Best British Short Stories 2020 Page 3

‘Let’s not start on Patrick. You’ve always hated him.’

  ‘Hate’s a strong word. I just think he’s an arrogant, Etoneducated twat.’

  ‘But for you twat would always follow the words “Eton-educated”.’

  ‘With good reason. Have you been watching the news? I suppose I might give George Orwell a break.’

  ‘You must remember Patrick didn’t enrol himself there.’

  ‘Must I? Who says I must?’

  ‘Anyway,’ she lied, ‘it’s nothing like that.’

  When the waiter came, David showed him a voucher he had downloaded to his phone, two for one pizzas, which the waiter said he would take later, and then David ordered the cheapest bottle of red without consulting her beyond the colour, as though there was nothing to consult, which was something else she liked about him, his common-sense stinginess.

  She refilled her glass when he was half through his and topped up his as an afterthought. They had navigated past Patrick’s danger to women, and now David was talking to her earnestly about the work his NGO was doing, and about his new promotion to head of strategy, and why was it, she wondered, that she had lied to David about the circumstances of Patrick’s current crisis?

  ‘So,’ he said, eventually, ‘what about you? Any news? Are you seeing anyone?’

  There had been a Victorian a year ago. A Romantic the year before. They gave her injured looks when they passed her on the corridor. And there was a lesbian colleague she wondered about sometimes.

  ‘Do you fancy her?’ he asked.

  ‘Look at your eyes light up. No, not really. I think she’s attractive. I like her company. I wonder how she feels about me sometimes. But, anyway, I haven’t given up on the conventions of a heterosexual life yet. On motherhood.’

  He looked away and changed the subject. ‘You don’t mind Pizza Express, do you? I don’t eat out that much these days. I didn’t know where to suggest.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘You picked a nice one.’

  They looked out at the Thames together. The tourists walking past made her think of the city breaks they had taken together to coastal cities, the waterside restaurants, the swimming, the reading, the galleries.

  ‘I seem to remember the Tate Modern’s open late on a Friday,’ she said.

  ‘We could be two tourists sightseeing.’

  They watched the river, thinking what she thought were the same thoughts. The waiter showed a couple of young men to the table next to theirs.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘It sounds like you’re not dating if you’re never in restaurants.’

  ‘Well, yeah, my Tinder days are over, anyway.’

  ‘You were on Tinder?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘No. Can you be on Tinder at our age?’

  ‘Of course. Though maybe it’s different for a man. Women probably enter an older age-range than men do with women.’

  ‘Women probably do. Men probably do. Which did you do, David?’

  ‘You know. A couple of years above. A few years below.’

  ‘A couple and a few.’

  ‘Well, anyway. I didn’t like the thing. It felt artificial. The conversations could be hard work.’

  ‘Hard to find women who cared about changing the world?’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic. It was hard to find women who were curious about the world, who thought about it much at all. I certainly never met anyone like you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic.’

  ‘Don’t become cynical.’

  She smiled. ‘The world offers provocation.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘These dates you went on. Did they never lead to sex?’

  ‘They sometimes led to sex.’

  ‘Despite the conversation.’

  ‘In spite of the conversation.’

  She realised she wanted him to tell her about them. Perhaps somewhere private. ‘One-night stands?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Sometimes two-or three-night.’

  ‘Sounds fun. And being single doesn’t tempt you back there?’

  He looked down. ‘Ah, well.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve sort of been seeing someone.’

  She had been curling her hair with her right hand and she gently returned it to rest on the table. ‘Oh. Good. For you.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Someone I met during the council elections. We ended up door-knocking together.’

  ‘Right.’ She pictured the sort of shouty Corbynite she saw on Twitter. Down with capitalism. Good and evil. The right opinions, those which she shared, theoretically: David would get bored of her. ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Isla.’

  Which ruined the image. Now she was thinking of the Australian actor, those dark eyes and long red hair, a woman anyone would want to …

  ‘Is she … Australian?’

  ‘British.’

  ‘I see. I was thinking of Isla Fisher.’

  ‘Oh, no. She’s Ailah. A-i-l-a-h.’

  ‘I see. Interesting spelling.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is that … Scottish?’

  ‘It’s a Pakistani name, I guess.’

  ‘Ah. It’s a Pakistani name. Of course.’

  ‘Of course it’s a Pakistani name?’

  ‘Tell me about her. Tell me about Ailah.’

  ‘If you change your tone I will.’

  She took a breath. ‘I’m sorry if I seem combative, David. I don’t mean to be. I’m interested though. Who’s Ailah?’

  ‘Like I said, I met her doorknocking. She’s a party member, an activist.’

  ‘Is she our age?’

  ‘Yeah, a bit younger.’

  ‘Right.’ She wasn’t going to ask.

  But he couldn’t resist. ‘She’s not far off thirty.’

  ‘Not far off?’

  He had not been drinking but now obscured his face with his wine glass and poured some more for both of them when he put it down. Not far off. He hadn’t even been able to say nearly. Was he really bragging to her?

  ‘And what does she do?’

  ‘She’s a social worker.’

  ‘A Muslim social worker.’

  ‘What does that tone mean? What is wrong with that?’

  ‘Everything is right with that. Who doesn’t love a social worker?’

  ‘I doubt you know any.’

  ‘As close friends? You’re right. It’s my failing. I’ll go and find a social worker to marry straight away.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘Does she wear the hijab?’ she asked.

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just curious. It just helps me imagine what kind of Muslim she is, what kind of woman she is.’

  ‘Oh, really? A head scarf would tell you what kind of woman she is?’

  ‘Does she wear the hijab?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Are you going to convert?’

  ‘Listen to yourself. I’m an atheist. Anyway, none of your business.’

  ‘This is so typical of you. Everything’s an authenticity contest. Well, congratulations. You’re at the centre of things now. It’s a good job you got away from me before I forced you to make me pregnant. Imagine, I could have given birth to someone as boring as us.’

  The two men on the table next to them were glancing over at them without moving their heads.

  He reached over the table and touched her hand. ‘I really am sorry that didn’t work out. I know how hard it was for you.’ He was speaking as if to a difficult child on public transport.

  ‘I knew what you were doing up there, you know,’ she said, ‘when you were in the study.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Tunnelling away. Scraping out your escape route. Exhaust yourself on porn, then you can redeem yourself with a member of the historically oppressed, someone who can prove your crede
ntials, cast my apathy into the starkest light.’

  ‘Oh, Claire, come on.’

  ‘Does she wear a hijab?’

  ‘You’re obsessed! No, she doesn’t. And the idea that I’m with her out of some kind of virtue signalling is so fucking offensive. I’m with her because she’s not jaded, she’s not bitter, she believes in things, she’s not defeated.’

  ‘How old exactly is she?’

  ‘I don’t have to answer your interrogation.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘You want to know? She’s twenty-seven.’

  ‘Well, of course she’s not jaded! Of course she’s not defeated! She hasn’t been defeated yet. She hasn’t wasted enough time with sanctimonious hypocrites like you.’

  David stood up. He was gripping the edge of the table and enunciating carefully. ‘There were things that frustrated me about you when we were together, but I never realised how fucking reactionary you were. You sound like a fucking Islamophobe, do you know? No wonder you and your racist mate Patrick get on so well. I thought it was the decent thing to tell you in person about Ailah, sensitively, but I should have known better.’

  And then he left. The two men next to her didn’t know where to look but the rest of the room was looking straight at her.

  She looked out the window and saw David striding down the South Bank. He had left no money to pay the bill. She couldn’t stand to be there a second longer, but she had no cash to leave on the table, and so she sat and waited for a waiter to come near. The waiters had seen what had happened and were steering clear, out of fear or misguided kindness.

  She caught the eye of the two men next to her. One of them smiled at her sympathetically.

  ‘That man,’ she said to him. ‘Who called me Islamophobic. I used to live with him. I caught him once. Watching videos … Of Muslim women.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said the man. His partner nodded. ‘Awful. Are you all right, love?’

  ‘I’m not racist,’ she said. But if you ever had to say that, then you were racist – everyone knew that. The whole restaurant knew what she was.

  4

  She paid for the pizzas which they hadn’t eaten and took possession of them in two pizza boxes so she could at least give them away to someone who needed them. She was far too angry to eat now. David had taken his voucher with him when he left so she had been charged for both pizzas. He was the type of man who would have suspended hostilities to send her a screenshot of the voucher, if she had asked, but she was not the type of woman to ask.

  Now she balanced the pizza boxes across one arm and wheeled her suitcase out to the lip of the Thames, breathing in and out, wishing she had a cigarette. When she reached the South Bank Centre, by the skate park, the top box slipped off the bottom box and landed flat on the floor upside down. She swore the correct amount for the situation. People looked at her and walked past.

  A boy skated up as she struggled to put down the other box; he got off his board in a fluid movement, picked up the box and flipped it quickly upright. He was smooth-faced and as pretty as a whippet, his hair long and curly underneath a baseball cap.

  He smiled. ‘That smells good.’

  ‘Thank you. Please have it. I don’t want it. I thought I’d give them to a homeless person, but I expect homeless people are probably too drunk and high by now to eat pizza. My god. That’s an awful thing to say. I’m worried I don’t realise how much of an awful person I’ve become. You don’t have a cigarette, do you? I’ll swap you a pizza for a cigarette.’

  He reached into his jeans and pulled out a packet of rolling tobacco. ‘I bet you’re not an awful person. You do sound like you need a cigarette though. Shall I roll it for you?’

  ‘Please. That was an outburst.’ She took a deep breath and made herself smile.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, no. Getting there. Who knows?’

  He rolled the cigarette in a matter of seconds, offered it to her and lit it for her when she put it in her mouth. He looked at her without any challenge, just curiosity.

  She took a long pull, watching the skaters roll down ramps and jump up to skid across rails. ‘Seriously, take the pizza, give it to your mates. I’ll give money to the homeless people instead. I’m going to sit here for a bit and smoke and watch. You’re all really good, aren’t you?’

  ‘They’re all right,’ he said. ‘They’re OK,’ and he gestured towards them with his head. ‘Why don’t you come over and share it with us?’

  So she did. The boys were gentlemanly.

  ‘Why do you have all this pizza, miss?’ asked one of them.

  She told them.

  ‘And he just left you there?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What a total jerk.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you think everyone there thought I was a racist?’

  ‘You’re too nice looking to be a racist.’ That was her boy.

  ‘I think there are many beautiful racists, actually.’

  ‘Maybe in photos. But when they move, they move racistly. You can see it.’

  ‘I bet he moves racistly, miss. We can spot a racist a mile off.’

  ‘Call me Claire. How do racists move?’

  ‘They scuttle. Like crabs. Not like us, miss. You never saw a racist who knew how to skate.’

  They were a mix of ages, these boys, but the youngest was probably at least seventeen, and her boy might be twenty-three, twenty-four. The ‘miss’ they used was cheeky, flirty rather than serious.

  Once the pizza was gone her boy offered her another cigarette. He took his hat off and shook his hair out, rolled the cigarette and handed it to her.

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ she said. ‘But I’m in your way.’

  He lit the cigarette for her. ‘You’re not in the way.’

  ‘I am. You get on with it. I’m going to smoke this over there and watch for a bit. Then I’m heading off. Thank you. You’ve made me much calmer.’

  ‘No worries, miss. It was good pizza.’

  She walked back to the railing by the Thames and leaned against it, watching her boy as he rolled down a slope, flipped his board up so he turned and rode its edge along a platform. As she smoked she caught his eye after every trick he made. He was good, though his movements on the board, all of the boys’ movements, were not graceful. The way they contorted their bodies before landing, the balancing act so strenuous and fragile, the tiny distances their boards jumped that took so much effort to recover from. Reckless boys, so clamouring – she wanted to see them scrape against the concrete, get to their knees and pick themselves up. She could help. Her boy kept looking at her after each stunt he pulled. Every squeak and scuff. Perhaps, if he came over again, she would ask him if he wanted to come for a drink, she would take him for a bottle of champagne in one of the theatre bars. Could she do what they did, risk that leap, should she lean over and whisper something in his ear to make him lose his balance? Could she ever land that trick herself?

  IRENOSEN OKOJIE

  NUDIBRANCH

  Nudibranch: soft-bodied, marine gastropod molluscs which shed their shells after their larval stage. They are noted for their often extraordinary colours and striking forms.

  When the goddess Kiru emerges from the shoreline on the small Island of St Simeran, the third hand in her stomach lining contracts, steering her towards the sounds of the eunuchs surrounding a large fire on the beach, shrouded in an orange glow from the flames. The eunuchs are hollering, mating calls that are like war cries. Privates exposed, they stand in a loose circle rushing back towards the fire, beating their chests while the carrier pigeons fluttering above shed feathers on their bare skin. Kiru waits patiently on the sidelines. Her third hand drops soft-bodied, lightning-coloured seeds in the space between their heartbeats. It is Haribas, the festival of love for eunuchs. Every five years, eunuchs gather to celebrate, maybe find someone special, slits from their lost or dysfunctional penises tumbling in the dark corners of the heavens. Kiru steadies her br
eathing, watching. Salt water in her mouth leaves a tangy taste. Pressed against the night, she has already changed its shape into a mountain face that travels when white water lapping its lines evaporates. Fragmented moonlight gives proceedings an ethereal appearance. Mist curls and uncurls to reveal things seductively, slowly. Squashed Guinness cans sink into the sand. A gentle breeze passing through makes them hollow, unexpected instruments punctuating the main event. There are jagged mountains in the distance with handfuls of uranium inside, rumbling quietly. A bloodstained scroll is planted in the sand before Kiru at an angle. Huts dotted around the island on stilts have orbs of orange light piercing through tiny holes. Slick, moist fossils languish amidst stones, in moss-carpeted pockets, on cool rocks that anchor the flailing hands of a dawn. The eunuchs have clouds in their mouths; their motions are erratic, as though they’ll fall into the fire one by one backwards. Then soften each other’s injuries with white puffs of breath. They are burning the clothes they arrived in. The sound of fire races to meet bright molluscs in a space that expands and shrinks as things unfold. The carrier pigeons squawk, producing a din that sounds like black rain falling at an angle on the heads of stillborns, like a crow beak tapping against the entrance of Kiru’s cold womb, like the screeching from going blind temporarily travelling through a tortoise shell in the sky, then falling into the water with shell markings that cause flurries, breaches and an undulating silence. They mimic the sound of a lung sinking, chasing an echo thinking it can catch it.

  The mating cries of the eunuchs rise, travelling across the island to soft-bodied women emerging through the soil, the whites in their eye sockets morphing into irises of every hue. Mist bleeds red at the edges, seeping into a rough-hewn mountain that will use a sarong as a bandage over its mouth at some point.

  The soft-bodied women uproot from all corners of the island bearing drunken tongues from wine spilled in the island’s earth for seven days before proceedings. They rush towards the mating cries, nipples puckered, mouths softened, momentarily curbed by night dew. They are of the earth. Kiru has an advantage, being of the water. She bends down to lick blood off the scroll, blows her breath inside it to see how the cream-coloured paper will interpret it. Small orange blobs shaped like tiny micro-organisms shimmer on the scroll. She smiles; she has come to fall in love.