Irenosen Okojie - Butterfly Fish

The service was half full, I wandered in quietly, coiled tension in my back slowly dissipating. A grey haired, middle-aged lady at the front nodded at me. I nodded back solemnly fingering the new found silence of the coin I’d scooped on my way in. The wooden pews were deep, still holding the prayers and confessions of sinners long gone. Sunlight glimmering through the scene on the stained glass window behind the pulpit gave it an ethereal glow. From the window Jesus had lost his strides in the sound of a truck pulling up on a nearby street. I heard the key turning in its stiff lock, the quiet purring of the engine cooling down.

Miss Argyle, whoever she was had friends in death. One woman in the pew to my left wiped tears from her eyes, another clutched her handbag so tightly, her knuckles strained against the skin. Somebody at the pulpit was giving an impassioned dedication. On the walls the carvings of saints leaned forward, burial soil softening in their mouths. From the bright window Jesus armed with an orange tongue would have to borrow legs from somebody he’d once forgiven.

I sensed him before I saw him. Something in the air changed, a shift I couldn’t quite identify. My neck became warm. My skin tingled. The smell of an earthy-scented aftershave filled my nostrils. I adjusted in my seat as the pew behind me creaked from somebody leaning back. Curious, I turned to see a lean, exotic looking man tucking a slither of silver Rizla paper into his pocket. His locked, wavy hair was tied back. He had on black jeans and a dark tweed jacket that had seen better days but was oddly stylish. His broad nostrils flared. He placed one long finger over his lips, pointed forward, indicating for me to mind my business. Liquid light brown eyes twinkled in amusement. In that moment, he seemed changeable. As if he could inch forward and his bull’s head would sprout over the subdued din or his crow hand would cover my breast and flick against its inverted nipple.

As the service rolled on, the tightness in my chest returned, an angular rip that was haemorrhaging. And suddenly I was back at my mother’s funeral, amongst a cluster of mourners looking for all intents and purposes a little relieved they weren’t the ones being lowered into the ground. Mervyn had wiped his tears away while people’s condolences swirled in my head, sentences that broke and re emerged as small wasp-like creatures, fluttering their wings between rapid eye movement. I’m so sorry. This is unexpected. How will you cope?

A woman’s coat flapped against slender legs encased in black tights. The white hyena in the sky bore down ready to swallow the scent whole so I gave it the wasps in my head. People looked into the rectangular chasm in the ground, as if their own eyes would mirror back the change of season. I spilled soil on the casket. It popped open. My mother sat up at the far right end of the silky ivory interior, picking the hem of her skirt, threads dangling out of the casket. I crawled towards her, stretching my hand at her face as it blurred and redefined itself. There’s no room for two here . She said that in a dry, accented tone that flooded me with familiarity. I pressed my head against her chest, listening to the sound of taps running, of warm bath water spilling. The casket was damp; I began to feel around for a leak.

Then I patted my body down for leakage.

Then I was swept into Mervyn’s arms.

Then I was silently screaming, holding onto the shuddering of his shoulders, pressing my fingers against distorted shards of light.

At the party afterwards, held in a separate room that boasted large stained glass windows and an ornate mural ceiling I watched the man hiding the sliver of silver from the corner of my eye. He moved easily, interacting with other mourners. Kids ran in and out, small mountains of food dwindled. People talked about the dead woman as if she’d never made a mistake. Maybe they did this subconsciously, affected by being in God’s house. How did you know Abbie? The inevitable question cropped up repeatedly. I made stories up on the spot, wondering how I’d ever explain to Dr Krull the strange comfort I got from attending the funerals of others, telling myself most people wouldn’t realise they’d been robbed until they’d driven off and arrived at their next destination. The fleshy bodies turning in red wine began to lose their heads. I kept my eye on the exit in case I needed to bolt. Stones rolled in my bag for comfort and as part of an escape plan.

He finally approached me carrying an empty beverage bottle. The air between us was thick with promise. When he spoke it was like being knocked over unexpectedly, a kick in the gut, a rush of warmth flooded my skin.

“I didn’t know her,” he murmured unapologetically. “The dead woman” he continued, smiling at the bewildered expression on my face.

I raised my shoulders to release tension. “Oh, why would you attend the funeral of somebody you don’t know? It’s deceitful,” I said. He looked me in the eye knowingly, an unsettling tight expression on his face. “I followed you in here. You walk like a woman I once knew in Haiti. I’m sorry for your loss,” he offered, just a hint of mockery in his voice.

“Thank you,” I answered, surprised by the pangs of sorrow I felt.

He rummaged inside his jacket, fished out something. “You dropped this by the way.” He handed me the £20 from the steps. The Queen’s silent expression had subtly darkened. “Hey! I put that in my bag.”

“Ah, you’re not the only one with tricks. Come on, there’s an interesting crypt space downstairs. I’ll show you, don’t make a scene.”

He was so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

The crypt was cool but his hands were warm. He propped me up against a disused bar, slipped a finger inside me, promising to mark my underwear with cigarette burns. He pressed the bottle mouth against my back. The woman whose walk I’d inherited sat at the bottom in smoke form, curling into our breaths. Tires screeched away, stones rustled, bite marks on my shoulder formed a raging map of teeth indentations. The bodies in red wine swam after their floating, drunken privates. Sweat pooled between my breasts. I liked the metallic taste of his zipper in my mouth, the fury of his fingers sliding in and out of me frenetically, his changeable face buried in the damp, gnarly thatch of hair between my legs. His mouth sucked greedily on the arches of my feet. His hands tightened on my throat, saints on the church walls orgasmed in unison. My tongue came undone

Down

In

The

Crypt.

At night the beach was pretty much deserted. Faces from the rocks slipped into the sly sea line while the waters thrashed as if a second moon would appear. Rain soaked and wind blown, I watched Rangi’s lone, lean frame angling into the foamy depths. He changed with each dive and stroke, beneath the knowing gazes of underwater creatures. I leaned into the wind from my view between two rough-hewn peaks, breeze dented, scowling chip paper in one hand; greasy fat chip in the other. Shots of vinegar created sour warmth in my mouth. Above a smattering of gulls chorused loudly.

I was joyous having left behind London and the brass head beneath my bed, the fascination it held and the sick feeling it produced in my stomach. I thought of my grandfather’s diary, facing the things I’d inherited breathing between the lines of a bound leather book.

The wind began to howl. My inappropriate plimsolls were soaked. Typical of me to wear the wrong footwear, you can’t even get that right . I shivered. The salty sea air felt good, I was slowing down my demons, given them a different oxygen. The faces in the night water waited patiently for limbs. Rangi stood, water undulating around him, motioning for me to join him. “Come on!” he yelled. “Stop being an observer!” he taunted. A weird rush of intensity filled my body, even in the distance between us, the air was electric. I shook my head, scared he’d notice something we both didn’t want to see rise to the surface of water. I leaned forward to get a closer view, certain his body had encountered haphazard bits of life underwater; a plane’s wing, a diver’s mask, the moon’s silver-limbed doppelganger.