Giant Days

by Non Pratt

  “I think this is the room . . .” The groom, who’d introduced himself as Eric, knocked on the door as he pushed it open.

  First glance was promising—there were novelty candles dotted about on the shelves and bookcase and windowsill, and a pentagram was scrawled on a bedsheet on the floor—but when Esther looked a little closer, the rest of the room didn’t match the details. The bed was rumpled and unmade, the duvet was half out of its candy-striped cover and on the floor, next to an assortment of lads’ mags, inside-out jeans, balled socks, and boxer shorts. The posters on the walls weren’t of brooding bands but of busty ladies glistening in swimwear, and there was a huge Take Me to Your Dealer poster tacked to the back of the door that the barista—Nick—had just pushed shut.

  Eric the groom had said this was the room, but for what?

  For all Esther could absorb information, she couldn’t quite decipher what any of it meant, thoughts incapable of pushing through the cotton wool that clouded her brain. Esther looked down at her cup and frowned. She’d been alternating punch with lemonade, and she was certain she’d not had much of either.

  “Oh, my god! Look! A Ouija board!” The words that came out of Barista Nick’s mouth were as scripted as the stage was set, and his friend was lighting all the candles as if he owned the place.

  No matter what state she was in, Esther was always up for a Ouija board, and she flung her arms up enthusiastically, spilling whatever was left in her cup as she cheered, “Dead things love me!”

  “I’ve never done one of these before . . .” Barista Nick had set his grammatically incorrect cup on the shelves and was gently holding Esther by the shoulders, helping her down to rest with her back against the bookcase.

  “Don’t worry. You shtick . . .” The slurred words caught Esther by surprise. “Stick with mmme.”

  Her tongue was Velcro, the words so fuzzy, they kept getting stuck.

  “Even the dead are frightened of . . . Living Dead!” She nearly knocked over a candle as she swung her arms forward and swayed like a zombie, before remembering she was dressed as a vampire.

  Eric the groom took a seat on her other side and pulled the board closer. They should really be sitting in a ring, but Esther lacked the wherewithal to explain, simply falling forward to rest her fingers on the glass set in the middle of the board. The gothic-script letters swam around the edge of her vision.

  “I’ll keep you safe.” Barista Nick had his arm over Esther’s shoulders.

  “We’ll keep you safe.” Another arm draped across her.

  “Spirits . . .” Esther mumbled.

  “I’ve got some vodka . . .”

  “. . . of the other world!” Esther forced out, her eyelids heavy. “Hear our . . .”

  Her trance was so intense that her head flopped to the side to rest on Eric the groom’s shoulder before a noxious burst of his cologne revived her.

  “Hear our calls.”

  The glass swept quickly across the board, which was odd, because they hadn’t asked it any questions yet.

  “Oh, my god!” Barista Nick gasped. “It’s saying it’s angry!”

  “Wha . . . ?” The letters were coming too fast for Esther to read.

  “Why are you angry, spirits? What have we done to upset you?” Eric the groom asked, the glass completely out of Esther’s control.

  “It says your corset reminds him of the one his wife wore when she . . .” Barista Nick gasped, eyes wide with horror. “When she murdered him.”

  “Quick, take it off!” Eric the groom reached across for the knot at the top of Esther’s bodice.

  “What? No!” Esther tried to move away, but with Barista Nick on top of her, it was hard to move. “I didn’t see that . . . Spirit, show yourself!”

  The glass remained at rest for a second, and in that briefest of pauses, there was a faint, unmistakable knock.

  Rap-rap.

  Barista Nick and Eric the groom exchanged a glance across Esther. All three of them had one hand on the Ouija board. Barista Nick’s other arm was around Esther, and Eric the groom’s left hand was in plain view, still reaching hopefully toward Esther’s corset.

  “Spirit?” Esther said in surprise.

  Rap-rap-rap.

  And then a disembodied voice, quiet and muffled.

  “I’m looking for Esther de Groot? Is she there?”

  The scream from behind the door was bloodcurdling in its enthusiasm.

  “I’M HERE, SPIRITS OF THE OTHER WORLD! COME IN!” Daisy tried the handle and opened the door. There was a lot of information to process in the tableau presented inside. A Ouija board, candles . . . an enraptured Esther, and two boys whose expressions were slowly climbing their way from terror into shame.

  “Who are you?” one of the boys said, aiming for aggressive and coming off sulky.

  “Daisy!” Esther leaped up, trampling over the Ouija board to fall forward into Daisy’s arms. “The spirits, they spoke to me!”

  “They did?” Daisy battled an excess of limbs. Esther’s eyes were wide, and she seemed incapable of standing. “What did they say?”

  Confusion clouded Esther’s face. “They told me to take off my corset . . .”

  “Did they now?” Daisy gave the boys a long, wary look over Esther’s shoulder. “Sounds to me like those spirits were”—Daisy lowered her voice to a whisper—“perverts.”

  The two boys shrank away a little, shuffling awkwardly about and making as if to tidy away the board.

  “I’m feeling sleepy,” Esther said, drooping farther and nuzzling in closer. “You smell like pine cones and vanilla, Daisy.”

  “I think that’s the novelty candles,” Daisy said, steering Esther out of the room without a backward glance. “Let’s find Susan and go home.”

  Susan was smoking a cigarette in the front garden. Her last one. Goddamn McGraw, tricking her with a sketchily drawn-on beard . . .

  She was drunk. That was all. Drunk makes you stupid.

  Goddamn that sexy sentient tree and her willingness to share her drink . . .

  But it wasn’t the tree’s fault. It was Susan’s. She should have stayed close to her friends.

  What happened to her plans for a J-block night out? Wasn’t that why she’d come to this stupid party in the first place? Not to make new friends she didn’t need, but to cement memories with the ones she already had. The ones who mattered.

  There was a burst of noise from behind her as someone pushed open the front door.

  “Woo-oo, I’m boneless. Flippy, floppy vampire . . .”

  Susan whipped around at the sound of Esther’s voice. Something had happened to her. It was like watching Daisy wrestle a giant jellyfish down the front steps.

  They tripped the motion sensor for the security light, and Esther flung her arms up. “Sunlight! It burns!”

  “It’s eleven o’clock at night—you’re fine,” Susan said, flicking her unfinished cigarette over the fence and hurrying toward her friends. She registered the relief in Daisy’s face as she slipped under Esther’s other arm to help.

  “I’m not sure if someone didn’t spike her drink . . .” Daisy said.

  “You think?!”

  Esther passed out at the end of the road, and they resorted to carrying her like a sack of potatoes. Her enormous boots made her at least twice her natural weight, and Susan would have taken them off if she’d been able to work out how they unbuckled. As it was, she had the heel of one biting into her hip with every other step.

  “I found her in a room with two boys and a Ouija board.”

  “Of course you did.” Susan narrowed her eyes. “Tell me what they looked like, and I’ll exact some appropriate revenge.”

  “Are you going to publicly shame them in a zine like you did with McGraw?”

  Susan had forgotten about that little episode. “I’ve wound the zine up, Daisy. Wielding the might of the media was too great a strain. There are other ways to make scoundrels pay.” Like making them believe their house really was haun
ted by an awakened and vengeful spirit . . .

  They struggled on a few more paces before they came to a bench where they could lay Esther down gently and have a bit of a breather. Through the heavy breathing and gentle sweating, Susan closed her eyes and thought of McGraw. She shouldn’t have let his presence at the party unsettle her like that. Maybe if she’d stayed inside the house, she’d have seen what Esther was doing, been able to stop her before she’d gone into those sleazy lads’ bedroom.

  Susan looked across at where Daisy was standing, hands on hips, head tipped back to study the sky. There were times when Susan wondered whether she underestimated how capable Daisy really was . . .

  “Do you think maybe those boys really were just trying to get some help with their Ouija board?” Daisy asked.

  Esther woke after midday. There was a little care package of foodstuffs and drinks with a note from Daisy at the foot of her bed, and she delicately picked the lot up and returned to bed. Gazing out her window, Esther watched some people kicking about in the leaves that had gathered in the corners of the buildings and thought of all the times she’d grumbled at being forced to help her parents clear leaves in the garden. Squabbles that turned into rows and door slamming and hours spent muttering how she couldn’t wait to move out.

  She never thought she’d be sitting here at university dreaming of moving back.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad. It’s me.”

  “Sorry, who’s this?”

  “Er . . . the only person who calls you ‘dad’???” Esther shot the phone a disgusted look.

  “Might be a wrong number.”

  “It’s not a wrong number. It’s your daughter.” Then, even though she was the only child they had, she added, “Esther.”

  “I know your name.”

  “Well, apparently you don’t know my voice.”

  “Maybe because it’s been so long since I’ve heard it.” But the tone Esther’s dad used was gentle, and Esther—puffed up and ready to be difficult—held back. “How’ve you been, love? Tell me all about it.”

  No mention of The Boy. No mention of the fact that her parents had been right. Just straightforward parental interest.

  “I’m fine.”

  Esther’s dad left a pause long enough for Esther to elaborate before he prompted, “Have you been going to all your lectures?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Finding them interesting?”

  “Yup.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Esther frowned down at the foot she’d propped on the windowsill and picked at a loose thread on the seam of her sock. “Not really.”

  It wasn’t like she was going to tell her dad anything about the random she’d gotten together with, or her photo appearing on that website, or what had happened with the Ouija boys. All of a sudden, Esther wasn’t so sure that she really had wanted to ring home.

  “Well. I’m pleased your mother and I found the money to send our only child away to . . . what was it? ‘Reach her full potential not only as a unit of productivity in the capitalist society but as a soul in need of sustenance.’ Because you sound positively overwhelmed with excitement about it.”

  “My generation isn’t supposed to be good on the phone. I’m the living embodiment of society’s expectations.”

  When her father next spoke, Esther could hear the smile all the way down the line. “Now, there’s the precocious little sulk bag I know and love. I was getting worried for a moment there.”

  Esther nodded. “Me, too, Dad.”

  “Love, I know I already asked this, but . . . are you really going to your lectures?” When Esther didn’t respond, her dad went on, “It’s just, I remember what is was like—those first few weeks—which I know seems improbable, because I’m so old, et cetera, et cetera, but . . . so much is changing for you at the moment, with moving away and . . . everything, that sometimes having a little routine really does help.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Esther whispered, then held her breath for a second so that her dad wouldn’t know she was crying. “I think focusing on my courses might be a really good idea right about now.”

  Besides, hadn’t Noor said that Goth Girl did English, too?

  Daisy was just heading out to her first Stand-up Comedy Club social when an anguished cry stopped her in her tracks. Susan was out buying milk—when Daisy had offered her soy milk as a substitute, Susan had narrowed her eyes and hissed—but Esther was in.

  “Hello?” Daisy knocked on the door and pushed it open to find Esther lying prostrate on the floor next to her open laptop.

  “Help me,” Esther said, words muffled by the rug as she waved a hand at her computer.

  Crouching down, Daisy saw the familiar university crest in the corner of the screen. Not daring to believe it, Daisy whispered, “Esther . . . are you trying to work out which lectures to go to?”

  “I don’t even know what modules I’m doing . . .” Esther rolled over to click through the multiple tabs she had open on her browser. “There’s so many ways to study books. Who knew?”

  “Didn’t you look through any of this before you applied?”

  “Was I supposed to?”

  “Yes.” Daisy dipped her head to give Esther a very stern look, but she took enough pity on her to check her watch before lifting the laptop onto her knee and reading through the information. She could miss the first five minutes of her social if she had to. Setting Esther on the correct academic path was much more important than having fun.

  “These are for second and third years, and these are only for the next two semesters. You can worry about those later . . .” She doubted Esther had the capacity for worrying about more than one semester’s worth of work. She handed the computer back to Esther and clicked on the first page. “These are the options for this term. I ran a keyword search in your e-mails, and apparently you’re signed on for Biblical Studies and Creative Writing. Have you really not been to any of the lectures or seminars yet?”

  “Er . . . some of them. I think.” Esther brightened a little. “Does listening in the bar to other English students grumbling about how everyone in Titus Andronicus gets stabbed count?”

  “No, it does not!” Daisy stood to grab a pad and pen from Esther’s desk. “Let’s make a timetable. I’ll read, you write.”

  “Technically, this degree is about doing both.”

  Esther met Daisy’s eyes and gave her a small yet resolute smile.

  5

  COMMUNITY-MINDED

  Some days, Susan almost liked Sheffield, with its vast parks and tree-lined roads, resplendent in their autumnal livery. She liked the homeliness of the houses and the overabundance of pubs and kebab shops frequented by people who didn’t look quite as haunted and grim as the ones she was used to seeing back home.

  And then there were other days. Like this one.

  Susan had never experienced rain that was so persistently wet. Curtains of water fell in swaths from great, moody clouds, lashing at her cheeks and chest and thighs as she battled her way down the road, fingertips shriveling in the dank depths of her pockets, the material now soaked too stiff to get them out. It was like walking in clothes made of cardboard.

  She had stubbornly walked past the bus stop, pitying those who waited, crammed under the shelter, knowing that even a long walk in torrential rain was preferable to gently steaming among strangers, breathing in the mustiness of over-warm, overcrowded public transport. Besides, with a bus, there was always the risk of running into McGraw.

  By the time she reached Catterick Hall, she was too wet to bother going up to her room and made straight for the nearest showers. Shivering and miserable, Susan unearthed her phone from the waterproof pouch in her backpack and dialed Esther. Esther might have developed a new academic zeal over the last couple of days, but she was still an English student. It’s not like they had many lectures.

  “Hello. I’m very wet. Please send help in the form of a thousand towels, delivered to the grou
nd-floor showers.”

  It was amazing how effective the promise of gossiping through the shower curtain could be. Esther couldn’t have been faster if she’d parachuted directly down the stairwell.

  “So, where’ve you been to get so wet?” Esther asked.

  “Outside. In the rain.” Susan pressed her fingers so hard into her scalp as she lathered up that it felt as if she were cleaning her brain.

  “Yes but why?”

  Susan twisted the hot tap up another notch, wondering whether she would ever feel warm again. “I’ve been feeding my CAS patient’s neighbor’s cat.”

  “What’s a gas patient?”

  “CAS—Community Attachment Scheme. Me and this single-purpose tool called Milo have been assigned to an outpatient called Mrs. Doherty. She’s pregnant. We have to interview her to find out what it’s like being a patient, rather than just reading about it in a book.”

  “Sounds like your version of hell.”

  It was. “Yeah, well, patients are kind of a thing if you want to learn how to treat them.”

  “So why are you feeding her cat?”

  “The cat next door—cat feces are bad for Mrs. Doherty’s unborn child.” It was an unorthodox arrangement.

  “Aw, Susan, you’re so community-minded.”

  Feeling had returned with a vengeance to her toes, and Susan was ready to get out. Turning the tap off, she held an arm out beyond the curtain. “Towel, please.” The one Esther handed over was thick and warm and smelled of expensive fabric softener. Not one of Susan’s, which were all ratty and thin and never quite dry.

  “Actually I’m getting paid twenty-five pounds a day.” Susan ruffled her hair and thought about apportioning some of the profit to purchasing a set of new towels.

  “And just like that it became seedy.”

  “What? I’m feeding an overly affectionate cat called Tibbles for three days. I’ve stooped lower.” Susan cocooned herself in the towel. “Besides, seventy-five pounds is exactly the right amount for a new winter coat.”

  Almost the second she said it, Susan shut her eyes in regret. There was the squeal of the shower curtain being flung aside, and when she opened her eyes, there stood Esther, starry-eyed and breathless with euphoria.