Kieran.Stories

I was in the corridor when it happened, looking at the BBC News app. An image of a crater, then Joe Biden. I went back into the room. The chair in the corner, near the French windows. Outside: trees. It was true, he was gone. I took his hand, which was somehow already cold. Mum took control of next steps.

 

I tried to see Mum more often. I got the bus to Bank Lane, then walked to the house. The estuary stretched out endlessly.

Inside, the house felt dim. I put the kettle on, found the Sweetex.

I turned on the lamp in the living room. Mum asked about my driving lessons. I said my instructor was called Beck, short for Rebecca. She mulled this over. She had offered me a Toffee Crisp. I was opening the wrapper, balancing my tea on the sofa.

Do yourself and Claire discuss names? You’re of an age now.

We had been around the houses on children. It was familiar territory. But her tone was different this time. You’re of an age now. In other words, it’s later than you think. I’ve always liked Elizabeth, Mum said.

 

On the top deck, I saw my dad at one of the stops. We were passing Lidl. The bus carried on without him. He was reading one of his books. I couldn’t see which one. I had taken his favourite Graham Greenes to the hospice. He had asked for them, even if he couldn’t read them. When I saw him on the bus, he was wearing his Antony Gormley glasses. On the news app, more rubble, stones melting about the root.

 

Beck was parked in her usual spot. She asked how my week had been. I started talking about my dad. I held the steering wheel at ten to two. Beck listened to what I said but didn’t offer anything else. I’m sorry about your dad, that’s difficult. Gently, she reminded me to change into third. I wondered why I hadn’t cancelled the lesson.

 

The package was delivered on Saturday. Claire had been to the shops. To the couple in flat four, she said. It was left outside. The package had an unusual centre of gravity. Should I open it? I asked. Claire got the scissors from the kitchen. There was a note inside: a piece of A5 folded once. Inside, there was a bag of what looked like blood. I held the bag. It was wet, as if the liquid had seeped through to the outside. Slick, tricky. What the fuck? Claire said. I put the bag back in the box. The note was signed Elizabeth, regretfully.

 

The estuary was going, going – gone. I stood in Mum’s kitchen, the heat pressing against my cheeks. I opened the cupboard above the sink. The tub of Sweetex was melting and pooling. It gave off something carcinogenic. Between the flames, Mum stood, anaemic, breathing slowly through her mouth.

 

At Christmas, we let everyone know. A pregnant pause.

You stop being the picture, you become the picture frame, Mum said. Do you know what you want?

Claire said we’d be happy with anything, as long as it’s human.

I balanced my tea on the sofa. The sweetener had given me a headache. In that moment, I wanted to be out of the room.

Thanks for reading – hope you enjoyed. This is a story I’ve had for over a year now. It’s been turned down by a couple of places, and I decided that I just wanted to share it. So, there you go. Appreciate you all, and hope you’re having a good week.