Part One is here

Wednesday – Krystal Part One

They were talking again. She rolled over to face the wall and stuffed her jumper over her ears, but it didn’t cut out the noise. She lay still, every muscle in her body tight as a guitar string. She could scream. Any moment she’d lose it and scream.

She rolled over and peered through the darkness. ‘Please, shut up. Please.’

The voices ceased and the silence was sudden and complete. Others in the room shifted and turned over. No one spoke. She heard covers flicked back and the pad of feet on the floor. Krystal pushed herself back against the wall as far from the edge of her bunk as possible. It didn’t help.

A hand came in, grasping and groping and it grabbed her arm and yanked hard. She whimpered but bit her lip. She wouldn’t say anything, she couldn’t. They wouldn’t let her back if she made trouble.

She tumbled onto the floor and thanked whatever crappy excuse there was for a god that she’d gotten the bottom bunk. He pulled her up and hissed in her ear.

‘I’ll speak when I fucking well want to.’ The ‘want’ was accompanied by a fist in her gut and she dropped to her knees, gasping, tears streaming. She’d expected him to go for the face. She’d seen him before, with others, and it had always been the face. She hadn’t been ready for the stomach.

He padded away and she crawled onto her bunk. As she stifled the low sounds of her crying, the silence grew deeper. They all knew. They’d all give her sympathetic looks in the morning, but none of them would say anything. None of them would stand up for her. Just like she’d never stood up for them.

She pulled her jumper back over her head and sobbed into the thin mattress until sleep came.

He was gone when she woke up. He normally was. On the bunk below his, last night’s conquest lay curled in a ball. His hair was long, around his shoulders and covering his face, but his bare shoulder showed the marks from his fingers.

Krystal slipped from her bed and scampered across to him. She could feel the others watching her, but every one of them avoided her eyes when she crossed the room. She knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched away, scurrying back in his bunk and she had a sudden vision of what she must have looked like last night.

‘I’m sorry.’

Why was she sorry? Because she didn’t do more? Because she’d leave this morning and not say anything to anyone? Or just because he’d been hurt far worse than she had and there was no one else who’d say sorry? Didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything anyway.

A solitary eye peered at her from beneath his hair. His black locks shone beneath the dirty light coming in through the high windows. The shine was grease.

‘Why are you sorry?’

Ah crap. ‘Dunno. Just am, ‘spose.’

A thin sound that sat midway between crying and laughing emerged from him and he scooted his legs out and onto the floor. He winced as he sat up and she stared as his mouth went through strange contortions that ended with it curled down at the edges and shaking.

He was trying so hard not to cry and she held her breath. It was a relief when he let himself go and she wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He buried his filthy hair into her arm pit and howled. She stared at the others in the room, who in turn stared back, everyone asking her the same question.

What now?

That was easy. Extricate herself as quick as damned well possible and get away from here. She wanted to ask the kid where He’d gone, but he was as likely to know as any of them. There were only four hostels in this part of London and he could turn up at any one of them, any night of the week.

The weather had turned at the weekend, so maybe she should take it outside again. Krystal always preferred sleeping outside, but there were late frosts and she valued her toes too much. A punch in the stomach wasn’t much to take. Not compared to what the boy sobbing in her armpit had been through. But He only went for boys and there wasn’t anyone else around to scare her off.

His name was Dawid. He didn’t speak English, or not as much as most of the others. But he was persuasive and had the same kind of language as the police. He could convince you your world was tiny. Wasn’t difficult with most of them. Once you knew your world was a few streets and a few rooms like this and no one cared, you’d do whatever he wanted if it meant he’d leave you alone.

Krystal had been here long enough to know that wasn’t true. She vaguely remembered from when she’d gone to school that it was called a stay of execution. They were all on death row, every bloody last one of them. And Dawid was the vindictive guard with the night stick and the technique that left no bruises.

The sobs died down and she fidgeted. She extricated herself and patted his shoulder and slunk out the room. She checked her locker on the way past, relieved to find it un-screwed with, and headed for the bathroom. She needed a shower today, however much she didn’t want to have one.

The bathroom was empty and she dived in and showered as fast as humanly possible. By some stroke of luck, the room stayed empty. Maybe she’d earned it with her gut punch yesterday. Her belly was sore but he hadn’t done anything permanent. She weed, watching the dirty yellow run away with the shower water. It didn’t hurt, so that was a bonus.

She peered in the mirror. She needed a hair cut. She kept it short, bobbed around her ears. Quicker to wash and less likely to attract the men. Boys, whatever. She looked a bit like a boy and they left her alone. Not that she was likely to attract them anyway. She could feel her ribs through her t-shirt and her hip bones against her jeans. Her face was the same, cheek bones pressing through the skin, beneath her red-ringed, cold-blue eyes.

They were striking. She’d been told that before. It was why she kept them trained on the ground as much as possible. That was the problem with sleeping out of course. When people saw the eyes they got ideas. And some of her friends had disappeared recently. The vans were out, looking for girls. She knew where they went.

She shivered and wrapped her towel around herself. Her lips barely showed against her skin, thin and chapped and pressed hard together. Krystal flung on her clothes, grabbed her bag from her locker and headed out front. Mrs Ely wasn’t in. Probably out getting breakfast. She thought about staying for it and her stomach growled. Maybe she would. Fresh air first though.

She stepped out the door, keeping one foot in so it didn’t security lock and stared up at the sun. Third clear sky in a row and warm enough at eight in the morning to not need her jacket. Her lips curled up at the edges and she felt a twinge at the unusual movement.

‘Thought you hadn’t left yet. Can we talk?’

She jumped and put her hands up. Her foot slid free of the door and she swore and turned on the speaker. The long haired boy stared at her between his curtains and blushed.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to, but you know, you were nice to me.’

‘Yeah, my mistake.’

Krystal looked back up at the sky and shook her head. Would it hurt? Not as much as he did, in all likelihood. ‘Yeah, we can talk. Soon as you make sure Mrs Ely gives us some breakfast.’

‘Yeah, sure, of course, thanks.’

He nodded like a labrador and she groaned inwardly. What was he, twelve, thirteen? They stood in awkward silence while they waited for Mrs Ely to return. What was she supposed to say? ‘Hey. So, you got raped last night. Come here often?’

Not a moment too soon, Mrs Ely bustled down the pavement and waved at them both. ‘Out early today.’

‘Yeah, not supposed to be. Any chance of breakfast please?’

She cast a glare at the boy who had the good grace to look sheepish, but the warden waved them through the door and she sat gratefully in the large room that counted as a dining space. Ten minutes later she clung to her polystyrene cup of tea with both hands, drinking in the smell like the elixir of life. The boy ate nothing.

She found out he was called Ed and this was his first summer on the streets. Tough start. Though not as bad as what he’d had at home from the sounds of it. Still, he sounded pretty posh, so can’t have been all bad.

‘You said you wanted to talk.’

‘Um, yeah. So, last night…’

Krystal put her cup on the table, leaned back and folded her arms. He wanted to talk about that. God, she’d given him a hug, that was all. She wasn’t some bloody agony aunt.

‘Look, I’m sorry about last night, but talking to me about it ain’t gonna help.’

‘He punched you.’

It wasn’t a question. ‘Yeah.’

‘Was it the first time?’

‘For me? Yeah.’

‘For others?’

‘Nah.’

‘He shouldn’t be doing that.’

‘What, punching me? That’s what you’re worried about?’

‘Of course not. He shouldn’t have…done what he did to me either, but punching girls, that’s just wrong.’

‘That’s wrong?’

She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice. He was serious, he was actually serious. Of all the things Dawid was guilty of, Ed was most worried about him hitting girls. And he’d hadn’t seen the half of it. The bastard broke someones jaw the other week, punched her so hard she swallowed two of her teeth. Krystal’d got off lightly and she knew it.

He was staring at her, all earnest and young and she groaned and nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s wrong. Punching girls and not saying please and not covering your mouth when you sneeze, it’s all wrong, what’s the point?’

‘I’m going to kill him.’

Next Installment Monday 23rd June

Part One is here

Tuesday – Bayleigh Part two

What just happened? She stuck her nose in the bunch of roses and took a deep sniff. Who cared? It was like carrying all her fantasies in her hand, a million and one romantic holidays on the French Riviera. How did he make them smell so nice?

The shop would smell amazing. Shame they were only open for another hour or so, but it was better than nothing. And then she could take them home. Dad might like them. Well, she wouldn’t take them all home. Layla could have a few and there were thirteen, which was never a good number, so she’d do what the flower seller suggested and give one away.

Bayleigh kept her eyes open all the way back to the shop, but spotted no one who looked needy. Maybe it was because of the roses, but everyone looked happier today. There were none of the usual long faces. Tuesday was the worst day in town, when the week stretched away into the distance and everyone was tired from Monday.

She strolled into the shop and Layla gasped. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Oh, um, I bought them.’

Layla’s face dropped. ‘So some handsome Italian in a sports car din’t give them to you?’

Bayleigh shook her head sadly and grinned. ‘Sorry.’

Layla bustled away into the back and emerged with two vases. They split the flowers in half and soon the shop came alive with the red.

The afternoon was always dead. When she first opened, Bayleigh had closed up straight after lunch. But in this part of town there were always people who wanted food. The afternoon slot was a good way to get rid of the bits they used to throw. She’d always rather someone ate them than put perfectly good sandwiches in the bin.

As she made up the remainder of the sandwiches and stuck the little ‘sale’ flags in, her mind drifted. She went from thinking about Ali to the bank account. She’d checked it last week, for the first time in months. There was almost thirty grand in there. That would keep her for a year, which was more than enough time to set up again.

The magazines were under her bed, stashed safely away. Not that Dad ever went in her bedroom, but she couldn’t help feeling paranoid. What would he do if he found them?

She shuddered and shook her head. He wouldn’t know what they meant anyway. He barely knew her name most days. They’d look after him. The services. They would. She sniffed. The same pointless argument had been going round and round her brain for the last three years. They would look after him, she didn’t doubt that.

But it wasn’t that she was arguing over. She was leaving him, without a goodbye, after thirty six years. And leaving him to the institution, to the same cream rooms and long corridors he’d begged her to rescue him from when it happened. It had been easier then.

She’d had a job that paid five times what she earned now and she’d been younger and— stop it. That was rubbish. It wasn’t any easier then. But her heart had got harder and she’d got tired. That was the truth of it. Three years ago she’d been ready to collapse. All that kept her going now was a folder full of bank statements and a bunch of glossy travel magazines and estate agent brochures.

She blinked. Between her hands was a sandwich bearing eleven sale signs. With a sigh she yanked them out and threw it in the bin. She looked straight ahead at the roses and sniffed. Maybe the thirteenth rose was for dad. Between the gorgeous petals she watched the door open and a woman come in.

Her eyes were red and her pretty dark hair was all over the shop. Bayleigh took a few seconds to decide whether it was deliberate, but the absence of make up and the lack of jacket made her think not. She had lovely lips, red and full and enough to stir just the tiniest spark of jealousy in her.

The woman stomped up to the counter, stared blankly at the sandwiches and snuffled. She was about to burst into tears! Bayleigh dashed around the counter and put her arm around her shoulders. The woman gave her a pathetically-grateful look and sniffed again, eyes swimming. She took a few deep breaths and gently shook the arm off.

Bayleigh gave her a smile and went back around the counter.

‘Thanks. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine, really. What can I get you?’

‘Oh god, I don’t know. A new life?’

Bayleigh blushed and shifted from foot to foot. This was unusual conversation for the afternoon crowd. This was, in fact, unusual conversation for the shop in general. What was she supposed to say? I’ve heard Coronation Chicken can help with that?

‘Sorry. Again. Um, can I get the mozzarella and basil one please. And do you have any…’ she trailed off and burst into tears. This was even tougher. Bayleigh had already offered the embrace. Should she do so again? She froze and watched this complete stranger break down on the other side of the counter.

‘Um, do you want to talk about it?’

The sobs subsided. ‘What’s there to talk about? There’s a guy’ – Ahh, that made sense – ‘and he’s amazing, but I’ve always wondered and when he came over yesterday I got something from his pockets and I found his wedding ring.’

The tears came again, accompanied by huge sobs and now Bayleigh did head around the counter. She wrapped her in plastic-gloved hands and hugged until the crying slowed. The last pieces of the story came between choked sobs.

‘And now I’m calling and texting but there’s no answer. There’s not even a tone, it’s like he’s disconnected his phone.’

There were a thousand things she could say, but none of them were the right thing, so she kept her mouth shut. Timing the release would be tricky. Fortunately, Layla came back in from getting her lunch and gave her the opening. She stepped back behind the counter as Layla did the same and they shared a glance.

Layla set her lunch to one side and set about making coffee. Twenty minutes later the woman left, looking considerably calmer and bearing food. She also took with her one red rose. She’d looked at it as thought Bayleigh was offering her a snake and shaken her head.

‘Please. It’s a spare and I think you need it more than anyone.’

The woman still hesitated, but finally took it and managed a smile before she left. Now the door was locked, the till was counted and Layla stood by the door.

‘Here, you want some roses?’

Layla’s face lit up and she rushed over. ‘Thought you’d never ask. So, you seeing Ali tonight?’

‘No, no. Dad’s movie night tonight.’

‘Ooh, what you watching?’

Bayleigh laughed, though it came from her head not her heart. ‘Same as always, first hour of Jungle book.’

Layla started to laugh and stopped herself. She turned away, clearing her throat. She was amazing about Dad, talked about him like a normal person. Bayleigh thought every now and then she probably forgot he wasn’t. Easy when you didn’t look after him, twenty four seven.

‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow then, yeah?’

Bayleigh shook herself and forced a smile. ‘Yeah. Thanks for today, see you.’

The door banged shut and Bayleigh was alone in the darkening shop. She stared at the six roses in her hand and took a deep breath. They were beautiful. She pressed the alarm code and headed for the door. She pulled it shut and locked it and turned to the Thames. She had to get home.

But her feet led her down past the offices and shops to the river where she paused. The flower seller was gone and where his stall stood there was a space, like an absence that stole her breath. She walked around the space and leaned against the railings. The water taxis were in full swing, charging up and down the Thames, lights beginning to show against the darkening sky.

Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out. It was the nurse’s number and she groaned. She was heading for the station before she answered it.

‘Yes?’

‘Bayleigh?’

‘Yes, how is he.’

‘Bayleigh, I’m sorry, are you alone?’

‘I’m walking to the tube station. Why?’

‘You might want to find a bench to sit on.’

Her scalp went cold before sweat sprung up on it. She resisted the urge to scrub her hand through it and stopped walking.

‘What is it?’

‘Bayleigh, I’m sorry, but your father passed away about five minutes ago.’

‘He… what?’

‘Your father passed away. He had a heart attack. Very sudden and very strong and he went before I could even begin procedures.’

‘Procedures?’

‘Resuscitation. I would have tried resuscitation.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why would you try that? He’s spent twenty years in misery, why the hell would you try to bring him back?’

‘Bayleigh, I understand that you’re upset.’

The nurse went on, explaining that dad would be taken away before she got home and that she’d have to contact the local crematorium to see the body and arrange the funeral. The voice went on and on and at some point she must have said thanks and hung up because when she came to she was back at the river.

He was dead. Twenty years and he was finally dead. She tried to find some grief, tried to pretend that the tears rolling down her face were for him and not her. Her left hand was clutched tight around the roses and she had to prise it apart with her right. The thorns had dug deep and little welts of blood appeared on her palm as she lifted the roses out.

She pushed her nose into them. They smelled amazing and they covered the smile that broke through the tears. One by one, she tossed them into the Thames and watched them drift away. She turned and walked back to the station.

Interlude

Finally. That had been easier than he’d expected. Funny how so many of the subjects didn’t want to be on the edge. All it took was a nudge and maybe a bit of mercy killing and they were saved. He actually had a lump in his throat, watching her stride back to the station.

She wouldn’t notice herself, but her shoulders had fallen from their place up around her ears. The muscles would ache tomorrow and she wouldn’t know why.

One from two so far this week. Not bad and certainly better than he’d expected after yesterday. The flower seller sat at his desk, pulled the window closed and focused on the list that lay before him. He had to pick tomorrow’s subject.

The first subject he glanced at entranced him and he read it three times, smile getting bigger every time. He could do this one. This was made for him. He just had to find the right trigger. He read further and thumped the desk with his spare hand. Beer time. With a satisfied sigh, he flicked the lamp off, walked to the edge and jumped.

Next Installment Thursday 19th June

Part One is here

Tuesday – Bayleigh Part One

They were just flowers. He was there every day and every day she slowed as she walked past and took deep breaths and carried the smell with her all the way to the shop. Every day she thought, ‘I’ll buy some today.’ And every day she walked past without buying them.

But every month when she checked the bank statement she was happy she’d resisted. Because every month a little more money went into the account and she moved one step closer.

Today was particularly difficult. There were roses, the most beautiful red roses, that smelled like a holiday and were the colour of romance and belonged on a table in a tiny cafe in Paris. She would sit and smell them, her dyed-blond hair tied up atop her head. Her too-thin lips would be made full through the arty application of lipstick that matched the petals and brought out the green in her eyes. A gorgeous man in tight jeans would part them and lean through and murmur how much he loved her tiny snub nose as their lips pressed together.

She shivered, turned her eyes from the stall and breathed deep. The morning traffic was thin on the ground when she opened the shop and went in. The alarm beeped a good morning and she scampered to the back and punched in the code. She imagined, as she did at least once a week, that she’d just prevented the explosion of a number of bombs placed all over London. With her simple action, she averted a terrible crisis.

The front door binged and Ali bustled in, the scent of freshly-baked bread coming with him.

‘Mornin’ Bay, you’re late today?’

The question was almost buried beneath the normal jovial tone. Almost, but not quite. She blushed, knowing full well why he asked. ‘Bed was comfy this morning.’

‘Don’t know how a big bed like that can be comfortable. You must get cold.’

If he hadn’t shared that bed a few times in the last month, it would be harassment. As it was, it sent butterflies through her stomach and made her cheeks even hotter. ‘I get hot when I sleep, normally throw the covers off altogether.’

She turned as he thumped the first crate down on the counter. He strolled down the shop. The sides of his hands were still covered in flour and he smelled like his bread. She took a deep breath, the smell of roses replaced with the scent of fantasies made real.

‘We can make it hotter, if you like.’

She giggled and walked past him, brushing against him just enough for her to shiver and slow. He would grab her and spin her around, his flour leaving marks on her arms. He’d push her back against the glass cabinets and force his tongue into her mouth. He didn’t though.

Which was a good thing because the door binged again and Layla walked in, giving them both a cheery ‘morning’ before disappearing into the back. Somehow, Bayleigh’s cheeks grew hotter still and she rushed behind the counter, putting a safe distance between them.

‘Well, you know, offer’s there. Let me get the rest.’

Ali strolled from the shop and Layla appeared from the back, apron on and hair tied up. ‘You two still shagging, then?’

Bayleigh gasped and frowned at her. Layla, completely oblivious, opened the till and began to sort the money from the safe. ‘Not that I’m prying or nothing, just think you could do a lot worse. And, you know, he knows about Jeff and everything.’

He did and that was worth more than his kindness or his strong arms and soft hands. He didn’t know about the bank account though. No one knew about that and no one would, not until it was too late.

Layla was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Had she asked a question? Not really, but she’d still want an answer. Bayleigh blinked, then twined her finger in her hair and blushed, shrugging. ‘Yeah, maybe. I dunno. He’s nice and all, but—’

‘But what? What you waiting for? Bay, you know I love you, but you ain’t gonna do much better, not with… well, yeah, you know.’

Bayleigh nodded. It was all true. She set about opening the shop and Layla took the hint. The lights went on and soon the place was filled with people. The coffee machine set up the symphony, accompanied by the sounds of workers and the steady thumps of the fridge door and the clink of the knife. Lunches were made and sold and eaten or taken away and the day went on and before she’d taken a breath, it was lunch time.

The rush ended and she slipped out of the apron and headed for some fresh air. She strolled down Embankment, mind drifting. There’d been a couple in this morning, tourists choosing the independent sandwich shop instead of Macdonalds. They’d been arguing over whether to go to the Planetarium or Madame Tussauds and as always, Bayleigh had been dragged back.

Dad had taken her to the Planetarium, not long after mum died. They’d sat and stared up at the lights and he’d reached out and taken her hand. It had been quiet in there, but even so it had taken her a few moments to work out he was crying. She’d never heard him cry before and it still haunted her.

He sounded broken, like he was supposed to be crying properly, but every time he sobbed something clicked and he stopped for a second and started again. They sat in the darkness for ages and all she was aware of was the sound of her father falling apart. When they left he apologised and said he’d take her again, and the thought of ever going back in there made her burst into tears.

Funny how something so simple can be so vivid after twenty years. He cried a lot now. She preferred it to the screaming. And the laughter. The laughter was the worst. Twenty years ago he’d only sounded broken. Now he was. Layla was right. Ali had met dad and knew what she lived with and was alright with it. He was better than alright. He’d even read to him once or twice.

She smiled, blinking away the tears. He couldn’t read for toffee, but dad didn’t mind. It was the sound of a voice, she thought, more than what it was saying.

She heaved a huge sigh, shoulders rising and falling. She stopped, put her hands on the black iron railings, and took a few deeps breaths. Nothing like fresh Thames air to clean the mind. She smiled again and shook her head.

A different smell caught her nostrils and she was dragged from the railing. She ambled over, pretending she had some say in the matter and found herself standing before the flowers. They were beautiful, so beautiful and she unfocused her eyes until all she could see was colour.

A throat being cleared made her jump.

‘Good morning, madam, can I interest you in anything particular?’

She jumped and put a hand to her throat, self-conscious. He sounded like a politician. His eyes were dark and seemed to smile at her. In fact, all of him smiled at her and it felt real.

‘Thanks, no, just looking. You always have such beautiful flowers.’

‘Well thank you, that’s very kind of you to say so. You have to get there first, that’s all.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The wholesaler. You have to get to the wholesaler before anyone else and you get the best bunches. Are you sure you won’t buy something, they’d be lovely in your shop.’

‘My shop? How do you know…’

She trailed off as he pointed one neatly manicured finger at her t-shirt. ‘The Sandwich Bay’ was surrounded by smiling faces. She’d designed them herself and was as proud now as she’d been five years ago. She blushed and smiled weakly.

‘I like the design. It fits very well in London, doesn’t it, so inclusive.’

She blushed again and examined her feet.

‘Tell you what. Let me see if I can’t find you a bargain—’

‘Oh no, I can’t, really, I don’t have the money.’

‘I’m sure I can find something in your budget. How about the roses?’

Next Installment Monday 14th June

Part One is here

Monday – David Part Three

David fell off the railing and landed on his arse on the concrete. He lay back and screamed until his throat gave out. The sky above was clear and the stars peeked through the light pollution, mocking him with their silent regard. Maybe everyone was out there. Maybe they were all on the moon, looking down at him and pointing and laughing.

He rolled onto his side and put a hand over his face. The floor was cold. He slept.

He woke once in the night and the sound of the Thames rushing below the bridge was so loud it made him jump. It faded just as quickly as he realised there was nothing else. He clammed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with the heel of his palm and waited. The waiting lasted forever and every second was filled with the silence but eventually, he went back to sleep.

He woke to sunlight creeping over the OXO tower and prying into his eyes. It seemed to welcome him back, as though he’d stood on the edge of death and been pulled away at the last moment.

He stood, feeling better than he had in days. Then the pain hit and the silence hit and he crumpled to the floor. He was pathetic. He couldn’t even end it when the end was coming anyway. Why was he here?

It was the first time he’d asked himself that and it surprised him enough that he stopped shaking and sat up. The movement sent pain through his shoulder, spasms running up and down his back. He could barely move his arm. His throat was clogged and filled with gunk and he hawked and spat over the edge.

Why was he here? The flower seller had given him roses for his wife and he’d given them to Steph. That was bloody stupid. He was in hell all because some weirdo got on his high horse. The word God floated through his mind and he snorted. Weirdo with some serious mojo was nearer the truth. Actually, was there much of a difference?

He wasn’t in hell. Hell didn’t exist, although he decided the guy who invented the whole fire and brimstone thing was a bit lacking in imagination. This was some kind of altered reality. Maybe there were drugs in the roses, something he smelled that made him think this was all happening. Or maybe he was strapped in, Matrix-style, to some giant computer. It was fake either way.

But he felt sick, there was no denying that. They could do anything with computers these days though. He sniffed and pulled himself up the railings. It all felt so real. Well, if there was no one here, there was no one to stop him doing anything he liked. There was an Aston Martin garage in Kensington.

With his first smile in twenty four hours, David made his slow way over the bridge.

Doing ninety down Oxford Street was as much fun as he’d imagined. As was going on a shopping spree around Harrods and raiding the ice cream parlour. But every time he paused, the silence came flooding back like the tide running up the beach.

After a couple of days of living like a Sultan, it began to wear thin. There was no TV, no one to cook anything, no one to do anything with or to. And the silence kept coming.

After a week, he took to talking to himself, loudly commentating everything he did. But his throat was hoarse and he soon ran out of words. He was supposed to be dying, but the sickness had frozen where it was, leaving him washed out and snotty all the time.

Everything had frozen. His beard stopped growing and his hunger soon went away. And after a couple of weeks, he found himself back before the flower stall. The flowers were still in bloom, bright and beautiful and the only things that smelled of anything anymore. He sucked in the aromas, clinging to that one small sign of his previous life.

His mind wandered. His thoughts became simple, images that meant nothing. He spoke out loud now and then, but the words no longer made sense. They were just sounds, with no one to hear them. His sleep dried up as well. He did everything he could to exhaust himself, but he’d fall into a light sleep that would last only a couple of hours at most before he woke.

The flower stall became his refuge and it was just as he was trying to remember why, that someone appeared. In the dim recesses of his memory, in the part that still worked, he recognised the man as the flower seller. But he saw much more now. He saw the light surrounding him and the darkness hiding behind it.

‘Hello, David, how are you?’

He stared blankly at the man, waiting for this David person to reply. When no one did, he thought that perhaps he was David. How was he? He shook his head, mouth hanging open and the man smiled.

‘Have you learned?’

‘Learned?’

‘Why are you here, David?’

‘Roses. Something, there were roses.’

The man sighed and shook his head. ‘Perhaps I left it too long. No, it shouldn’t have happened this quickly.’

He leaned closer, pursing up his lips. Finally he spoke. ‘When you wake, examine your life. And if you are in doubt, remember that you can always come back to this place.’

The flower seller took careful steps backward to stand beside his stall. There he froze and the scene faded until David stared at the blackness and wondered why he was suddenly so warm. He reached out a hand and pressed it against warm flesh.

The person sighed and rolled over, dislodging his hand and his eyes flew open. The first thing he saw was the bedside clock, the numbers 5:32 glowing gently in the darkness. Almost time for work. He blinked, expecting to drift back off. But he felt oddly awake and stretched, reveling in not feeling crappy at half five in the morning.

Amber rolled over again and he stared at her face as it came into view. How had he ever loved her? Just the sight of her grated and made him want to leap from the bed. With a grunt he rolled back to stare at the alarm clock. There was something on top of it and he reached out a hand.

He hissed as his fingers closed around something sharp. He jerked them away, then took it more gently and lifted it to his face. It was a rose, a single red rose and it smelled wonderful. It made him think of Steph. He reached for his phone then looked again at the time. She wouldn’t thank him. Maybe he’d text her on the way to the station.

As he stepped into the shower, he wondered where the rose had come from. A voice inside told him he knew exactly where it had come from, but he couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. Dammit, the shower was bloody freezing. When he stepped out of the house, he didn’t notice the silence. It was only when he reached the train station and found it dark and empty, that it came flooding back.

Interlude

That was a shame. He’d expected more. Some people just weren’t ready to change. Now that sounded like he was making excuses. It was another in Purg though and they all had to be accounted for. Which meant more paperwork.

Was he losing his touch? The last three had all gone to the dogs and he thought his choices were perfect. Maybe he should listen to Seph and do what he suggested. Take the easy ones, get your quota, and get ambitious at the end of the month when it wasn’t so important.

But that didn’t work. What was the point if they weren’t on the edge? And there didn’t seem to be any easy ones. There were easier and harder, but no shoe-ins. That wasn’t how Seph told it though. To listen to him over a beer, he was swimming in easy subjects, lining them up and knocking them down.

Luke picked up his list and stared at it. Were they getting the same list? Several names faded in the minute he looked at it, so they were working from the same sheets. Was he losing his touch?

He swung around in his chair and gazed out the back of his chamber. The Flights were quiet. Most of them were still at work and the rest down at the Dome. He peered over the edge and stared down through the stars, past the thousands of chambers to the Dome. He could go for a beer.

His eyes were heavy though. Keeping David in Purg for that long without the Engine was hard work. He’d rest and start again tomorrow.

Bayleigh’s story begins Thursday 12th June

Monday – David Part Two

His feet thudded on the bridge, knees complaining with every impact. Running in these shoes was like trying to chop down a tree with bread knife. He reached the steps and went down them two at a time. He was ten steps from the bottom when he lost his footing and went flying. His shoulder hit first, slamming against the step and sending him sideways.

His body caught up and drove him the rest of the way. He tried to twist and curl but his face hit the stone at the bottom. Fire shot through his chin and cheek. He’d been hit in the face once or twice, but this was far worse, sharp stone biting through his flesh. Every muscle in his body jarred as he crumpled up.

He lay still, waiting for the pain to end or get worse. It stayed about the same and he didn’t want to move for fear of dying. Eventually, the silence got to him. He shifted slowly, expecting a bone to pop out of somewhere at any moment. It didn’t though and he climbed to his feet. His face throbbed and he’d collected a headache bad enough to make his eyes water.

He limped slowly around the bottom of the bridge and headed for Steph’s. He knew she was there. She had to be there. But where the hell was everyone else? He was denying the voice. He hadn’t heard it inside his head, calling his name in the same eerily well-spoken tones of the flower seller. If he admitted to hearing it, he would have to admit to the silence being something other than a freak occurrence.

Maybe there’d been a bomb threat and he and Steph had been too busy boning to hear it. She was loud. That brought a smile to his face which in turn made him wince and cup his bruised cheek. His fingers came away bloody.

He reached the block of flats and pressed the buzzer. He waited. He waited some more. He pressed it again and then again and then he hammered on it, smashing it as though the sheer intensity of his blows would somehow magic Steph into being. But she wasn’t there. Or maybe she wasn’t answering.

He tried the door, tugging and shoving on it, but it was solid. With a groan he barely recognised, he put his back to the door and slid down until his arse touched the cool concrete.

The flower seller! How hadn’t he thought about it earlier? He clambered up and set off. He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up at them for a while. They seemed to leer at him, inviting him to risk them a second time. Sweat trickled down his temple and stung his cheek where the skin had been ripped off. With a deep breath, he mounted the stairs.

He reached the top and crossed the river. In the centre of the bridge he paused and stared across London. There was nothing. No movement, no noise, nothing. Even the pigeons were quiet. He was alone, utterly alone. He sniffed and scrubbed a hand across his nose. His eyes were stinging and it couldn’t be from tears, but they came running down his face just the same.

He rubbed them away and stomped on, left leg aching and dragging behind him. He took the stairs down as slowly as he could. Once he saw the flower seller standing behind his table, David couldn’t help but speed up, ignoring the stabbing going through his leg with each step.

He reached the bottom and stopped, gasping and blinking away the spots before his eyes. He was fit, why was he struggling so much? The fall hurt like a bastard, but it shouldn’t make him suddenly ill. Still, his sides hurt and he couldn’t draw breath. He meandered down Embankment to the flower seller and stopped, hands on his knees.

‘Hello, David. You don’t look so well, perhaps you should take a seat.’

The flower seller motioned to a bench and David dropped gratefully into it, grunting as his leg jarred.

‘What have you done?’

‘Me? Nothing.’

‘You lying bastard. What have you done?’

‘Did your wife enjoy the flowers?’

David ground his teeth together, eyes getting wet again. Who was he? And where the hell were they?

‘Where are we?’

‘London of course, the most beautiful, wonderful city in the world. You know why I like London so much, David?’

‘Stop using my name, stop calling me that.’

The flower seller went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘You can meet anyone in London. You can just be walking along, enjoying the sunshine, or the rain, and bump into someone remarkable. Don’t you think that’s great?’

His head was spinning and he rested it on the back of the bench. His voice seemed to come from far away. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Tell me, David, wh—’

‘STOP CALLING ME THAT, STOP SAYING MY NAME.’

‘Goodness. Well, I’m not sure that’s entirely called for. What would you have me call you? How about D?’

David blushed and clenched his fist. How did he know? Was it a lucky guess? He knew it wasn’t though. He knew, somehow. He hated D, almost as much as he hated David. It was one of the many things he wouldn’t miss about Amber. It was like the cornflakes. She knew he hated it, but still she did it. What made it somehow worse was that she didn’t do it to deliberately annoy him, she just didn’t think. Or she didn’t think it mattered.

‘My name is Dave.’ He snarled between clenched teeth. The flower seller looked understanding.

‘I see, well, of course. You asked a question, I believe?’

He made it sound reproachful and David sat silent, staring at the ground in front of the bench. The silence stretched out and he caved in. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Well, as I was saying, what’s the one thing you’re most afraid of?’

The flower seller finally came out from behind his table and stood before him, nodding and smiling like he’d just sold him a car. David frowned. He’d never really thought about it, not properly. He didn’t like spiders all that much, but then, who did?

He didn’t like heights but he could handle them. He’d always found woolen jumpers a bit creepy, but so long as no one in the room was wearing one he was fine. There was something else.

He ignored it and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Nothing, really, I guess.’

The man raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. David stared back, determined not to crack first. He did though. ‘Okay, so maybe there is something.’

He looked around at the long empty expanse of street and the deserted river. He looked across at the London Eye, still spinning and entirely empty.

‘You already know, so why ask me?’

‘Just curious. It takes a certain courage to admit to one’s fears. Just as it does to live a lie.’

The flower seller turned away and wandered back to his stall. David raised a hand and dropped it again.

‘Fine, fine. I’m scared of dying alone.’

The flower seller stopped, hands clasped behind his back, and faced him, face sombre. ‘That’s right. And you always have been, haven’t you?’ A smile lit his features. ‘Well, what you’re feeling is an advanced case of pneumonia. Given the right medical treatment at this moment, you might live. It’s probably fifty fifty, if I’m honest.’

David sobbed, his chest rising and falling, his throat burning and filling with mucus. The flower seller nodded, smile still painted across his face. David loathed him. At that moment he thought he’d be happy to kill him, to beat him to death. But he could barely lift a hand.

‘Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around to help out. Which is a shame, isn’t it?’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Why do they always assume I want something?’

The flower seller tutted and strode past David to the black railing above the Thames. David twisted his body so he could watch him. The man, or whatever he was, stared down into the water. David was about to speak when the flower seller nodded, turned to him and smiled.

‘Normally at this point, I’m tempted to say good bye and leave you to it. But alas that’s not the gig. I’ll never fill the quota beginning the week like that and you’re a good bet. Still, I’ve been wrong before. Perhaps a little time to think…’

He waved a hand and strolled back to his stall. David watched him all the way, but somewhere between the river and the flowers, he seemed to fade. One moment he was there, the next David could see the bridge through him and then he was gone.

The silence closed in.

The bench was cold against his trousers and his legs were stiffening up, so he climbed to his feet. He felt about a hundred, every bone in his neck cracking as he moved his head. He took slow steps toward his office but got only a few yards down the road before a coughing fit overtook him and he doubled up, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other resting on the road.

His eyes were watering when he straightened up and resumed walking. A movement to one side caught his eye, but when he turned he saw nothing. The sharp movement made the world spin and he stopped, setting his feet and holding his arms up. When it steadied, he walked on.

The office was empty, every desk just as it had been when he left for lunch. A few bore evidence of other people’s lunch, open foil and empty lunch boxes beside half-empty cups of coffee. They’d all just gone. Everyone had gone.

It hit him, properly, and he sank to his knees. His face pressed against the carpet and he sobbed. His shoulders heaved and he hated every second, but he couldn’t stop. He was alone, completely and utterly. He was dying too, but that seemed somehow far less important that the silence.

A thought struck him and he lunged toward the nearest desk and grabbed the phone. He lifted it to his ear and listened to silence. There was no dial tone, nothing. He typed the number for home, knowing it wouldn’t ring, but it did.

His heart leapt, sweat springing up on his forehead. What would he say? He listened, intent, eyes focused on nothing as he waited. And waited. She wasn’t home. Was she gone too? But the phone was ringing, surely that meant something? The line clicked and went dead. He slammed it into the cradle, picked it up and dialed again.

It rang and rang and he smashed it against the desk, again and again until the plastic shattered and fragments flew across the office. Once he’d killed it, he dropped to his knees and wailed.

The evening sun disappeared behind the Houses of Parliament. David stood on Waterloo bridge, staring down into the murky brown waters of the Thames. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles white and shaking. He was dying. He was alone. He’d spent the last three hours creeping around the city.

He shouted for a time, screaming the name of everyone he’d ever known, just to fill the silence. But it made it worse. When he stopped, it closed in again, choking and blinding him. The silence was the worst part. He’d found a TV in a shop and turned it on, but the screen had resolutely refused to spring to life and he ended up putting his foot through it. Even the sound of the glass breaking had been muted and dull.

There was no way out of this. He didn’t know where he was, or what he’d done, but he would die here. So why not choose the way he went? He couldn’t die choking on his own innards, curled up in a corner somewhere. But the Thames was flowing fast and it would take him out to sea. With winter coming, it was cold enough to stun him when he hit and he’d barely know he was drowning.

He put a foot on the bottom rail and pushed himself up. If he’d known what was going to happen, he’d have stayed with Steph. He could still be there with her, where he should be. He choked back a sob and lifted one foot over the railing.

Next Installment Monday 9th June