Tonight she wears neither, and feels hot, exposed and foolish.
Fusses over making a cup of tea, puts in too much UHT milk, decides she’ll drink that cup herself rather than throw it away, tries again, teabag, water, strange how hard these things become in the gaze of a stranger’s eye, and as she works she says:
“You were by the canal. I called an ambulance. They didn’t come. I don’t know if I did the right thing, if there is family—do you have family?” The man didn’t answer. “I moved the boat. I was by the lock, there are…”
She stopped talking as quickly as she had begun. Beat the teaspoon out on the side of the mug. The sound was painfully loud, irritating; once upon a time she’d found it relaxing, ping-ping-ping! Not tonight.
Silence from the couch. She passed him a mug, and maybe he said thank you, his lips moved and there was air in his throat, but the sound didn’t quite come out whole. She cast around for something else to do, putting a saucepan away, poking at the fire in the stove, still burning strong but who cares, more wood, do excuse me I’m just going to…
more wood, taken from the pile under the tarp on top of the deck, her breath frozen in the air, the cold a sudden shock that lets her feel how fast her heart is pumping…
a moment to catch the chill, letting the cold through her skin, taking her time grasping the log, enjoying the feel of it beneath her fingers, broken bark and dry splinters
then back in.
More wood.
Well isn’t that lovely it’s just
it’s just
Well.
She stood, silent, and found she had nothing more to say.
The man, dark hair, one side clumped with blood, stuck with dirt, a damn good wash and then whoosh, a static explosion around the head, she knows how hair like that behaves she used to cut the hair of a man called…
…a man called…
It was a long time ago.
Several weeks’ growth of scraggy beard, eyes made smaller by the puffy lids that encase them. He was born with a harelip, which a doctor stitched together before he was six weeks old so that he could feed; you’d barely notice the scar, but there is a slight tugging to one side of his face, a slightly crooked smile when it appears, which hasn’t been very often in recent years.
He was also born with the little finger and ring finger on his right hand fused together, but his parents never told him that, and it was an easy operation to separate them. His mother thought it was bad luck, an evil birth. His mother was not the kind of woman to be swayed once a thought was in her mind.
“My name is Neila.”
The words were so obvious, so familiar on her lips, she was astonished she hadn’t said them before.
Silence.
She turned, her whole body now, to look at the man on the couch. Still clutching the blanket. Staring up at her, eyes catching green-grey in the firelight. She put her head on one side, hands on her hips, waited.
“Theo,” he mumbled at last. “My name is Theo.”
Then hesitated, looked away, smiled, laughed, found laughing painful, curled away from the sound, looked back up, still smiling. “Actually,” he said, “that’s a complete and utter lie. Sorry. Habit. But… call me Theo.”
Silence in the cabin.
Silence on the water.
Neila watches and feels a sudden heady rush of power. This man is the most vulnerable, pathetic creature she has ever seen. She is a saving angel. She is God-like in her authority. She holds another person’s life in her hands. She’s never done that before.
She thinks she might laugh, and it would be deeply inappropriate. Involuntarily puts one hand over her mouth, clapping the sound in.
Then she thinks she might cry, and that would be absolutely fucking ridiculous, what the fuck is she even thinking?
The man called Theo is contemplating his next words, staring into his teacup, barely sipped, maybe he’s a snob about these things, maybe he doesn’t like…
“There’s a code,” she blurted to stop him before he could say something stupid, something that would destroy this knife-edged moment in which she is in charge, and all things hang in the balance. “On the canal. There’s a code. You help people. That’s what it is. Not many people stick with it now. You get a lot more rude people. People who don’t know their boats. Triple-parking wankers, if you don’t mind me saying. But I believe in the code. It’s why I’m on the water, it’s why…”
Stopped.
Worried she’d said too much. Tried to replay her words, thought perhaps they were okay.
“There’s a code,” she repeated into the silence. “That’s the way of things.”
The man nodded, taking it in, looked down, looked up, looked into her eyes. Said: “I’m going north to destroy a man. He killed my friends and took my daughter. He broke the country. He’s why they’re all dead.” His face scrunched up for a moment, looking for something else, which he couldn’t find. “That’s all.”
She thought about it.
Was surprisingly okay with just standing and being still and quiet and thinking about it.
Heard the clock ticking down towards a rabbity midnight.
Said: “Okay then. That’s okay.”
That was that.
Chapter 7
Theo walked through autumn streets with Dani, watching the cracks in the pavement, and had nothing to say for himself.
Dani strode, chin forward, glowering at all who dared look her way, fingers in fists at her side. The sun was setting, a sluggish grey-blue drifting to sodium-brown. The streets were padded in quiet autumn hush, traffic muffled and far away.
Frames of a film caught in office windows: women picking up their coats, two men playing ping-pong at the staff table above the reception area. The cleaners starting work, down from the top, buckets on wheels, sprays in a pouch, computer screens still live, the lights never going out. A queue for an ATM, a shop assistant pulling down the shutters on a wall of leather boots.
Laughter from the pubs.
A smile and a friendly nod from the man who guards the door of the strip club, hey mate, good to see you again, come in come in yes your favourite she’s dancing tonight she’s something else isn’t she?
The buses do not stop to let people on. If you didn’t prebook your place through the gold priority transport service, there’s no chance tonight. Faces pressed to fortified glass, bodies standing right up front in that sacred place where only the driver should be, people up the stairwell, standing on the upper deck, unless someone gets off no one is getting on…
No one gets off.
Company Police move a beggar on. He has an abscess in his left leg that he proudly displays, destroyed bright pink flesh hollowed out almost to the bone, yellow fluid seeping slowly round the edges. When he just laughs in their faces, refuses to move, points and cackles, the security men carry him bodily to their truck, throw him in. He’ll be for the suburbs, for the enclaves where the good people don’t go, where they stopped the electricity after the scroungers couldn’t pay, wouldn’t pay, and where corporate councils don’t see any need to invest.