#lost property

Walk decisively, or the flood of people, will carry you away and you'll wash up in a ditch. I'm striding through Waterloo, pretending to know where I am going. I falter at a large, hanging sign with one of those arrows that points at 45 degrees. Does it mean down the escalator? Or right-ish? I'll need to choose. An employee in a CUSTOMER SERVICE vest is passing.

"Hi, excuse me, can you tell me how to get to Lost Property?"

He replies in a stream, like an auctioneer, without pauses. I nod my understanding with the same urgency he delivered. I'm glad he gestures, I would have gone the wrong way. I memorise his consonants and repeat them back to myself like a mantra until the directions become real. "Down the escalators and make a right and another right and if you don't see it ask someone down there."

The escalators take me down, right past a McDonald's unit delimited by a spotless glass screen, so insubstantial it's like the idea of a McDonald's rendered in a futuristic Hollywood film. It has those self-service screens like flagpoles in a carefully ordered grid to minimise interaction. Service reduced to touchscreens and QR codes - all very efficient until something goes missing. Keep walking and more glass doors lead out of the station, to a utility road under the girders of the station.

It's rough, dirty and industrial under here. Delivery vans unload boxes of single-serving creamer. A steel barrier prevents me from stepping into the road, and a woman in a brown McDonald's hat leans her weight on her arms, exhaling slowly on her smoke break. I wonder to myself if that's permissible, in the Crew Member Handbook? I keep walking and find the double doors to the Lost Property office. A young woman just in front of me presses the release button on the doors. I follow her in, but she says to me, "You go ahead, I'm on the phone". I step forward into the small cubed room, and she moves against one of the four walls.

It's windowless and glaring, like a large walk-in wardrobe. It's quiet too, all the sound and motion of the station suddenly extinguished. It's airless, and a bit musty. There is a closed-up fireplace on one wall, and I'm confused how this could have been a room for an open fire. The floor has weathered grey lino and two blue upholstered chairs screwed to one wall. They're covered in stains, a bit shiny, like decades-old chewing gum. The desk area behind the counter is darker and empty.

I may have lingered too long. The woman steps forward on my behalf, perhaps with impatience, pressing a buzzer beneath a sign saying "Ring for assistance".

A man in his early seventies with thick glasses lenses emerges from the door at the back. His hair is white and wayward. He looks a bit like he's been sleeping.

"Hi," I open, "you emailed to say you've got my luggage."

He blinks at me vaguely, giving the impression he doesn't see me too clearly - but is at peace with that.

"We emailed, huh?" he says in an unhurried air. I smile and press the phone against the glass. I've got the email open. I'm prepared. Ready for war. Ready for disappointment. He peers at it, looks up at me, and says, "I'll take a look." He shuffles back out of the back door and I take a seat on the black shiny chair. I forget the woman has said she is on a call, and say nervously, "This place is a bit weird". She gives me the polite "I know you've forgotten I'm on the phone, but I see you" look.

I examine the room, but there isn't much to see. An ugly telecom set with a boxy, yellowed speaker in plastic attached to an angled mic that reminds me of a gynaecological tool. A poster lists the 'Recovery Charges' which vary from £20 for laptops to £10 for phones. Bikes and musical instruments are £3, and "keys, reading books and Filofaxes" a mere £2. Medicines are free. There is also a daily fee for electrical items (£1) or anything else (50p). This looks like the kind of information that causes disagreements.

I'm trying to remember what is in my bag, and if the total will be cumulative, but the clerk returns, and with two hands lifts my yellow luggage at eye level, like an offering. I give him a big beaming smile of joy.

"There it is!" I exclaim, stepping forward.

"ID," he asks, placing the luggage down. I'm prepared, I pass him my maroon British passport under the slit in the perspex. He takes it, flipping through the pages.

He keeps flipping.

And flipping.

Until he reaches the very last page.

The emergency contact page.

He looks up at me. "Martin Reyes?" he asks.

Confused, I nod, adding, "That's my husband."

He looks down at the passport again, reading Martin's contact details.

He looks up at me.

"New Mexico?" he asks.

Unsure what we're actually discussing, I nod, blankly.

He shrugs as if it's not worth his time, and takes a side door out of the office. A few seconds later he magically appears, from the street entrance, and places my luggage down, leaving without a word.

I leave quickly, eager to get back into the stream.

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

Previous

When Lydia and Linden came downstairs again, there was a strained silence between them.

Lydia opened the bottle of wine, Linden fiddled around with getting some wine glasses, and some glasses for water, and a bunch of crackers, and some cheese and olives and some rather superfluous plates, and neither of them seemed to know how to break the silence.

“You think I treat the pets too much like children?” Lydia just went out and said it, flatly.

Linden jerked his head up and looked for a moment like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. He looked back down at the table, then, determinedly, back up again.

”Well-” Linden hesitated. “I just think…they already have no control over their lives. And they aren’t children. Even calling them ‘the pets’ is…”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Lydia bristled. “Don’t you think I know that it is totally insane that they look to us for guidance as if they were dogs in a bewildering human world? And you think that I want to strip them of their agency?”

Linden almost recoiled at the intensity of her words. She could see that he was collecting himself, choosing his next words, but she wasn’t done.

“Listen,” she said sternly, “Apart from Cory I have gotten to know another pet, a guard dog named Brutus. They are very different, but in some ways they are the same, and Col seems to be similar in that way too.” She paused.

“Every time I try to give them more power over their own lives, they push back in terror. ‘Pets should not do X, pets should not do Y’. They have gone through hell and they have been taught that their own decisions, even their own desires, should not exist.

I am telling Cory what to do. But within that safety net of sorts, where he knows that he is a good boy,” she made a face at her own words, ”I encourage him to take his own initiatives, to grow as a person. And he does, and he feels reasonably safe while he is doing it. If that means that I am treating him too much like a child,” she spat, “then so be it!”

Just try it yourself, she wanted to say, if you think it is that easy.

But Linden did. That gentle, dark-haired man that sat across from her, looking crestfallen, did struggle with the same issues every day.

She knotted her fingers together in her lap. “I’m really trying to do the best for Cory, but it is just very hard to know, sometimes. What is the right thing to do, I mean.”

Linden nodded, quietly. Inky eyes meeting her own.

“I usually just feel like I’m muddling through,” he admitted. “It’s very hard to predict how Col will react. I try to make him feel safe, but sometimes I just succeed in freaking him out instead.” Lydia nodded.

“Been there, done that. It is really unpredictable, sometimes.” She sighed. “And they all just want to be good.“ She gave him a bit of a lopsided smile. “Sorry for taking my frustrations out on you for a bit, there. Even if I sounded as if I’m sure, honestly, I’m really struggling with if it is better to let Cory know that he is being good, so that he will feel safe, or if that just reinforces the whole thing about being a pet in the first place.”

“Yeah, completely. I find it hard to find a balance between accepting these very glaringly obvious difficulties and just falling into a hole of pessimism. I never want to complain too much, or sound resentful, or… yeah. But it is nice to talk about this with someone who really gets it. And, um. Thank you for the apology. It’s okay, really. We all react to things differently.”

“You’re a very measured man,” Lydia said, staring into her wine, the ghost of her earlier smile still barely visible on her lips.

“So, how did Cory end up with you anyway?” Linden asked.

Lydia swallowed a gulp from her glass and sighed, then she looked straight into Linden’s eyes.

“I bought him.” She admitted with a grimace. “I didn’t know what it was going to be like, and I thought I was doing something good, but I bought him and paid good money for him.” There was a bitter anger in her voice, at the WRU, but mostly at herself. “I paid for Cory, as if he were a dog.”

“I’m not judging you,” Linden said evenly. “The alternative was for him to end up with someone who really did see him as a dog.”

Lydia sighed. The thought was painful. “How did you get Col?”

“Ad in the local paper. He was living on the street so they gave him to me for free. It was that or they’d, uh, put him down.”

Lydia felt a twinge of guilt. Linden had at least acquired Col outside of the conventional system. She felt so complicit. Perhaps she had helped Cory to a better life, but at the expense of supporting the pet industry.

She thought back to the revelation about the attacker at dinner, and how Col had sobbed that he deserved to be put down. Did he know, she wondered, how close he had come to such a fate?

”That was truly a good deed.” She told Linden. “Brave of you, too. If I had known what to expect, I’m not sure I would have been brave enough.”

Linden hummed in assent and refilled their glasses. They both sipped their wine.

“Cory did do something quite odd,” Linden remarked suddenly, as if the memory had just come to him. “When I had the radio on. It was playing a classical piece and I walked in on him with tears streaming down his face. Properly streaming.”

Lydia cocked her head to the side and nodded, letting him continue.

“He told me later about this dream he has sometimes. He said that he dreams he’s in a cave, with… something weighing on him. And music coming through him. Has he ever talked about it with you?”

“No,” Lydia confirmed, leaning forward. “Never.”

“Doesn’t it sound like being in an orchestra?”

Lydia locked eyes with Linden, nodding slowly. “It does. It does!”

Linden felt a little excited at the new revelation. “And when he was crying at the music, he didn’t seem scared or upset, just- moved? He said he’d forgotten how beautiful it was. But that he’d never try to play. He insisted upon it, in fact.”

“He’d only say that if it was trained out of him,” Lydia finished the thought.

“Exactly.”

“But…” Lydia bit her lip, doubtfully. “He does play. I mean, you heard him yourself tonight. He was a bit nervous at first, but it was quite easy for him to start to play even for other people.” She shook her head, slowly. “And you heard him, he’s good, right?” Linden smiled and nodded. “But…” She hesitated, unwilling to criticise Cory. “ “I don’t think he’s professional level good. I’m not a tin whistle expert, but still, I think he is more like a gifted, dedicated amateur.”

“I guess you are right.” Linden looked down, disappointed. “Perhaps it was nothing more than a random dream.”

He took a sip of his wine. The memory of Coriander still bothering him. The blonde man’s tear-stained face as he swayed in tune with the violin, an almost religious ecstasy. It should mean something.

Cory had been swaying to the violin… which is a string instrument… which is a whole different kettle of fish compared with a flute or any kind of wind instrument.

“Hey Lydia,” Linden said slowly, puzzling together his thoughts as he spoke, “have you ever let Cory try some other kinds of instruments? You know how many musicians play several instruments, but have one instrument as their main expertise?” He could see understanding dawning in her eyes as well. “What if Cory plays another instrument even better?”

“Oh my God.” Lydia took a breath. “That is brilliant. I haven’t thought of trying that, but of course I should. I could maybe take him to a shop that sells musical instruments, or…”

“You should be a bit careful.” Linden cautioned gently. “There were some pretty strong emotions in play just by him listening to the radio.” Lydia nodded in agreement.

“You are right. I shouldn’t overwhelm him. Maybe that would be too much at once. I will give it some thought.” She gave Linden a lopsided smile. “There was some Sherlock Holmes-level deduction right there. I hardly know anything about Cory’s past.”

She looked away in the distance, suddenly sad. “Oh Cory, if we are right. I bet you played so beautifully.”

“He probably still can,” Linden said softly.

“I just- I want him to be happy again. I want him to be able to regain whoever he was, once.”

“Me too. That’s exactly what I want.” Linden said. Lydia nodded.

“For both of them.” She hesitated and amended herself. “For all of them.”

The pair made eye contact once more, warm smiles reflecting in each other’s eyes.

Lydia was the first to break the silence.

“I’m… I’m just so glad to have met you, you know. It seems like everyone involved with this pet business are just terrible human beings and I haven’t really met anyone else trying to do what I want to do with Cory.”

Linden grinned, raising his glass into a toast.

“Here’s to not being alone in a shitty situation.” Lydia huffed a laugh and clinked her glass against his.

“Let’s drink to that, to not being alone.”

*

The next morning dawned with sunshine from a clear blue sky. Linden drove them all to the station, in plenty of time for Lydia and Cory’s train.

“Thank you,” Lydia said, standing on the platform, “for great company,” she smiled at Col, “and great hospitality” with a smile for Linden. ”Don’t forget to come and visit us!”

She stepped up to Colton and wrapped her arms around the tall man, feeling him first stiffen in surprise, then relax into the hug. “Take care, Col.” She told him quietly. Lydia let him go and turned towards his owner. There was no hesitation in Linden’s hug, just warm friendliness. “Thank you for looking after Col.” He smiled and mimed holding up a phone. “We should talk soon.”

“T-thank you, Sir.” Coriander smiled shyly. When Linden hugged him, he hugged back carefully. “It was lovely to meet you Cory. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Col and Cory exchanged one long look.

“T-thank you, Colton.” Coriander said. “T-this pet w-was happy to see you.”

”I was happy to meet you, too, Cory.” Col raised his hand in a careful wave. “Take care.” Cory returned the gesture.

“Y-you too.”

Lydia and Coriander took their places and waved through the window as the train ponderously started to leave the station. Linden and Colton waved back. Then, together, they turned and started walking to their car, on the way back home.

*

Thank you all for tagging along and for being such great readers and co-adventurers! 💖

This collaboration grew and grew to become something much larger than either of us envisioned from the beginning. We’ve come to the end at around 37,000 words. We are both very proud and happy to bring this story to completion.

Even if Lost Property is finished, Linden and Colton and Lydia and Coriander will continue their separate adventures. Going forward, we will not automatically tag the Lost Property tag list for our separate writings. If you want to be on the tag list for Linden and Colton, let Cerys know. If you want to be on the tag list for Lydia and Coriander, get in touch with Linda.

Once again, thank you all!

Cerys & Linda

xxx

“Miss Lydia!” Cory’s tone was suffused with joy. Hearing his voice made her slightly weak in the knees with relief.

“Hi Cory.” She said, keeping her voice steady.

happy birthday @maracujatangerine !!!