Nicola Barker - Wide Open

“Yes. It’s exciting, don’t you think?”

“But it’ll take a while.”

“Take as long as you want.”

Sara sat down on Luke’s sofa and wrapped her arms around herself.

♦

Lily felt like some kind of flimsy vapour walking among all these city folk, these brightly coloured, purposeful, brusque, shoving, thumping, pumping people. She became suddenly aware of her own slightness. She knew where she wanted to go but nothing seemed to want to take her there. She had ten pounds to spend. A ticket inspector told her to buy a One-Day Travelcard. Two zones. She did as he’d instructed, but suspiciously.

Finally, she found her way to Baker Street. Her cheek kept bleeding. Her blood was like water. No substance. No texture. She held her shirt cuff against her cheek. The cotton was already tight with plasma. Then she followed the signs to the Lost Property Office.

She’d arrived, finally. But it was late. Almost one. And the bus back left in only an hour. She pushed the door open and walked in. There were too many people. Two women and a man behind counters, and others, like herself, waiting for service. She nearly panicked but then she remembered how Ronny had specified that the person he’d dealt with was male, not female, so she avoided the queue and instead walked straight on over to the man in the payment cubicle.

Someone in the queue called out to her and then a woman on the counter told her that she needed to go around the other way if she wanted serving. But Lily, her one wrist jammed against her cheek, pushed her other hand flat down on to the counter and stared intently into the man’s eyes.

“I’ve come for Ronny,” she said, above all the confusion and disgruntlement, “about the beast.”

The man seemed confounded. “This is a payment cubicle,” he said. “To make a claim you’ll have to fill in a form and then see one of my colleagues.”

He pointed and then paused. “Are you hurt?”

“No. No. Like I said, I’ve come for Ronny.”

But his name seemed to spur no sense of recognition. None whatsoever.

♦

Nathan had requested sick leave. He was feeling sick. It was almost a fever. Everything opening wide, inside him. That’s what he’d said.

“Sounds like flu,” they’d responded, “you’d better take a week.”

He’d collected his coat and was preparing to go. He was in the toilet, staring at his reflection, straightening his collar, when a colleague entered.

“Don’t come near me,” Nathan croaked, hoping to create an atmosphere of legitimacy, “I might be infectious.”

The colleague smiled. “No more infectious,” he said, “than this crazy girl who was just at my counter, dripping blood and ranting on about The Beast.”

“What?”

Nathan chuckled.

“But The Beast wasn’t actually hers, you understand. It belonged to her friend, Ronny. It was Ronny’s beast. He’d wrapped it up in a cardboard box and then dropped it off here for safekeeping…”

Nathan stopped smiling.

“Is she still out there?”

“No. She just left…”

The man turned around as he spoke, but Nathan had already pushed on past him.

Lily was walking towards the escalator, thoroughly humiliated. The world was too big, she told herself. Someone should have warned her. Nathan actually nearly knocked her over. He backed into her. He’d been scanning faces, frantically, hoping to recognize someone, something . Lily staggered and then turned to face him. Her cheek was dripping.

“Is it you?” Nathan panted, seeing the blood. “Did you come for Ronny?”

“It is me,” Lily mumbled, almost crying with relief, “it is me. And I’m lost and I think I might be about to miss my bus.”

Nathan put his hand into his pocket and drew out a hanker-chief.

“Here. Don’t worry.”

Lily took it. He led her slowly towards the escalator.

“I’m Nathan,” he said gently, “you’re all right now. I’ll look after you.”

♦

He was developing in the bathroom. He had all the equipment The red light, the washes, the paper, the dark blind for the window. Slowly, slowly, the images rose out of the whiteness; a wide smirk of black and grey shadows staining the paper’s pale face.

First off, uh…he turned the picture up the other way…yes…a cup. An old mug. In full focus. That was all. Then a table. Some tarpaulin. A giant creature which almost made him squeal — with hair and horns, all tusky…Next, a piece of wood, polished. A banister?

Luke smiled to himself. Should he stop? Wasn’t he wasting paper here? But he thought of Sara, sitting on his sofa, full of anticipation, and resolved to continue.

The next image made him tut. A toilet seat. Down. And then, a cloud? Something great and uninteresting and white…a pillow? And after. After? He squinted. Jesus Christ . His hands felt numb and heavy as he continued developing.

♦

Ronny sat on a small hillock, surrounded by the letters. He was reading and reading. He’d been crying. “It was me,” he kept saying, “it was me. It was me. Hiding all the while, keeping myself safe and disguised until no one could possibly see who I was. But it was me.”

He’d pulled off his shoes. His long, pale feet were cushioned in the grass, grey with dirt, big toeless, like great dusty fins, or flippers. He inspected them as if they were some kind of irrefutable evidence.

He felt so sorry for Monica and the trouble she’d been through. He felt such a profound understanding. Her love of all the things she couldn’t see. The desolation. The lack of belonging. The endless, pointless investing.

♦

You feel very close at this moment. Is that stupid? Are you near me? Are you out there, hiding in the jungle, watching, waiting, but I just can’t see you? Is it me who’s dense or is it the forest? Is it me?

♦

The letters weren’t dated. But were they in some semblance of order? How did they unravel? Ronny rubbed at his eyes, which were red and sore, not from crying, he decided, but for some other reason. Maybe the sun. Maybe the pills he’d taken. He rubbed them again, harder, and then he hunted for the next letter in the pile. He craved a conclusion. He had to establish himself, within. Right now. Inside. He had to locate her. He stroked the letter. He drew a deep breath. He squinted. He opened it.

♦

I had a dream .

Ronny? Am I writing? I think I am. Am I waking? Am I sleeping? Will this thing get through to you?

I had a dream about Louis and the white ape. Tell me if you think I’m going crazy. I had a dream. I was lying on a table. Or a camp bed, but high off the ground. And I was wearing an old nightshirt which kept shifting. It was too small. A child’s shirt. And I was surrounded by people. All looking and staring .

I felt like Gulliver. As if my hands were tied, my legs, my ankles. But I couldn’t feel any kind of rope or cord or string, even. Just a weight. And Louis was at the head of the table. And he was holding some kind of torch. And he had a Stanley knife in his other hand. And he was cutting my hair with it. And it wasn’t just a brief interlude, it all took a long, long time. It went on and on for a long time. And sometimes I was crying. And sometimes I was silent. That’s all .

It was only a dream .

But where was the white ape? I know that’s what you’re wondering. Where was it? Well in truth I think I was the white ape. That’s my take on it. Lying on the table like some terrible experiment. Having my hair cut. Poked and prodded. Like I was the ape. Although that’s just a take, Ronny, that’s all it is .

I mentioned the dream to Louis and he was extremely tight-arsed about it. He said it sounded like an abduction dream. An alien abduction dream. He said that alien abduction dreams say a whole lot about the people who have them. He was very smug about it. As if it indicated something .