by M. T Hill
‘Eggs the size of fists in here last time,’ her father carries on, parking up. ‘Yolks like a cow’s bloody eyeballs. Imagine the hens they fell out of!’
Freya climbs out and readjusts her blazer in the passenger window reflection. She rolls her shoulders like Shep did. The joints feel crunchy, and the muscle resists.
A dark shape ghosts across the car’s paintwork. Another person, close by and getting closer. Freya turns just as a man in a tweed flat cap and waterproofs rustles past, knocking her slightly off balance. He doesn’t even break stride.
‘Hey!’ she calls after him. ‘Sorry’d be fine!’
The man disappears into the garden centre without a glance.
Freya turns to her father, incredulous. He’s shaking his head.
‘Know him?’ he asks.
‘No? Do you?’
Her father makes a face. ‘You sure, duck?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘He followed us.’
Freya holds the back of her head.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ her father says. ‘Not that many roads out here, are there?’
Freya stares back into her reflection. Her distorted face.
Her father comes round the car. ‘Get a wiggle on, then.’ And they go into the garden centre hand in hand.
* * *
Market stalls line the garden centre’s walkways in neat rows, steam drifting from hot food containers and coffee machines. Every stall displays a range of grotesquely outsized vegetables, fruits, or combinations of the two. Freya and her father stroll along the thoroughfare, pausing to steal nibblets of overengineered bread to dip in oils, and to smile graciously at the young splice-farmers with their artisanal haircuts. It’s hardly her father’s scene, and Freya doesn’t know what he wants here aside from freakish eggs. Probably it was just a reason to get out of the house, much as it was for her. But as good as the change of scenery is, it’s hard to feel like her patience isn’t wearing thin – aided in no small part by the wearying chalkboard messages at every stall: ‘100% inorganic’; ‘horticulturally appropriated’; ‘Johnny Hydroponics’.
‘All these braces,’ her father comments under his breath. ‘Bloody underwear, that is.’
Freya touches her father’s waist. ‘I think I’m going to find a cuppa. Meet you back here in half an hour?’
Her father’s eyebrows arch, but Freya sidles away before he can respond.
At the end of the row sits a greenhouse-styled ganja cafe. Inside, a table of women giggle into flutes of green prosecco. Freya goes straight to the counter for a fresh mint with honey, demurs on the offer of THC oil, then sits down under the awning to watch the crowd.
As Freya sips her drink, her thoughts settle on Stephen and Shep. In a weird way, it’s possible to blend their features, to view them almost as the same person. Superimpose Stephen’s smile onto Shep’s rigid body, for instance, then conjure the smell of chalk from their combined form. She rubs her thumb and forefinger together, trying to invoke the tackiness of chalk and sweat. It draws her back to how she’d felt in Shep’s presence. He hadn’t seemed to notice her reddened chest and neck, her lack of gear. He was only there to climb. So was Stephen like that, too? So single-minded? Did he climb to shut something out?
Lost in the spiral, Freya realises her ex is a fogged-up memory, cooling and distant. Where he was self-obsessed and needy and never took the lead, Shep had a quiet confidence that makes him more magnetic in hindsight. He didn’t patronise her, or try to flaunt his superiority on the wall. He didn’t feed her lines in the hope they’d go for a drink and half-enjoy a casual fumble a few weeks later. In fact, Freya had liked his single-mindedness because it focused him elsewhere. His priorities were the slabs, the puzzles between coloured holds. When he smiled at her, he looked embarrassed. Even a bit vulnerable.
Freya shakes her head. Here she is, overanalysing an encounter with some bloke who’s likely forgotten her name already.
She watches the splice-market punters. A stall selling enormous mutant flowers, a man sniffing round a bucket branded MEGAFAUNA. A space-brownie seller handing out tasters with glee. There was a time Freya might’ve captured this, this jarring future-village scene, and shared it on her stream. As an old habit, the impulse tugs gently at her, but knowing herself – that it’d be her seeking validation for leaving the city – she lets it slide.
It’s then that she notices the man in the tweed flat cap from outside. He’s standing on the far side of the brownie stall. His hat obscures his features, but she can tell he’s staring back. She breaks his gaze on impulse, legs and back seized. Something in her squirms. She looks again. The man’s arms are by his sides. Chin raised. He’s absolutely rigid.
‘Is that you?’ Freya hears.
A woman’s voice, off to one side.
‘Hey! It is you! Freya?’
Freya startles and turns. Aisha, her old colleague, is racing towards the cafe barrier. Freya blunders to her feet, face flushing.
Aisha hugs Freya warmly, squeezing with both arms. ‘Hey-y-y!’ she goes. ‘Oh my days! Small world!’
Over Aisha’s shoulder, the man’s still there.
‘Hey,’ Freya says. About all she can do to sound normal.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, a breather,’ Freya tells her. She holds up her mug. ‘Parents are only up the road, aren’t they?’ She swallows. The man hasn’t moved an inch, and her back is on fire. ‘It’s been ages!’ she adds, overcompensating. ‘Why are you up?’
‘Oh, visiting some of Sabine’s mates. They live near your folks. We—’
‘How’s London?’
Aisha sits down at the table, pulls her chair in. ‘Great, great. Just a great place. Busy-busy, though. Crazy-long days. There’s so much down there – it’s worth the eye-bags. Only wish I’d gone sooner: a lot of work, lots of clients. There’s all the food to get through.’
‘Mm,’ Freya says, and it’s such an effort to keep her eyes on Aisha, to listen. She puts down the mug in case Aisha notices it vibrating.
‘You doing okay?’ Aisha asks. ‘Out here in the wild, breathing this nice fresh air…’
‘Coping with the slowest internet in the country.’
Aisha chuckles. ‘But really? How’s the office? I heard about you and—’
‘I’m good… I’m good,’ Freya says, blocking it off. She glances past Aisha again; the man is gone. Freya scans quickly: no hat, no one standing too still. She tries to relax. Wills herself to concentrate on Aisha. ‘Still there,’ Freya says, ‘finally focusing on digital. Board won’t admit which way it’s falling, even if we’ve known for donkey’s years. You know how it is – snail’s pace. When the old dudes clock off, the curtain will crash down. And, uh, I’ve got some plans to travel, so I’m saving for then. It’s… yeah. It’s fine. It’s okay.’
‘Home comforts though, right? And is the dragon still editing you all to death? I can’t imagine still working on actual pulp, actual paper…’
‘She’s mellowed a bit since the group was sold on,’ Freya says. ‘I guess she’s part of the furniture.’ Freya pauses. ‘Like me. And they keep trying to nudge me out of the nest…’
Aisha beams. ‘So we’ll get you down in the Smoke soon?’
‘To visit, sure,’ Freya says. She exhales, and it seems to help. ‘Which reminds me: I’m meant to be catching up with Siobhan before Christmas – if you’re about, you should join us.’
‘Sweet,’ Aisha says. ‘That’s a plan – just let me know. I meant work, though. Good to hop into a bigger pond, and you’re such a fab writer, Frey. I know recruiters, if you want a leg-up. So many jobs, like I said. And I don’t mean content.’
Freya smiles quickly. ‘I know. I know. I’m not rushing. Been good to see more of Mum and Dad. Spend some time getting my head together.’ She looks at the marijuana leaves printed on her mug. Her hand has almost stopped shaking, so she picks it up. ‘You wanna grab a brew and sit with me? They’ve proba
bly got normal coffee in there somewhere.’
‘Best not,’ Aisha says. ‘Sab’s out here somewhere having French practised on her. You two haven’t met yet, have you?’
Freya shakes her head, though there are plenty of pictures of Aisha and Sabine online. In truth she hasn’t even messaged Aisha since she left the paper, and doesn’t want to remind her of the time elapsed. Time – life – runs differently in London.
‘You must,’ Aisha says. ‘You’d really get on. She’s got your taste in stuff.’
Freya shrugs. ‘I’d love to,’ she says. ‘Ah, you look great, Aisha. You look really happy.’
‘Thanks! And I mean it, I was sorry to hear about you and—’
‘It’s grand,’ Freya says. She drains her mug.
‘Great.’ Aisha squeezes Freya’s shoulder. ‘I mean, it’ll get better.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I’d better go find this one.’
Freya nods. Relieved on two counts, now – and still unsure how she’s held it together. ‘Lovely to bump into you,’ she says. ‘I’ll message about those cocktails. You’re on the same number, I’m guessing…’
‘Sure,’ Aisha says. ‘And all the usual places. Take care, yeah?’
* * *
It isn’t long before Freya’s father finds her, paper bag under his arm. Seeing him again makes Freya feel like a little girl. That quiet impression of safety.
‘Got the buggers!’ her father says.
Does she tell him about the man?
‘A dozen bloody Godzilla eggs,’ he says, hovering at the cafe barriers. ‘Seen anything else you want? My treat?’
‘Let’s head off,’ Freya says, shaking her head. She rounds the barrier, waving thanks to a barista who’s too stoned to notice. ‘Could do with a glass of wine.’
Her father grins. ‘On a Sunday? I like it. Mum should have some in the fridge – if it’s not full of milk.’
They move through a busier crowd, Freya’s father ahead of her, her wrist in his hand. She spots Aisha and Sabine at a distance, stoops lower. The last thing she wants is to make awkward introductions, watch her father bumbling air-kisses, or to feel any more inadequate about her life choices.
Deeper in the crowd, Freya loses her father’s hand momentarily. The crowd thickens. She’s several inches shorter than the people hemming her in, but her father tugs solidly to get her through. She bounces between shoulders and chests, clips an elbow with her bag. Alarm when a woman huffs and calls her a snotty bitch. She spots Aisha and Sabine again, and slouches in the gaps between the people and stalls. Concentrates on staying on her feet, on not being seen.
From nowhere, a hawker steps out and severs Freya’s link to her father. ‘Fresh ganj!’ he bellows in her face. ‘Green vapes!’ Freya pulls up, face spittled, head on a swivel, and notices they’re back outside the weed cafe again. How? Her father reaches back for her. She takes a step round the hawker, and her belly floods with worms. There’s a roughness to her father’s hand on her skin. It has the coolness of turned soil—
She looks at the back of her father’s head. It isn’t him.
Freya shouts out, tries to wrench herself free. The crowd scatters. The man in the tweed cap is right there, one of them, anonymous among them, even as he grips her tightly. He pulls his tweed cap to his chest. His pate has a sickly glow.
‘Get off me,’ she spits.
The man resets his grip around Freya’s wrist and opposite shoulder. There’s a sweetness about him, notes of petrol and mowed grass. His deep-set eyes are milky with cataracts. His mouth sags into a jutting underbite, as though his bottom row of teeth is all that stops his face sloughing off.
‘Don’t worry,’ he tells the people closest. ‘She’s one of mine.’
Desperate, Freya draws back a knee. The crowd, shockingly, churns on. Freya goes for the connection, but only glances the man’s thigh.
‘Freya—’
She tries again. He takes this one hard but doesn’t flinch.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Come on, love.’
‘Get away from me!’
‘I seen that story,’ he says. ‘What you wrote.’
The crowd jostles them, amorphous and uncaring.
‘You know what’s good for you, you’ll steer well clear of Parsons,’ the man goes on. ‘Stay right out of it—’
A fresh warmth at her back. Tension on her bag strap. Her father is right there, beside her. ‘Frey? Frey? What happened? We were all the way over here—’
And the sweet-smelling man is winking and backing away. Her father, starting to drag her in the opposite direction, is oblivious. Freya is torn between them; wanting to follow, wanting to know. Only she’s lost her voice, and the man’s hat is back on his head, and he’s blending away.
She allows her father to pull her with him. They stop by the exit. She’s hollow and trembling and he’s clueless. ‘What a smashing morning,’ he says.
‘You didn’t—’
‘Hmm?’
A gust of wind blows the garden centre doors open. In fresh light Freya notices the age of her father’s face. The delicateness of him. She resents it – and him for leaving her alone in the crowd. But she is alone, and what can her father do? Beyond childhood, when your carers seem invincible, there are times you’re reminded that mortality is written in wrinkles and moles. Death has a texture. Cells break down in ways you can follow. Freya isn’t a little girl now, her father is an old man, and soon he won’t be here at all.
‘Forget it,’ Freya says.
* * *
Back in her father’s car, warm and dry, Freya takes out her phone and reactivates her social profiles, her full stream. She settles her head against the cold passenger window, aware of this being a direct, impulsive response to fear, to seeing Aisha. And something hanging over her does lift away. Affirmation, acceptance – there’s nothing gained from self-imposed isolation. Somehow the sweet-smelling man, however frightening, however calm he’d been, has proved to her that being lonely is no way to be.
She replays their surreal face-off. It feels like staring over an edge. On one hand it’s terrifying: it happened so quickly, and the implications – violence, abduction, worse – are too grim to think about. On the other hand, the man’s warning feels like proof that Freya’s instincts about Stephen’s death are right. She resolves to carry on. There’ll be no staying away. There’ll be no staying out of it. She knows what will be good for her.
‘Can already smell that roast beef,’ Freya’s father says. He prods Freya’s knee. ‘Can’t ask for better.’
‘Sorry, Dad,’ Freya says. She wipes her eyes, looks ahead.
The Steeplejack
Mallory Junior’s office is all pastels, delicate porcelain and vases of dried flowers. The effect is startling to greens like Shep, especially taken alongside the big man’s scars and dented knuckles. It makes even less sense when you’ve heard the anecdotes from his anti-fash days. Mallory Junior, though, doesn’t care what the jacks think of his taste. He likes what he likes, and sod the rest. If that intimidates or confuses you, that’s your problem.
Shep edges through the door. ‘Boss,’ he says.
Mallory Junior is perched on his desk, cradling a framed monochrome picture of a well-muscled jack. The jack stands harnessless on what looks like the rim of a cooling tower. ‘Shepherd,’ Mallory Junior says. He places the picture face-out on the desk and folds his arms.
‘Hi,’ Shep says.
‘Are you on speed, or what?’ Mallory Junior says. ‘I don’t get how you’re still standing.’
‘I’ve felt better.’
‘So grab a pew.’
Shep sits down in the chair beside him.
‘For a kick-off,’ Mallory Junior says, ‘this isn’t a disciplinary. If you were crap, you’d be long gone. The way I see it, a day in the yard does more good than sending you off to the pub. That said, what you managed to do on Clemens was… impressive.’
‘
I know,’ Shep says. And he winces.
Mallory Junior rubs his hands on his thighs. ‘My old man had a word for lads like you. Precocious. And when you’re precocious, you’re given to cutting corners. Now, don’t get me wrong – you’re okay. But you’re not as good as you think you are. Definitely not good enough to cut corners.’
‘No,’ Shep says.
‘So tell me. Was it the booze? Was it distraction? Some bird keeping you on your toes?’
‘I got careless,’ Shep says. ‘It was a long stretch. I didn’t get on that well with the crew.’
‘This isn’t a nursery, lad. You’re a big boy now. I’ve had to pay a hefty fine to cover this trespassing nonsense you’re wasting your weekends on. You busted a finger, so you’re not even a hundred per cent. And yard time doesn’t faze you much. If you being sloppy is the reason I have this pain in my fundamental orifice, what do we do about it?’
Shep stays quiet.
‘While I’m at it, you can quit using your work van for these adventures of yours, too. And why you thought it was a good idea to flee Clemens and dump your phone…’
‘I didn’t.’
Mallory Junior shakes his head. ‘We’re not bloody thick.’
‘No.’
‘No. So here’s how I see it. I’ve got a half-functioning jack who’s three grand in my debt, and who my senior jacks’ll think twice about crewing when they get wind of what he did to a colleague they hold dear. I’m asking myself, how can we make the most of him?’
‘Okay,’ Shep says tentatively.
Mallory Junior stands up, stretches. ‘Have you ever heard of diamondoid, Shep?’
Shep hasn’t. He stares at the photo on the desk.
‘To me it’s a lot like “cementitious”, so far as daft engineering words go. Some frustrated poets in our field.’
‘I guess,’ Shep says.
The boss tips his head. ‘Diamondoid is an experimental material. Kept shush beyond the trade. Well worth knowing about as we look at new markets. Which is to say, I had to sit through a bastard-long conference to bring you this. The deal’s simple, mind. Diamondoid spins the finest carbon filament imaginable. It helps you make super-strength cabling systems. Okay?’