by Helen Mort
‘I can’t see it.’
‘It’s not there. I was just messing.’
They hadn’t touched since the bus. Caron came and sat next to her, so they were both staring out through the nest of rock. It felt like a concession. Leigh turned.
‘You really want it, don’t you?’
‘The route? Of course. It’s short. Bold. I like stuff like that.’
‘It’s desperate,’ muttered Leigh.
‘One day. And I want you to belay me.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Leigh knew how pathetic it sounded as soon as she said it. Like a plea for affirmation. An invitation. Sometimes, the best climbing partners were people you didn’t really know – people who didn’t care enough about you to hold their breath as you inched up the rock, who didn’t feel the tension in the rope that linked the two of you, didn’t keep a nervous silence. That’s why she never tried anything difficult with Pete nowadays. They both cared too much.
‘Why not? You planning to kill me?’
Caron was never serious. She was too good for that, Leigh thought.
‘I’m not an idiot.’ Caron took out a cereal bar from her pocket and started to eat. ‘I don’t want to deck it.’
‘What’s the deal with Black Car Burning, then?’ Leigh was thinking out loud, but it was too late to take it back. Caron stopped smiling. There was a silence and she said:
‘Long story. It’s to do with Alexa.’
‘Alexa?’
‘She’s one of my partners.’
‘Climbing partners?’
Caron laughed. Leigh felt a slow tightening, a winding sensation in her stomach. That was how she’d felt when she saw Tom’s girlfriend for the first time, from the back, in a camel coat, fumbling with the keys to their flat. Like something was being wound up, like a turning lock gate.
Afterwards, when they were scrambling back down from the cave, Leigh thought about the only time Tom had shown her anything that mattered to him. It was the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest, the tree where they said Robin Hood’s men had crouched inside the hollow trunk to hide. Tom’s parents used to take him there when he was a kid. They’d scuffed their feet along the trails and dragged each other behind trees to kiss. People who are good at cheating have this way of making you feel like they’d never show these things to anyone else, even when you know they do. Leigh remembered the smell of the bark after rain. She’d hated the fence around the Major Oak, the way you couldn’t really get that close to it. Tom sat down on the surfaced path, so he could look up into the canopy of the branches. Leigh wondered if there’d been a warning in all of it. Like you shouldn’t trust people who prefer forests to clear views.
They were nearing the Plantation, the softness of the woods, the ground turning to mulch underfoot.
‘So Leyton’s your ex now?’
‘No. Me and Leyton still have sex, but we aren’t that close really. It’s not a regular thing these days. I guess I prefer to look further afield.’ Something in the way she said it made Leigh laugh, nervously. There was a long pause before she spoke again.
‘And Matt?’
‘The boys in the house are just mates. With each other, I mean. Things are pretty fluid. Leyton and Alexa used to sleep together loads, but at the moment they’re like best friends who don’t fuck.’
‘Friends without benefits.’ It was a lame joke and she knew it.
‘That would be a pretty narrow view.’
‘And how does it work if you want to start seeing someone new?’
They both looked sideways and their eyes met for a second.
‘You have to talk it through first.’ Caron’s voice seemed sharp, irritated. She’d picked up the pace, but she paused slightly and shot Leigh a backwards glance. Leigh felt her eyes move over her. It was gentle, almost imperceptible. ‘Theoretically,’ Caron said.
There was a woman hiking up from the car park with a backpack bigger than her. A springy lurcher with fur the colour of puddles raced ahead, zig-zagging up the hill and veering off the path. She kept shouting its name, but it was all nose-to-heather, following a better call. Suddenly, for no reason, it dug its paws into the ground, halted, then started sprinting back towards her.
Leigh felt the urge to take Caron’s arm as they descended, the way she used to link arms with her friends at school.
‘I met Alexa at uni. She didn’t even know she was bi – ’
‘Too much information,’ said Leigh.
‘Sorry. I’m a chronic oversharer. You’ll have to tell me to stop.’
Leigh jumped a rock, focusing on the leaves on the other side of it, avoiding the bog. The lurcher came hurtling past them up the track and Leigh had to jump to one side. She resented the dog. Its single purpose. Its easy lope up to the top of Stanage, not caring why it needed to keep climbing.
‘You know, Leigh, most people are full of shit. Like, you tell someone you’re poly and they go … “Oh, so you cheat on each other?”’
Leigh’s mind was with the lurcher, which had to be on top of the edge now, cannonballing over towards Apparent North and Black Car Burning, the overhang waiting just as they’d left it.
Caron stopped and got the guidebook out of her pocket, its list of diagrams and names. Leigh wanted to say something then, but the moment was gone.
‘Where to next?’ grinned Caron. But she set off before Leigh had a chance to answer.
Robin Hood’s Cave
I’m a bad secret-keeper. I hold the sleepers with their small fires burning out, their crumpled sleeping bags and blow-up mats, their whispered, intimate conversations, and in the morning I let them go. When the park wardens patrol with torches, I have nowhere to hide them. I’m open to the air, open to the sun when it rises too early. I watch the climbers huddle in the evenings with cans of beans and hip flasks as if they’re the first to ever shelter here. I let them write their private messages across the walls. Then I let the night in and they tremble; nothing they have is theirs alone.
Alexa
When Alexa and Caron were in the house at the same time these days, Caron was usually on her laptop, or in the bathroom playing PJ Harvey at full volume, running all the taps at once. She seemed distracted, one hand on the pocket where she kept her phone. It reminded Alexa of the look she wore years ago at Burning Man festival, that second summer after they graduated when Caron was waiting for work. They’d met some girls at Sheffield Peace in the Park who reckoned they’d never forgotten Burning Man: the mind-altering meditation practice, the Mexican food, the desert like an empty promise in the background. Caron bombarded Alexa with pictures until she agreed. Leyton was travelling round South America and Matt was working on a construction project in Bristol, so it would be just the two of them.
They flew to Reno, arrived at Black Rock City as the sun was going down, the sky a Tequila Sunrise orange. The festival shone in the distance, rose-gold. Alexa thought of their Christmas tree back in Nether Edge, how Matt always liked to wind lights around every single branch until he almost choked the tree, not draping but wrapping. At the gates, the traffic was backed-up. Eventually, they were greeted by tanned, lean women and men in cut-off shorts who told them how to get to their area. Everything inside the festival seemed circular, as if people were orbiting something central and mysterious. Caron was wide-eyed from the moment they dumped their bags. They bought vodka cocktails and expensive coffee made from beans that had been through the guts of a civet cat. They took in a lecture on astrophysics and an interview with a woman who illustrated graphic novels. Caron kept looking slightly past Alexa, over her shoulder, like a guest at a formal party, aware that there was someone else they should be talking to. When the vodka made Caron sleepy, they went back to the RV and fucked tenderly on the floor, surrounded by their half-unpacked bags. Afterwards, Caron dozed on her rucksack and Alexa got a bike and tried to head out to the central playa. She had never been to a real festival before, not even Glastonbury.
There were half-naked bodies and flavoured hash cakes – salted caramel and popcorn crush. She cycled past fire-jugglers and men in fedoras and jumpsuits, slowed down beside a plywood booth offering ‘Non-Monogamy Advice’. Inside, on deckchairs, a man with cropped black hair and another with dreads were talking intently. They were both topless, but one of them had dark skin and the other had a white vest from tan lines. You have to feel jealousy to master it, the guy with short hair was saying. You have to become one with your envy. The other took a sip of cloudy lemonade. They saw Alexa staring and beckoned her over.
Back at the RV, it was dark and Caron was cross-legged by a small campfire, laughing with an American couple, sharing a joint. They were called Keston and Suz and they touched each other on the arm compulsively when they spoke. Suz had Pre-Raphaelite hair and came from Georgia. Her voice was like an almond latte. Keston had workman’s hands and a neat wrist tattoo. They were discussing sustainable clothing and the difficulties of finding vegan shoes. Suz thought Caron’s accent was super-cute. They embraced Alexa several times and passed her the spliff. Suz told Alexa she had the nicest cheekbones. I mean, the nicest. Keston had a harmonica in his bag and his cord jacket made him look like something from the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. Caron was wearing a multi-coloured sweater that Alexa had never seen before and which turned out to be Keston’s, too. Suz worked in new media and took MDMA at the weekends. Her eyes were very large, dilated from the weed. While Caron and Keston heated a tin of chickpeas with some sauce, Suz described meeting Keston at a conference in Silicon Valley. Every time he spoke, it was like someone switching a light on in a corridor, you know? Suz and Keston lived in LA. They had been together for five years and in an open relationship for three.
‘Things are so much further along over here,’ said Caron. ‘I mean, Sheffield’s OK, but people our age … I don’t know.’
‘How old are you guys?’ asked Keston.
‘We just left uni.’
‘Boy!’ squealed Suz. ‘You’re babies!’
They ate dinner and talked about their attraction to one another. Suz didn’t really date women, but she was bi-curious. Keston said Caron and Alexa were a good match. They all agreed to take a walk to the Orgy Dome together. Suz had been last year with Keston and a mutual friend from LA called Daryl, an ex-Google employee. Daryl and Suz had amazing chemistry, it turned out. Their threesome lasted one and a half hours. They tried double penetration, but it didn’t really work out. Hardly ever does, said Keston wistfully, shaking his head.
In the long queue for the Dome, Caron looped her arms round Alexa and kissed the back of her head, lightly. They’d both caught the sun already and Alexa’s neck was sore. They had thought about getting some beers for the wait, but they didn’t want to get too sluggish. Keston sang songs by The Doors to keep them all going, but the mouth organ interludes sounded comical. When they finally got near the front, they were given the lowdown, along with packs that contained condoms, lube and baby wipes. Everyone was encouraged to give consent loudly and enthusiastically. There could be no touching without permission, but there should be no watching either, no ‘lurking’, as Suz put it, making ironic speech marks in the air with her fingers. Alexa stared past the tent at small silver points of light she took for lanterns at first, before she realised she was looking at the desert stars. There was a constant hum from the festival, drumming like a heartbeat.
Inside the tent, it was air-conditioned. It wasn’t exactly an orgy, but lots of couples – mainly heterosexual – were having sex at the same time. Alexa wasn’t sure where to stand or whether it was OK to sit down. Then Suz asked Alexa if she could kiss her and Alexa said Yes in a clear voice, the way she had been told. Suz was a gentle kisser. She flicked her tongue in and out of Alexa’s mouth. Later, when Keston penetrated Alexa from behind, Suz bit down softly on her lip. It was surprisingly tender, his hands firm on her hips as he pulled her back towards him, Suz kissing and sucking her nipples. When Alexa came, she made a choking, hiccupping sound that embarrassed her.
She watched Caron straddling an older man with salt-and-pepper stubble and sculpted hair. She wondered how he’d stayed so neat in the desert. She observed Caron as if she was going to paint her, studying the small ripples in her flesh as she sank and rose on the man’s cock, noticing the way she sometimes lifted a hand to her own mouth as if she was trying to hush herself. She watched the man’s feet clench. She let out a small moan herself when he slid his finger inside Caron’s arsehole. He pronounced it ass, the way Americans do. Later, she was aching and Keston seemed distant, spent but restless. Caron was between Suz’s legs, spreading her thighs. They became an island somehow, separate from the rest of the bodies. Suz was lying down, her hair spread out behind her, moving as if she was swimming on her back. Oh God, she said. Oh GodGodGod!
That night in the RV, Alexa thought she’d sleep curled up with Caron like they’d agreed, but Caron took the far bunk and let Alexa have the comfier space on the mattress, where there was room to stretch out. It’s too cramped for two, she said. Keston and Suz were entwined on the floor. Alexa dozed and dreamed about a scarecrow on fire, a huge model of a man with straw for hair and no eyes. At 4 a.m. she was woken by Suz softly moaning and she heard Caron saying something indistinct. Suz’s moans grew softer, as if she had her face buried in a pillow. Alexa turned over, rustling the blankets and down jackets she was sleeping under. The noises didn’t stop. Her pulse felt definite and quick. She could smell Caron’s body, their mingled sweat. She turned her face towards the window, towards the desert. She imagined a small fox she saw in a documentary once when she was a kid, its reflective eyes and its body lithe between the cactuses. Outside, some guys were still awake. Canada is just, like, whoah, said one of them and someone laughed for no reason. They talked about Burning Man, the vibe of it, the best places to get drugs. One time last year a man’s heart had burst in his chest. Just like that. Literally burst. One of the guys laughed again. The RV creaked like a house in the wind. Keston was sleeping soundly.
Brincliffe Edge
The empty branches and the empty pavements. The roots of trees dormant under the soil. Hollows in the tree stumps that fill with rainwater, cups of sky that dogs like to drink from by day. When the houses are silent, I come to life. A badger, walking the boundary between the tidy houses and the lip of soil where its den could be. Frogs beginning to crawl towards the gardens. Two adolescent foxes, fucking impatiently behind the last house on the road, behind the woodshed and the vegetable patches, the kale that grows all year round, the buried potatoes in the earth. A Siamese cat with a cruel face who stalks the road up to the woodland, pauses there as if, for the first time, he’s not sure whether to enter, whether to join the faster creatures who tolerate the cold, who fight each other after dusk, blood and teeth and muscle. He has a velvet collar and a silver tag with his name engraved. He has elegant paws and grey ears. The mud under his claws. The worms in the soil and the woodlice teeming in sheltered places. The cry of something almost human, impossibly close.
Alexa
Everyone was expecting something to happen. Everyone behind their lines. The English Defence League with their home-made signs, all sunburn red against white, England flags and St George’s dragons. The police holding their radios close. Some officers in black, some in bright tabards. And the residents lining the streets as well, crowding with their backs against the buildings. Muslims. Jamaicans. Eastern Europeans. Black and white.
And they felt watched by the rest of Sheffield, too. Even Alexa felt it. All morning the radio had been tacking it on at the end of the news: EDL march in Page Hall. They reported the background, too: rumours that an old pub was to be turned into a mosque, the far-right campaigners bristling with indignation, shouting about the spread of Islamism and Sharia law in the UK. The radio presenters did their best anxious voices, before it was back to ‘Gold’ and ‘Changes’ and the weekend weather report. Good, with a chance of showers.
Alexa though
t the protestors looked strangely disengaged. She scanned the wall of pale T-shirts and raw, folded arms. Some tattooed. Some skinny. One man was wearing a black balaclava with a cross embroidered into the top of it. Two eye holes that made his eyes look like marbles. A small gap for his mouth. They carried placards with statements like ‘EVERY NEW MOSQUE IS A NAIL IN BRITAIN’S COFFIN’ and ‘WE WILL NEVER SUBMIT TO ISLAM’. Mostly they were quiet, subdued almost. A few men at the back were chanting ‘England till I die!’ and ‘We want our country back!’, but it never spread more than a ripple. Everyone was hanging on, wondering what was going to happen.
Maybe it was the police presence silencing them, the sight of all those square bodies in line. Alexa didn’t know how many of them were here or how much it was costing the force, but it had been planned to the letter. They stood like a single presence. A shield, from the kebab shop to the corner bus stop. Alexa thought of all the nights she spent in Page Hall alone or with Dave, doing the rounds. This was the first time in months she felt cocooned. Like she was in a pack.
A disembodied voice yelled ‘EDL, go to hell!’ and someone cheered. Most people stared straight ahead of them or at the ground.
Standing in line, Alexa thought of a picture she’d seen of Orgreave in ’84, taken from above. One they always used in the papers, all monochrome. The straggled pickets on the right, groups of them bunched together or lined up one in front of the other. So small they hardly looked like people. And then, on the left, the police. Like a forest. Like that point on the beach where the tide can reach when the water comes in further than you thought it would and you end up running, running just to get away. You couldn’t pick anyone out. It made her feel sick. She’d never been part of a line before. Not really. Not unless you counted match days, her and five others, facing the fans. The EDL were too ragtag, too varied. They didn’t look whole. If they were all wearing balaclavas it’d be different. Like a coal-dust Ku Klux Klan.