writers Awards in 2020 and 2021. She was commissioned by Hexham Book Festival in 2020 and was writer in residence at Forum Books in Corbridge for 2019-2020. Sarah is working on her first novel, a collection of essays exploring belonging in rural communities and a DYCP funded full-length stage play.

He’s awoken at dawn by snuffling on the blankets at the end of the bed. The room is dark, embers in the wood burner glowing iron red. But there’s no use lying there, not now. He can’t get back to sleep once he’s awake. Besides, there are things to do.

He pulls back the sheets. The air is cool. The embers from the stove don’t reach far, it’s nearly out. The cottage is always biting cold in the morning, with its stone walls, tiny windows and draughty doors. Rising in the morning is like taking an ice shower. He doesn’t like ice showers, although sometimes he and his wife jump in the harbour, when she’s there. It’s good for the soul, she says. It’d be too cold to jump in the harbour on a day like this and for a moment he’s glad she’s away. But only for a moment.

Pulling on slippers and a terry-towelling gown (also cold but quickly warm) he opens the back door. The morning is dewy and still, the western sky gloomy. Jessie streaks past him, a blur of white and black, racing back and forth through overgrown grass like a ricocheting bullet, hot breath coming in clouds. She finds a spot, does her business. He looks the other way. 

Afterwards, they return indoors. He gives the dog breakfast, puts the kettle on. Bread toasts. He checks the calendar. Wednesday. Three more sleeps until his wife comes home.

“She’s away too much,” his mother says when she calls, once a week on Tuesdays. “She should consider your needs more.”

“She’s not on holiday, Ma. She’s travelling for work.”

“So are you,” his mother replies.

Which is strictly true; although he’s not sure it counts. He travels between hotels, not continents. They travelled more together when they first met, when they were younger. Back then, their world was a stream of unfamiliar countries and shoe-string hostels, a blur of rickety train rides between music festivals and ayahuasca retreats. Now she travels alone. Her work takes her away. 

After breakfast (Marmite on toast, a hardboiled egg and a little fruit—two plums today; there are no apples) he takes a shower, pulls on his overalls and throws some coal on the wood burner to keep it ticking over throughout the day. He departs into a chilly morning, flask of tea in one hand, bundle of keys and tobacco in the other.

Out front, the sun creeps above a hilly horizon. Liquid gold lights his face. The grass is still dark with night. Dew clings to the grass. He can’t see it, but he knows it’s there; it crackles against his work boots as he walks to the van, soaks into flecks of plaster on the soles, dampens Jessie’s fur as she strides alongside him. She paces ahead, sniffs a rabbit hole, returns faithfully to his side.

An amber sun offers the only light.

As usual, the neighbours’ cottages are still dark. Still asleep. Still.

It takes an hour of bouncing through narrow country lanes, winding between hedgerows, up and over hills before he arrives at his first hotel of the day. By now it’s a beautiful morning. He wishes his wife was there to see it.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” says the girl on reception. She has nice hair. It’s not as nice as his wife’s, but his wife isn’t there. “Somebody flushed a tampon again,” she rolls her eyes knowingly. “They never read the sign, do they?” she says, as though he’d written the sign himself. “Anyway, it’s all backed up and stinks of sewage. Can you fix it?”

That’s what I’m here for, he says. 

He wonders why the girl thinks a sign will stop people flushing tampons. He knows from sore experience that people will flush whatever they like. But he doesn’t ask. People often laugh when he asks questions, they think he’s joking. Usually he’s not. 

The girl with the nice hair points him in the right direction. 

The toilet bowl is full of brown water and other unpleasant things. Semi-solid things. Returning to the van, he collects the proper tools, pausing to give Jessie a good scratch between the ears so she knows he won’t be long. She licks his face. He laughs a little in disgust, wipes his sleeve across his cheek.

When he’s done, he explains to the reception girl how he fixed the loo. It’s not important to tell her, but he wants someone to talk to, for a little while. 

“Oh, thank you!” she keeps saying, keeping her distance, keeping her shiny hair away. He wants to talk more, but she interrupts. “Well, I guess we’ll see you next time someone blocks the loo.” 

He takes his cue to leave.

Outside, the blue sky is patchy with fast-moving clouds that dapple the road as he drives, casting shadows on the cracked tarmac, leopard print grey. 

He wonders what his wife is doing. It’s 9.33am here. Before she left, she said she’d be six hours ahead… in case he wanted to keep her in mind. He isn’t good at sums, but he always keeps her in mind. 

He figures it must be around lunchtime wherever she is. Perhaps there’s a break in the conference. Perhaps she’s eating exotic cafeteria food in an exotic cafeteria, with other scientists. Good-looking men, probably. Scientists usually are. He wonders if any of them have wives who keep dog shit in the fridge.

“It’s for work,” she’d told him, when he’d asked what was in the Tupperware box. “I need a sample for the lab.”

She’d taken it fresh from the yard, explaining there was something special in Jessie’s shit. In all dog shit. If anyone could see beauty in a dog turd, he’d joked, it was her. She’d flashed a wry smile. It was a virus, she’d said—one she needed for work. He can’t recall the name and it’s bugging him. Toxo-something. He can remember that much because toxo sounds like toxic, and if dog shit in the fridge is anything, it’s toxic.

He tries to focus his thoughts, picturing a magnifying glass on a piece of paper, waiting for it to catch. What was the name? Something that made him think of Venice. Toxoplasma-something… Gondola! Yes, that was it. Toxoplasma gondola. 

He’s never been to Venice. 

His wife has. 

He arrives at the next hotel at just after ten. The day is bright and brisk but it won’t stay that way. The weather changes here so fast. The hotel manager is gruff and tired. She doesn’t speak much, except to say there’s a problem with one of the taps in the staff room. 

Most of the calls he gets are taps. Or toilets. Things that’re easy to fix. Sometimes he wonders why hotel staff can’t fix these things themselves. Of course, if they did, he’d be out of a job. It’s a quick task; the tap’s just dripping. Needs a new washer. It’s usually a new washer. Have you tried a new washer? He always asks first. It’s the plumbing equivalent of, Have you tried turning it off and on again? He probably replaces three or four washers a week. Even if he’s called for something entirely unrelated, if he’s near a tap, he’ll check if the washer needs replacing. Could save him another visit. 

He informs the hotel manager when he’s done. She’s not as friendly as the reception girl with the nice hair. And she’s got a big nose.

“Just needed a replacement washer,” he says. “That’s usually all it is.”

“Thanks,” she replies, but she doesn’t sound very thankful. Maybe she’s having a bad day. Still, he tells her to call him if there are any more problems but that replacing a washer is easy if she wants to do it herself? Or she could get one of her staff to do it, if they have a wrench? Could save him a visit, he says. But she doesn’t seem interested in washers, or taps, or wrenches. 

He leaves.

When he gets back out to the van, the clouds have completely blown away. The view from the car park is really nice. This particular hotel is on a clifftop between two towns, right alongside the coastal path. That’s what people come here for: to walk. But not so much at this time of year. Few hikers today. He decides to take a break, roll a cigarette, pour a cup of tea from the flask. 

Even with the windows up, he can hear the ocean battering the beach below. Slightly east from here, there’s a quiet cove. He and his wife spent the day there once. In summer. They sat on the beach. She read a book. He listened to music. They tried a little surfing but weren’t very good. Then they went for a walk, found a dead dolphin. He’d buried it in the sand, using a big flat rock for a spade. She’d sat on a boulder nearby, watching him. He’d thought it might be cool to come back in a year or two, once the flesh was all rotted away, see if he could collect the skull. It might make an interesting curiosity, he’d thought. 

That was a year or two ago. He thinks about going down to the beach, digging up the dolphin’s skull. But then he realises he can’t remember where he buried it. Besides, there’s a new blanket of cloud rolling in on the horizon. It might rain soon. He stubs out his cigarette, gulps down his tea and drives on.

The next hotel is in the centre of a nearby town. He’s got a bathroom tiling job that’s been in the calendar a while now. The assistant manager is a tall man, friendlier than the woman at the last place. The man reminds him of his brother, Stephen. The Stephen lookalike even remembers his name. Shakes his hand.

“Here you go, this is the one that needs tiling,” says the tall manager who reminds him of his brother. 

“It should only take a few hours,” he tells the man.

He decides to tile the bathroom in an overlapping brick pattern, which always looks nicer.

Mid-afternoon, the bathroom’s almost done. He’s not had lunch, so he takes Jessie to run around a nearby park. Children play in the playground, with their parents. They squeal on swings, chase each other up and down a metal slide. He likes kids. He’d like to have one of his own, one day.

“We wouldn’t be able to travel,” his wife says. She has a point, he supposes. Still, he’d like a kid someday. He’s getting older. He wouldn’t want to be too old of a father.

“You know what you married,” says his kid brother, Stephen. “If you wanted kids, you should have talked about it beforehand. She’s career-driven—you can’t hold her success against her. Expecting her to drop everything because you want kids is a bit sexist, isn’t it?”

That’s what Stephen says.

Thing is, he’s proud of his wife’s success. He sometimes wishes she wasn’t away so much, that’s all. It gets lonely with just the dog. But he doesn’t tell his family this. Not his mother, who would use it against his wife if she could. And not Stephen, who takes offence so easily. Every time he says something, Stephen finds a reason to jump down his throat.

 Stephen would never appreciate the reception girl with the nice hair. And not just because he prefers men. Judging people on looks isn’t right, he’d say. But that makes no sense. Doesn’t everyone judge people by how they look? 

Once Jessie has run round some, clouds are rumbling in and the playground is empty. It’s starting to rain. He drinks the last of the tea and finishes the tiling. By five o’clock it’s all done. 

“Well, it’s very neat,” the assistant manager says, arms crossed. “But the rest of the bathrooms are tiled straight, not with an overlapping pattern.”

Not again, he thinks.

“I’ll come back in the morning to redo it,” he tells the man.

“That’d be great,” the assistant manager says. He smiles, but his smile looks irritated. 

When he gets outside, rain is coming down in sheets.

By the time he gets home, it’s dark again. He feeds the dog, stokes the fire, makes some dinner. Just beans on toast. He hasn’t the energy to cook. He’ll save that for when his wife gets back.

He checks the calendar again. Tomorrow it’ll be two more sleeps before she’s home. She’ll only be back a few days, but he reminds himself how lucky he is to have her. Still, the thought makes him so tired that by eight o’clock, he’s in bed. By nine, he’s out.

Jack Petrubi is a European writer based in the UK and Germany. Prior to dabbling with words he worked as a furniture salesman, a glass collector and a welder. His favourite colour is pink and he enjoys romantic walks in heels at various hardware stores. His short story ‘Hearts and Minds’ won the 2021 Cambridge Short Story Prize. T: @jackpetrubi

It’s Sunday morning. The days are longer now and today there is the first real heat of summer in the air. I’m shopping in a market in the suburbs of London. I’m in the market shopping and I’m standing in front of oranges. Oranges from Seville. They’re piled high and they are spectacular and I realise I’d completely forgotten you, for all these years. And I remember now how Seville is oranges – oranges that are on trees and squeezed in cafes in metal machines. They roll down metal slides on these machines, one by one. Firm, waiting to be parted, clenched until dripping. Makes me wonder what I owe you. 

I’m twenty-two and I’m in Seville for a month and I’ve decided to be a different person. I’m here to do a course. I get allocated a shared apartment. I get a room right at the top of the apartment that leads out onto a roof-terrace. There’s a washing machine up there somehow and laundry hanging out in the dry heat. I share the apartment with two other guys who are also on the course. Older than me. Grey hair, divorce, cancer. They’re both starting out on a new life. A second existence for them too. We’re really all the same in what we want, what we’re striking out for. Newness. For something to happen to our lives. And we do well together and we get on. They understand one another and get close and I’m on the edge of that, which is what I want. But we still sit out at night together on the front steps of the apartment and we drink red wine and watch this residential street in Seville cooling in the dark.

And Seville is oranges. It really is. They actually hang from the trees around the city – these orange trees that are all over the place. And not even for the tourists, they’re just there. They’re not trying at all. And I’m here walking around this hot city in the early autumn and I decide I will be happy, open, I will say yes and I will forget all about that pathetic person I was. And the city is mine, it swallows me up. It’s there for me and I can turn down any of the winding streets I choose. I can turn down any street and no one knows me and I’m light on my feet and every street, every street is some possibility.

I’m popular with the other people on the course, this new person I am. They all seem to like me. Particularly the girls. Which doesn’t feel too bad, seeing as I’m not me. I’m into this. And the girls – it’s so hot in the city, even in October – they’re kind of on show. We’re all on show. We’re all in a foreign country with people we don’t know. In the first few days the girl with the strawberry-blond hair makes it so we’re walking together to the bar, or wherever it is we’re all going, and it’s a really warm evening and she’s wearing a white vest and she wants to walk with me and I don’t remember you yet, but this girl, she’s made sure it happened that we’re walking together like this and she’s asking questions. So, why are you here? This must be what it’s like, I think. It’s so easy and I can’t believe it. Although I don’t really care. Even though it’s warm and she’s beautiful and she’s kind of walking with her shoulders back.

We all go for the morning coffee break to this tiny bar where everyone’s standing and someone’s paying for a coffee and I hear how they say it and takes me a while but I piece it together into English. What is my debt to you? Or maybe it’s, What do I owe you? Anyway, I like that – what is my debt to you. The barmen are in white shirts and they have black hair that shines and there are mirrors all around the outside of the bar to make this small place feel so much bigger and even the counter of the bar is all chrome metal. We can see ourselves everywhere reflected all over the place. 

On the weekends I turn down invites to visit places and see the sights with the others. This just seems to make them like me more. I stay in my room and on my roof-terrace surrounded by terracotta tiles. I can see rooftops for miles around. All terracotta tiles. I read. I read books on religion. Dostoyevsky. An academic commentary on Mathew’s Gospel. I do stretching exercises in the sun. I’m obsessed with this – a thirty-minute routine. I hate it too though. It’s like a penance. But I’m convinced it will make me better, that it will make me a better person. I want to be lithe and flexible and achieve some sort of inner strength. I want my body to hide a coiled power – not to use it, but so I know it’s there. On hand. I want to be surprising to people. 

I wasn’t even thinking about you at this point, hardly at all. You are all edges is how I remember you though. Plimsolls, skinny jeans, tight long-sleeved tops. Your elbows pointing. All angles. Like your limbs have an extra hinge somewhere. Cutting too – no  bullshit – you say exactly what you mean and you’re not afraid of anything. This whole thing is a breeze for you. 

Then we have a party at our apartment for the end of the course and everyone comes over for it, even the tutors. Inside there’s music, lamps and everyone is arriving and everyone is talking and you are talking to Ian. 

‘So what does your girlfriend do?’ you ask him.

‘She’s a dancer.’

‘A dancer? That’s interesting. What kind of dance?’

Your tone. I don’t even know if I care. I go to the kitchen and in the kitchen there are wine bottles beer bottles red plastic cups ice in the sink blue plastic bags and it’s all everywhere. José is in there too. José is young and he has long black hair that he keeps tucking behind one ear and he wears a white V-neck t-shirt and a black necklace. He’s into jazz, plays jazz piano. He’s the real thing. He helps me to say it’s okay in Spanish. All I seem to want to say is it’s okay. 

‘I think you are not saying it right,’ he says. ‘You are saying you are good, which means you are always good. You are never always good.’

The kitchen spills out into the living room where everyone is and Joanna is wearing a dress of bright sharp colours. She’s tied her blonde hair on one side with a red flower in it and she looks very Spanish and like she’s standing in some extra light or something. The music gets louder and someone opens the door to let air in. The walls of the living room are all blurred edges and feel too close like they’re pressing us all in, and the next moment it’s like they’re not there at all. And Maria, in a long sand-coloured dress, is leaning against the open door, laughing.

Then I’m upstairs somehow showing you around, sparkling drunk now and we’re having such a good time and we’re drunk and everything’s so funny and I think it’s so good being someone else, it’s so good that we’re avoiding going back downstairs where we can hear everyone and the party that is ignoring us. But to go into a bedroom would feel too irreversible so we stay on the landing with all these doors around us and the stairs going down. I want to stay where everything is still possible all of the time, all of the time, before some blunt act shuts off all those other ways. But then we’re too close and it’s all going away going away fast now and you’re leaning against the wall and I’m leaning against the wall and then it’s just too late and your lips are parting and there’s no way back. And although I’m enjoying all of this – because I know this isn’t me, I’m so pleased with myself – it’s still all just about ruined because those other possibilities all those others things that are meant to happen or happen but not like this they’re all closing now like eyes shutting. 

Then it’s done – the course – and we’re finished and we have to move out. But we all hang around in Seville not knowing what’s next and we all go out drinking and me and you from the time on the landing carry on drinking together and the others kind of drift home. We’re really into each other and we’re all over each other and the bar closes and we walk out and around the streets. We walk for a long time around the dark streets of Seville. We’re walking aimlessly with no idea of where we’re going and we end up down by the river. It’s either really late or it’s really early. There’s no one around. Then I’m trying to tell you I’m not actually that into you and I’m a real prick about it and you get angry and somehow while we’re arguing we end up going back to the pensíon where I’m staying. It’s the cheapest place I could find to stay and the pillows are lumpy and the bed sheets are thin with all their colour washed out of them. 

Once we’re in the room there’s nothing else but the bed. It’s just the room and the bed. So it’s going to happen. It has to happen. The bed is flimsy and the sheets are so old and worn and it’s so hot and we do the best we can here and we actually manage to make it something – something more than just sex in a cheap room. And everything’s all orange, everything’s washed in an orange light. It’s early morning, the curtains are dark orange and the gathering light outside is coming through the curtains and the room and everything is washed in orange. Your skin is dark orange all over. Your arms, your shoulders, your thighs. And we’re holding each other clenched together just right there. 

The next morning when you’re gone and I’m clearing out of the room – because I want to get out of this place and get unknown again – I find a used condom on the floor behind the bed. It’s not ours. It’s been there the whole time. It’s behind the bed on the laminate floor. It looks cold. Something just cast aside. But then I pack and get out and outside the sunlight is everywhere and it’s hard and definite and that helps. 

I’m trying to tell you something. In Cadiz in a restaurant, I saw a woman having dinner alone. This was before all of this in Seville, before any of this had happened. She had dressed up. This was in a restaurant in Cadiz. It was a modern restaurant. Bright. Large white plates. She was alone and she’d dressed up and she’d brought a book with her to read but she wasn’t interested in the book at all. It was like a prop. She was having dinner alone but she wanted something. She kept looking around. She wanted something else. That pointless book. She was ready – ready for everything to happen. For a hand to be offered, and  all the ordinary days to fall to earth around her.

Jacob Parker lives in London and teaches in a sixth form college. His short fiction has also featured in Structo, Open Pen, MIR Online, Litro, The Interpreter’s House, and others.

She’d walked along the beach for an hour that afternoon in the sun and rested up on the pier to lick her vanilla and blackcurrant cookie ice cream in a waffle cone. On the next bench, two pink- and purple-plumed teens with tentacled H.P. Lovecraft creatures tattooed on shoulders and thighs were speaking rapidly in sing-along French, luinesavaitpasmemefairecac’estunvraicochon! She wanted to eavesdrop, to join in, to ask them if they’d seen the crocodile everyone was talking about, but knew no French so lick-licked the soft gold cream, before it ran down her arm and dripped between the cracks of the wooden planks into the water below.

The teens got up, drawn to the call of the bongo drums beating out across the esplanade, leaving her alone with the incinerated hulk of the west pier, staring across at its burnt bones falling away into the roiling silver, while squally gulls glided, their arched wings shaping eyebrows in the air, as frothy wavelets curled and splashed over long, stepped groynes, like the crested tails of large lizards. 

She wasn’t taking the escaped crocodile seriously, no one was. In the news reports, it was just one more mythical beast, not a razor-crunching reality. She wondered if the reptile would return to the sanctuary of the ocean, as its ancestors had in the dreamtime, when creatures that could fly flew up, and creatures that could swim swam down. The sea was a place where a crocodile could hide, where it could grow and shape-shift into whale or beaked turtle. 

She too had washed up here, breaking free from the silent civilised city of smooth glass and cream stone that had been her long-time home. A chance to start over, to change. Slowly, the crocodile shaped itself in her mind: its barnacled pebbly hide, rackety teeth and polished garnet eyes, hidden there, beneath the shimmery surface of the Channel. 

The multi-tongued sea taunted her with the impossibility of transformation, that her story, at forty, was already mapped out like a nautical chart, that she was settled in shape like a stone on the beach, that she could not shed her crabbed skin, that she would remain in hues of sandy orange, mottled grey, chalk white and charcoal, as far as the eye could see. 

“I’m hard and dry, as fixed as rock, when what I want most is the turquoise lightness of water.”

Sun further west, sea further in. It was a shock to find someone had sat down next to her. “That’s the sea for you. It’s slippery, it seeps into your cracks and takes you unawares.”

  A noble profile; skin the colour of kelp, eyes pale and glinting, like the albino fish she’d glimpsed once in a subterranean cave in Slovenia. Hair deep blond with a curl and carelessly pulled into a chignon on top of the head, eyebrows shaven, nails manicured, painted lavender. She wanted to look more closely at the torso wrapped in its cape but reluctant to stare, concentrated instead on the dark polished cane they were holding in front of them. On top was a small carved face like a netsuke, and as she studied it, saw it was not one face but two: the conjoined masks of leering comedy and cruel tragedy. 

She looked up and saw the pale eyes on her. “I’m new here. Moved down from London during… well, you know…”

They were nodding, “I know.” 

It seemed then  she fell into a trance, couldn’t describe afterwards whether they had talked an hour or sat in silence, hypnotised by the inning and outing of the tide, the slipping away of the sun, the pixilating shingle along the curve of the coast.

“The crocodile,” she said at last. “Has anyone found it? I mean a crocodile on the loose is a dangerous thing…”

“Oh yes,” they said. “No question.” A hesitation, a smile. “But I’ve got it. It’s safe in my special place. Like to see?”

She was astonished by the invitation, suspicious of it. “You’ve got the crocodile?”

“I have.” A whiff of humour, like the joke was on her. She glanced at the carved knob on the tip of the cane.

“…fractured my ankle and waiting to heal. Are you coming?”

She stood up and strode alongside her limping caped companion; had to run to keep up with them as they navigated the empty esplanade, the spaceship cars and troglodyte bicycles parked at Sea Life World, turning left then right, into the cheery lights of Kemp Town.

They stopped outside a low tavern with bow window where an upside-down naked doll hung, arms and legs all swapped around. The stranger knocked, with the twin-faced walking stick, on a door festooned in fairy lamps.

“So Harry Potter, isn’t it?”

The door opened. A shaven-headed carnival gull in feathers exclaimed “Janus!” then darted a sharp peck at the She.

“Soul mate, found adrift,” they replied.

“Come in, driftwood welcome here!”

They entered a narrow, condom-tight cabin, that extended back to cellar stairs; walls throat-red and mirrors somehow liquid, a bright tank next to the bar flashed with the round gulping mouths and disk-shaped eyes of silver fish. 

She felt mottled grey. An old stone you’d want to hurl into the flames of a fire. 

A crowd flooded in to hug and shake Janus and finding herself separated she went to where a crocodile stood on its hind legs behind the counter, a crocodile with long dreads and hoofs for feet, a crocodile wiping a dimpled glass into which it poured sea water.

She took the glass and stared. Were those tiny plankton shuddering about inside? She lifted the beaker up to the light to see.

“It’s not spiked,” grinned the crocodile.

 She sniffed, inwardly held her nose and swallowed, then looked around for Janus, saw them sucked down the throat into the cavern below. She followed, sank herself deep into its dark belly where the candles guttered and oddball chairs stood at mishmash tables, where the low ceiling dripped with fishing nets and swinging plastic lobsters; more mirrors, more fish tanks. She perched on a seat in front of a band of leathery pterodactyls as they struck up. Dream Tobacco sounded out.

Once I was a man and I loved a woman

Truly I believed that she loved me

Then some other woman came and stole my woman

Right away my life meant nothing to me…

The music, the dancing shadows, suggested the vast ancientness and newness of life; how she was floating in a bubble of time, then how time itself was stretching and spooling back to the pre-time, when crocs were dominant in the world drama, and then suddenly, she saw time flinging its tentacles up to the stars like a giant squid, up there, where one day spaceship arks would soar, seeking sanctuary, to build a home somewhere else, from which to watch the dying earth.

The pterodactyls played on.

Someone hand me down that opium pipe

Oh dream tobacco take me away

Where there ain’t no memories to lead me astray

Where I can hear sweet music the lived long day …

She sipped her drink, pausing to decide whether it was Elderflower or Kombucha. The dancers, some lean and lithe, others ponderous, were lurching and skidding on the froth of beer and seawater. There were tails; there were horns, and there was Janus, throwing off their cape, caught by a long-snouted toothless iguanodon in mulberry red who wrapped it about themselves. Janus had lost their cane, was dancing limp-free, healed by this flirtation with water.

“Who takes your fancy?” asked a proud stegosaurus in lazy drawl, wearing Lycra cyclist tights, not looking at her but lost in their own reflection in the mirror, gaze enchanted by what they saw.

“No one. I’m spoken for.”

A snort as they pulled away from the reflection, glancing at her. 

“Where is he, then?” Eyes working the room.

“It’s not a he.” 

Eyes returning, settling on her, like a surprise find.

“A she?” 

Heads spun, inquisitive glances, glitter ball fishes tapping their noses against glass aquarium walls. 

She shook her head again and took another sip of her drink. 

“It’s not a she, it’s a what.”

“A what?” Stegosaurus quizzical, wondering if she was meat.

“A croc.”

“A what?”

A whoop, as a shower of light and dead stuff fell from the ceiling, making the cavern snap and gurgle and laughter rippled out, catching Janus, her crocodile, swimming towards them in its current.

“I knew she’d fit right in,” they were saying.

In an instant, the cavern erupted into sprays of bubbles and she was paddling with Janus, singing the song of Dream Tobacco and everything boundless and boundary-less, and it was obvious that her shell was pierced.

Later, when she thought back, she remembered a tale from her childhood: the one about a Fairy Queen holding court in a big empty house, who invites two musicians from the human world to entertain her guests for the evening. They play their fiddles and stay 200 years, though they think they’ve been playing for only one night. When they leave, they catch up with human time and disintegrate, blown away by the wind. She worried that the same might happen to her, that finding herself so changed she might not survive in both worlds.

After the asteroid crash and the opening of the oceans, she crawled out of the cavern and along the esplanade, back to her own neat home, back to the cat waiting for her, and she knew she was diversified, changed from rock to croc. 

“I’ve found my tribe,” she thought. “I’ve found where I belong.”

But the next week, and every week, she tried to locate the bar in Kemp Town with the sea inside, but she never managed it. Perhaps they were all swept away by the outgoing tide, dissolved in the morning sun, perhaps they had been lost for eternity, like the escaped crocodile.

Deborah Nash is based in Brighton and has had an eclectic range of employments from fish n’ chip shop and factory floor shoe-picker to community artist, sub-editor and now writer. She has written 12 children’s books and is a regular contributor to The Wire, Selvedge, Londonist, and France magazine, among others. She was prize-winner in 2020 for the YPPT script-writing competition for a puppet play, longlisted for Emma Press picture-book call-out 2020 and her short stories appear in Litro, Stand magazine and Ambit.