Geen is for Heartbreak By Hannah Retallick, Crème de menthe

 

The forest green t-shirt was a Tesco clearance item brought down to £2.50 by a careless snag from a careless customer. The hole, pricked above the tummy, was so tiny that it wasn’t visible between Emily’s fingers; even before buying that t-shirt, her hand was always carefully placed in front of her problem area. Steven never had to mention the lower stomach roll because she had already been told more than enough. He’d touch it when they cuddled, wrapping his arm around her and squeezing the fat gently like it was a joke. When she broke away, he never understood why.

                 Eleven weeks later, she accidentally added a tea stain to the forest green t-shirt, due to a nervous wobble of the hand when he kept talking about a female colleague. Old woman, he said, quickly, when her pout became too marked and her silence deafening. How old we talking? At least fifty. Not old at all, then. Despite popular opinion, it is possible for a thirty-three-year-old male to have a thing for a fifty-year-old woman, even one with sun damage who dresses her age.

                 Emily was wearing that t-shirt on the evening she brought their relationship to an end. This just isn’t working. He sat silently on the bed in her cramped little flat, the tired mattress sinking in the middle. She stood with her arms crossed tight enough to hold her together, waiting for him to leave.

                 She wore the t-shirt again when he asked to talk to her three weeks later; any other shirt would become tainted by association and this one was already ruined. He said with convincing sincerity that she was worthy of love and he loved her and would always love her and would always want to be with her and that she didn’t need to do this. Words, words. Everyone knows actions must match words, but if the words can be fake, so can the actions.

                 In another life, unfettered by the Guy Before, she would have believed him and they would have lived together happily until they were ninety. She wouldn’t have slammed the door, ripped off the t-shirt, screwed it into a ball, and chucked it into the black bin because the clothes recycling seemed too good for it. Neither would she have avoided his pleading calls, endless reassurance, gifts that were too special, or stalked him on Facebook for signs of deceit.

                 Fifteen years and forty-seven weeks later, there it was: Steven Robert Williams is in a relationship with some stunner called Melanie Jones. In one hundred and thirty-two weeks more, the happy couple were married, holding onto each other for a photoshoot as the clifftop wind threatened to drive them into the sea. Finally, the truth Emily had worked so hard to find: Steven had never loved the unworthy woman in her forest green t-shirt with the careless hole and tea stain, screwed up in a ball and discarded.

 

 about the author

 

Hannah Retallick is from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music, before passing her Creative Writing MA with a Distinction. Hannah has gained recognition in many international competitions, including receiving Highly Commended in the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize 2022 and winning the £2000 Edinburgh Award for Flash Fiction 2024 – the biggest flash prize in the UK. Her debut short story collection, Something Very Human, was released by Bridge House Publishing in November 2024. https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/about

Paste story here  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paste author bio here Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

ON THE MAIN WITH ONE EYED TED,by Guy Pratt, ginger beer

It had been a rough Atlantic crossing with stormy seas under grey skies, but now the small boat was moving into warmer waters and the sea reflected a blue sky as they passed by palm fringed islands with broad sandy beaches. They sighted ports where the rag tag of the seas drank their rum and counted their spoils before sailing out again to plunder those who carried wealth on the ocean.

It seemed surreal a small battleship grey motor torpedo boat approaching three galleons with the Jolly Roger flapping at the masthead of each one. It was like something from a black and white World War II movie invading the technicolour set of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Timothy Galton was at the wheel of the MTB calling down orders to the one eyed Ted who kept the powerful engine tuned and was responsible for loading and firing the two torpedo tubes. On the fore deck sat the redoubtable Agatha, wisps of grey hair protruding from under a tin helmet, as she trained the heavy machine gun on the approaching fleet.

They moved in closer and decks lined with sea going brigands, cutlasses between teeth, ready to board the intruder came into view. Below their decks hatches opened and cannons were pushed forward and loaded and primed. Before a touch paper could be lit, Timothy Galton yelled “Open fire,” and Agatha raked the decks of the leading galleon with a hail of lead. “Fire number one tube” Galton screamed down to one eyed Ted and the deadly torpedo sped below the surface towards its quarry which erupted in an explosion of flame and smoke.

The second vessel moved into its place confronting the little MTB and again Timothy Galton issued his orders and Agatha triggered another lethal salvo towards its upper decks and one eyed Ted launched the second torpedo. Two pirate vessels were now no more than a floating debris of matchwood their crews flailing around in the water seeking broken timbers to cling to.

Then frighteningly the situation changed. The third pirate vessel, the largest of the three was almost alongside the little MTB, it had no torpedoes left and Agatha was wrestling with and cursing the machine gun that had jammed. Timothy Galton looked up to see the leering face of a black bearded pirate captain looking out from the galleon. A hatch opened and an enormous canon barrel pointed down at the helpless MTB. “Fire” screamed Blackbeard.

There was an enormous crash and Timothy sat bolt upright in his bunk and before the echoes of the crash died he heard Aunt Agatha utter an expletive his mother had told him he should never use. He looked up out of the porthole and saw the white timbers of the Tide Mill and the masts of the boats moored at the quay. Then came a tinkling sound as Aunt Agatha with brush and dustpan cleared up the fragments of a broken plate on the galley floor. He looked down and saw his Captain Pugwash the Pirate book on the floor where it had fallen as he’d dropped off to sleep.

Timothy loved staying with his Great Aunt Agatha. Before retiring she had had a long exciting career travelling the world in the WRENS. She had finished her career as a senior officer at the Admiralty responsible for the disposal of decommissioned naval vessels. Whether quite within the official rules or not was not known, but upon retirement she had acquired a redundant MTB and had it transformed into a houseboat moored on the River Deben at Woodbridge. When Timothy came to stay, much to his delight, she regaled him with tales of what the former life of her home might have been.

After he had washed and dressed, Aunt Agatha announced that they were going into town she had an “ophthalmic issue” to deal with. Timothy was not quite sure what the word meant, but thought it had something to do with reading glasses.

They stopped for breakfast on the Quay at the new timber constructed café that resembled a Wild West stockade. While Aunt Agatha finished her coffee Tim stood on his chair and took aim at all the early morning joggers and dog walkers with an imaginary Remington repeater rifle defending Aunt Agatha from the hordes of war painted braves intent on repelling the advance of the US cavalry into their ancestral territories.

 The fort saved from disaster, they left the café, crossed the railway track and walked up Quay Street. Passing the church with the hands, Tim insisted on stopping to sit in the big aluminium hands, and then they turned right into The Thoroughfare. Timothy surmised that they might be going to Spec Savers, but Aunt Agatha continued past and then crossed the road and went into the haberdashers. As they arrived at the counter she reached down and took the Teddy bear from Timothy’s hand, the bear which accompanied him everywhere, like Winnie the Pooh with Christopher Robin. Addressing the counter assistant she said “Do you think you could find a shiny, glassy button that would make a replacement eye for this bear please.”

On return, after crossing back over the railway line, Aunt Agatha took a slight detour to a large workshop next to the Woodbridge Museum. Inside the workshop they found men working with timber on the construction of a full scale replica of the long ship that had been excavated at Sutton Hoo, over the river opposite Woodbridge. Timothy was very excited by this, but even more so when Aunt Agatha said they were going to spend the rest of the day at the National Trust site at Sutton Hoo. They set off in Aunt Agatha’s old MG sports car, the hood down, the sun shining – it all added to the day’s adventure.

At Sutton Hoo it was one of those special family days and after touring the exhibits Timothy was able to dress up in a helmet with a sword and even Ted Bear was impressed by the sights and colours now his eyesight was vastly improved. What a day it had become.

On the way home Aunt Agatha stopped at Melton Produce to get a treat for tea. Behind a mountainous display of quality fruit and vegetables on the edge of the pavement inside the shop was a delicatessen and an array of bread and cakes. A shopping bag filled and they headed home to the boat.

That evening a weary Timothy was soon asleep in his bunk but in that mystical land of nocturnal fantasy a busy night lay ahead. Crouched behind the wheel of Agatha’s MG would he be racing past Lewis Hamilton at Silverstone? At midnight high tide would the MTB leave the moorings and slip down the estuary and out into the North Sea to confront a long ship flotilla of invaders? Or would a long ship come sailing up the River Deben with a hirsute Timothy Dalton resplendent with helmet, sword and shield standing at the prow intent on pillaging Melton Produce and taking home to Aunt Agatha a sack full of those chocolate coated ginger biscuits she couldn’t resist.

about the author

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Saturday Sample:Christmas at the Crossby , Murphy Maeve, green tea,

Kings Cross, early nineties

I posted the letter into the red letterbox.

      There was a dusked blood-shot shell-shocked sky hanging over the St Pancras skyline. The street was empty; an ominous silence. Then came the sound of dogs barking, viciously spilling out onto the street. A Japanese man walked out of the courtyard opposite. I walked back, up the stairwell and into my flat.

Okay it was the pits. There’s no point denying it. I mean I could say it was some kind of lifestyle choice, some kind of protest. But I was lost, totally lost, that was the truth of it. Dazed, concussed, staggering like a three-legged dog trying to find its way, blinded by a dazzling razor of winter sunlight, deafened by the bleating of car horns.

 

I was twenty-three, alone, adrift, and living in the shite hole of Kings Cross. A spit, a wink and a toss away from the scagheads and prossies. A free-falling woman. Oh yes sexual desire had brought my downfall. Fate had knocked me; not quite unconscious but I was spaced out, floating in cotton wool. My life set on a timer, ticking away, finally had blown up. Trapped in the debris, I couldn’t get out. If I went ‘home’ I would end up doing what my parents wanted. I wanted to play music and be a musician. I was a musician. But since meeting Kieran I had stopped even doing that.

 

I was consumed by Kieran.

I’d been deluding myself that my increasing decreasing situation was interesting, life on the margins. And now as I sat in my shitty sleazy flat, on the torn, ripped sofa with bits of yellow foam bleeding out, I was in shock. Something terrible had happened and I had posted a letter. I had referenced the attack to the attacker. But what would happen now?

My neck still hurt. It was the run-up to Christmas and I hadn’t posted my cards yet.

Last night I had gone to bed and left Kieran next door in the sitting room of his new flat in Liverpool. I felt a bit heady because of the joint we’d smoked. He’d had coke too. I fell asleep quickly. Then a couple of hours later I was woken by Kieran pouncing on me, waking me, throttling me. I remember the shock. A feeling of raw fear spreading rapidly. Inner panic.

“No,” I said, trying to stay calm. He was in a dream and would wake up.

“Yes,” he said.

It was that “yes” that was terrifying. It was cool, deliberate and conscious. His quiet Liverpool accent sounded threatening for the first time. I tried to push him off but he was a big man. It was impossible. Unstoppable.

“Stop it, please you’re hurting me!” I couldn’t breathe. The air was getting darker. My head was getting lighter. He let go.

I walked into the toilet, shaking. Was it because in the pub I persuaded him not to get involved in a fight? Kieran had a glass in his hand, ready to smash it. I told him the police would be called. Had I made him, the tough guy, run away from a fight? Was he in rage over that? Adrenalised from that? My fault then. I’d stopped him. Was that it?

In the loo I heard the sound of the front door being locked. My head whirled. I could stay in there but I thought I would attempt normality, so I went back in to the bedroom and he instructed me to give him a blow job. Terrified, I complied.

I must have then slept. He must have been there. All I remember is this morning waking up and feeling very calm, almost at peace, kind of floating. He was lying beside me, but I had my back to him. I remember feeling this very tender kiss on my back. I didn’t respond, just lay there, not wanting to speak. Kieran got up and made me breakfast, something he had never done before. A fry of sausages and bacon and eggs.

In my cotton wool world, I had breakfast with him. Then he walked me to the train station. The last thing he said to me yesterday was, “It’ll harden you.”

It was absolutely chilling. A full admission. No remorse. Yes, he was saying, he’d ground my face in the mud, stamped on it and somehow that was a good thing. He was the boss.

 

Only three months before I had been living in a beauty of a flat in Camden Town. Spacious, with wooden beam floors and white walls. Camden has a wonderful way of tying everything together with a bonhomie boho bow. I was having a good time, being young, not thinking about much else. I was so caught up with Kieran and his show bizz friends. It was exciting, like being around them made me really successful as well. Sex and coke and late-night Soho.

I didn’t notice that my flat mate had missed her last three rent cheques. I couldn’t afford to pay her rent as well or the deposit for another flat. Rory, a guy I vaguely knew from a late-night Greek restaurant in Chalk Farm, was going travelling for a year. As long as the Housing Association didn’t find out, I could stay in his flat, up four flights of stairs in a condemned red brick Victorian East End dwelling called Midhope House.

 

Having now posted the letter, and back inside, I sat in fog-filled shock, chain smoking on the ripped sofa and staring into space. I shouldn’t have sent it. I felt like the walls were slanting, narrowing, tilting across, closing in on me.

The phone rang. I jumped. A college friend, Ava. I tried to tell her what had happened. She said something about weird things can happen in relationships. Really? I finished the call. Ava had a new job, was getting married, she was busy. Too busy.

I still hadn’t cried.

I got up. Night had fallen. I don’t know how many hours had passed. The Italians were whistling their drug-selling code to each other outside. I never quite worked it out: if it was to warn each other if cops were about, or whether it was to let them know of some more stuff. They had their mad wee rituals anyway – people nodding to other people and then some runner stuffing the gear somewhere for the pick-up. The black guys did the crack; they kind of opted for the deft hand-to-mouth, or hand-to-anus technique. To be honest, when I first moved in, I always thought those guys, with their hooded tops, standing in packs near York Way, looked like they were acting the hard men in some New York film. But that rose-tinted thought quickly evaporated when I saw some beat the shit out of a guy in an alley. They weren’t acting. They were just really fucking mean.

 I got up and looked out the window.

Opposite, down below, just outside the entrance of the other Housing Association come squat, near a street lamp, was a tall thin Asian woman, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I stared. There we were… I sat back down on the sofa.

 

There was a knock on the door. My heart rate turned up a notch. Through the weird fish eye lens, I saw it was the prostitute that had been on the street, under the street lamp. I opened the door a tiny bit.

“What is it?” She had such an intense presence, penetrating, staring eyes. Nothing about her was trying to please, but there was a kind of tenderness about her. She had black bags under her eyes, stood thin in her Lycra black mini dress. She was beautiful, her features were delicate but her skin was rough. London Asian, that was unusual for a prostitute.

“Can you spare a couple of quid?”

So here I was, Lady Muck, literally. But it made me feel good to feel kind of superior in my compassion. I felt for her. I wasn’t her. I went into the sitting room and took out a couple of quid that I didn’t have to give away and handed them to her. She looked at me. Her brown eyes had a depth. The weird thing about Kings Cross is that the people who lived there, never made eye contact with the prostitutes and they never made eye contact with us.

“All I have,” I replied.

I was different from her. I was not in her dreadful situation.

“Cheers.” She replied in a lazy London way. Was I different from her?

 I watched her shuffling out of the stairwell and down the road, passing a guy walking his bike in. Yesterday I was. Today I wasn’t so sure.

The guy looked up and saw me with my face up against the window. I quickly moved away.

 

The next day I woke up hungry, tired, still scared. My dole cheque had not arrived, no money, other than shrapnel. Enough maybe for some fags and some Marathons which were cheap and filling. All I could think about was food. I rubbed my legs with my hands, because they felt so cold. A woman was going hysterical, screaming outside and someone screamed at her to shut up. I lifted the bit of cloth over the window and peeked out. It was that girl who had knocked on my door.

Poverty, I tell you, is the most soul-destroying thing. You spend your whole time thinking about what you can’t have, and seeing as basically as money and beauty are the only two things most people seem to value, then you are the lowest of the low if you don’t have either, an invisible. I would say both a skewed romantic-type socialism and maybe some eastern mystics got it terribly wrong. There is nothing praiseworthy in poverty. It tightens your life to a point of rigidity and decisions are made from that cramped tense state of mind and often not wise ones. The police had by now arrived and finished talking to that girl and let her go. Her pimp or whoever the tracksuit guy was, stayed on talking to the police. I lowered the cloth on the window and got dressed.

I managed to speak to my sister on the phone.

“…why don’t you talk to a priest?”

“A priest?”

That was kind of a weird thought. I wasn’t sure about that.

I went out. I walked to the grey stone church at the bottom of Cromer Street. I was always trying to be a good person. I felt permanently at fault and always the one to blame. In Lady Muck mode I felt I should do my bit to help the poor down and outs of Kings Cross. I also had like a pain in my stomach which I ignored.

 I walked down the stone steps and through the iron gates of the basement of the church which led to the kitchen. I entered the main room. I looked at the mostly old men, battered by life. Fallen through the cracks. A lot of them were Irish, sitting around the tables, having charity soup and a sandwich. I felt their silent shame. I looked at the red tinsel Christmas decorations hanging on the wall. There was a small wooden nativity scene on the side. The figures of Mary and Joseph in the stable with the little baby Jesus in the crib with bits of artificial straw. Beside them were the Magi, the figures of the three wise kings bearing gifts. And some wooden sheep. I wasn’t going home for Christmas, neither was anyone here.

I went up to the counter which was a few enamel tables put together.

“Do you need any volunteers, to help serve food? Over Christmas?”

      The guy at the counter glanced at me. He held out the plate of sandwiches.

      “Would you like some soup with it?”

“I was offering to help,” I said, mortified. I also recognised him as the guy walking his bike from last night.

 He kind of smiled and looked vaguely apologetic but continued to offer me the sandwich and soup. With burning cheeks, I turned on my heel and left the building.

As I crossed the road, a tramp on his way in to get some food spontaneously hugged me. There I was in the middle of Kings Cross, being hugged by a tramp and it made me strangely happy. Maybe I was like St Francis of Assisi.

I carried on walking and went ‘home’. I sat on the pathetic ripped, brown, corduroy sofa with bits of yellow sponge coming out. I had planned to cover the sofa with a tablecloth. But I sat instead, staring at the window, not enough energy. I could sort this out myself. I just needed some session work. Or write some songs to sell.

 I chain smoked about ten cigarettes in an hour. I counted all my small change, ten pence, five pence and copper, enough for another box of ten.

 I walked down the several flights of stairs, bought my fags in the Asian supermarket on Cromer and was heading back when I walked straight into the guy who had offered me the soup and a sandwich. I tried to pretend I didn’t see him.

 “I offer everyone who comes in a free sandwich!”

I turned and laughed. No point being uppity. I noticed the warmth of his brown eyes. They were lovely. There was a sparkle of wit in them. I liked his husky London accent.

“Do you work at the church every day?”

 “Only occasionally.”

“Do you live round here?”

“Yeah, I’m flat minding for someone… I’m on Midhope.”

“I live there too.”

“Really?”

My jaw nearly dropped.

“Yes. On the ground floor.”

I was amazed someone like him lived so near.

“I’m on the fifth floor,” I said.

“I’m just going back there.”

“Me too. What’s your name?” We walked together.

“David. Yours?”

“Blathnaid,” I replied. “Bla, like blah blah and nid, like lid.”

“Lovely…what does it mean?”

“Little flower”

      We both laughed. I don’t know why it was funny. It just kind of was. Maybe it was a funny place to be a little flower.

“Did you know two people were found dead of an overdose a couple of days ago in Tankerton?”

      That was the next building over. I shook my head. “No, I didn’t know that, not my thing: heroin.”

We carried on walking. I had this strange urge to hold his hand. He asked me what I was up to. I told him I was a musician but I was thinking of writing a play. A musical. About Hiroshima. He glanced at me, to see if I was serious, and judging that I was, suggested I talk to Yoichi who lived in the second courtyard across. His mother had survived the Hiroshima attack as a young woman.

“Really?”

      He laughed. I asked him what he did, when he wasn’t doing the homeless food thing. He told me that he took photographs and that occasionally they showed in national newspapers, but he was finding it hard to earn a living. I nodded. Like me.

David felt like a log in the middle of a crazy sea. And he was reminding that there was dry land, a shore…

David and I reached the place where we lived. He headed towards his flat.

“I’ll drop Yoichi’s phone number through your door.”

I nodded. Even in my dazed state I clocked that gorgeous smile that broke David’s serious face wide open. It was nice to know he was close. I plodded back up the stairs. I became aware again of this pain in my stomach. I ignored it.

I got in and lay in the bath. Unable to move. Motionless.

A knock on the door. It was dark now.

“Blathnaid, are you in there?” Kieran’s voice.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. The knock continued.

I was now shaking. I held my breath.

“I got your letter this morning. Came down on the train… open up, love.”

For a split second I wanted to open the door. The way he said “love” was tender. Loving even. Familiar. Maybe this could all be okay. I didn’t open the door. I lay in the bath shaking. Finally, I heard his steps as he moved away and walked down the stairwell. I heard him stop and then continue.

I got up out of the bath and wrapped a towel around me. I went to the window. I could see him walking away down the street. Relief.

The phone rang. I picked it up.

“Hello?”

The line went dead. I knew it was Kieran.

I would go to the police tomorrow. I didn’t care if that was not what the thing the northern Irish Catholics do. I just didn’t care. Now I would go to bed, not think about it.

 I then took a heavy wooden chair and placed it on top of another chair against the door. That didn’t feel enough, so I took the really nice wicker basket which had all my shoes and placed it on top of the chairs against the door.

The phone rang again. The phone kept ringing. I didn’t touch it.

Then it stopped. There was silence. Beautiful silence.

I could finally sink into the silence and sleep.

 

The following morning my dole cheque arrived. I felt such joy. I had control back in my life. I walked down the post office just opposite Kings Cross Station and cashed it, posted my Christmas cards and bought some chocolate hobnobs as a kind of treat. On my way back I passed the big group of prostitutes standing shivering outside the post office.

      A police car slowly pulled up. A policeman suddenly opened the car door and dragged a very young woman who was just standing there and pushed her and shoved her really roughly into the police car.

That horrible energy clung to me as I headed home, crossing the road I walked back down the narrow back streets to Hillview, into a courtyard near mine and up the stairs and along a balcony. I knocked on a freshly-painted door. A Japanese guy opened it. David had slipped Yoichi’s number underneath my door. He looked younger than I thought he would be, early forties, shiny kind of joyful very clear eyes. I walked in and saw a modest flat, in good nick, sparsely but nicely decorated. Carpet on the floor, a TV and a big brown wooden box or casket with brass knob handles on a small table. I was intrigued by the wooden box, my eyes drawn to it. It felt religious. I wondered if I was taking my sister’s advice after all and going to see a priest.

Yoichi asked me if I would like a cup of tea or coffee. I asked if he had a green tea, he said he only had PG tips. I explained I was interested in doing a play about Hiroshima. He asked why? I said I was very interested in survivors’ stories. It might be musical as I was a musician, so kind of like Noh theatre. I said it would probably need Japanese actors and musicians; it wouldn’t be like Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Yoichi laughed, he thought this was hilarious.

 He told me about his mum’s experience, about how the Hiroshima bomb had happened in an instant. Everyone was just going about their ordinary lives with no expectation of it; how there was a flash of light. His mum said there were dead people lying everywhere. And everything was covered in black ash. People were lying side by side inside public buildings. He said there were maggots coming out of the living who were not yet dead and they were in great pain. As soon as the maggots appeared people knew they were probably going to die. His mother did suffer radiation sickness, was in hospital, very weak and she kept fainting. He said many people committed suicide and his mum said she was tempted but she thought about her family.

“Yes,” I said, jotting down a few notes into a notepad. I could hear a tune in my head.

“Does your mum feel bitter about her experience, her karma? Her like punishment.”

Yoichi laughed. “You believe people terrible… ‘sinner’ who deserves punishment?”

I didn’t know how to reply.

“I believe in the law of cause and effect. That’s karma. So, for example if you don’t respect your life and you keep making those causes to not respect your life, then your life will not be respected.”

This was intellectually interesting, way better than a priest. Yoichi was looking at me. I hid my neck with my hand. I knew there were bruises. I had seen them.

“So, it is people’s fault what happens to them?”

He picked up one of my chocolate hobnobs and took a bite. “People who hurt someone else are accountable for their actions.”

I nodded.

“How does your mum feel about the pilot who dropped that bomb?”

“She’s not attached to him. My mum knows her karma is her karma and the bomber’s karma is his karma. She has to deal with her karma and he has to deal with his karma. If he wishes. Separate.”

I found this fascinating.

“My mother now make her karma her mission.”

I felt woozy.

“Mission?” That word made me think of the missions in Africa, of black babies.

“So she doesn’t want to just kill him?”

“No. She work for peace.”

I switched off. “Your mum’s a saint… not everyone can be as good as that.”

Yoichi chuckled. I got up and glanced at the wooden box. He watched me.

“I’m a Catholic,” I said.

“Better speak to a priest then.” His clear almond eyes were dancing, teasing me.

“Maybe I will.”

“Drop the self-pity,” he said staring at me.

 I wanted at that moment to smash his happy shiny face. What a bastard! At least a Catholic priest would hear your sins and give you absolution. I didn’t want to hear his heartless eastern clap-trap anymore. I sprung to my feet.

“Well, Yoichi, I better go. Better conversation than you normally get in confession, that’s all I can say.”

“Three Our Father and Two Hail Mary!” he replied.

As I walked down the stairwell, I became aware again of the pain. I touched my hand on my lower abdomen. It felt bloated, hard. I’d take some more pain killers when I got in. That’s what I was thinking about as I turned the corner. Did I have enough? Should I go the shops? No – there were enough—

      And there he was.

      At the top of the stairs to my floor.

      He was standing outside my door.

      And he had seen me.

     

I wasn’t sure whether to turn and run or to keep walking. Kieran looked at me, he didn’t look angry. He looked normal. He smiled, like he was pleased to see me. What was really attractive when we first met was he really saw me, asked me questions about me, though never actually came to see me play, up until recently I had been doing small pub gigs. I noticed he looked his age, forty, normally I never thought about that much.

“I called round yesterday.”

I nodded. Didn’t make any comment.

He waited for me to open the door. I didn’t.

“I’ve just remembered I’ve got an appointment at the doctor,” I said.

“Are you okay?” His eyes were piercing, though his manner was friendly.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Look where you’re living. Jesus, Blathnaid. I got your letter… So what actually happened?”

      I looked at him, gobsmacked not knowing what to say. He didn’t remember? Really?

“I just know something terrible happened.”

He looked sincere. “What happened?”

“You…”

      Finding it hard to say more words, I pointed to my bruised neck. He looked away, looked disturbed.

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere.

But was he? He said it would “harden” me.

Maybe I did need to speak to a priest. Focus on forgiving?

“It’s Christmas. I’m meeting a few people for drinks up in the pub tonight, if you want to come up later?”

He was brushing this all off like it was nothing. He said he would see me later. I nodded. He kissed me. It was just like a normal kiss.

“I love you,” he whispered. He had never actually said that before.

      Maybe love could conquer all. He had just lost it, though I still didn’t know why, but everyone deserves a second chance. Don’t they?

 

I walked through the pub door a few hours later. Kieran was sitting at a table with a couple of other guys. There was a Channel 4 documentary person too, hanging out in the London Irish scene which was Kieran’s thing. It was exciting to be so near these people. It made me feel like I wasn’t just on the dole, I was part of it. Maybe I could do some incidental music for it. If I could pluck up the nerve to discuss that with them. I also had to be careful, Kieran sometimes got jealous. Kieran looked nice in his denim shirt. I wore a black polo neck top. There was a large real Christmas tree along the back wall and a show band on the stage. It was packed. People were up in festive spirit, dancing away to country and western cover songs.

“Have you brought me a blow-up doll for me Christmas present?” Kieran asked.

It was such a gross thing to say on so many levels, it should have sent me out the door.

      Kieran then talked about me going to spend time with him again in Liverpool. I couldn’t understand all these conflicting things, so I went to the ladies and reapplied my lipstick, I needed time to think.

On my way back came I heard Kieran talking to one of the guys. They had their backs to me.

“I hope you didn’t mind Blathnaid joining us. I want to have a sweet night tonight. Know what I mean? Butter her up.”

A throaty male chuckle erupted between them all.

My cheeks burned. Something snapped. All the stuff I'd kept hidden away from myself was now erupting. Running, backwards, forwards, round my brain.

There is a truth.

      Don’t say too much.

I will! I’LL SCREAM!

I picked up my red wine; threw it over him. I had such rage the glass shattered in my hands and now there was glass all over the floor, and everyone looking at me. That’s when I saw the blood; dripping from my hand, red blood and soon it had become a red hand. I felt sweat on my face, a heavy pain pulsing. He jumped out of his seat and came forward to console me, to calm me down.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” I roared.

He took a step closer.

“DON’T YOU COME NEAR ME OR I’LL PHONE THE POLICE!”

Next thing I was pushing open the door. And then I was running.

 

It was raining. I was bawling. Like a junkie I’d gone back to what had hurt me – like an old habit. I hated myself. I couldn’t be stronger. I couldn’t make better choices. I couldn’t change, so my life would never change. I was stuck like this. Stuffed. I screamed. It ripped the air. 

The rest is a daze. I remember sitting in the tube carriage, blood streaming out of my hand. A guy further down had blood all over his white shirt. He was sitting upright, looking straight ahead as if he was fine.

I got out of the tube at Kings Cross. There were a group of people singing carols and collecting money in buckets for the homeless. Traffic on Euston Road was buzzing past. I stepped out into the road.

That’s when a hand reached out and grabbed me back as a huge lorry drove past. I looked round to see Yoichi’s face. He looked furious. I was stunned. How the hell was he there? Was he like monkey from that Japanese TV series? He snatched me across the road, into the Burger King opposite just beside the post office which was alive with all the usual illicit late-night stuff. Just as we entered, I saw the Asian prostitute I’d lent a couple of quid to. She was there shivering with the rest of them.

Next thing I knew, the young African girl behind the counter was cleaning my hand with ice and then wrapping it in kitchen roll.

The face of the Asian prostitute loomed before me, looking concerned.

“Is she okay?” she asked Yoichi, “I know her.”

 “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Nadina. What’s yours?”

“Blathnaid. It means little flower”.

We all laughed until  a pimp appeared with horrible dead darting eyes, wanting to know what was going on.

Yoichi then briskly walked me out and back in the direction of my flat.

When we reached Midhope Street, we passed David returning from a night out. He looked at me.

“You okay?”

 “Fuck off!”

      I didn’t want him to see me like this. I could see the shock in his eyes. His eyes. His beautiful warm lovely eyes. I felt like crying, all I wanted to do was talk to him. See him. Speak with him. Find out about him. Everything about him. David quickly opened his flat and went in.

Yoichi and I got up the stairs to my flat. The pain in my abdomen was now unbearable. It was coming in waves. I was bent over holding it with my bleeding hand.

I got out my key and opened the flat door. Yoichi was still with me.

“Want a cup of tea?”

Yoichi was looking at me strangely. I went into the narrow kitchen to make it.

“Blathnaid,” he said quietly but in an alarmed way. He looked at my legs.

I looked down. Blood. Clumps, black clotted. A pounding in my ears. That is when I collapsed. All I remember was an ambulance man arriving and I was half carried out and down the stairs by him and Yoichi. I passed Mike, a junkie who lived below and was standing at his door with his pink-shaded glasses and holding his scrawny black cat.

“Has she OD-ed?”

The guy from New Zealand who was an artist, who lived opposite Mike, opened and then quickly shut his door when he saw what was going on.

We got to the bottom of the stairs. All I could think about was David but his door did not open. I’d just told him to fuck off. I really was a stupid bitch.

I was put on a stretcher. I heard the hushed word “miscarriage.” I had missed a period.  The ambulance driver asked me if Yoichi was my next of kin.

“I’m a neighbour,” he said.

“Is there a next of kin, we need a number and address?”

“No next of kin, no room at the inn…” I mumbled.

David’s face and eyes loomed in front of mine. He was there. His eyes were so warm but he looked scared. So was I. A baby? I was really losing a baby?

“Come over when you get back.”

He took my hand.

They lifted me into the ambulance.

I could see the tiny little narrow alley to the side.

A half-eaten hamburger and a used condom lay on the ground.

I suddenly saw it all so clearly. This was hell, I had to get out. 

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Abut the author

Maeve Murphy is an award winning film maker. Her film Silent Grace was placed no 38 in Irish Times Best 50 Irish Films Ever Made in 2020. Her debut novella, Christmas at the Cross, serialised in The Irish Times was published by Bridgehouse in 2021. 

 

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