Test Signal

by Nathan Connolly (Dead Ink)

  1 This was an observation made at the time of writing, and of course plenty of other places in the country have been as badly affected since. However, a report in The Observer on 7 February 2021 pointed to the fact that regions in the North are seeing the slowest decrease in infection rates. Cases in my home town of Preston declined by only 9% between the first and last week of January 2021. In Bradford West it was 14% and in Rotherham 18%. Whereas, in more affluent constituencies, such as Surrey Heath and Abingdon and Oxford West, the decline was 70% and 72% respectively. This suggests that, for a variety of detrimental socio-economic reasons, the poorest places in the country, as well as being the first to be overwhelmed by COVID, seem likely to be the last that are released from its grip.

  MAKING MONSTERS

  AMY STEWART

  I’m floating in the water like a dead thing. My belly is breaching the surface, a thin layer of webby water over the top like ripped tights, and there’s nothing above me but wide skies I could fall up into. My leg has been throbbing for the last ten minutes, and I let the sensation tingle and spread. I haven’t felt anything in so long that the pain is delicious. I cradle it in my body, begging it not to leave.

  When I finally swim back to shore, my sisters prop themselves up on their towels. Leigh’s eyes widen at the red welt on my thigh.

  ‘You’ve been stung by a fucking jellyfish.’

  Have I? That makes sense. My sisters look worried, but I read about jellyfish stings before we came to the island, and I know I just need to clean it. I make a show of dabbing it. It’ll be fine.

  Everything’ll be fine, now we’re here.

  How long have we been on this island? It could be a week, or a month. We lie out on the beach most days, baking ourselves in sun and salt among the grizzled locals, who eye us with interest, wondering why we don’t leave. I think about how we look on the outside. Milky and innocent as lambs, perhaps: Orla is the smallest of us, a child from the back though she’s in her late teens, while Leigh is athletic, boyish. I’m somewhere in between in all things; an amalgamation. A compromise.

  Today’s hours pass slowly. We measure our time in moons and tides. When I tell my sisters that I’m going for ice cream and some vinegar to clean the sting, they nod lazily. A drip of sweat rolls over Leigh’s lip. Orla throws an arm over her face, afflicted.

  The path from the beach to Chora is beaten and dusty. I think again how far we are from home – but we’re not running away, as we’ve been told. We’ve just come somewhere else, to feel a bit better. We chose Serifos because we’d never heard of it but could get there easily from Athens, and really, we could have done worse – the island’s abandoned blue-and-white churches and tiny tavernas expect nothing. I like the way the coast looks all jagged and broken up, like teeth gnashing in the water. There’s something lonely about the place, but it’s lovely all the same – it’s a moon on a night I’d thought barren.

  Stou Stratou is my favourite place for ice cream in Chora. It’s a tiny white building sitting right at the top of the hill, and by the time I arrive my back is wet with sweat, blisters burning. My stung leg feels a bit strange. I like it, and think I’ll leave the vinegar for a while. There’s a couple sitting out on the terrace who I’ve spoken to a few times before – Maria and Nicholas. They wave as I take a seat.

  ‘Ah, Julia,’ Maria says good-naturedly. I love how she says it: a ‘y’ instead of a ‘j’. ‘Exploring alone again?’

  I nod, rubbing at my scaly arms. ‘I’ve been at the beach.’

  There’s a map of the island unfolded on the table between them. They’re on holiday from Athens, escaping the summer tourist hordes. I can’t tell how old they are, but they’re beautiful, with twinkling eyes and weather-exposed skin. When they see me around the island, they tell me things about Serifos – how it was once the home of the Cyclopes, that it’s where Perseus returned after his famous quest, how it was once occupied by the Turkish. Nicholas is tall and thin and has a strange way of speaking English – a little formal, archaic. Elegiac, even. He told me once that Athenians are graceless and tasteless people, and grinned when I replied that that’s my favourite kind.

  My sisters don’t know about Maria and Nicholas. It wasn’t a conscious decision not to tell them, not at first, but now I like that they’re my secret. They don’t remind me of home, or the things that happened there.

  Maria is taking great sweeping licks of her ice cream. She’s the kind of person who eats passionately, as if she can never quite get enough. ‘I’d recommend the pistachio,’ she grins.

  Nicholas is the more measured, the more perceptive. He sees my vacant look and asks, ‘Are you okay?’ The sun is in his eyes and he peers at me from beneath a peaked hand. I think perhaps they worry about me. As much as strangers can, anyway.

  ‘Better today,’ I lie.

  They share a glance that I can’t translate. Maria digs into the pocket of her cargo shorts. ‘I bought you a present from one of the little boutiques in Chora,’ she says. She unfurls her palm and there’s a precious stone of some sort there. The colour – it’s how I imagine the inside of a volcano would look, all swirling magma and dead ash.

  ‘It’s agate,’ she explains, taking hold of my wrist and placing the stone in my upturned palm. ‘Famous Greek stone. Good for healing. Will make your pain softer.’

  Tears are pricking at my eyelids. I don’t know what they think has happened to me – I don’t think they’d even be able to begin to guess, but their simple kindness makes something inside me swell.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say quietly.

  Nicholas smiles at Maria and sips his dark espresso. The bitter smell carries on the breeze.

  I head inside, counting out the coins into my palm. It’s cooler inside the shop, and it smells like freshly baked bougasta. I order a double scoop of the lemon sorbet in a cone, and by the time I’ve paid, it’s already started to melt. I suck drops off my fingers, feeling clumsy, and when I look back outside, Maria and Nicholas are still watching me. Perhaps we’ll all go for dinner together. Somewhere with cheap wine and pictures on the menu. I’ll just tell my sisters I got carried away wandering around the island; it’s happened before. Anything’s better than sitting in that hotel room, counting down the minutes until sunrise. The dark hours are the worst for us. They’re when memories wake up.

  *

  The next morning, I look at myself in the mirror and am taken aback by my ugliness. I’m not sure if my sisters see it, but my skin’s cracking in the Greek heat; my body wasting, ribs sticking out of skin like gnarled fingers. My hair is clumping, serpentine, coarse as hay. My skin has a green tinge – not Starbucks green, the colour of money, but the grimy hue of river water. I know it’s because I’m wearing them all on my face – the things that happened at home. I open my mouth in the mirror, bare teeth, frighten and repulse myself. There’s a power in it. I only stop when my sisters come up behind me.

  ‘You love looking at yourself,’ Orla jibes. Her skin is clotted cream compared to mine. ‘It’s because you’re the prettiest.’

  The sting on my leg hurts, but I’ll wait to tell them. We’re going out on a boat today to have a look at the little scattering of islets around the coast. We need to leave now to be on time, and I don’t want to ruin the mood.

  But there’s no one else at the harbour when we get there, just shabby motorboats bobbing at the end of a jetty. We dangle our legs over the side, toes skimming the water. We’re still getting used to the island’s concept of time – it’s half an hour until a Greek man comes up behind us with a clipboard. We’ve met him before; as well as leasing the boats, he cleans the hotel we’re staying at.

  ‘Sisters,’ he says warmly, accepting our money. ‘Don’t go too far out, no?’ He helps us each down into the boat and I’m touched by the chivalry. His hands are surprisingly soft for a man’s. Leigh takes control of the wheel, always best at this kind of thing, and the motor splutters into life.

  As we pull away from the harbour, I find
myself thinking about Maria and Nicholas. I cradle the agate in my palm, marvelling at the way it retains warmth. Last night I had too much wine and I think I cried a little as they walked me home. They both linked an arm through mine, and I was a child between them.

  The coast stretches away from us, and soon we’re surrounded by nothing but water that’s clear as a mirror. Leigh lets the engine idle, resting one hand on the wheel, watching the horizon like a captain. Orla lies down in the belly of the boat, shiny legs propped up on the seat. David Bowie is playing tinnily from my phone. I stare down into the water, my reflection contorting with the waves and light. I marvel at my greying skin, the coarse ropes in my hair. I’m beginning to scare myself. My sting twinges – I never did clean it.

  Something arcs into my vision: a fat-bellied fish, whiskered and twisting. Without thinking, I reach a hand into the water and grab it. I keep it submerged and its staring eyes fix on mine. It wriggles. I’m about to let it go when I get a strange feeling in my fingertips. The fish solidifies in my hand, scales giving way to stone. It’s rough, cold, eyeless. Nothing but a rock. I pull it out of the water and lay it on the bottom of the boat.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Leigh asks, sounding bored.

  I don’t answer. My body is too full of feeling – confusion, fear. But not just that. I feel strong, for the first time in such a long time. Maybe Maria and Nicholas were right: the island is healing me. But I look at the stone, its uncompromising lifelessness, and I know it’s doing something else to me, too.

  *

  I dream of him. Joe. Hands in my hair, pulling it back. Breath on my neck, hot as a slap. Fuck, he’d said, I’d follow you anywhere. I thought it was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard in my life. Now I know better.

  Something feels wrong when I wake up. My sisters aren’t in the room, for a start, but there’s a note: they’ve gone for lunch and will be back in a couple of hours.

  I look down at my leg. The sting is scarlet, whip-like, fringed with a red rash. There’s barely any pain, though. I could easily drift back off into a nap, sleep the day away. There’s a spaciness in my head, lazy and hypnotic, that’s not unpleasant. My phone buzzes on the bedside table.

  We’re passing your hotel. Lunch? M&N x

  I get butterflies when I read the message. I stand to look in the mirror. I’m a little unsteady, like I’m drunk. Then I see my reflection, and bile creeps up my throat.

  My hair has turned the same dirty green as my skin, which is now threaded with fine red lines – like veins, like jellyfish tentacles, like earthquake-scarred earth. My teeth are pointed, yellow. When I move there’s a hissing sound, like something trying to escape through a gap. My heart starts to hammer.

  I’m horrific. I’m monstrous.

  I turn away from myself and go to the bathroom to pour a glass of water. But I can’t escape myself – when I blink I still see hair writhing, skin sinking inward. I need my sisters. I need to get out of this room. My phone beeps again.

  Last chance! Beach picnic. M&N x

  *

  I suggest Livadakia Beach – it’s close and as bustling as Serifos gets, and I’m craving as much company as I can get today – but they’d prefer to go to Ganema.

  ‘There’s never anyone there,’ Maria tells me with a wink. ‘Not a tourist trap like Livadakia.’

  I wonder absently if they notice how my body is disintegrating. I can’t quite bring myself to ask. I put a hand to my hair, self-conscious, and pull away when I feel something thick and ropey. It seems to move under my fingers, as if invoked. My heart slows as we walk along the dusty road to Ganema, though. There’s a strong wind today and my hair whips around my head while Nicholas playfully pushes Maria off the path, catching her every time. I feel a stab of something bitter, watching their arms entwine.

  They’ve brought so much food with them and they lay it out with precision: scarlet strawberries speckled with seeds, fat olives stuffed with pimento, multiple types of sweating cheese, two bottles of warm white wine.

  As we eat, I show them my jellyfish sting.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Nicholas says, squinting at my leg. He touches a tentative finger to my skin, lifting the hem of my dress ever so slightly to reveal the full wound. Maria watches, finishing her second glass of wine. ‘That looks bad. Hospital?’

  I can’t tell them why that can never be an option. That the last time I was in hospital I had a broken jaw and blood dripping down my legs. I promise them I’ll go, but after that I can’t eat much. My appetite has dried up like skin in the sun. Maria frowns. ‘But you’re so thin,’ she says disapprovingly. ‘And we bought all this food, just for you.’ Nicholas nods in agreement.

  I swallow, feeling awkward. It’s the first time they’ve been anything but gentle with me. Now they watch closely as I bite off the tip of a strawberry. The beach suddenly feels very empty.

  ‘There’s a party happening tonight,’ Nicholas says. ‘Lots of locals – a big feast. Party. Drink. On a beach near here. Some of our other friends told us about it.’

  I don’t know why those words hurt so much: other friends. Maria and Nicholas are outgoing, social – why should I think I’m the only one they’ve befriended?

  ‘You should come,’ Nicholas continues. ‘You and your sisters.’

  That word from his mouth makes me start. My sisters are my own. ‘How do you know I have sisters?’ I ask, voice small.

  Nicholas laughs, shrugging off the question as though it’s a mosquito. ‘You told us,’ he smiles. His eyes land on mine and he takes a swig of beer. ‘Silly girl.’

  *

  I walk back to the hotel alone, paranoia pulling at my nerves like a fish hook. But that’s all it is: paranoia. I remind myself that people are good and kind. That not everyone wants to hurt me. That not everyone swarms around pain like it’s bait.

  On my way back over the coastal road, I see a lithe man on the rocks, poised to dive into the waves. My stung leg aches but I pause to watch him. The sea swallows his body greedily and then he resurfaces, pushing his hair back over his head, clambering out to dry off The sun dazzles my eyes, relentless, and I squint. The man is gone – there’s only the rocks he was lying on, the same rich sepia as his skin.

  When I get back to the hotel, Leigh and Orla have returned. They’re sprawled out on the bed like cats, tanned bellies to the ceiling. They’ve brought me some fresh marathokeftedes, my favourites, crispy fennel fritters prickling with salt. They sit sweating in their carton on the side. The ceiling fan whirs loudly, but it just seems to move the heat around the room.

  ‘You’ve been gone ages,’ Leigh says, propping herself up on her elbow, one eyebrow raised. There’s a slick of sweat on her upper lip.

  ‘I needed a walk,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve just missed Mum and Dad – they called.’

  Those words shouldn’t make my stomach sink, but they do. They’ll be asking when we’re coming back, and I wonder what Leigh and Orla told them. Mum and Dad feel like they should have access to that kind of information again, because we moved home for a little while after everything happened. I felt their goodwill like a drug – they wanted to care for us, to parent us again. And I was so ready to let them. I wanted to collapse back into them, to let them know everything that had happened so they could wrap it up and sell it back to me as something much less frightening. But they expected me to understand it, to be able to put it into words, and I couldn’t. So I became all sharp edges, cutting them at every turn, until we had to get away. Until we had to come here. It was an inevitability – I don’t know why they were so surprised.

  ‘I told them we’ll probably be home next week,’ Leigh says carefully. ‘They think that’s a good idea. We need to start getting on with things.’

  My sting prickles and I stagger a little, woozy. I feel as though someone is trying to rip my skin away from my body, and I have to concentrate to hold on to it all. ‘Next week?’ I manage to say. ‘You want to leave Serifos?’

 
Orla dangles her legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Did you think we’d stay forever?’

  I’m not sure – not exactly. But I do know I’m not ready to leave yet. I think of Maria and Nicholas, left alone with their new friends, and it makes my stomach roil. I think of the fish in the water, how it became stone in my hand. How I immortalised it with my touch. Or did I kill it? I was a broken, desperate thing in England. Here, I’m something else.

  ‘We’re not so sure that the island is good for you,’ Leigh continues. ‘You’ve been … weird.’

  So they have noticed: the tinge to my skin. The writhing of my hair. The way my gaze is flat and staring. But I need to make sure. I feel like some kind of spell would be broken if I were to utter the truth out loud.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re keeping secrets. You don’t sleep, you barely eat. It’s like what happened last time. You didn’t tell us what was happening until it was too late.’

  ‘This is nothing like last time,’ I say under my breath.

  ‘How would we know? You don’t tell us anything. You’re always sneaking off to meet someone – don’t think we don’t notice. We came out here to help you heal after … after everything with Joe.’

  His name cuts through me, quick and sharp as a cleaver. ‘Please don’t talk about him.’

  ‘And we’re running out of money,’ Leigh continues, as if I haven’t spoken. ‘We need to get back into the world again. Get jobs. Pay tax. Start our lives, properly.’

  Somewhere underneath layers of fear and frustration, I know that she’s right. The island is timeless – nothing changes, nothing evolves, there barely seem to even be seasons. But somewhere else in the world – everywhere else in the world – time is passing. I’m getting older. I’ll be thirty next year. It’s a thought I can’t face. I’d prefer to stay here forever with the dusty roads and the skies of endless cornflower blue. But still, the only words that bubble up to my lips and feel true enough to say are, ‘I won’t leave.’