Alex Preston: The Revelations

The train clattered through the darkness. It was an old train and the carriages bucked and wheezed, struggling against the buffers that stopped them flying off into the night. The sea lay in shadows to the left; to the right was a thin strip of pale blue horizon, trees, and a mountain range that rose and fell, visible only by the sudden absence of light. On the left side now a refinery on the shore. Gas flares lit the water red and gold, gold and red. Mouse pressed his nose against the window and watched the flames dance upon the water.

He slid open the window and lit a cigarette; it burnt down quickly in the blast of rich, warm air that swept into the carriage. When the cigarette was finished he sent it spinning out into the night, following the small red spark as it was whipped away by the wind. It was now entirely dark outside the hurtling train. He stared into the blackness, past the chubby ghost of his reflection, thinking ahead to London, the Course and Lee. He reached into his bag, drew out his battered mobile phone and sent her a text, grinning as he typed.

He walked from Euston, dragging his suitcase behind him. It took him over an hour, but he liked walking in London at night when there were few people around. Taxis, lights extinguished, carried tired drivers home to the suburbs. A young couple walked ahead of him, elbows linked, perhaps drunk. Their bodies swayed together and apart like fronds of seaweed. The girl tripped and the boy placed a protective arm around her shoulders. Mouse hurried past them, wheezing. He made his way into the echoing darkness under the Westway and stepped carefully along the pavement that clung to the edge of the underpass.

Little Venice dozed in the warm September night, slabs of light thrown onto the water from a handful of lit windows. A moorhen hooted somewhere out of sight. Mouse quickened his pace, his feet scuffing the stones of the towpath. Rubbish floated in the lagoon, drifting between the thin fingers of a willow tree that stirred the water absent-mindedly, picking through beer cans and polystyrene cups and plastic bags. In the shadow of Trellick Tower, he stopped to smoke a cigarette, sitting on his suitcase in the long grass that bordered the path. The vegetation was thick and dry. He plucked a stalk of grass and ran the feathery end under his round chin. He needed a shave. He wanted to look good for the Course. Flicking his cigarette into the water, he grabbed the handle of his bag and continued along the canal.

Finally, he came to the boat. It sat moored between two barges, uglier and higher than its neighbours. Gentle Ben — the name in ornate serif lettering on the stern — was an old Dawncraft Dandy, once the white weekend plaything of a pinstriped yuppie. It was now a dirty cream colour, the curtains were brown and raggy, the toilet gurgled foul smells. But the boat allowed Mouse to live in London, to exist among his friends; he loved the flap of the water against the hull at night, the dawn song of birds in Kensal Green Cemetery, the gasometers that sighed as they sank, moaned as they rose. A Jolly Roger fluttered gaily from the stern of the boat, the white skull just visible in the dim light. Mouse let himself into the cabin, turned on the generator and threw himself down on the narrow bed.

*

Lee Elek sat on her balcony, looking out over the lights of London. A book lay open on her lap, but it was too dark to read. The petals of the heavy-headed rose that climbed the trellis behind her had faded to grey in the dusk. Her hair was twisted into a bun and held in place with a pencil; a single blonde strand dropped down her cheek and she drew it into her mouth, feeling the sharp ends of the hairs, prodding at them with her tongue. Darwin was asleep beside her bare feet. The dachshund was dreaming: his short back legs galloped the air, his wet black nose twitched. Lee lit a cigarette. Music played on the stereo inside, quietly enough that single notes only emerged occasionally, hesitantly, wrenched from among the sounds of the city: taxis rushing up Kensington Church Street, aeroplanes queuing to land at Heathrow, shouts from the bars on the High Street. She drew smoke into her mouth and blew it out of her nose.

She had stumbled out of the library earlier, her breaths coming in quick gasps. It was one of her moodswung days. She couldn’t focus on the self-righteous saints and strung-out mystics she was supposed to be writing about. She skipped lunch and spent the afternoon walking purposeful diagonal paths across Holland Park. Darwin whipped along on his leash behind her like a crashed kite. An hour before the gates of the park closed, she sat down heavily on a bench in front of the Orangery. She took deep breaths, stilled her mind, and ran her hand through Darwin’s soft brown coat. She usually knew how to drag herself up from these depths, but this time she couldn’t shake the feeling of doom that smudged her vision and quickened her breath.

She walked home along the High Street, stopping to buy herself sushi from the Japanese takeout on the corner, teriyaki beef for Darwin. Up the winding staircase to her flat under the eaves of the old Kensington house. They ate dinner together on the tiny veranda and then music and wine and cigarettes and a book and slowly the warm day faded around her. At seven thirty she watched the parakeets make their way squawking overhead, flying along the faded milky rails of vapour trails. She imagined them towing the night behind them as they arrowed westwards towards Holland Park, a dark cover attached to the feathers of their tails. She had bestowed upon the birds great symbolism, looked for them desperately if they failed to appear, straining her thin frame over the balcony rail to see around the spire of St Mary Abbots. As if they were the only thing left of hope.

Darwin woke with a start, glanced up at Lee through long dark lashes, then stretched with a creaking yawn. With a last look out over the flickering city, Lee went inside, Darwin trotting behind her. Brushing her teeth in the small oval mirror, she thought ahead to the Course: tomorrow would be their first session as leaders. She shivered. Looking deep into the mirror, past the freckled remains of the summer that sat upon her nose, she imagined standing up on the stage the next day and fainting, falling face-first into the crowd of new members. She blinked and spat into the sink.

A high single bed was perched beneath the skylight in Lee’s small, untidy bedroom. An upright piano stood against one wall. Photograph albums were spread out on the floor, half-filled with black-and-white pictures. Books rose in rickety piles either side of the bed, several more sat face-down next to her pillow. She swept them to the ground. Lee peeled back the white duvet cover, took off her clothes and let them lie where they fell. She lifted Darwin onto the foot of the bed, slid under the duvet, and sat up very straight, her eyes wide open, watching the rise and fall of the sausage dog’s sleeping body. It would all be fine once Mouse was here. She pictured his face: the darting, protuberant eyes, the chubby cheeks flushed red, the shriek of blond hair. Her phone beeped. She read the text and smiled, sank back onto her pillows and stared up at the ceiling, the mobile still gripped in her small, hot hand.

*

Marcus Glass lay on his back looking up at his wife. Abby’s eyes were tightly closed. Her bottom lip, sucked between large teeth, formed a pink question mark of concentration. Her hands were pressed to her chest, flattening white breasts. She let out a series of high-pitched moans. He never felt further from her than when they were having sex. He didn’t know whether her groans were indicative of pleasure or annoyance, couldn’t tell if her pinched face meant that she was lost in the moment or boiling with frustration. He placed his hands on her large thighs and she, irritated, opening her eyes for a moment, lifted them off and resumed her grinding rhythm.