TEN ORDINARY TALES

by
Katherine May

One

�One has to feel��

No. Too formal.

Claire highlighted the whole sentence with her mouse, and pressed delete. A year together, a year of whispers and touches and kisses and secrets, and yet here she was, reduced to queenly �ones� to explain herself.

��you have to feel it isn�t right��

She dragged the cursor over the words again, making them show white on black. Too accusatory. She wanted to keep it clean, distant, neutral. She wanted to reduce it to simple logic, a straightforward ethical judgement. She didn�t want the hurt to seep in.

Her fingers hovered over the keys, poised to say what they meant. They felt stiff, cold. She reached around to the back of the monitor, and wrapped them around the slatted casing, letting the warm hum seep into her fingers. It felt like a sleeping body.

She remembered laying her hands on him like this, once, when he had fallen asleep, her fingers splayed over his ribcage, feeling the slow pulses and the rise and fall of his breath. She had lent down and kissed him, and he had jerked awake, panicked, saying, �What time is it? What time is it?�

It all seemed so obvious, now.

There is no intimate way to leave someone, she thought. Not without saying, one last kiss, one last this, one last that. It�s either over or it�s not. And it is. He�s married. I can�t be with him any more.

She tested the words out, her warmed fingers feeling freer.

�You�re married. I can�t be with you any more.�

The words seemed almost too obvious, too simple a truth.�It�s not right,� she added.

The doorbell rang, and Claire stared at the screen for a few more seconds, before padding over to answer it.

Two

Grant wondered if it was him or the pizza that was making the woman look so disappointed.

�That�ll be ten ninety-nine, please,� he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his regulation anorak, and giving a mock-shudder to illustrate the cold weather. Always best to let them know the effort you�ve gone to. He gave her a smile.

�I paid by credit card,� she said, a disgusted look on her face. He peered at the order sheet on his clipboard.

�So you did,� he began to say, but she�d already slammed the door.

Four months ago, when he�d started this job, he would have been overwhelmed by a physical compulsion to hammer on the closed door, and bellow, �You bitch! I get five sodding quid an hour!� And even now he felt the familiar ache in the biceps, as if they were bracing for the impact of his fists on the hard wood of the door.

But he knew better. He told himself that he was used to it, and resolved again to look for another job; maybe he�d buy a paper tomorrow. As he turned to leave, though, his eyes caught a gleam under the hedge, and he squatted down to find a two-pound coin dully reflecting the porch light.

He rubbed the mud from it, and said to himself, see a penny, pick it up. The words pleased him, and the coin seemed to warm his hand as he clutched it.

�That�ll be my tip then. Thanks,� he said to the door, before walking back down the path and revving up his scooter, blue and red to match his jacket.

It was quiet, that darkening time when afternoon fades to evening. He steered his bike to the middle of the street, enjoying the absence of other drivers who hogged the road and squeezed him into the curb when they passed him. He imagined that world was empty: that all the houses and cars were nobody�s, and that the streets were his to roam, to control. He lowered his head over the handlebars and pretended to himself that the croaky putputput of his scooter was the growl of a Harley.

And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something sailing towards him, and lurched to avoid it, sending the little bike reeling.

Three

Carly swung her feet so that the backs of her trainers bounced off the wall. She pictured the scuffs that this would be making on the new, white soles, and felt tightly satisfied that she would be able to carry proof of her misery home. She�d once met a girl with scabbed knuckles, who said she got them from dragging her fist along her front wall after she�d had a row with her mum; Carly now conceded grimly that she understood this urge, and wondered if scuffs on new Reeboks were the same thing.

She let herself sink further into a slouch, and imagined that she was like those girls she�d seen in town, whose whole bodies were arranged into a perfect attitude of carelessness, whose thin stomachs prowled bare over skinny jeans, as if they were inviting you to make them angry by staring.

Danny was still mucking about with Ryan, doubled up with laughter at the kerb, the tray of eggs at their feet. They�d moved on from just hurling them at the people who drove past; now, the whole thing had morphed into an elaborate game, with points awarded for hitting certain targets: twenty for the bonnet, thirty for a side window, fifty for the windscreen. Carly watched as Ryan leaned backwards to flick an egg at a Perfect Pizza scooter, so that it hit the front hubcap and its contents spiralled out like a Catherine wheel. The lad driving it wobbled a bit, before looking down, horrified, at his yolk-smeared jeans. By the time he thought to turn around and shout, he was miles away, and Carly saw him swerve again as he swung his arm in the air to give them the finger.

Danny and Ryan high-fived, and Ryan took his cap off and pretended to fan himself with it, as he laughed in a high, scratchy way.

�Bruv,� he said, �that�s gotta be a fifty.�

�No way, man,� replied Danny, giving him a little shove so that he nearly staggered into Carly�s knees. �Wheels is a thirty, I reckon.�

�Naw,� said Ryan, looking genuinely hurt, �it�s different on a bike, innit?�

�I want to go home,� said Carly. She shifted herself off the wall, and tried to take hold of Danny�s hand. �I�m bored. This is stupid.�

Danny gave her fingers a damp little squeeze before wriggling his hand away from her. �Babe,� he said, �we�ve still got half a box of eggs left. We can�t go yet.� He bent down and took two out of the carton. �Two at a time, next one, Ry. Double action.�

Carly tossed the hair out of her eyes, and sauntered back to her wall, dragging her soles on the pavement. Whatever, she thought, and gave her head a little flick to match it, like she had seen the black girls do on Trisha. She shifted her bra so that her tits sat even higher, and thought about how he�d want to touch them later, when it was time to say goodnight.

Whatever, she thought.

�Dan-the-man,� shouted Ryan, his voice squeaky with excitement, �here�s your target!� A hulking SUV swung around the corner, rocking on its suspension, bass pounding from behind its black windows.

Dan drew back his arm, like he did when he was skimming stones on the pond, and released a pair of eggs, which shattered across the shiny, black bonnet.

�Dude!� squealed Ryan, and grabbed Danny�s hand in a sideways handshake. �Forty! Double twenty!�

They looked up, expecting to see the taillights fading at the bottom of the road, but instead saw the truck still rocking on its sudden brakes, and the driver door being thrown open.

Four

�Leave it!� shouted Bonnie as the door slammed. �It�s just kids!�

Simon didn�t hear her, though. He was already running down the street after them.

�You little fucking monsters!� he bellowed, but they were faster than him, the two lads and the fat girl, and they�d disappeared down an alleyway before he could get near them.

He walked back to the truck, his breath hot and tight, and inspected the damage. The eggs had already cooked onto the bonnet, and as he picked little shards of shell away, he saw a network of scratches and chips in the paintwork.

Bonnie watched him from inside. She saw that he had reddened from the top of his bald head right the way down to his shirt collar, and that he was muttering to himself. She looked around at the bright lights and the plush surfaces of the cabin, and took the opportunity to turn the stereo down.

Simon got back in, and slammed the door. He dragged his hands down the whole length of his face, so that his features were stretched into a ghostly mask.

�I�m gonna have a little drive around,� he said, � see if I can find the bastards what did it.�

�You can�t,� said Bonnie, feeling the first twinges of alarm in her chest.

�I think I�d recognise them.�

�That�s not the point.� He started the engine, and lurched into a three point turn, pretending not to hear her. �Look,� she said, �what on earth would you do if you found them?�

�I�d teach them a lesson,� he said.

�Oh, and what does that prove? That you�re the sort of moron who beats up thirteen year-old boys?�

Simon breathed in hard and gripped the wheel even tighter. �You don�t understand,� he said.

�It�s just a fucking car!� Bonnie was surprised that she had shouted, but she could feel a rush of blood in her limbs, and everything suddenly seemed to be brighter, louder, more jarring than she could handle. She was surprised again by the roar of Simon�s voice.

�It�s not a fucking car, it�s a four-by-four!�

Bonnie began to laugh. She ignored the furious glances that Simon was throwing at her, and did the buttons up on her coat with shaking hands. �What on earth was Barry thinking, setting me up with you? He must have thought I was desperate!�

�You�re not so special yourself, love."

�Let me out please.� Bonnie could feel the corners of her mouth twitch for tears. �Stop the car.�

�No,� said Simon, �I�ll drive you home, because I�m a gentleman.� Bonnie drew a breath to protest, to tell him what she thought about gentlemen, to tell him that she was perfectly capable of getting herself home, but then she heard him shout, �fucking hell!� and the car hurtled into another abrupt stop.

Bonnie flinched against the side of the car, her hands drawn across her face waiting for the blow that she was sure he was going to deliver her, but when it didn�t come, she unfurled herself and followed Simon�s gaze into the middle of the road.

There, almost transparent in the glare of six halogen headlamps, was a girl, perfectly still, gazing at her open palm.

"All the bloody nutters are out tonight, then," said Simon.

Five

Nicky felt the warmth of the car�s lights streaming into her face, and willed it to drive on through her.

She stretched out her palm before her nose, and wondered at the lines and cracks, glowing orange as the lights shone through them. My future, she thought, is all laid down here, ready for me to unravel it. She traced a finger down her lifeline, and onto her wrist, which was ringed with three deep creases. Thirty years for each, she thought. I shall live until I�m ninety. And then she let her finger travel down the blue vein that lay just beneath the skin, until she found a pulse. She shuddered.

She realised that she was walking, but she didn�t know where. She clasped her two sets of fingers together, and chanted, here�s the church, here�s the steeple, and then her mind seemed to snag on the form of the skeletal chapel she�d made, with its woven nave and high spire.

Five fingers, five toes. Why does everything in the world fall into tens? It�s the easiest times table. Money�s made of tens, and so are decimals. It�s like the whole world�s set up around tens. It can�t be a coincidence. Someone must have set it up that way, and to remind us, they gave us five fingers on each hand, so that it would be in front of our faces, whatever we did.

Ten, ten, she thought, and wondered if she was saying it out loud; perfect ten. A one and a zero; a something and a nothing, like binary. She drew a �10� against the darkening night sky with her finger, and watched the letters hang there, shimmering gently against the thin grey-blue. Smoke rose up, and filled the �0� with swirls and whiskers, so that it looked like Jupiter.

Io, Jupiter�s moon. It�s almost a 10.

She knew it must be a sign.

Six

�Can I have a cigarette?�

The girl startled Annie, and she was embarrassed for jumping.

�Sure,� she said, and pulled open the neat box that she�d been clutching in her fist.

�I don�t want a new one,� said the girl, �I want the one you�re smoking. I like its smoke. It�s like Jupiter.�

Annie could see that the girl was serious, and thought that it was best to do as she said. What harm was it, anyway, if she gave her half a fag? More economical that giving her a new one.

She took a final drag, and handed it over.

The girl called, �thank you!� and kissed her on the cheek, before running off across the park, holding the cigarette out in front of her so that the smoke trailed into her face.

Annie opened the packet again, and counted the contents: six fags, that�s all she had left. How did she get through fourteen since this morning? Surely there should be more than that.

Shit, she said under her breath as she lit another, feeling shocked that she had got through so many, and faintly pleased that she was a woman with an addiction. At least that was something.

She took a long, aching drag, and gazed across the field, squinting her eyes to avoid the smoke. The houses bordering the park were just beginning to light up, their windows blinking on one by one like fairy lights. She saw, as well, the bulb flick on above the Cricketers� painted sign, and she thought, what the hell.

She began to make her way towards the lights.

Seven

Mike leaned into the machine, one arm resting against its flashing fa�ade. He ignored the console�s repetitive rings and trills, and focused in on the three spinning dials that rolled at his command. When they had settled, he jabbed at the button marked �nudge�, and watched the dials shift into place. He could feel the warmth of the lights under his hand, and they pulsed and danced to serenade the stream of coins that fell into the tray below.

He leant down, scooped them into his hand, and shovelled them into his pocket.

�Looks like you�ve got luck on your side tonight.�

He hadn�t realised that anyone was watching him. He straightened abruptly, and fumbled for his pint, trying to work out whether the woman was being sarcastic.

She smiled. �I�m Annie,� she said, drawing on a fag and pulling her vest down a little so that the top of her bra showed. �I was very impressed with your performance there. Can you show me how it�s done?� She squirmed her way in front of him to rest her bitten-down fingers on the buttons.

Mike leaned in sideways, so that his shoulder was back in contact with the machine, and said, �It�s lucky sevens; you�ve got to get three in a row.� He fished in his pocket for a pound coin, and pushed it in to the slot. �Press the red button to set them off.�

Annie pressed the button reverently, and Mike watched her smile as the wheels rolled and lit up her face.

�One seven,� he said; �not bad. You need to pick which dials you send round again.� He stabbed at keys, trying to add a suave flick of the wrist, and felt the hum and whir of it all enter his arm. The dials clicked home: two more sevens. Annie gasped and clapped her hands.

�We won!� she said, and snaked her fingers around the top of his arm. �Why don�t you take me out for dinner?�

Mike downed the rest of his pint, and they walked out into the cold air. Annie leaned into him; she felt papery to the touch, light and dry. He could smell the sour hit of tobacco on her breath, but he thought he could tolerate it, just for tonight. It had been a while since anyone breathed this near his face.

�I�ve never won at those machines before. How d�you do it?�

Mike smiled. �A little trick I learned,� he said, and pulled a small, grey cube out of the sleeve of his shirt.

�What�s that?�

�A magnet,� he said. �Doesn�t half help line �em up!�

Annie gazed at the scrap of iron for a few beats, and Mike felt his chest tighten. He�d done the wrong thing. She wouldn�t want him now.

But then she stretched her mouth into a laugh so cheap that he had to kiss her to mute it.

They walked on in silence, past the big houses at the edge of the park. He saw Annie looking wistfully at the smart front doors and clipped hedges.

�Look,� he said, more to distract her than anything else, �that bird�s got a bonfire on her front lawn.�

And they stopped for a moment to watch the woman, who was emptying a box of photographs into the orange flames, before Mike felt a sick sense of voyeurism, and pulled at Annie�s hand to move her on.

Eight

After she had tipped the photographs, in one heavy, fluttering stream, onto the fire, Connie began on the music collection.

She took hold of the records, piece by piece, threw the covers straight into the flames, and then cracked the vinyl across her knee, tossing the two halves in with the blistering photographs. They smelled like burning oil as they slid and melted, and it made Connie think of the time they�d lit the barbecue with petrol from the can in the car.

London Calling, Parallel Lines, The Queen is Dead, all up in flames. It occurred to her, for a few moments, that it was her life she was burning as well as his, but then she realised that, no, it was all his. I�ve been absorbed she thought, and then shouted it into the orange rush that was doing its obliterating work.

I�ve been absorbed! Eight years! Eight fucking years!

And the shouting made her calmer, so she took a step back to marvel at her work. The fire was making the house glow orange, and giving it sinister black eyes like a Halloween pumpkin.

There was a little shift in the air behind her, and her heart paused. She had forgotten. She had forgotten who she was.

Behind her stood Lola, her daughter.

Nine

There had only been happy bonfires before. Blazes to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night and New Year, or just the odd quiet fire that her father would sometimes light, pretending that he needed to clear the garden. Lola knew that he really just liked to stand in the quiet and watch the flames, and listen to the soft fizz and crackle. She understood. She liked it too.

Sometimes, he would pretend to take a cup of tea out with him, but Lola knew that it had really been poured from the cabinet under the television, so it couldn�t be tea.

Tonight, though, was an angry bonfire. They had already been shouting when she woke up this morning, and by the time she had come back from swimming her mother had gathered a pile of things on the front lawn - books, records, clothes, pictures � and was piling up wood from the store behind the garage ready for a fire.

She hadn�t seen Lola arrive, but the front door was ajar, and so Lola had let herself in, poured a glass of milk from the fridge, and switched on the television. She had watched more than she was allowed to, but she knew that nobody was checking up on her today. After �The Bill,� though, she found herself light-headedly hungry, and she felt like crying, so she went outside to find her mother.

It was cold out there, and you couldn�t see past the fence for all the smoke. Her mother still didn�t see her; she was throwing things into the fire as if it were a hungry baby that needed to be fed, constantly; Lola imagined its terrible cries whenever Connie let the flames recoup. She wondered if she should join in, whether throwing some of the toys that she was tired of would help to ward off the terrible spirit that had settled on the house today.

She was startled when her mother started shouting. It jarred against the crisp night, but it also puzzled her.

Eight years! Eight fucking years!

She�d never heard her mother swear before, but that wasn�t it.

If they�ve been married for eight years, she thought, how come I�m nine-and a-half?

Ten

The monitor glowed bright against the darkness of the room, and from beyond its high whine, Ben could hear Connie in the garden. Her bonfire was throwing amber phantoms across his study that made the corners of the room dance blackly.

He bit his lips to check that they were numbed by the brandy, and poured himself another glass to make certain.

Knowing that she would be burning every bit of him that she could find, he tried to ignore the smell of smoke and the strong oily odour that was rising up in pulses. He didn�t want to think about it.

His eyes felt sticky, hot; his eyelids seemed barbed every time they drew down and brought him nearer to sleep. But even when they were closed, he could still see the words on the screen. �You�re married,� was all they said, �I can�t be with you any more. It�s not right.�

He played the scene again and again in his mind, constructed from how Connie had told it this morning: how she�d sat, all night, in her car outside Claire�s flat, waiting for her to come back from the night shift; how she�d approached Claire just as she was unlocking her front door; how Claire had shrieked and dropped the contents of her purse in the flower bed. And then, Connie had said, I realised that she didn�t know. That you�d lied to both of us.

Ben imagined the two women sipping coffee in Claire�s dirty kitchen, laughing about him and saying what a bastard he was. I expect they got on, he thought. A lot in common.

He felt his head lurch down, trying to nod him into sleep, and jumped to his feet to resist it. Outside, the fire was dying, and Connie and Lola were sitting together on the grass, staring into the embers. He wondered if the girl knew yet that he wasn�t her father, and whether she�d ever want to see him again when she did. He felt as if a cord was being tightened around his stomach, and he stood, pinned there, lassoed.

Ten o�clock. He�d been here all day. He wondered if he couldn�t go down there and watch the fire with them.

� Katherine May
Reproduced with permission

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