#warpofthewords

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.

I’m riding my bike to work; whizzing past stationary cars.  I’m going to be on time.  There’s the boss Mr Frank parking his white Range Rover right outside the building, he’ll pay £20 a day for that space.  What the hell!  I’m suddenly lying in the road on my side, a car swerves to avoid me.  Mr Frank stands over me; ‘Sorry, Grant, didn’t see you there,’ he says cheerfully, closing his car door and picking up my bike, ‘it’s a bit dangerous cycling on the road; people open their doors without looking.  At least you’re on time.’

Discovered a cycle path, bit of a longer route, but I’m careering along, in a space just for me.  No cars, no chance of being doored.  Round a corner I go and I’m down, face in the gravel.  There’s a terrier and extendable lead wrapped round my bike.  I get to my feet and the dog owner punches me in the face.  I detach the animal from my bike and run for it – I can’t ride because the chain’s come off.  I turn up with stone imprints on my face, oily hands and a black eye.

‘Not a good look, Grant!’ shouts Mr Frank as he emerges from his 4x4 unscathed, ‘at least you’re on time.’

Trying the pavement today, taking it easy, ringing my bell as I pass an old couple. There’s a shout, I look over my shoulder.  The elderly lady has collapsed.  I go to help immediately, only for the old man’s walking stick to ricochet off the side of my helmet.

‘You’ve given her a heart attack!’ he yells, hitting me again, ‘sneaking up behind us like that and then ringing your bell!  Menace!’

I jump back on my bike and pedal for it, sick with guilt.

They’ve opened the new bike lane.  This is truly where I belong.  Alongside the buses and cars, away from the pedestrians.  Suddenly my face is in the back of a bus, my front wheel buckled and my helmet broken.  The driver grabs me by the collar; ‘What the fuck were you doing?  There’s a bus stop ‘ere!  Look where you’re going!’

I can’t reply, there’s blood pouring from my mouth and my front teeth are loose. He shakes his head and drops me in the cycle lane.  I arrive at work covered in black diesel dust and blood.

‘I’d give up if I were you,’ advises Mr Frank as he emerges pristine from his Range Rover.

I spend the day miserably texting Ellie.  She sends me a link – a water bike, cycling’s new frontier!  I order one by express delivery.

This is so civilised, peacefully pedalling along the river to work.  No cars, pedestrians, buses, dogs … What the hell!  Passing close to me, engine roaring is a speedboat.  Its wake wave hits me and I capsize, just as the river ferry appears.  I swim for it only to see my water bike get caught in the ferry’s undertow and dragged down to be mangled in its engines.  I arrive at work soaking, shivering and covered in water weeds, my work clothes at the bottom of the river.

‘Do try to be more presentable, Grant,’ says Mr Frank, climbing out of his all wheel drive.

There is a box waiting for me at home, a note attached to it.

‘You really can buy anything off the internet these days, even extra-terrestrials!  Here is the solution to your problems, love Ellie xxx’

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.”

Amy turned the air conditioning up in her brand new SUV, she checked the children were belted in and drove home through the summer heat.  On the motorway the traffic was crawling and warning signs showed that there were people on the carriage way.

“What’s happening Mummy?” demanded Aurora.

“Just a traffic jam,” Amy could see ahead. People were walking along the hard shoulder with the traffic crawling past them.  They were painfully thin and unwashed, their clothes ragged, they carried what looked like the last of their possessions on their shoulders.

“Aurora, Elliot, don’t look out of the window darlings,” Amy ordered, “just play on your Ipads, we’ll soon be home.”

Aurora obeyed, but Elliot took a tentative peek. His eyes met with those of a child his age, she looked frightened and hungry, her hair was matted, her dress torn.

“Mummy, who are those people?” he demanded in a tone he’d heard Daddy use.

“They’re nothing to do with us,” she replied, “we’re nearly passed them.”

 At home, Amy left the children playing in the conservatory and turned on the news.

“Those people need our help.  They’re not here because they want to be, they’ve been forced to leave their homes and they’ve paid all of their money to come where it’s safe.”

Amy tutted and turned the channel over.  The front door slammed, James was home.  “Did you see those people?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, it’s getting bad isn’t it?” he replied putting down his laptop bag, “they said it wouldn’t be long before they came here.  Did the children see them?”

“I told them not to look, but Elliot didn’t do what he was told.”

James sighed; “We’ll put curtains on the back windows of the SUV, just for now, while the crisis is going on.”

 Amy was glad about the curtains on the SUV the next day, the people were no longer on the motorway, but camped in the field opposite her house.  They could be seen from the garden.  After she took the children to school she called the Police.

“We’re doing what we can,” came the response, “give us time to process them.”

She went out into the garden and saw her neighbour coming up the path.

“Dreadful isn’t it?” Julie said, “our house prices are going to drop.  I wish the Police would do something about those people.”

The two women watched as two of the children in the field shared a tiny piece of bread between them, splitting it exactly in two.

“Is that gluten free?” wondered Amy.

“Irresponsible to give children bread and nothing else,” tutted Julie.

They felt unable to stay in the garden and despite the lovely weather went inside to drink tea.  When the children came back, Amy pulled all the curtains closed and told them they could not play outside.

“But Mum, the summer holidays have just started!” complained Elliot.

“It won’t be forever,” said Amy, “go and play in the conservatory.”  She had drawn all the electric blinds in the conservatory so the children couldn’t see out and neither could she or James.

James arrived home, his face was dark with anger; “One of those people jumped in front of my Audi and begged for food!” he exclaimed.

“That’s horrifying!  What did you do?” Amy cried.

“What could I do?  I swerved round her, nearly hit her, she could have been killed.”

“Those people  are crazy,” Amy said, “and they’re saying on the news that we should welcome them, it’s ludicrous!  Julie says house prices are going to be affected …”

“She’s right,” James said grimly, “I guess we’ll be stuck indoors all summer.”

“Mummy!” cried Elliot.

James and Amy ran into the conservatory.

“Someone tapped on the window!” cried Aurora, tears in her eyes.

James raised the electric blind a little; “They’re in the garden,” he said.

Elliot gasped.  Outside they could hear a chant growing in volume; “Help us, please help us!”

Bella and Martin Shaw were so excited to move into the new estate.  It was paradise, on the edge of a village, surrounded by green hills with a river nearby. They were one of the first families and Freddie and Grace loved playing in the quiet streets.  They were almost reluctant to go on the three week holiday. Bella spent the time relaxing on the beach dreaming of colour schemes and Martin talked about getting a garden shed.

 The taxi picked them up at the airport and dropped them two miles from home at the start of a traffic queue.

“I can’t take you no further,” said the driver.

“What do you mean?” Martin demanded, “We’ve got money.”

“Not enough to get me to drive into there,” he laughed, “one road in, one road out, ridiculous planning!”

The Shaws got out of the cab, paid the driver and began walking, carrying their luggage, Grace complaining bitterly.  The line of traffic continued, angry faces staring ahead, music blaring, a mambo of stop start, Martin noticed they kept pace with the same black BMW all the way home.

“This is worrying,” Bella said.

“I’m sure they’ll build another road,” Martin responded.

Bella wasn’t sure, she hadn’t seen a place where a road could go, unless they cut through the hills.

 At home, the once quiet streets were full of parked cars, their driveway was blocked.  They tried to order takeaway, only to be told the restaurant didn’t deliver to that estate, nobody did.  They would have to collect it.  A miserable evening followed, Martin knocking on doors, finding the owner of the car, getting him to move it, driving into town and collecting the food.  The queue was still there 8pm and by the time he got the takeaway back it had to be warmed in the microwave.

 On Monday Martin left for work on his bicycle, weaving through a huge queue of traffic that Bella joined.  She sat with Grace and Fred watching the time pass.  She cheered herself up with memories of the brochure from the Building Company that had promised a new school, a park and space for a new supermarket.  No more sitting in traffic to take the children to school, they could walk to the new one; no more worries about supermarkets and takeaways refusing to deliver, the supermarket would sell everything and maybe a chip shop would be built.  Over the weeks she endured complaints from her boss and the inevitable letter from the current school telling her they wouldn’t put up with her lateness. Martin was cross though; “Can’t you get up earlier?”

Bella turned on him; “You try getting Grace and Freddie up for 6am!”

He held up his hands; “I’ll go to my shed.”

Bella followed him into the garden and stopped in horror, the garden shed had been knocked down, the children’s trampoline slashed and the walls of the house daubed with graffiti; GET OUT.

“I’m sorry, we can’t come round,” the Police operator told them, “we’ll only come into the Estate for 999 calls.  We will investigate.  It’s likely to be the people who live in the Old Village, since the new houses have been built there’s been a lot of anger.  They blame you for the increase in traffic, it’s affecting them too.  Ridiculous planning.  One road in and one out.”

 After she had cleaned the graffiti off the wall, Bella walked into the centre of the housing estate where the new school was going to be.  Something was being built there.

“Is this the new school?” she asked a builder.

“More houses,” he replied, “nearly finished now.”

“But I thought there was going to be a new school, a park and space for a supermarket.”

“More houses,” he said.

“But the brochure …”

“We’ve changed our minds.  We had to tell the Council we’d build a school to get planning permission, but they’re not going to knock down all these houses, are they? Not now they’re sold.”

“I hope they fine you!” cried Bella.

“It won’t dent our profit,” he replied, “they’re giving away flood plain land and the materials we used to build the houses were ever so cheap.”

“Flood plain …”

“Should’ve done your research,” the builder walked away.