1st prize
Lynne Voyce
Los Zapatos Rojos
Analise lifts the lid of the cardboard box, pushes aside crisp, white tissue; inside a pair of red flamenco shoes; toe to heel like lovers. She had dreamt of them dancing last night – as they winged their way by courier to her grey suburban door – stamping on a polished monochrome floor; flashes of red danger and sex. She breathes in the tang of suede, replaces the tissue, looks down; these broad black brogues walk the dog; walk to the post office where she sends her grown children cheques; and walk to the off licence to buy secret bottles of wine to drown her unhappiness.
Ernestine wears stilettos: real fuck-me shoes with screwdriver heels. She’d seen them as she’d spied on Graham’s office, Ernestine had got out of her car in a pencil skirt, immodest satin blouse and a pair of black patent courts that could have fuelled a million foot fetishist fantasies. Then she’d tottered to a halt to renew her lipstick. It was the lipstick Analise had found on a tissue in Graham’s pocket when she took his trousers to the dry cleaners; an earthy plum colour that was really too grown up for Ernestine. What a sign of his contempt to allow himself to be caught in such hackneyed fashion.
At first, of course, was the nausea of jealousy and betrayal but then the sensual ‘o’ on the white tissue confronted her in unexpected ways. It was the same colour Senora Velasquez had worn when she went out for the evening. Analise remembered the rich silks and black lace of Senora’s shawl, the heady scent of her sultry perfume. She could see the orange trees, heavy with ripening fruit, which dotted the Velasquez’s courtyard in Seville, more easily than she could picture the potting shed and tight little borders of her own back garden.
After more than twenty-five years Senora Velasquez was dead and Senor was in a nursing home in Cadiz but the boys were still alive, with families of their own. Jose still lived in the villa and Benni a few miles south. For three years she had been ‘Nannalise’ and loved them like her own. Yet, she had never returned.
She had wanted to, many times, desperately, but Graham wouldn’t. “It’ll be all about you won’t it?” he’d say, “I don’t think I could stand all that misty eyed reminiscence in a foreign language.” Analise had said nothing nor gone without him. Gradually her shoes had got wider and flatter. Then there was Ernestine.
It was those killer heels, clattering across the grey tarmac outside Graham’s office, that had made Analise decide about the red shoes: ruby slippers to lead her back to who she had once been.
*
Analise takes off her anorak, places it on a chair at the church hall’s perimeter. The deep lace skirt frills of her white polka dot dress twirl at her brogues; she kicks them off, puts the flaming red flamenco shoes over her dark stockings, fastens the gold buckles and stands. She is instantly taller, her body an hourglass.
She walks to the centre of the parquet with the rest; some wear full regalia, some the baggy tracksuits they disguise themselves in every day. In the corner Antonio begins to play. Analise’s breasts swell against the tight bodice; she picks up the hem of her skirts. “You look ridiculous,” Graham would say if he were here, “You’re too old, too fat for this nonsense.”
“Toque de palmas!” Senora Cordoba commands, stamps her foot. The slap of claps, the fast stamp of heels crash through the church hall. The sound of the Pateneras drift in and out of the cacophony, accompanied by the hit of suburban rain on grimy windows and dull streets.
Analise twists and turns to the music, her laundry hued hands flutter above her like birds. Graham’s bored, boring criticisms, outrageous betrayals flick off her: orange blossom falling from a tree. “Click, click, click.” The monotone of an empty bed runs down her spine, down her moving legs, into her scarlet shoes; the loneliness seeps into the floor like a warm glass of sherry and her block heels stamp on it.
Antonio lifts his head, smiles at her. Without the guitar he is a small, grey man, hollow faced with tired eyes but when he plays he is a matador. Analise, in her new shoes, smiles back.
The careworn, mid life faces of the others, swirl into a kaleidoscope of gold combs and scarlet lipstick. And their aching, aging, redundant bodies melt into a moment of physicality. “Beautiful ladies!” shouts Senora Cordoba.
When it is over, Antonio helps Analise with her anorak. “Would you like to come to see me?” he whispers. She looks around startled. He is smiling and the rest of the church hall, abuzz with the end of the class, does not see.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“You will wear the shoes?”
“Oh yes.”
*
“You are an attractive woman Senora Analise.” Antonio swings his legs off the sofa bed, reaches for a cigarette.
She stares at the ceiling, a sheet over her languorous nakedness, black stockinged legs reaching from the white cotton, red suede shoes just over the edge of the thin mattress. She plucks the cigarette from his fingers, takes a long drag, then lets the unaccustomed headiness suck her in as she scans the small untidy bed sit and listens for sounds of the restaurant downstairs. “Don’t you have to be in work?”
“No, that is the kitchen you hear. I’m a waiter. I have another hour or so.”
“Oh.” There is quiet between them. Analise notices a stack of packed boxes in the corner, an open suitcase on top of the wardrobe, spilling shirts and ties; the walls are bare, there are no ornaments, no personal effects except for a few postcards pinned to a cork board above the kitchen cabinets. “Why are you alone?” she asks.
“I was married but she left. Never said why.”
“She just left? That’s sad.”
“Not really. We all loose things along the way.”
“I know,” Analise puts her head on his chest, “but it’s still sad.”
He kisses her.
*
“Where’ve you been? I had to get something out of the freezer for dinner – it’s not on really is it?”
“No it’s not,” Analise replies coldly, “Not at all.” She looks at her husband in the harsh kitchen light, allows herself to see him clearly: sitting at the table, shoes kicked off, tie loose, shoulders round; greying, floppy hair hanging over stubbled, petulance; his indigo eyes, once penetrating, now jaded and diluted: an aging school boy. She used to find his immaturity so attractive, now it angers her. Didn’t he know that every so often she wanted to be a girl again too?
When they’d first met, after she’d returned from Spain, they’d had a funny little game: talk in baby voices, pretend to need love. It was funny because then there was enough love. Now there wasn’t.
“I mean,” he continues, not even registering her annoyance, “I’ve been at work all day – on a Saturday – and you’ve just swanned around,” he looks down, “in those ridiculous shoes.”
“I’m sorry dear,” she says and exits the room, leaving a trail of ruby sparks in her wake.
*
“Passion! Temperament!” Madam Cordoba bellows, as the stamp of heels reaches frenzy. Analise is suddenly in the Andalusian jeurga that the Velasquez’s had taken her one drenchingly hot August evening while both the boys were with relatives. The wine, the guitar, the lace and frills, the rhythmic beat of the heels of the dancers’ red shoes, crystallized into a moment: the apotheosis of her youth. It was a moment that would become a talisman to protect her from the impostor that has been her life since. She remembers the moonlit midnight shining through the open doors, the flickering candles’ thumbprints on bare brick walls. And here she is now dancing to nothing but a flamenco guitar while her body finds itself again.
She feels suddenly sorry for Ernestine. To waste your soft plump youth on a pompous middle aged infidel. It was a tragedy. What will Ernestine’s memories be when the inevitable happens and she grows invisible? Will they be about grey offices, staples and photocopying paper; Graham’s inappropriately young aftershave and middle of the road suits; the faint whiff of polyester rather than orange blossom?
*
“You danced well today,” Antonio smiles, as they sit at the narrow table by the window. He has prepared tapas in earthenware ramekins from the restaurant; she notices he has made the oxtail that Senora Valasquez used to make. Analise wears her scarlet shoes.
“I enjoyed the class today. I enjoyed knowing I was coming back here.”
“Won’t your husband miss you?”
“He’s working late. At least that’s what he says. I don’t care. “
There is a long pause; Antonio’s face an inscrutable mask, then he reaches over, takes her hand, “Analise, I have to go away for a while. Back to Spain, my father is very ill.”
“Oh.”
“I will speak to you on the phone when I can.”
“No, you don’t have to.”
“I am sorry that I cannot make you promises Analise.”
She shrugs, not out of bad humour but acceptance. He had wanted her, loved her; that feeling will last, at least for a while.
*
“Thank you Ladies,” Madam Cordoba, claps her hands to give a sense of finality, “it’s been a good terms work. I hope to see everyone back after the summer break. And thanks to Philip, who manfully stepped into the breach when Antonio left us for Spain.” She gestures at the tall, serious man in the corner, who nods modestly and clings to his guitar like a life raft in a sea of amorous gazes. The assembled women clap, then disperse to put on their coats.
When Analise arrives home she sinks into Graham’s armchair, a white envelope next to her. She briefly replays her and Tony’s lovemaking – his mouth against her pale skin, his hands in her hair, his legs pressed against hers – not out of melancholy but to remind herself it really happened. There are tears but she’s not quite sure why: relief, probably, she had thought, not so long ago, that life had all but ended. She reaches into her jacket pocket, there is the tissue with Ernestine’s lipstick on it; she had carried it around to remind her of Graham’s betrayal. Now, she wipes her eyes with it, unbuckles her red flamenco shoes, kicks them off and leans back. Taking a deep breath she picks up the envelope, rips its seams deliberately and draws out a red cardboard wallet. Inside is an air ticket to Seville.
The Author: Lynne Voyce lives in Birmingham with her husband and two daughters where she teaches at an inner city comprehensive. Her work has won and been placed in many competitions; and can be found in anthologies and magazines. She is currently working on her first novel but keeps getting distracted by short story ideas and television comedy. This year Ink Tears Press will publish an anthology of her published work to date.
2nd prize (jointly)
Annia Lekka
The Unfolding
Heinrich bends close to his wife’s reclining body, places his ear on her chest and closes his eyes – he’s been watching her sleeping and hasn’t seen her moving much.
He straightens his back as far as it will uncurl and places his fingers on her arm – aged, thinning skin, so fine it’s almost purple, the colour of her veins – and strokes her delicately. His wife doesn’t move. Her eyes remain stubbornly closed, her lips tight, frozen in a pale line.
His hand still rests on her arm as he glances at his watch – 12.45pm – time for him to start preparing lunch. Heinrich hesitates a moment before bringing her hand to his lips. He caresses her wispy white hair, so feathery and weightless it looks like candy floss.
Holding the edge of the bed, he rocks back and forth a few times building up the strength to stand. Groaning he rises and almost falls backwards, but finally manages it. He turns to look at his wife.
‘I’m going to make lunch, Ilse. I’ll be back again soon.’ He gazes at her immobile body, his shoulders sink to his chest. It won’t be long before she isn’t in their bed any more. He fixes his eyes on the door, moves towards it. One slow step after another, he shuffles his way to the kitchen, his arms hanging limply by his sides. It’s too much effort to let them swing.
In the corridor he pauses to catch his breath, notices the framed black and white photographs on the wall. Shots of himself and Ilse at different opera houses and concert halls, posing next to one renowned conductor after another, photos of him next to his Steinway concert grand, the black-lacquered maple wood reflecting his image almost to perfection. There had been no time or desire for a family. Music was their life. His eyes rest on a picture of his wife in a dark dress barely covering her shoulders. A row of diamante beads hangs diagonally on her left breast. A flat material bow accentuates her petite ribcage. She holds her arms in mid-air, as if pleading to some higher power above, her heavily made-up eyelids closed, pain etched in the crease between her eyebrows. Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva! Heinrich can almost hear her voice – his very own Tosca. He takes the frame off the wall, blows away the thick layer of dust and wipes the glass with his arthritic fingers.
Once in the kitchen he places it on the table and moves towards the old Siemens fridge. His hand shakes as it turns the metallic handle of the door and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. It’s been years since he could control the shaking of his hands. He picks up the only thing in there; a tray of skinless chicken fillets. Cold breathes out of the opened door, circles its way around his body, crawls up his sleeves and chills his neck. He takes the chicken out of the fridge and closes the door behind him. He’ll boil the fillets, make a soup; their juice might give her strength.
He fills a saucepan with water, adds the chicken and places it on the unlit cooker.
He heads to the cabinet for some rice, but the jar is empty, so he moves towards the cellar. He pulls the dangling chain at the entrance and light flickers along a row of exposed bulbs.
Each step he takes down the cellar stairs makes him wince; walking is no longer easy. Ten little steps, that’s all it is, but it feels like hours. Heinrich looks around, not wanting to make any unnecessary movements, spots a box of rice on a shelf. He stretches his arm out to grab the box and loses his balance. He collapses onto an old wooden chest. With eyes closed he bends his head, expecting sweat to appear on his forehead from the scare, but no sweat forms there; he’s too dried up. His hands caress the top of the chest. The wood is cracked in places and chipped patches of varnish scratch his palm. He pulls it away, opens his eyelids and looks down. He hadn’t realised which chest it was until he’d touched it, but now he knows what it contains.
He stands to face the wooden trunk, all thoughts of rice now completely gone from his mind. Heinrich lifts the heavy cover and peers inside.
Just as he had remembered. It’s full to the top with theatre costumes that his wife had worn from the operas she’d sung in. He rummages through the pile of dusty, mould-scented costumes until he finds one that makes his back rigid. He tugs at the dress, lifts it out of the chest and holds it between his hands. The dark red velvet has been eaten by moths in places, the once-white lace has turned stiff and yellow. He shakes it and dust creates a cloud in front of his face. The weight of the dress, with its voluminous amounts of material, is too much for him to hold up for long. He pulls it close to his body, embraces it. A sob wells up in his throat but never makes its way out, his chest rises and sinks as he clutches the heavy material. No tears run down his face; they have dried up years ago along with his sweat. As quickly as his silent sobs begin, they end; and he stands still, breath held tightly in his lungs.
With unsteady hands he holds the dress up and feels it stir in his grasp. Heinrich lets go of the material, expecting it to fall to the ground.
But it doesn’t.
It hovers in front of him for a second, suspends itself in front of his eyes, then slowly starts to drift away, up the cellar stairs and out of sight.
He breathes softly, afraid he will break the magic. He stands fixed to the spot for a minute, his right hand twitching continuously, the veins at the side of his neck pumping harder than ever. He tries to move towards the cellar stairs, but his legs are rooted. He steadies himself against the wall and manages a few steps forward. He’s going to the bedroom where his wife lies sleeping in their bed, but first he has to do one thing.
The living room is dark. Heinrich stumbles to the window feeling his way along the furniture, and pulls the pink damask curtains aside. Light floods the room almost knocking him over. He raises his arms in front of his eyes, and waits, until he’s comfortable with the amount of light that has filled the room after many years of darkness. Everything comes into focus – the fireplace, the armchair with its worn arms and footrest, the round walnut coffee table next to the armchair. His eyes rest on the oak gramophone, its oversized steel horn open like a Morning Glory flower. He walks towards it, takes hold of the goose-neck needle arm and lifts it. He wipes the shellac record that is lying there with his sleeve and looks at the black shining disc – his breathing growing more pronounced the longer he stares. He turns the crank at the side of the oak cabinet and places the needle arm onto the record. It crackles and skips a few grooves but pretty soon the sound of a piano and a soprano voice surrounds him.
His knees give way and he falls forwards, his full weight resting on the armchair. He hasn’t heard this music for years, perhaps even decades. It’s the only instance of them performing together, a unique recording he has of himself playing the piano and his wife singing. Puccini. Ilse’s favourite composer. A piano score of one of the arias from Madama Butterfly – a duet, performed in the empty concert hall they had just rehearsed in. Their secret performance.
The music overflows into the room, touches every piece of furniture, every painting and every clump of dust, from the ceiling to the floor, and with each note that rings out, his body becomes steadier, grows a notch straighter.
Heinrich seems to glide down the hall towards their bedroom, the notes consuming him, guiding him, pushing him along. The curtains are open, the room radiant with golden light. He doesn’t recall opening them. He turns to look at his wife.
She’s where he had left her, lying still, in bed. But she isn’t alone; the dress is hovering parallel above her sleeping body, scanning her for signs of recognition, signs of life.
He stands by the bedroom door, mesmerised, as if watching her perform once more. The dress floats down and fuses with her flesh, covering her body like a layer of skin. Heinrich focuses on his wife’s face and notices slight changes taking place –a warm pink flush spreads across her cheeks, her lips swell, all creases disappearing from the edges. Her hair loses its ghostly white halo and turns auburn, thick and shiny, full of the wave and spring it used to have. He looks at her hands, sees the knuckles plump up with flesh, lose their purple under-hue. Her chest increases, starts rising, the skin over her shoulder blades stretches and glows.
He walks up to the bed, stands above her and gazes down. He sees her eyelashes, now grown long and dark, twitch. Her eyes move beneath her shut eye lids. They flicker a bit before she opens them, blinks and settles her gaze on him.
At first, her face expresses a mild confusion, but the longer she stares at him, the more he sees the bewilderment disappear, and remembering enter in. He touches his head and feels a light film of sweat on his temples. Only then does he notice his own hands. He holds them out in front of him, as if warming them by the fire, sees the strength in his slim fingers return, the sickly grey colour no longer present. He glances at his clothes which no longer sag on his body as if he’d borrowed them from his older brother, but fit snugly. Heinrich looks back at his wife, who’s now smiling, a row of perfect teeth showing through. She pats the side of the bed next to her.
He sits at the edge. His wife’s fingers touch his arm, gently pulling him closer and he succumbs to that pull, lies on his back, turns his head to look at her. She props herself on her elbow and smiles down at him.
‘Amore mio,’ she whispers, and rests her head on his chest.
Heinrich wraps his arms around her body, closes his eyes. If this is Death, he’ll let it guide him. He’ll follow it anywhere.
He pulls his wife closer to him and lets the music swallow them whole.
The Author: Annia Lekka was born in Thessaloniki, Greece, but grew up in London. She obtained a BA in Theatre Design from Central St. Martin’s College of Art and Design and was awarded a scholarship by Royal West of England Academy for research studies in Nepal. She has worked as a set and costume designer at Athens Concert Hall. In 2008, she gained an MA in Creative Writing (with Merit) from Lancaster University. In 2009, one of her short stories was published in the Year Zero anthology. Annia lives with her husband and three children in Athens and is currently working on three novels set on the Princes’ Islands.
2nd prize (jointly)
James Morgan
Bertie’s Brain
“No, I won’t come in,” she said.
Lucinda’s face loomed in the open passenger window. Her crimson lips were turned clownishly down. Her face was over-powdered and crumpled like a tearful child. Like all such women, Selina pondered stonily, she was tough as nails.
“Oh darling, you must. I won’t do it on my own. I shan’t know what to choose. I need someone to bounce off.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” thundered Selina, deep in her bosom.
She hauled herself out of the car. Somewhere there was a cacophony of dogs.
“If this is going to be dismal Lucinda, I’m out of here. I don’t need it.”
They signed in and were told to go to the end of a corridor behind reception. Selina was pleasantly surprised. All smart vinyl flooring and white walls. The cats were in individual units behind glass-panelled UPVC doors. Beyond these were outdoor runs with climbing logs and litter trays.
“You see,” Lucinda reproached. “It’s all quite modern and professional these days.”
Why don’t you just call me a sad old dear and be done with it, Selina thought.
They drifted along. Some of the cats, the younger ones, came hopefully to the front of their pens. One or two pawed at the glass. The older ones stayed resigned in their beds, pretending to sleep. Hopelessness threatened to sweep up and engulf Selina. It may have been smart but this sense of desperate optimism would kill her if she stayed more than half-an-hour.
“Oh look, Selina. Aren’t they sweet?”
It was a litter of kittens. A ginger, tortoiseshell muddle.
“Everyone wants kittens I bet,” snapped Selina. “You should go for an older cat.”
Lucinda pursed her lips and didn’t answer. The deal was done, of course. The meander to the end of the corridor was a token effort.
“Those kittens are for me,” pronounced Lucinda. Her mouth was set sulkily. “One of them came right to the front and looked me in the eye.”
Selina could have remarked they were too young to know any better but refrained.
“I’ll see if I can find someone,” she said.
There was somebody working beyond another door in a sort of back room. She popped her head round.
“Could you possibly help? My friend would like to adopt.”
The girl was putting food into a pen. She closed the door on it.
“Why are these cats in here?” demanded Selina.
“I’m sorry but this isn’t for public access.”
Selina had a propensity to appear hostile when she was uncomprehending. The girl shifted uncomfortably.
“They’re the unhomeables, you see.”
Selina advanced. She peered into the pen. The cat was astonishingly handsome. A sort of ragbag pedigree job with a web of stripes to the face and legs, white paws and pale fawn blending to beige and peach and sudden flares of deep cinnamon on the body. The eyes were wide and dreamy and blue as sapphires.
“What’s wrong with him? Or her?”
“Him. He’s brain-damaged. We think it’s congenital. He has very poor co-ordination.”
The cat swayed on his legs, staring at her. A sense of her own uselessness grabbed Selina by the throat.
“What’ll happen to him?”
“We have a non-euthanasia policy for animals that aren’t suffering.”
“He’ll fester,” said Selina.
A preposterous panic gripped her.
“I’ll take him,” she said.
The manageress was sought. Like the walls and floors and the glass-panelled units she too was professional.
“Are you experienced with cats?” she asked.
“Not in the least.”
“He’s special needs,” the woman said sceptically.
“Aren’t we all?” Selina retorted.
Her details were taken, a carrier purchased.
“We should do a home-check really,” said the manageress. “But your friend’s been assessed and she vouches for you.”
“Then I’m a safe bet. What she doesn’t know about me would fit comfortably on a postage stamp.”
Selina had intended the remark frivolously but its unsettling truth suddenly struck her. She had extended a hand to bestow an affectionate pat on Lucinda’s arm. Instead it rapped out an alarum on her surprised wrist.
“Come and check on him any time you want,” she invited breezily. “What’s his name, by the way?”
“Biscuit.”
Awful name, conveyed Selina’s eyes.
“It can always be changed. It’s unlikely he recognises it.”
Know-it-all bitch, smiled Selina.
The woman returned the smile. Her mouth formed a perfect crescent over a row of cut diamond teeth.
“You might want to borrow a holding pen to use in the house for a while,” she advised briskly. “He’ll be all over the place at first. You can bring it back in a few weeks.” She threw Selina a snappish glance. “If all goes well, of course.”
“Oh Selina you are brave,” Lucinda simpered as the car swept out of the gates. “It’s so like you to go for the hopeless ones.”
In the driver mirror Selina saw Lucinda’s two perfect kittens prettily flouncing.
“I shall call him Bertie,” she said.
They stopped at Pets at Home to buy bowls, tray, litter and bed. She dropped Lucinda off. The woebegone, pitying look had fastened on Lucinda’s face.
“Call me,” consoled Lucinda. “If you want to talk.”
“Oh, I will,” Selina assured her. “If I do.”
The house was silent as a nailed coffin. The music deck was only allowed free rein in the evenings. She had no idea if the television was even working.
“No radio today,” she said into the cat’s beautiful, vacant eyes. “Just you and me, Bertie.”
She kept him in the carrier while she set up the holding pen. She could see the sense of it, as a standby. She opened the carrier. Bertie lay unmoving on his side. His head inched forward like a flower bobbing on a stalk.
“Come on, old boy,” Selina said.
She eased him out. He tottered uncertainly for a moment and sank down on his haunches in dismay. Selina filled food and water bowls and placed them nearby. Bertie’s head moved vaguely. It was no good staring at him. She closed the kitchen door. She sensed it would not do to overwhelm him with unlimited space. She pottered about, finding things to busy herself, glancing round occasionally to check on him. Just as she began to lose momentum, Bertie found his. He paddled aimlessly around the kitchen, each of his four legs seemingly flying out in different directions. Occasionally he would pause and teeter uncertainly, unable to move. His neurocircuitry spun like wild tops. Like a prancing horse he pulled up one foreleg into his chest and froze mid step, tottering on the other three with a crippled grace. Then he collapsed onto his flank.
Selina’s heart was rapidly folding up. What had she been thinking of? A bleak vista opened in her head. She realised, grudgingly, that the woman at the rescue centre was right. This was too much for him. He needed the security of a small space. She filled his tray and placed it with his bed and food and water in the pen. In Bertie went. His head bobbed over the food. He dipped his nose in then attempted to lick it off. He looked about, perplexed, and eventually sank into the bed and slept.
Selina wrote a letter. She gardened. She had a bath then made herself a meal. Still Bertie slept. Once he woke and gazed at her despondently. Selina drank quite a lot of red wine. She wanted to sleep. She checked on Bertie last thing then went to bed.
She woke early and remembered what she’d done. Everything behind her eyes was grey. She went downstairs. Bertie was staggering in his pen, disorientated. The water had been upset, he had walked in his food. She realised he had attempted to use the tray and missed. He’d managed to pee through the bars of the pen. A stream of urine was progressing slowly across the kitchen floor. His back legs were soaked with water and urine.
Right, you arrogant cow, Selina muttered. Cope.
She took Bertie out, washed him and dried him off. She put him in his carrier while she cleaned the floor. The bottom of the bed was also soaked and stank to high heaven. She drove quickly to Pets at Home, bought a plastic bed and discovered they sold incontinence pads for puppies. She set up the pen again, with a pad under the tray. Then she got through the day. In the evening she tried him again in the kitchen. He floundered, crashing into things. He fell over. She struggled to steady him on his feet. Bertie’s eyes dilated. As she raised him up Selina saw her own face floating in their dark-smelted ore.
Oh Christ, she thought. You weren’t meant to live.
She managed to get him to eat a little. His head probed about and found the dish at last. Later he shat in his bed then peed and missed the tray again. She cleaned up and changed the pad. By the time she went to bed the horror of what she must do had crystallised in her head. She would not return him to the centre where he would rot away slowly and die one day despairingly in his sleep. She would take him to the vet. No, she would insist the vet came out. She would give him that, at least. He would slip away gradually in her arms, his beautiful, fluid eyes would mist, the last flutter of his inchoate, uncomprehending mind would be extinguished. Then she would deal with herself.
Sleep was impossible. The night passed, an endless rising and sinking in black semi-consciousness. It’s so like you to go for the hopeless ones. Oh yes, Lucinda had an unerring ability to pluck the flinty truth from the crassness of her superficial mind. Why, why, why did she allow Lucinda that power to diminish her? She, Selina, served only to confirm Lucinda’s certitude, the security her inane materialism fostered. But Lucinda was right, for all that. Why else had Selina ever let Trevor into her life? He spent all her money, sat around claiming to look for work while she slaved as a health visitor in one of the most deprived areas of London and only when she caught him servicing the cleaner up against the living room wall had she summoned the sense to banish him, though not before he had swiped nearly half of everything, because she had been grateful and witless enough to marry him.
In the desperate final hour before dawn her father’s ghost visited her. Look at that face, he said. It’s got character. Still, you’ll be all right, my girl. Some men like a good laugh. And behind him, shrinking back, the grey, careworn spectre of her mother. Was it her Selina hated most? Some things you have to put up with, my pet. You’ll learn that soon enough.
Selina’s eyes snapped open. There were endless people one could blame. It’s down to you, she thought. Everyone knows most people are assaulted, raped or murdered by people they allow through the front door. But now it had to end.
She got up. She could not go into the kitchen. She had a little kettle in her room and made tea. She dressed. She looked up the vet’s number and made a note of it. She sat listening to the boom in her head. Finally she steeled herself and made for the kitchen. She had to look Bertie in the eye.
He sat upright in his pen. The food was eaten. There was a wet clump in his litter tray. His eyes were limpid and still. It’s only time, and the chance, said his mute little soul. She lifted him out. His wayward body flailed, but an unsuspected determination took him on rapid circuit of the room. He stopped at the back door. She opened it.
The sun was like strewn glass. Glittering purple refracted from a mass of aquilegia. Bertie wavered on the step. The phone rang. Selina gathered Bertie up to answer it.
“How is that poor cat?”
Lucinda’s maudlin, chilly-hearted intrusion.
“Moving on,” informed Selina. “As might I, if only you would mind your own business.”
She replaced the phone. In the garden, Bertie’s head lolled in her arms. His eyes gushed with light, reflecting a tilting, limitless sky. She stood him on the path. He swayed. He garnered his bearings. Selina heard the phone ring again. She did not need to hear Lucinda’s wheedling admonishment, did not want her appropriation of the mess she would be in no doubt Selina had made, nor her subsequent solicitous condescension before the final triumphant commiseration with Selina’s mortifying but predictable failure. She let it ring.
Bertie clambered down the path. She fancied he acquired a gambolling gait. He stopped once and turned to look at her. She would have to monitor him for the rest of his days.
“Oh no you don’t, Bertie,” she said. “Not without me.”
She hurried after him down the path, beyond the glancing columbine.
The Author: A J Morgan was born and brought up in Essex of Welsh and East End parentage. He trained at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama in London and worked for many years as an actor. He is also a qualified animal behaviourist and now lives just outside Carmarthen where he runs his own pet care business. Writing is a major component of his life and he is a graduate of the MA Creative Writing course at Trinity College Carmarthen. He is currently working on a five-novel sequence for young adults set largely in West Wales.
3rd prize
S. Kingsland
A Woman Scorned
[coming shortly, subject to permission]
