By: Tess

From: Josie
To: [Recipient Details Undisclosed]
Subject Title: Now, honey, don’t be mad…

Ok, I’ve just got off the phone and, well, here’s the thing:

You know how we were having a laugh the other night, and then you kind of went all serious and started talking about the future? I mean, I know you’ve been a bit under the weather, but you may as well have tattooed ‘this is the beginning of the end’ on your forehead the way you were going on.

(I mean, firstly, everyone has times when they’re not feeling too great. You don’t need to be so pessimistic, even if it just makes me want to kiss you more.)

Well (please don’t be mad), I got to thinking about what it might be to live in this world without you and, you know what? I didn’t really like the thought of it that much. Turns out I don’t think it would be much fun knowing you weren’t around somewhere. So I kind of decided to take positive action.

I know it was selfish of me, I know it was wrong, and I shouldn’t have done it – but I’m also not really all that sorry to be honest. I gave Him a call and we had a chat (it had been a while since we’d had a proper chat, it was great to catch up), and I kind of brought the conversation round to you and what you’d said (obviously He knew where I was going with the whole conversation anyway, of course He did) and how it would be truly dreadful to go on alone, without you…

Anyway, like I said – He knew where I was going with the whole thing. Turns out He had a couple of things He needed sorting out off the books anyway, so after a brief mock haggle we came to an agreement.

It doesn’t really matter what I agreed to do, but I just thought you should know (as it kind of affects you) that, well (please don’t be mad!)… you’re not allowed to die until after I do. So that means you kind of need to start taking care of yourself, because I don’t plan on dying until I’m at least ninety-nine and that means you’ve got a fair bit of time to plan for yet.

I’m not even sorry, I’d do it again if I had to. Anyway, I’ll try and maybe call next week for a catch up (you know, we shouldn’t leave it so long in between our chats!) and in the meantime maybe you should buy some vitamins or something?

Who loves you, baby?!

Speak soon,
Me
xxx

By: Tess

Remember the fist?

How could you forget. Its kiss is the only tenderness you’ve known for months.

Repetitive, clenched orbs of hate beating your shoulders like a drum; one sometimes catching you in the face as you crouch, whimpering, too scared to retaliate.

You’re bruised so someone else can feel like a man. Your broken lips twist into a wry smile at the bitter humour of it all.

You’d both been so in love until the miscarriage. Strange how something with no blame attached can cause such focused revulsion, such resentment in someone you once thought was the strongest person in the world. Someone who was your world.

You know the neighbours have heard. You know they all know. But the shame of it all binds you to silence. Their eyes, their sympathetic eyes, embarrass you with their concern. Silently they beg you to talk, to confide in them so they can help. But you never could, you could never leave.

You have to now, though. Your son, your beautiful baby son. He saw it last night, wide innocent eyes watching you, catching and holding your gaze as you cowered from the disgust you’ve done nothing to cause. And all you could think about throughout it all is how you want a better life for him, how you want him to grow up a stronger person in so many ways than his father.

So now you know you have to leave, and you have to leave with him. And the relief of making the decision physically hurts. Or perhaps that’s just the effect of your mottled body exhaling at last, quivering under the bruises.

You’re only guaranteed another half an hour before the office closes at five. Your car is packed, all you need now is to say goodbye to this chapter of your life and to walk away.

Take it all in one last time. The wedding photo hanging above the fireplace, both of you smiling at your broken face, mocking the hurt you feel inside that will never heal. The pain that will never fade to yellow and disappear, but will always be there like a deep scar running through everything you will be, affecting everything you do.

Your son looks up at his father, his strong father, from his child seat in the car. Both of you healing and growing stronger by the second.

Don’t look back. You know it will never change; you’ve known for so long but not wanted to admit it. Don’t remember the smiling bride you once knew, she’s just a ghost now.

Remember the fist. Keep remembering the fist.

By: Tess

Faith met her in a bar on George Street a little after two o’clock on a bitter but bright Thursday afternoon. Or, perhaps more accurately, the girl found Faith on that Spring day.

It had been an average morning. They all were, really.

She’d breezed into the bar, eyed the array of half-full and empty tables, and made a beeline for Faith.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ The girl indicated to the empty seat. Not sure how to politely refuse her company, particularly when there was no good reason for her to have to share a table at all, Faith just stared at her. The girl smiled back and pulled out the chair, collapsing into it and throwing her handbag on the ground beside her feet.

‘It’s quite brisk out, isn’t it? Sunny, though. One of those days when you don’t know whether to wrap up or not.’ The girl unwound a long scarf from around her neck as she spoke, tossing it carelessly on top of her bag. ‘You see, me, I’m an optimist. If the sun’s shining that’s enough to convince me not to drag out the winter coat. Even if it is still March and we only had snow on the ground last week.’

All the while she spoke the girl watched Faith carefully, as if waiting for a reply. When she got no response she just continued.

‘Hat, scarf and gloves’, she said. ‘If you have them, it’s amazing how thin a coat you can get away with in this weather. I mean, this…’ she pulled her arms out of her black trench coat, ‘is only the thinnest cotton but with my hat, scarf and gloves I’m all toasty despite the chill of the wind. And there are few things better than being able to feel the wind on your skin. It feels so…’

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’ interrupted Faith eventually, unsure when the girl would stop talking otherwise. The girl grinned back. Impudent, thought Faith. Thatwas the word for that type of smile.

‘That would be because I didn’t give it,’ she replied. It sounded like she was trying not to break into laughter. Faith looked at her.

‘Look’, continued the girl. ‘It doesn’t really matter what my name is. It’s just a label you’ll attach to me, another way of pigeonholing me.’

Faith glanced across the table, not sure how to respond.

‘For example,’ the girl said. ‘How does your name define you, Faith? Loyal? Dependable? Reliable?’ Faith blinked and opened her mouth to speak, but the girl continued, gesturing at Faith’s left breast. ‘You’re still wearing your name badge.’

Faith looked down, blushing. Her companion just sat there, head cocked slightly to one side. After a moment, Faith realised she was waiting for her to answer.

‘I am loyal,’ she said. ‘And dependable and reliable. I don’t see anything wrong with that.’

The girl shrugged, indifferent. ‘I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. If that’s what you want.’ She moved a little closer to the table, edging her chair forward and leaning her arms on the table surface. ‘If that’s what you really want. Is it? Because I think you’re a jam tomorrow kind of person.’

Faith frowned, but the girl offered no further explanation. Instead she just sat there with that impudent grin on her face, waiting for the inevitable.

‘And what does that mean?’ Faith reluctantly asked, despite herself, after a moment.

The girl’s eyes twinkled with knowing mischief. She pulled a tattered book from her handbag and flicked through the pages. Within seconds she’d found the passage she wanted. Afterwards, Faith wondered if the book had actually fallen open on the desired page. Clearing her voice, the girl read aloud:

“‘I’m sure I’ll take you with pleasure!’ the Queen said. ‘Twopence a week, and jam every other day.’

Alice couldn’t help laughing, as she said, ‘I don’t want you to hire ME – and I don’t care for jam.’

‘It’s very good jam,’ said the Queen.

‘Well, I don’t want any TO-DAY, at any rate.’

‘You couldn’t have it if you DID want it,’ the Queen said. ‘The rule is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday – but never jam to-day.’

‘It MUST come sometimes to “jam to-day,”’ Alice objected.

‘No, it can’t,’ said the Queen. ‘It’s jam every OTHER day: to-day isn’t any OTHER day, you know.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Alice. ‘It’s dreadfully confusing!’”

‘I don’t understand you,’ echoed Faith as the girl triumphantly closed her book. ‘What is that meant to mean?’

‘You’re a jam tomorrow kind of person,’ repeated the girl, in a tone which indicated she clearly thought the passage from the book had been sufficiently self-explanatory. Faith shook her head, nonplussed. The girl rolled her eyes.

‘You,’ she continued, gesturing at Faith, ‘do not live for today in any way at all. You’re always waiting for tomorrow and, once tomorrow has arrived, you don’t even notice. You carry on waiting for the next tomorrow. When was the last time you stopped being so dependable and did something you wanted to do? Something big, something worthwhile, and something you and you alone wanted?’

Faith shrugged, embarrassed.

‘I went to see a show last week that I’ve wanted to see for ages,’ she said after a while. Her companion raised her left eyebrow mockingly. Faith half coughed and half laughed, the bitter noise sounding strange coming from her dutiful throat.

‘Ok, it wasn’t my idea,’ she conceded. ‘In fact, it wasn’t even a show I particularly wanted to see.’

The girl across the table wriggled in her seat and sat there grinning at Faith, hugging her stocking clad knees. She said nothing.

‘But you don’t understand,’ ventured Faith, becoming defensive of her actions. Her life, even. ‘People rely on me. They depend on me to be there. I help people.’ Her eyes pleaded for her nameless companion to understand. Eventually she dropped her gaze and sat in mute defeat.

‘I’m not criticising you,’ apologised the girl after what seemed like an eternity of ashamed silence. ‘I just wondered if you were really happy. I mean, really happy. At the end of the day you need to justify your life to you and only you.’

She paused, tapping a manicured finger against perfect lips.

‘I only know, because you might as well just be me, several years ago. I used to care what people thought. I used to wordlessly beg for a badge of approval that I was never going to win. It wasn’t until an unexpected conversation that I realised that everything I had been putting off, everything I wanted to do but was too scared, everything I had shelved to help someone else was far too important to leave any longer. It’s easy to justify helping others and using others as excuses for inactivity. But, actually, the only person stopping you from doing what you want to do is yourself. If you actually valued yourself as you should, you’d see that someone as amazing as you deserves a happy, fulfilled life. Not just the existence you’re currently working your way through.’

Faith glanced round the room, awkwardly. The girl was leaning in towards her, only the suddenly fragile table acting as a barrier. What would people think? She could feel a blush staining her cheeks. Her eyes darted in pained embarrassment.

And yet, the girl’s attention wasn’t entirely unwanted. Faith had never before felt so comfortable in anyone’s company. Not the arms of a male lover, not the comforting embrace of her parents when she had been a young girl. She had never felt so understood, so valued.

The girl watched Faith’s naked face work through its conflicts of vulnerability and confusion, her lips parted slightly and her eyes glistening with barely muted excitement.

The sharp smash of a glass falling from a nearby table and meeting with the hardwood floor made Faith physically jump from her unexpected reverie. She leant back in her chair, as far away from her companion as possible. For a moment, she was sure the girl looked disappointed.

‘Here,’ the girl said, proffering the book to her companion. ‘Take it.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ replied Faith, shaking her head. ‘It’s yours.’

Her companion smiled, tilting her head to one side with an amused expression.

‘But I think you need it more than me,’ she responded eventually. Sensing Faith’s hesitation was crumbling, she continued. ‘I’ll tell you what; you can give it back to me once you don’t need it any more. And just to prove it still belongs to me, I’ll sign it.’

Grinning, she opened the front cover and, lifting it to her mouth, kissed the book. The glossy imprint of her crimson mouth shone from the dull, aged page. Closing the cover, the girl pushed the paperback across the table.

Faith picked it up and sat there, weighing it in her hand for a moment.

‘But how will I know where to return it?’ she asked. ‘How will I know where to find you?’

Her companion pushed back her chair and stood up quickly.

‘Ah, well,’ the girl whispered in a tone which made Faith feel like there was some conspiracy to which she was not party. Some joke that this girl knew, but that Faith did not understand. ‘Do you believe in fate? We’ll meet again, I promise.’ She wrapped her scarf around her slim neck and bent to pick up her handbag.

‘And remember, Faith; today isn’t just any other day.’

She was gone before Faith could even reply.

The station was always busy and that Thursday was no exception. The ticket queue crawled forward at a tedious pace, the impatience of those near the front tempered by the irritated resignation of those at the back. Faith glanced down at the twenty-pound note in her hand. Lord Ilay stared back. Faith was sure she saw his mouth give an amused twitch, and his left eyebrow raise slightly, challenging and mocking her.

The world was also peering at Faith on that bright but bitter afternoon. Waiting for her next move. She could hear it holding its breath, feel its anticipation brush her spine, making her shudder. Faith pulled the battered paperback out of her practical handbag and opened the front cover. She read the inscription, scrawled twenty-nine years ago, in a child’s hand.

Faith Liberty Stewart smiled.

By: Tess

He could feel it wrapping itself around him, nudging at the parts of his body where there were fewer layers to protect against the chill. It tried to seep into his skin, to reach his bones.

He removed one of his gloves and held his hand up in the unreal blue air, tinged with the pink sheen of gathering snow clouds above. He took a step forward, and felt his foot crunch the crisp coating of snow.

The fields and the trees around him seemed devoid of all life. It felt like he was the only one left alive. The only living soul in this ethereal world.

She had loved this walk. They both had. As soon as the first snow had fallen they’d run like teenagers to the wood, forgetting any twinges or aches that the increasing years had inflicted upon them. It had become a ritual almost, they had done it since their very first Christmas together all those years ago. He could still remember the warmth of her skin amidst the numbing bite of the snow and, for a moment, he was sure he could feel her hand in his again.

A tear slid down his creased face, freezing before it reached his chin. He pulled his glove back on his crumpled hand. Gingerly picking his way through the snow with his cane, he set off in the direction of home.

Better to have loved and lost, he reminded himself, blinking back more tears. Better by far.

By: Tess

There was only one reflection. And it didn’t even belong to her.

It belonged to a girl her family preferred. No, that wasn’t right. It was the only her they knew, so there could be no issue of preference. But she knew they wouldn’t want to see the real her and so every Sunday the Manolos and cocktail dresses were put aside in favour of the trusty shirt and skirt combo that they seemed to approve.

Despite the recession work was good, she thought as she scooped up some diamond earrings from the nightstand. She pushed them firmly into her jewellery case; she didn’t want to lose them, they were irreplaceable vintage and her favourite.

Nudging aside her chosen, tempting scent she sighed as she sprayed herself liberally with a much lighter, fresher perfume. She glanced in the mirror again, completing the outfit with the perfect smile, eyes just wide enough to convey the right amount of innocence.

After all, appearances were everything.

By: Tess

‘Again? Not surprising. When aren’t there problems with Kingston Marsalis?’

Taylor took a drag on the cigarette clutched in his shaking hand, and stared at his superior. He raked his free hand through his hair.

‘I’m running out of ideas. I don’t know what to do any more.’

Lash shrugged, not really listening.

‘I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Just don’t expel him. We need him here come May.’

Taylor frowned slightly. Four months previously his brow had been as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom, but now lines were etched into his weary skin. He was pretty sure he’d aged about six years since September.

‘Why? Why do we need him?’

Lash clicked her teeth in irritation at her own verbal clumsiness.

‘Look, I didn’t tell you, right? But something’s going down in May. A bit like an insurance job, or something. Anyway, we need him here then.’

Taylor glanced at her, not sure what to say. Despite how much he disliked the kid, his brain was still clinging on to the remnants of his sense of justice that his overt hatred had not yet eradicated. On the other hand, the idea of never having to see that sneering face again was appealing.

Lash was studying his face carefully. Leaning forward she kissed him lightly on the lips, before collecting her underwear from the foot of the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

Ah, sod the brat. Taylor leant back, contented, and took another drag on his cigarette

By: Tess

There it was, a crude red biro ring surrounding it as the paper lay abandoned on the carriage seat offering its wares to tired passengers, and printed with ink that would not come off on your hands, no less.

She audibly gasped as she saw it. If anyone could have looked into her soul at that very point they would have offered the same advice. Insisted the same course of action must be undertaken.

She pursed her lips determinedly and nodded, oblivious to the amusement it caused for the bored businessman sitting opposite.

Glancing out of the window she nestled back in to her seat and smiled to herself. It didn’t matter what her friends had been telling her for weeks, Fate had now provided her with a pointer and clearly that was much more important.

By: Tess

And lo! There was a darkness. A shadow amongst the brilliance of the white that drowned us as we sped past in the metal carriage.

Out the cutting we came and one shadow became two, became three, became many. The echoes of the shrouded trees punctuated the silver of the air.

There were only two colours that day. Darkness and snow.

By: Tess

Along with all the other drafts. She’d forgotten how many there were now.

Let’s see, there’d been fifty-seven last July and she knew she’d rewritten history at least seven times since then. No, eight – there’d been the incident with the dustman that she’d manufactured after a particularly traumatic incident involving some paraffin and a dried up highlighter pen.

So, what was that: sixty-five or so? The letterbox snapped at her from downstairs and she moved silently to the window, taking care not to move the nets. She watched the postman beat a hurried retreat down her garden path, fearfully glancing over his shoulder at the window from which she watched his escape.

He never saw her, but he always looked.

She returned to her laptop and, after a moment of utter stillness where she counted some of the eighty-three flowers on the wallpapered wall in front of her, she began to type once again.

Sixty-six.

By: Tess

Just eight words caught him and spoke to him.

He’d never read the Bible and never wanted to. He didn’t want to discover that it wasn’t all full of poetry. It was nothing to do with his faith, or lack thereof. They never knew what he did believe, what he did feel or think.

But those eight words felt so perfect to him, so simple and profound. He didn’t know why.

Each night, before bed, he’d take down his Bible from its shelf. It would fall open at the right page. He’d read those words just once, as if reading them more than once would somehow devalue them, as if to re-read them was literary gluttony.

Then he’d exhale the breath he never remembered he was holding and return the book to the shelf. Sometimes, if he was agitated, he’d read them at other times of the day too. On a particularly bad day, he’d read them several times in a row: but never more than once at a time.

When his mother died, he took down the Bible, read the words and returned the book to its shelf repeatedly for six hours and nine minutes.

The words calmed him, soothed him.

They asked him once what was so special about those eight little words at the end of chapter two, verse ten. He thought for a moment, then scribbled in his notepad: ‘their beauty gives me hope to carry on’.