Giant Days

by Non Pratt

  She was still waiting for it when he turned to summon the woman behind the bar.

  Five whole minutes Susan had been speaking to McGraw, and Esther had yet to see blood. What was happening over there?

  “I see Susan’s ditched us for a guy.” Vectra followed Esther’s gaze. “Typical.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Make that two guys. Richard Branson’s arrived.”

  “Richard Branson?” Esther was confused—the only other person she could see talking to them was Ed Gemmell.

  “You know. Virgin.”

  “Of course. Ha, ha, ha.” Esther didn’t like the sound of her laugh any more than she liked the joke. “We could always go up and—”

  “No.” Vectra turned her back on the bar. “Susan doesn’t like me.”

  “She’s like this with everyone.”

  “Then you should really get some better friends.”

  Esther wilted. Sure, Susan could be a bit caustic at times, and sarcasm was her first language, but Esther had never really seen that as a problem.

  “Well, you’ve not yet met Daisy,” she began, but Vectra was losing interest, and Esther decided against pursuing it. The amount of time Daisy spent doing yoga would make it impossible to arrange a meet-up anyway.

  They needed something else to talk about, and Esther looked down at her T-shirt. Vectra was wearing a sweatband with the familiar Marilyn Manson logo stitched white on black, but she’d not mentioned Esther’s outfit, and if Esther wanted to steer the conversation toward music, then she was the one who needed to take the wheel.

  “Um . . . so . . . you like Marilyn Manson, too?”

  “What gave you that idea?” Vectra frowned.

  “Your um . . . this.” Esther tapped Vectra’s wrist, taken aback at how fast her friend recoiled from the contact. “Sorry.”

  “It’s called irony, Grooty.” Vectra swung the band around her wrist and then pointed to the print of the T-shirt she wore underneath her hoodie. “You really think I look like a Star Wars fan?”

  Esther had no reference as to what a Star Wars fan looked like. Box office numbers suggested they were everywhere, lurking under perfectly normal facades.

  “I, er, so you don’t want to go and see an MM tribute band with me?”

  Vectra curled her perfect, plum-tinted lips. “And party with the fat forty-year-olds who still think that kind of thing is current? No thanks.”

  When the next person walked into the spotlight, Vectra turned back to the front, while Esther stared up at the bar where Susan, McGraw, and Ed Gemmell were all laughing at something far funnier than student stand-up.

  Walking back from the House of Zoise, Daisy scrolled through her phone, frowning at just how many missed calls from Granny she’d accrued. Weeks ago, such a thing would have been unfathomable. Voicemails were listened to, calls returned by a diligent granddaughter who missed her home.

  Perhaps it was an indication of just how far she’d come since she signed up with the Brethren. She had a new family, with cookies and tea and yoga. She didn’t need Granny anymore, in the same way she didn’t need Susan and Esther. The Brethren of Zoise was where she belonged.

  At least . . . it was supposed to be.

  If we cannot share, we cannot belong.

  What else was she supposed to share? She’d recruited two new members and gutted the contents of her bedroom. The only thing she’d yet to do was move in to do the cleaning and—judging by Jasper’s comments—do all the things that the residents would expect from a parent.

  When Daisy had yearned for a family, she hadn’t envisioned that she would be the parent.

  As she shoved her hands deeply into the pockets of her coat, Daisy’s fingers closed around the two badges she’d made for Susan and Esther that she’d never had the chance to give them. Once she’d thought they were the best mums ever . . . but would they even notice if she moved out?

  Needing the reassurance that the Zounds of Zoise provided, Daisy slipped on her headphones as she trudged back toward her dorm.

  “. . . move through the physical, on through the emotional and into the spiritual . . . 100g of dark chocolate (at least 70 percent cocoa), two tablespoons of golden syrup . . . groceries delivered to 21 Tuttlebury Avenue would be great . . . mix the dry ingredients in a bowl . . . don’t trust your friends, trust your Brethren . . .”

  When Daisy reached her room, she sat down in the dark, still in her coat, and opened her laptop to order groceries to be delivered to the House of Zoise.

  Once the last comic died onstage, Susan asked the two boys if they’d come and sit with her.

  “You mean . . . sit with Vectra?” Ed Gemmell glanced fearfully over his shoulder. “I’d rather not.”

  “Me neither,” Susan whispered. “But Esther would like it.”

  “Come on, she can’t be that bad . . .” McGraw said.

  But Ed Gemmell and Susan gave McGraw equally grave looks. Still. Susan loved Esther, and she didn’t want to upset her. Girding her loins of tolerance, she herded the other two away from the bar.

  “If you’re really so into music, why don’t you support some of the bands that are just starting out?” Vectra was saying to Esther. She took a sheaf of flyers from her bag, and when she saw Susan, Ed Gemmell, and McGraw, she handed one to each of them. Underneath the logo of the pub was the tagline: One night, thirteen must-see bands.

  “Thirteen?” Susan said. “That sounds like an unfeasibly large number to fit into one pub.”

  “Or one evening . . .” McGraw’s slight frown spoke of frenzied mental calculation. “Fifteen minutes per band, allowing five-minute interludes for logistical stage management.”

  There was something exceptionally pleasurable in seeing the effect McGraw’s comment had on Vectra.

  “Am I supposed to be impressed by your mathematical agility?”

  The spite in her voice was enough for McGraw to exchange a sympathetic glance with Susan before saying, “Only if simple arithmetic is something you find impressive.”

  Correction: That was exceptionally pleasurable.

  There was an awkward pause into which Esther leaped with an optimistic, “I guess it’s, like, a really short festival?”

  “Grooty’s got it.” Somehow, even when agreeable, Vectra managed to be obnoxious. “This is the sort of thing you’ve got to do when you’re starting out. Some of us have to take the opportunity where we can get it.”

  Each of them clocked the “us” at the same time, and Esther scanned the flyer for a clue. If she asked Susan later for independent verification on whether Vectra considered Esther a close friend, there was the evidence: absolutely not.

  McGraw beat the rest of them to it. “Which band is yours?”

  “Rutting Corpse.” Vectra pointed to a band listed halfway down the page. “It was supposed to be Rotting Corps, but they got it wrong on the flyer, so we’re leaning into it. Kevin’s stenciled a logo of someone having sex on a gravestone onto his bass drum, and we’re all going onstage dressed as sexy zombies.”

  Somehow, Susan managed to refrain from displaying her allergic reaction to the phrase “sexy zombies.” It didn’t matter how little she liked Vectra; Esther liked her, and for one night only, Susan could keep a lid on it.

  “So, what are your influences?” Esther’s inquiry was too keen, and Susan watched the exact second Vectra disengaged.

  “No one you’d know,” Vectra said dismissively. “Your taste is too mainstream.”

  At that moment, Esther knew what Susan was expecting, because she’d already witnessed the storm that words like this summoned. Susan was braced for it, drawing closer to McGraw, breath held, eyes wide. When Esther opened her mouth, Susan would expect hail and fire, as if Vectra had, in fact, opened a vortex to the underworld and a beast of fury were about to claw its way out from within Esther’s skin.

  Instead, Esther said, “Maybe you could send me some links?”

  “Whatever. No need to pretend, Grooty.�
� Vectra shrugged and looked past them to the far side of the room, as if scouting for someone better to talk to. “I don’t really expect you to come. Gotta go.”

  “I’ll see you at your gig!” Esther called out in desperation.

  “Er . . . that’s a week away. You’ll see her tomorrow in lectures,” Ed Gemmell said, looking confused.

  “AND AT LECTURES!” Esther bellowed across the room, waving as Vectra turned and rolled her eyes before leaving.

  That night, Susan had a think. A proper one. The kind that brought with it some perspective. It had been fun tonight—not with Vectra—but with McGraw and Ed Gemmell. Easy, almost, as if . . . well, as if they were friends. All the things she’d done, all the running away and the backfired acts of vengeance: the contract, the stalking, leaving a party where she’d been enjoying herself, the sleepless nights spent resenting his very existence. These were not the actions of someone who’d put the past behind her. It was the behavior of someone who was dragging it with her.

  Maybe it was time to let things go.

  And so, in the deadest hour of the night, when only foxes and insomniacs roamed the campus, Susan cut across the barren patch of grass between J-block and F-block. The door opened more smoothly than the other blocks’, the hinges better oiled, the bottom of the door sanded to swish a little smoother over the bristles of the doormat.

  Avoiding the sensors that would turn the lights on to illuminate the communal hallway, Susan weaved her way upstairs to number 15. There, she took an envelope from her pocket and slid it silently under the door.

  It was done.

  The next morning, McGraw woke up in a timely manner by willpower alone. In nothing more than a pair of jogging bottoms, he did some cursory sit-ups and push-ups, just a few to get him moving while he toyed with the idea of testing his new soldering iron . . .

  Once he was dressed and about to leave for the first hearty meal of the day, McGraw saw a stark white envelope edged under his door. Plain, businesslike, with no hint of who had put it there. An eddy of torn paper spiraled out when he opened it. Inside, he found a page from a notebook, torn off and folded in half, on which was written a single word.

  Truce.

  McGraw picked up a piece of the shredded contract and smiled.

  10

  OPENING UP

  Brewing a cup of the latest herbal infusion that Elise had blended for her, Daisy sat on her bed, a plate of Zoise cookies next to her, and dialed Granny’s number.

  “Daisy!” Joy came flooding down the phone, and Daisy felt an itch of guilt, as if her heart were wearing a slightly scratchy shirt. She should have called sooner.

  “Hey, Granny, how’s things?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear about things this end—well, I mean, apart from the fact that you know the Tailor brothers who own the village shop? Well, they’ve fallen out again, and now no one knows when the damn thing’s supposed to be open or closed. Everyone’s started getting their things delivered from Avocado or whatever it’s called. All a bit la-di-da.” Granny was in the kitchen—Daisy could tell by the slight echo around her voice and the rattle of the drawers as she opened and closed them. Granny had never been one for sitting still during a phone call. “But as I said, nothing interesting. You know Crickleton. The most exciting thing that happens here is a duck wandering into the pub. Sounds like the start of a joke, doesn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Daisy “mmphed” around a mouthful of cookie.

  “Speaking of birds, how’s that little pigeon of yours doing?”

  Daisy leaned over to peer into the box in which Baby Gordon was residing. As if sensing Daisy’s presence, the chick opened its mouth, and not wanting to disappoint, Daisy dropped a cookie crumb inside.

  The second the crumb was gone, the little bird went straight back to sleep.

  “He or she seems to be doing fine. I think.” Time seemed gluey these days, splodged unevenly between Zoise sessions, not quite making the same sense it once did. So many of her memories these days seemed like things that had happened to someone else entirely. Trying to dredge them up to pass on to Granny was like reporting back a film she’d watched of someone else’s life.

  “And how’s the yoga coming along?”

  Yoga—the word triggered something in Daisy, a switch flicking on in a dimly lit cellar. “What do you mean?”

  “You said you were doing yoga with those Zeus—”

  “Zoise.”

  “Whatever. Those other students. Last time we talked about it, you were very excited about progressing through their belt system.”

  Had Daisy been talking to Granny about the Brethren? Fragments of warnings fluttered through her mind. Share only with those you trust . . . The branches of one family should not cross with the other . . . They don’t understand you like Zoise does . . .

  She needed to be careful. “Oh. Yes. Well, I’m on yellow belt now. Fourth level.”

  “That’s fast.”

  “I’m very good at meditating!” Daisy snapped. A heavy lid slammed down on her instinct to reveal more. The Ceremony of Sharing was sacred and not to be discussed with anyone outside the Brethren.

  “All right, Daisy, no need to take that tone with me.” Granny huffed, then added, “Sounds like you could do with a bit of meditation now, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t.”

  “Daisy!” There was a crash, as if a drawer had been slammed shut on the other end of the phone.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Normally Daisy would have been the one to break the deadlock. She didn’t like confrontation, especially not when it came to Granny, with whom she’d always had a very peaceful relationship. But she didn’t like anyone questioning her too much about the Brethren of Zoise.

  Reaching out, Daisy knocked twice on the wall.

  “That’s Susan!” she said in a forcibly bright voice. “I’d better be going . . .”

  “Daisy, is everything all—”

  “Love you, Granny. Bye!” Daisy tapped the end call button as fast as she could and stared straight ahead at her yoga robe hanging on her wardrobe door, the magical Eyes of Zoise staring right back at her. Reaching into the nearby bag, Daisy shoveled in a second cookie.

  When Granny’s number flashed back up on her phone, Daisy was in Xena Warrior Pose, earbuds in, bathed in the Zounds of Zoise. After three more calls, Granny gave up.

  “Do you think Daisy’s acting a bit . . . weird?” Susan asked when she and Esther were walking back from the supermarket.

  “Yes.” There was no arguing it, really. The times Esther had seen Daisy over the last few days, her behavior had been distinctly odd. For a start, she’d stopped cleaning the communal kitchen, which meant Esther had picked up the slack, and now no one knew where anything was—including Esther. Then there was all the chanting that Esther heard through the walls and so much herbal tea . . .

  “I think it’s all that yoga,” Susan said.

  Esther snorted. “You think any form of exercise is suspicious.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t just things with Daisy that were awkward. After open mic night, Esther had the impression that Susan was holding something back. Not that Esther wasn’t holding something back, too: a desperate need to gossip about McGraw. Was their feud really forgotten? Was he . . . forgiven?

  But she didn’t want to ask; she wanted to be told. She was giving Susan a chance to prove that things really had changed since the home-friends debacle. That Susan was allowing Esther and Daisy to get to know her on her own terms.

  Sometimes, Esther wasn’t so sure.

  It was with great relief that they finally entered the kitchen, the task of putting the shopping away drawing attention from the absence of any meaningful conversation. Just as they’d set the bags down on the table, Daisy burst into the room.

  “WHY HAVE YOU BEEN SHOPPING?!” she asked.

  United against a common enemy, Esther and Sus
an shrank closer together, keeping the table between them and a very angry Daisy.

  “We? . . . needed? . . . food?” Esther whimpered.

  “I only did my online shopping yesterday!”

  Susan and Esther exchanged a glance. They’d been through all the cupboards after lectures and written a list of all the things that weren’t in there. Essentials such as instant noodles and hummus and beef jerky and pesto.

  “Maybe the delivery hasn’t arrived yet?” Susan sounded as nervous as Esther felt.

  “I ORDERED IT TO BE DELIVERED BEFORE NOON.”

  “Maybe someone ate it?” Esther’s voice got smaller with each word, so fiercely was Daisy scowling at them.

  “MAYBE THAT PERSON WAS YOU?”

  “I don’t think Esther was—”

  “OR YOU?”

  With the full beam of Daisy’s rage focused on her, Susan reached out and gently pushed one of the shopping bags toward Daisy. “We bought you some crumpets.”

  And as if someone had flicked a switch, Daisy returned to normal. “Ooh, crumpets. Thank you.”

  Then she left the room.

  Once they’d heard the click of her door, Susan whispered, “Definitely acting weird.”

  Susan and Esther were acting weird. Why had they eaten all the food Daisy had ordered, then replaced it with all the wrong things? So Daisy decided the best thing to do was to encourage them to fill up at breakfast, so that the next time she ordered food to be delivered from the supermarket, she’d actually get to eat some of it.

  “But, Daisy, I don’t like muesli . . .”

  “No one does, Susan. But things that are good for us aren’t always nice. You know that. You’re training to be a doctor.”

  “I—what . . . ?”

  But Daisy did not have time for this, and she simply pushed her tray purposefully along, taking Susan’s with it. Potatoes, bacon, beans, nuts, fruit . . .

  “I can’t eat all this!”

  “You didn’t have a problem eating all these things yesterday.”

  Susan cast her a desperately bewildered look, which Daisy ignored, because Esther hadn’t put enough eggs on her plate. They were like children, these two.