#topcatjoanne

Love must go somewhere when it dies.  It’s more than a connection between souls, it must have a life of its own.  Surely it leaves a trace in the paths we walk, the beaches we leave our footprints on, the sheets we disrupt, and the hills we climb.

I retrace my steps again and again, stuck on a doomed loop.  The same activities, hand holding, kisses, passionate reunions and words of love - I repeat them. I mean them every time.  It’s just the faces that change.  

I think of others, those who have had more success.  The ones who have made love live for decades.  Are they different?  Is it as visceral, desperate and magic for them?  Do they at any point think they might die of it?  Do they laugh or cry when the tide rushes in and erases their footprints?  

It was winter when I caught you trespassing.  You claimed to be lost and gave me a beseeching look from innocent eyes.  I wanted to show off the rivers of ice, the frozen lake, the cold beauty of the frost and the dew laden spiders’ webs in the trees.  Most of all I wanted to share the quietude.  You were in awe of it and as I spoke of industry and economics you became impressed with me.  We met day after day in the spellbound winter and fell in love by the turgid river.

The dry cold season softened to spring and out came the birds, legions of them, laying eggs along the water. You were so excited about the prospect of signets and ducklings. You laughed at the monotonous song of the chiff chaff and danced with bare feet on the warm grass.  We were glad to see the back of winter. “Live with me here, beside the water meadows,” I said.

And so, you moved into the house that was once my father’s, overlooking the land he’d left me.  Each day you watched for ducklings and signets, you marvelled over the blue bells growing from the yellowing grass.  I was perturbed by the height of the river – it was falling.

The summer came with searing heat.  I kept myself inside to avoid the relentless sun.  I didn’t want to look at the water, it was shrinking back.  I could hear my father’s dying words; “Beware the drought ... The things we have buried ...”.  I had to stop you from going outside.  You were confused when I locked you in the bedroom.  I made it a nice cage, decorating it with pictures of the birds you loved so much, indeed I would have given you anything you wanted, but there was no way I was letting you out.  I had to protect you from the horror that was unfolding out in the water meadows.  The river was now a slurry of slime and the lakes had receded.  The signets hatched deformed and the ducks abandoned their babies.  The trees in plunging their roots deep underground for water had found poison; their trunks turned black, their brittle branches fell away.  The chiff chaff was silenced.

The call came at 11am, Theo was in the headteacher’s office.

“It wasn’t mine!” he protested when his mother arrived.

“Immediate suspension while we investigate,” the headteacher responded.

“I want to see it!” Amber insisted.

The headteacher held up a plastic bag with two ready made spliffs inside; “We can call the police if you have any doubt, Mrs Williams.”

“Please don’t,” Amber replied, “what will you do with it?”

“Dispose of it,” the headteacher said, “as to Theodore’s assertion that he was looking after it for a friend, perhaps a search of his room at home will shed light?”

Amber saw Theo’s shoulders sag slightly.  She took him home and found five other spliffs in his room.  He refused to talk.  At a loss, she went downstairs and called his father.

“I should have come to the school!” James exclaimed, “the children are coming to mine tonight, and …”

“The school called me. Look in his room at yours, will you?  See if you find anything. I’ll bring him round this evening,” she ended the call.

There was a knock at the front door.  Orson’s parents, Bill and Delores stood on the threshold. Delores hugged Amber hard.

“We came as soon as Orson told us,” Delores said.

“Could it be a mistake?” asked Bill.

“No.  I found more in his room,” sighed Amber.

“Christ, how are you so together?” responded Bill.

“What will you do?” Delores enquired.

“Well, he’s grounded …”

“No, I mean with it. You don’t want it in your house do you?  We could get rid of it for you.  Flush it down our loo.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,” responded Amber.

Later, Amber’s partner Sean rang; she told him everything.

“Jesus!” Sean exclaimed, “how come you are so together?  Do you want me to come round? Look, Amb, you don’t want drugs in your house.  Let me come and take them.  I can chuck them into the Taff on my way home.”

“It’s OK Sean, I’ve got to go to James’ now.”

At James’ house, Theo’s brother and sister made themselves scarce.  Amber sat next to Theo in the kitchen.  James took a seat at the table facing them, rubbing his chin; “Well, this is very serious indeed.  You’ll never make the team now.”

Theo left the room abruptly, tears in his eyes.

“Leave him,” Amber advised as James stood up.

James sat down again.

Keys rattled in the front door and in came Elvira, James’ girlfriend, dressed for the gym, wielding a tupperware box.

“I came as soon as I heard!  I brought homemade cookies.  Oh.  My.  God. Amber.  How are you so together?  I’d be in pieces!”  She put the cookies on the table, “so you found some in his room as well? You don’t want it in your house.  I’ve got a waste disposal unit at mine, I can …” her voice trailed off as she looked at the expression on Amber’s face, “well, I’d best leave you two to discuss,” she planted a kiss on James’ head before leaving, “see you later, gorgeous.”

James and Amber stared at the tupperware container on the table.

James spoke; “She had a point, Amb.  What have you done with the ah … weed?  I uh think it would be best if I took it.  I have a wood burner …”

“James, it’s summer!”

“Quite.  Well,” he stood, “I’m going to talk to my boy alone.”

Amber paused.  From upstairs she could hear; “You’ll never make the team now!  You’ll fail your exams!  You’ve shamed us!  You’ll be expelled!”

I finish my tea and leave the apartment.  The car is parked on the road outside, I get in and start the engine.  It’s sunny and the narrow lane is lined with parked cars on either side.  I drive down it without encountering anything coming the other way.  This is going well.  The traffic lights are green as I enter the High Street that leads past the park.  I turn on the radio and drive past the ice cream parlour, because yet again the lights are green.

On the main road all is quiet.  It’s odd, the man waving the red flag with the placard saying ‘Stop!  The End of the World is Nigh’ isn’t there. Bonus!  He always gives me the creeps anyway.  The lights at the roundabout are green.  I take the road leading out of the city.  The town houses give way to estates, the estates dwindle to fields under a blue sky.  I turn my music up, gaining in confidence.  This is the right way.  I turn down a lane, the farmers fields are yielding to trees, the hedgerow is thick with flowers.  I am in the woods.  Tall pines surround me, interspersed with wild roses and hydrangea.  Ivy begins to reach across the tarmac, soon I’m driving on it and having the car doesn’t feel right any more.  I pull over, collect my bag from the boot and leave the key under the wheel arch.  I feel like I’ve come a long way.

I walk down a path that leads deeper into the forest; the late summer sun is gentle, the birdsong sleepy.  I breathe the cooling air and remember all those green traffic lights in the city, how easy it was to come here.  The weight of past troubles, of old grievances and sad memories is gradually lifting.  I know that behind me the ivy will have covered my car, but I don’t need it any more.  I’m not afraid of being lost because I am never going back.

I reach a clearing and step out into the light.  There is a house in front of me, a small holding.  Cats sun themselves on the patio, chickens scratch at the dust in the yard, clucking to one another, the trees in the orchard are abundant with apples.

‘You’re Camille, I’m Victoria,’ greets the ex-wife at the restaurant table, ‘sit next to me, I’m dying to know all about you.’  She lays a kiss on Edward’s cheek.

My fists clench. Get off him!  He isn’t yours any more.

‘You look great!’ Victoria gushes, eyeing me up and down.  I can feel the eyes of her friends at the table on me also.  Two by two, all established couples.

‘Doesn’t she,’ agrees Edward, squeezing my waist.

I smile beatifically and fold myself into the chair beside Victoria’s.  I’m introduced to everyone and then; ‘Edward tells me you don’t have children?’

How rude!  Of course, it is a fair enough question, I’m here because she wants to meet me before I am introduced to her and Edward’s daughters.  I take a deep gulp of wine, letting the deep wounds of my past show in my dark eyes.  

‘I never drink,’ Victoria states disapprovingly, ‘I understand you work really long hours at the hospital.   You’re a doctor right?’

‘No.  I’m an assistant,’ I reply vaguely.

‘Camille’s doing a nursing degree,’ says Edward.

Victoria looks satisfied, there is no-one at the table who doesn’t have a PhD or MD, Edward was at pains to tell me the identities and qualifications of everyone there.  He is quite the name dropper when he gets going.

They’re all looking at me pityingly as if being an assistant is beneath them somehow.  We order our food, Edward squeezes my hand under the table, but he doesn’t come to my aid.

‘So you live on Westfields housing estate do you?  Is property expensive there?’ Victoria asks.

‘I wouldn’t know, I rent,’ I answer.

Between starter and main course, Victoria and one of her friends get up and go to the ladies room.  After a moment I follow, I go through the first door and stand in the vestibule behind the other, listening.

‘How come she looks that good?’ Victoria is raging, ‘no way is she 40 years old!  She looks about 25! And look at Edward all moony eyed!  It’s obviously a sex thing! Well, she’s not meeting Amelie and Olivia!  Over my dead body!’

‘Do you have a say in that?’ her friend asks.

‘Edward will do anything for a quiet life,’ she replies smugly.

I open the door and rush into a cubicle before they notice it’s me.  I sit there for as long as possible before I go out there again.

After pudding I feign a headache and tell Edward I’m going home early.  He offers to escort me, but I turn him down.  Victoria looks radiantly triumphant.

I head for the car park; a glance from me and the street light above Victoria’s Mercedes goes out.  The darkness swallows me and I melt into mist so I can filter my way into her back seats; taking form again just in time to hear the click of her heels.  She gets in to drive and I pounce, grabbing her by the neck.  She makes a peculiar gargling sound as my teeth sever her throat.  I drink the life from her greedily, then shove her lifeless corpse into the passenger seat.  

No symptoms yet on day one of self isolation.  We’re in a routine.  At 7am breakfast, 7.30am home schooling starts, tea break at 10.45am … which is when the boys creep upstairs to look out the window at Giselle the French girl from next door practising her ballet moves in the garden.  Everyone needs a hobby, they have one too; fencing.  So after lessons and lunch we practice in the garden.  No swords of course, there’s a fitness regime to follow.  It’s 4pm now, we’re bored, kicking a ball against a wall, but we’ll get through.

No symptoms yet – day 2.  Breakfast at 8am, 9.30am home schooling, but the boys are in the garden.  Seb has climbed onto the raised beds and is talking over the fence to Giselle.  Can’t have that, teenagers can’t socially distance.  Charlie is hiding behind the shed and filming them secretly.  He’s obsessed with his YouTube channel, puts everything on it.  I call them in, I get them back on track.

No symptoms yet – day 3.  Breakfast at 8.45am and by 9.45am they are in the garden!  I must work, so maybe start home schooling a bit later?  I hear a yell from Seb; ‘You can’t secretly film her and put her on your channel, Charlie!  It’s creepy!’

‘What would you know about art?’ retorts Charlie.

‘Pervert!’ cries Giselle from over the fence.

I hear a clattering noise in the kitchen, followed by more shouts and tear myself away from my laptop.  I’m not sure how it’s happened but they’ve grabbed their swords and are sparring.  This dangerous showing off must be stopped immediately.

No symptoms yet.  Day 4.  I’m in agony.  Seb’s sword went straight through my right arm yesterday when I broke the fight up.  An accident.  It’s 10am and he and Charlie are making something for breakfast.  Obviously I can’t go to hospital with all the Covid cases and there’s no point worrying their mother.  I’m patched up as best as can be and taking strong painkillers with whisky.  A short term strategy to cope with the pain.  I’m going to have to trust the boys to stick with the timetable on the wall.

I have a fever on Day 5!  The woman who dropped my Covid test off told me I need to get my arm looked at, but the whisky and the pain killers are doing the job.  Where are the boys?  Charlie is filming Seb who is shirtless in the garden. He's got his sword and is wearing body paint; a bandana round his head.  He’s dropped the sword.  He’s climbing up the raised beds.  He’s gone over the fence and is coming back again, Giselle in his arms giggling.  She’s illegally in our garden!  I try to speak but my words are somewhat slurred.  The pain is bad.  Maybe it’s safer to think I’m imagining all of this. Perhaps I should get some rest.

Still feverish, Covid test negative though.  It’s day whatever, I’ve lost track.  My head hurts.  The boys and Giselle are in the room with me.

‘Have some more whisky, Dad,’ says Seb, shirtless and covered in painted symbols.  Giselle is wearing a floaty white dress.  Charlie is filming us of course.

‘You’re not social distancing,’ I say weakly.

‘We’ve formed a bubble,’ Seb replies authoritatively.

‘Isn’t it lesson time?’ I look up at the timetable on the wall, but someone has thrown a kitchen knife through it.

‘Just rest, Dad,’ Charlie advises.

‘His arm has gone black,’ says Giselle, ‘he is going to die.’

‘Perhaps I should go to the hospital,’ I suggest in a whisper.

‘Not with all those cases, Dad!  Do you have a death wish?’ Seb exclaims, ‘I know what to do.’  They all leave the room.

Fever, pounding head.  Is it evening?  I’ve been moved onto the kitchen table.  The three of them surround me.  There's a belt tied round my arm. Seb puts a bottle of whisky to my lips, I gulp it down as I notice the axe in his other hand. Giselle rubs disinfectant above my wound and I scream with pain.  She picks up what looks like a butane gas lighter.  ‘Are you ready?’ she asks Seb.

‘Please can I go to the hospital?’ I ask.

Seb’s face is very serious.  He raises the axe, the blade gleaming dully in the half light.

Another hotel lobby, my ID badge is heavy on my neck and I have an impending headache.  No-one notices me, just another grey official. You learn to read body language in this job and the person coming through the rotating door has a mild startled look when confronted by the pristine hotel reception.  I move immediately to welcome.

“Derek?  Hi, I’m Gill.”  As we travel in the lift I explain; “thank you for coming, we’re looking for people like you to help us with our research.  I can’t go too much into what today’s research is about or I’ll bias you, but this is for you,” I hand him his thank you payment, “just ensure what you expect is in there.”

Derek is relaxing, he takes the envelope, counts the cash and nods.

I open the door of the conference room and watch him take it all in, two bottles of water in the middle of the table, one still and one sparkling, the upside down tumblers next to them, the blood on the mahogany, the body slumped on the chair, throat cut. Messy.

I shut the door behind us and hand him a cloth; “So, to get started, can you clean the table?”

He looks at me, mouth slack in a square shape, like an outraged infant; “Shouldn’t we – c-call the Police?”

I frown; “Why would we do that?”

“Because of the-the body.”

“Is that what you think that is?” I ask expressionlessly.

“It looks like – like …”

“Take your time.”

“Real,” he says.

“Everyone says that,” I counter reassuringly.

His shoulders sag with relief and he gamely takes the cloth and begins mopping up the blood.  I ready the tarpaulin bag that I’d brought down earlier; “As you work,” I request, “just say whatever comes into your mind, think aloud if you will.”

“It’s very sticky, the blood – is it blood?”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” he gives me an embarrassed half smile.

“You’ve done a great job there,” I say, “can you grab the legs?  I’ll get the shoulders.  Again, just talk me through your thoughts as we do this.”

“Um, she’s wearing heels, Louboutin’s,” he says, as we placed Carla’s lifeless body onto the tarpaulin, “her skin is warm.  Is she still alive?”

“What do you think?” I ask.

“She feels very real, this is very authentic.”

“What is?”  I place the cleaning cloths in with Carla and zip up the bag neatly and efficiently.

“This experience,” he half laughs again, “you’d think I’d taken part in disposing of a body.”

“What did you expect to take part in?”

“It said a test.”

I smile.

“Oh!” he says sounding even more relieved, “it’s all a research test thingy.”

We place the tarpaulin bag containing Carla onto a trolley.

I smile and shake his hand; “Thank you very much for your time, Derek.  The restroom is on the left if you want to wash your hands.  You’ve got my e-mail address if you have questions.”

Bellflower was the most beautiful in the garden with soft pink flowers and delicate leaves.  People who passed her stopped to take close ups of her to post on Instagram.

The Goldthread vine that grew nearby wasn’t admired, so no-one noticed when he crawled ever closer to Bellflower until he was in whispering distance.  “You look beautiful today.  But don’t you get tired of all those people sniffing your flowers and pressing their phone cameras against them?  It’s so intrusive.”

“I don’t know how to stop them,” said Bellflower.

Goldthread touched Bellflower gently with one of his vines, she didn’t protest, so he stayed, telling her how amazing she looked, how stunning her flowers were and how awful it was that she had to endure all this attention.

Bellflower became dependent on the daily compliments of Goldthread, she felt comforted by his cool vines that gently wrapped themselves around her branches, hiding her flowers from sight so the people didn’t come with their cameras.  Soon Goldthread became her world, everywhere she looked there he was, always smiling, protecting her.

Gradually Goldthread opened up to Bellflower, telling her of the problems he was facing.  He was ugly, no-one looked at him, he couldn’t get sufficient nutrients from the soil, it was easier to get his supply from other plants.  Could Bellflower help?  Gladly she gave him a share of the nutrients she sucked from the soil and Goldthread told her how kind she was.

The summer wore on and Bellflower dug deep for water; she’d been all right last summer, but this summer she was constantly thirsty.

“Goldthread, how much water are you taking?” she asked.

“Oh loads,” he responded glibly, “I’m growing another vine.  You don’t mind do you?”

“I’m very thirsty …”

“What?” cried Goldthread, “how can you be so selfish?  I’m here every day for you, shielding you from the people …”

“I didn’t ask you to …”

“Don’t interrupt me!” Goldthread tightened his hold on Bellflower, squeezing her with his vines until she begged for mercy.  Afterwards Bellflower sobbed, but Goldthread behaved as if nothing had happened.  He continued to drink and feast from her until she grew weak and ill.

“Please Goldthread,” she’d mutter, realising her flowers were dull and her leaves were shrivelling, “is this fair?”

But Goldthread always had excuses and worse was the drip of insults he now fed her; “You used to be so generous, you used to be beautiful, but now you’re mean and sad all the time.”

The gardener returned from her holiday and was shocked to find her most prized plant nearly suffocated by Goldthread’s vines.

“I don’t know what happened,” the under-gardener said.

“That pesky Goldthread!” sighed the gardener.  She dug Bellflower up and with great patience and gentleness removed every one of Goldthread’s vines.

The under-gardener took Bellflower to the south patio and put her in a tub, where she could be intensely fed and watered.

The gardener looked thoughtfully at Goldthread and placed beside him a dull grey rock.  

When she had gone, Goldthread said; “I can’t believe they’ve taken away Bellflower, the love of my life!  All I did was care for her!”

“Indeed,” said the rock.

“Will you comfort me?” wept Goldthread and tried to put his vines on the rock, but the rock felt cold and he couldn’t get a grip on it.

“I’m sure you’re very upset,” said the rock.