SHELLS

They started appearing all over the place, the eggshells.  Growing up the walls of my house like indoor ivy and covering the window ledges.  They weren’t like boring brown supermarket eggs; they were all different colours, bright white, greenish blue, pink, cream and speckled beige, deceptively pretty.

Any attempt at moving the eggshells resulted in breakage, so I crept carefully around the house without touching them.  I avoided the walls where they grew and didn’t open windows in case the breeze blew them off the ledges.  My friends, when they visited did the same, sitting in the furthest points of the room from the egg shells, glancing at them furtively, but never mentioning them.

I had to adapt to further restrictions when they started growing on the furniture.  I could no longer sit in my favourite armchair and the presence of shells in the kitchen cupboards made the removal of pans for cooking impossible.  I ate microwave meals.  When the first shells appeared in the tub, those long relaxing baths I loved became out of the question, I had to take showers instead.

My sister arrived one day, squeezing through the front door which I could only partially open due to the presence of shells on the hinges.  She walked carefully along the hall and sat gingerly on the arm of the sofa.  She stared at the egg shells on top of the television, on the closed curtains that I could no longer draw to let light in, on the music system.  We chatted about her neighbour’s new baby, our father’s illness, her husband’s job and of our mother.  Then suddenly, she whispered; “You can’t live like this.”

I shook my head at her, but it was too late, the shells on the wall in front of us juddered and one fell onto the carpet, breaking in two.  We stared transfixed at the gap in the wall it left.  Eyes glared through and there was a low menacing snarl.
“You can’t come around here again,” I told her sadly.

We kissed goodbye in the hall.  The door opened enough to let her out, but when I closed it, shells spread across the aperture and I knew I would never open it again.  I sat on the floor of the living room, holding the broken eggshell in my hand, weeping.

SPARROWS

“What do you mean the system’s down?” yelled Roger Stamp, “the Market is about to go live and we’re for it if our client’s can’t trade!  I don’t care how you do it, Williams, I want it up and running in five minutes!” He slammed the phone down.

His PA put his head round the door; “Tea?”
“Not now, Stefan!”
Stefan retreated.
Roger scowled at the window, looking in as it pecked the lattice was a sparrow.  He smacked the glass and the bird flew away.
“Stefan,” he called.
“Yes, Mr Stamp.”
“Wretched sparrow looking in.  Call pest control, see to it they’re not nesting in the roof.”
“We’re in the country, Mr Stamp.”
“Yes, so I don’t have to pay you London allowance.  Do it now, will you?”
“Yes, Mr Stamp.”

Stefan returned to his desk to hear Mr Stamp yelling at Williams, toadying to City clients and harassing the sales team.  It seemed like a perpetual phone call because Mr Stamp didn’t do pleasantries like hellos and goodbyes.  Every now and then there was the sound of the window being thumped.  After the sixth time, Stefan was summoned through.

“Stefan, there were seven sparrows at the window.  Why haven’t pest control dealt with them?”
“Sparrows are protected, Mr Stamp.  Their numbers are falling.”  Stefan looked curiously at the diamond patterned window lattice, but he couldn’t see any birds.
“Don’t you doubt me, Stefan.  Those birds have been pecking the window, staring in and I don’t like the way they look at me.  What are you going to do about it?”
“Me, Mr Stamp?”
“Pest control won’t act and you’re my PA.  Are you too stupid to act on your own initiative?  Get through there and start researching poisons!”

At lunchtime, Roger Stamp left for the pub.  Stefan tried to work, but was distracted by a tapping noise coming from Mr Stamp’s office.  He put his headphones on.  Later, Mr Stamp returned, face flushed from drink.

“The system’s down again,” reported Stefan quietly.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Mr Stamp replied and entered his office.
Stefan heard the phone call, Mr Stamp told Williams he’d been a fool to hire her, women and computers didn’t mix.  He’d see to it she never worked in the industry again.  In the middle of the call was another thump on glass; “Stop staring!”  Then the icing on the cake for Williams - she would be sued for incompetence.
The phone call ended abruptly, then another thumping sound and Mr Stamp shouting; “Right!  If my incompetent PA can’t deal with it, I will!”
Stefan would have assisted, but his phone rang, it was a client.  “I’m sorry, but Mr Stamp is busy ... technical support are working on the system ... I understand your frustration ... OK, I’ll try and put you through.”
Mr Stamp didn’t answer.  Alarmed, Stefan placated the client and went into his office.  It was empty, he rushed to the open window.  The body of Roger Stamp lay surrounded by staff, on the patio two floors below, blood seeping from his head.
“Did you see what happened?” the security officer asked, looking up at Stefan.
“I think Mr Stamp has been under a lot of pressure,” Stefan replied.
“I’ll call the emergency services, but he’s a goner I’m afraid.  ‘Ere, he’s got something in his hand; a bird feather.”

Stefan closed the window and turned to call the client with the news.  The soft sound of fluttering caused him to turn; a sparrow clung to the window lattice and peered in at him with hard, bright eyes.

WAR CRIMES

Serena arrived at the party, step light, carefree and effervescent.  The eyes of men followed her and her stories caused laughter.  I stood in her shadow as she discussed art, academia and politics; I was trying to forget the danger.
Our mother touched my arm; “Amelia, check outside will you?”
I slipped out the back door and swore.  Birdsong had stopped, I could see the dark clouds rushing in and great black shadows falling across the summer garden.  One by one the fairy lights went out and the air turned icy.

I rushed indoors, but it was too late.  The band ceased, the dancing stopped and people fell silent.  The Occupiers were among us.  Their Leader pounced on the bar, sticking his head into the punch bowl, slurping up the liquid and spilling the rest, another smashed the buffet table over with his tail and the last trod birthday cake into the carpet with his paws.  The Leader raised his head; his red eyes had fallen on Serena.  She faced him in her white party dress, the polite smile a mask to hide her anger.  I reached her before he did and ushered her into the bathroom.  I helped her out of the dress and into sack-cloth, I daubed ashes on her face and tied her long hair back.

“It’s not your fault,” I repeated.
“But it is,” she said, a grey drab thing now, fit for the Leader’s eyes.
In he stalked, sneering at us; “Did you think I’d miss the party?  Was there talk of rebellion?  Are they taking my Serena away?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” she replied boldly.
“They couldn’t!” I added hastily, “Serena will never leave you.”
The Leader looked at me suspiciously; “Bring her to the Adjustment Room,” he ordered and returned to the bar to stick his head into the basin of wine that had no doubt been poured for him, in the hope it would improve his mood.
“Amelia, please try and persuade him to come with us now,” Serena begged, “do not let him drink!”
My efforts were rejected with vicious irritation.  He was with the other Occupiers and they were surrounded by an ingratiating crowd of reassurers.  He wanted to hear them.  Serena and I walked alone down the dark lane; at the end was the rusty railway line from older days.  On it was the disused carriage – the Adjustment Room.  We waited in the freezing night air until we heard him shambling along the lane towards us, then Serena went inside.

 

I sat outside listening to his raised voice, her placations and her cries.  I remembered the time before the Terrible Change when we had all been friends, before the sickness that had swept across the land and made them strong and us weak.  I thought of the innocence of our family celebration, about how the contrast between then and what Serena was going through now could break her mind.  I cried the tears of a collaborator.  I had to take my sister to him, she was the price we paid for food, wine and protection.

 

Eventually he crawled out, looking almost human – for he had been human once; “I hate this war,” he said, “I liked seeing her as she used to be, but I couldn’t ... I couldn’t allow it.”  He lay down to sleep beside the rusty rail.  I could hear Serena sobbing.  He didn’t stop me when I slipped past him to enter the Adjustment Room.  I lay next to Serena and held her tightly; “Each visit and I diminish more,” she whispered, but we did not discuss it.  We never thought, never questioned; we did what was necessary.

EVA

I first heard Eva’s low musical laugh as she passed by to pick up her kids from school.  I went to the window to see her sashaying down the road in her mini skirt - the image endured.  I asked about our new neighbour, but Eva’s private life was a mystery.  I started lying awake on Saturday nights, listening for the clip clop of her heels as she returned with some man, her laugh, her voice; my erection was pressed firmly into the bed, while my wife slept angelically beside me.

 

Eva needed help moving some furniture and my sweet darling wife sent me. The rest is history.  Over those summer lunch times, when Eva’s kids were at school, we’d meet and lie in sweat tangled sheets, gloriously fucking.  I dreamed of running away with her, but she wouldn’t introduce me to her children or even tell me what music she liked.  I knew as little about her at the start as I did at the end.

 

That dreadful day in September, I sought her in desperation; “My wife’s found out!”

“Well, it was always a risk wasn’t it?” Eva shrugged, her expression closed.
“What do I do?” I asked, tears springing to my eyes.
“I don’t know,” she replied dispassionately, as if we were talking about a financial dilemma or work problem.  Then she shut the door in my face.
 

Even when the summer had long gone, my wife’s health declined.  She told no-one about the affair and her silence weighed heavy.  That capable, bustling darling who ran my life became a shadow, because of Eva.  Eva who walked away like it meant nothing, who took no responsibility for the suffering she caused.  I began to ask myself what possible use to society was Eva?  The grapevine told me how she’d cast aside men that had fallen in love with her because she didn’t want anyone to get too close, how she’d deliberately target married men because they would return to their wives. Also, how did she make her money?  There was lots of speculation.

 

I still heard her laugh Saturday nights as she returned with some man.   I kept recalling those summer lunch breaks and the feel of her flesh against mine.  I called her and asked to meet.  I did not do this for my sake, but my wife’s and the neighbourhood’s.  Eva was a parasite living off the misery of others.  I drove her to the fields I’d played in as a boy.  I led her out of the car and into a copse of trees.  I kissed her passionately, then put my hands around her neck and squeezed.  I didn’t expect to feel anything but a sense of grim duty, but as her struggles became desperate, I kept flashing back to those moments we had shared.  When she was dead, I placed her in a shallow grave and drove home, happy in the knowledge I would not see or hear from her again.

 

Eva appeared everywhere, her face on neighbourhood posters and CCTV images of her sashaying through the shopping centre on local television.  If not seen, she was heard - the emotive press conference the father of her children gave, talking about the wonderful hard working mum who’d let him take the kids every Saturday.  The neighbours spoke of the charity she’d set up and run from home and how she’d visited her sick mother every day.  Then on the day they found Eva buried in my boyhood fields, my wife finally broke her silence and that’s when I heard it again, the low musical laugh.

THE SEVEN MANIFESTATIONS

I knew they existed, but she didn’t tell me that they came with her, that I couldn’t have her without them.  I remember the old days when it was just her and I.  We’d walk under apple trees hand in hand, talking about everything, but then evening would come and she’d have to hurry home.  She was careful not to introduce them to me until after the wedding.  Then she told me they were going to come and live with us.

Through the door they came, Happy carrying a bottle and singing, Grumpy glowering and Doc taking my favourite chair.  Sneezy told me how ill he was in alarming detail, Sleepy allowed me to wait on him all evening, Dopey smoked weed and Bashful sat in the corner rocking from side to side in a state of trauma – he doesn’t like change.

My first mistake was to take them seriously.    I listened to Doc pontificating about politics, religion and the state of the economy and tried to argue with him.  I bought medication for Sneezy and nursed him as best I could.  I tried to lure Bashful into conversation and make friends with Grumpy.  I waited on Sleepy hand and foot, bringing him meals and tidying up after him.  It was all in vain, Doc wouldn’t listen to any point of view other than his own, Grumpy complained, Sleepy didn’t appreciate anything I did for him, Sneezy’s symptoms got worse and not better and Bashful became more and more depressed.  I started hanging out with Happy and Dopey, drinking until the early hours, smoking weed and partying ... but then that became too much.  I simply couldn’t keep up with them and I realised something – where the hell was she?

When it was hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work they go, I searched for her.  I found her walking in the orchards that I had courted her in, a sad expression on her face.  She begged me to stay with her and help me deal with them.  So, I went home and tried to clear up the mess they’d left.  I wandered which of those seven little manifestations would come through the door first.  If it was Happy, Dopey or Sneezy, drugs would need to be on hand.  If it was Doc, there would be a long rant with which I couldn’t argue and even if I didn’t, Grumpy would always turn on me for no reason, that little bastard was so angry. Sleepy would lounge on the sofa and demand dinner and Bashful would just want some space.

One day I lost my temper and threatened to kick them all out.  They subsided so I could see her enchanting beauty and I was suckered back into it.  There are phases of just her and I, but they are becoming less and less.  Each time they return, they stay for longer and she diminishes.  I’m convinced they are destroying her and I can do nothing about it.

BARK

You kept away from their fires, but I was drawn to heat and the smell of food.  I loitered, whining and slavering.  When the man threw me meat I took it, but you wouldn’t touch it.  I returned to the man’s camp the next day and the next, while you hunted alone.

Curiosity drove me closer; I took meat from the man’s hand and let him touch my head.  I couldn’t look him in the eye, there was something horrible there, but his hands were gentle and his voice soothing.  He offered me a warm place to sleep.  There would be no need for hunting, I could guard his camp and pull his sledge with his dogs.  I knew what you thought, but while I’ve always been as strong and fast as you, I’m not as thick skinned.  I couldn’t bear the cold or the long days without food.

The warm place to sleep was a cage, but it came with a fur blanket, fresh meat and a place near the fire.  At night I patrolled the edge of the camp, sometimes you came to see me, but I was not permitted to run through the forest with you.  I took my duty to protect the camp seriously.  At times, I’d hear you howl and I’d answer, but the man did not like this.  It made the dogs restless.  I should learn their language, he said and moved me into a cage with them.  I thought that once I learned to bark well, I would be allowed back into the cage I didn’t have to share, the one with the fur rug.

The sledge was heavy and the journeys long.  When I was on the diet of fresh meat it hadn’t mattered, but now I was in with the dogs, I was offered processed food from a container.  One night I was tired and fell asleep instead of patrolling the camp.  I woke to something sharp connecting with my ribs and the man yelled, his voice no longer soothing.

I patrolled slowly, hearing your faraway howl, but I didn’t answer for fear of angering the man.  The cage I lived in had been moved away from the fire and the dogs were shivering.  I crawled in with them for the limited sleep I would get before the day’s work.  I remembered those rare nights when you and I pointed noses to sky and rejoiced at the end of a successful day’s hunting.  I would not be strong enough to hunt now, the diet of tinned meat was not nutritious, my fur was dull and I was slower.  I hoped your thick skin still protected you from the cold that was in my bones.  I glanced across at the cage with the fur rug that used to be mine, there was something in it - the man was feeding fresh meat to another wolf and talking to it soothingly.

I looked at the bright stars above and thought of running those forest paths by your side, the scent of prey and the freedom and adventure ahead of us.  Here every day was the same and I suddenly knew that if you didn’t hear from me soon, you’d return to your old pack and I’d be trapped here forever.  I pointed my nose upwards to howl to you to come and get me, but all that came out was a bark that you would not recognise.

INTO THE STORM

Caroline came hurtling down the corridor; “Ali!  You can’t go!  I won’t let you!”

I said nothing, but she talked on.
“The storm’s coming and the route you’re taking is heading right into it!  They say don’t travel unless absolutely necessary!”
“It’s necessary.”
“Don’t go on your own.  Let me come or Gina.  Have you spoken to Gina?”
Gina had said don’t go.
“You can’t manage on your own,” insisted Caroline, “you can’t do it.”
“I’ll be fine,” I stated, “look outside, the sun is shining!”

There was a low growl of thunder as I walked past the grim office buildings to the car park.  I could see the black clouds piling in stark contrast to the blue sky.  People always exaggerated, they’d forecast an immense storm, but nothing major would happen.  I drove to the motorway.  It was busy at first, but as the day darkened, the clouds packed in and the fat rain pelted windscreens, the cars peeled off.  They took this junction or that, heading to the comfort of home, family, food and wine.  I continued, windscreen wipers at highest setting, taking comfort from the presence of a BMW ahead.  As I crossed the bridge, a huge gust of wind nearly tore the wheel from my hands; I fought for a few seconds to right the car, to get it in a straight line.  The BMW slowed right down, hazard lights on.

It became difficult to see through evermore relentless rain.  Now and then the thunder would drown out the warning voices on my radio.   The BMW was slowing, we were being flagged down.  I opened my window, the cop looked in; “Where you going?”

I told him.
“The river’s about to burst its banks, you can’t ...”
I just drove off.  All week I’d been hearing ‘you can’t’, ‘it’s impossible’, ‘you’ll never make it’, ‘you can’t do it alone’. I was sick of it.

No more BMW and the Police hadn’t followed ... Suddenly I wished they were here, Gina was always calm in emergencies and Caroline would be joking by now.  I had to prove to them that I was strong though, because they’d never believed in me.  I had to face the storm.

Suddenly I became aware that it wasn’t puddles anymore, I was driving through deepening water.  I couldn’t turn back, it was only five miles to my destination junction.  The cop had said the river had burst its banks.  Well, how bad could it flood on a motorway?  I kept in a low gear, but after three miles the engine just choked and died.  Out of the window, I could see the water had risen up past the tyres; it was seeping through the floor.  My feet were wet.

I sat there for some time, thinking about how weak I’d been and how strong I’d have to be now.  It didn’t occur to me to go back.  I thought of how you’d be waiting for me at the other side, just as I remembered you, the man I fell in love with and it was only two miles to my destination ...

I opened the door; the water was thigh high and freezing.  I plunged through it, the rain on my face, the sky all dark, not a chink of light or a hint of the storm easing off anywhere.  I held my bag with my phone, my keys my purse aloft.  I felt the strength of the current, trying to drag me in another direction.  I continued on my way, into the dark and cold.