by Priya Sharma
*
They are in the kitchen, eating breakfast. Pip starts to tell Emma to stop humming and keep her swinging legs still but thinks better of it. Let her sing. Let her legs swing. She watches Emma chew her cereal, her small jaw working. Her face is obscured as she clutches her beaker in both hands to drain it. Details of her daughter that she’s never noticed before.
Emma gets up and carries her bowl and beaker to the sink.
“Shall we make flapjacks tonight?” Pip feels a stab of shyness.
Emma nods as though making flapjacks is a regular event, her hand slipping into Pip’s. Pip gives it a grateful squeeze in return.
*
Pip locks the front door. A train rattles past. The noise elicits its normal Pavlovian response in Pip, the triggering of the sequence of thoughts that starts with Jack’s journey to work. Him at his office. Pip imagines it’s him when the telephone rings. How’s work at your end, Pip? There are cherished seconds to be had before she answers. The impossible hope that it’s him. Jack, whole, not ravaged by disease or the ills of chemotherapy. This train of thought terminates with the denial of his death. The bartering of grief. Jack, come back to me. It doesn’t matter how. Just come home.
“It’s gone.” Emma pulls at the corner of Pip’s coat and points.
They walk over to where the sunflower should be. Earth is scattered across the lawn in an arc. There is a hole where the giant flower had once stood. It looks like an empty grave. There are no fallen leaves or petals to indicate a struggle. Nothing else has been disturbed.
They walk to school, Emma, secure in their new found friendliness, badgers Pip with questions.
“Where is it? What about the baby sunflowers? Did a robber take them?”
A man with a swag bag and evil in mind.
“I don’t know, do I?” Pip is harsh. “I don’t want another word about the stupid flower.”
Emma’s face freezes. They’ve reached the school gates. The affair of the missing sunflower has made them late. Emma runs in to join the mass of children. There’s squealing and laughter. Cat’s cradle and skipping ropes. Coloured lines on the yard, markings for games Pip has long forgotten how to play.
*
There is no festooned incident tape to mark out the scene of the crime. Pip stands and looks, trying get inside the intruder’s mind. There are no clues. No footprints. No fingerprints. No ransom note in blood or simple ink. No motive for the felony. Pip goes to her bedroom window, hoping the wider view will be more revealing.
Why would anyone take it?
Pip looks along the neighbours’ gardens. A cat sleeps on a garage roof. Next door’s washing flaps on the line. Nothing is amiss. She can see no other horticultural violations. No mutilated marigolds. No abducted conifers.
Pip’s fury is sudden. She tears open the wardrobe, pulling at Jack’s clothes. Striped shirts. Trousers, still on their hangers. They fall in untidy puddles on the floor. Never, since Jack’s death, have they been treated with such disregard. Pip thrusts them into bin liners. The shirts. The suits. The lovely ties. She can’t stand to look at them. She wants them out of the house. They are relegated to the bin by the back gate.
Why would anyone steal a flower?
Someone has come into her garden by night. Someone crept in after dark, snickering as they looked up at the hushed light of Pip’s bedroom window. Someone has ripped her flower from the ground. No one would dare do this if she weren’t alone. She’s angry that Jack is not here. Pip is angry at Jack.
*
Emma’s hand is like dead wood in Pip’s. Pip tells her about the chocolate that she’s bought for the flapjacks but Emma says nothing.
Pip filled in the hole where the sunflower once stood that afternoon, slapping the soil down with the back of the spade to flatten it. She notices how Emma, stubborn child, doesn’t look at the spot but keeps her eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her. There’s a flush on her cheeks that Pip recognises as anger. She’s not sure whether Emma’s angry at her or the flower thief.
*
Emma draws at the kitchen table while Pip cooks. The kettle boils, steam creeping along the underside of the wall cupboards. Pip dismembers vegetables. She stops chopping and glances over at the child’s narrow back and bent head. Silence is their default state but now it bothers Pip.
“What are you doing?” Pip leans over Emma’s shoulder.
Emma tilts her head and continues with her labours. She punishes the paper, pressing hard with her crayon to make thick, waxy lines. It’s a sunflower. Pip sits beside her.
“I got angry this morning because I was frightened. I didn’t know what happened to the flower.”
Emma stops colouring and looks up at her, clutching the yellow crayon to her chest.
Pip tries again. “I got upset because we planted it for Daddy.”
There’s a knock at the door. A foreign sound. Pip’s unsure if she’s annoyed at the interruption or relieved that she’s been given a reprieve.
The knock comes again, a demand rather than a polite request. Pip thinks of the hole in the ground.
“Wait here,” she tells Emma.
Pip sees the caller’s silhouette through the frosted glass inserts of the front door. It’s a man, tall, head bowed, one arm resting against the frame as if exhausted. She’s startled by a noise behind her.
“Daddy?” It’s Emma.
Pip’s hands move of their own volition, reaching for the lock. The door swings open.
The figure unfurls to its full height. It fills up the doorway and casts a long shadow down the hall. The Sunflower Seed Man stoops to enter. The corridor can barely contain him.
His suit is crumpled from being balled up in the bin bag. The shirt and tie are a riot of clashing patterns and shades. Rustling foliage peeps out between his shirt buttons. Stems and roots protrude from sleeves and trouser legs, knotted up to make ankles and wrists, then splay out into feet and hands. Worms and soil are shed as he advances. His mane of withered petals is flattened back, like hair. Some of the seeds have fallen from his face in an approximation of a mouth.
Pip’s adrenaline advises flight, not fight. She backs away, snatching at the hall stand and heaves it over, coats and all. It crashes against the side panel of the stairs, shattering the mirror and blocking the Sunflower Seed Man’s path with a mess of coats and bags.
Pip runs into the kitchen, pushing Emma ahead of her. She rattles the backdoor key with sweaty fingers. There is the give of the lock but door only opens a fraction. It’s not even enough to slide Emma through. Pip flings herself at it in desperation, bones slamming against the wood. Looking through the small pane of glass she can see the garden and the gate at its end. Pip stands on tiptoes to see what’s blocking their escape. While she was collecting Emma from school, the Sunflower Seed Man has been busy. The contents of the outhouse, washer, dryer and a tangle of bicycles, have been heaped up against the kitchen door.
Pip grabs Emma’s wrist and turns back to the hall. The Sunflower Seed Man is pulling at the upturned furniture, getting caught up in the winter wear. His head is visible over the top of this pile. His smile is terrible.
“Upstairs, Emma. Now.”
There’s nowhere else to go.
The Sunflower Seed Man has managed to climb over the hall stand. He’s behind them now, closing the distance. Pip glances back. He takes the stairs on all fours. The jacket he’s wearing rips along its back seam with the strain, revealing the flesh pink lining beneath the blue fabric. Pip feels his hand brush her ankle as she reaches the top step. It spurs her into a sprint for the bedroom, picking up Emma as she goes.
So close. The Sunflower Seed Man traps his grasping fingers in the door as she slams it behind her. There’s a scream as he rips them free, a high pitch shrieking that shreds Pip’s nerves. She gives thanks that she kept the door key for privacy. Jack had been exasperated. For heaven’s sake, Emma can’t even walk properly yet.
The door handle rattles and then falls quiet.
There’s only the sound of the alarm clock and Pip’s panting. The floorboards creak beneath her as she moves, making her wince. Pushing up the window sash, she takes a deep breath and lets the fear out. She screams and screams.
The neighbour’s cat is in residence upon the garage roof. Its head turns in a snap and it fixes her with its green glare for daring to disrupt the peace. Then he rolls onto his back, squirming as if scratching an itch. The wind carries off Pip’s voice. No door opens. No one comes.
The floor boards creak again, this time from out on the landing. She needs a plan. She could knot sheets together and lower Emma down out of the window. Take Emma in her arms and jump. Or hide Emma in the wardrobe or under the bed.
There’s a thud against the door. Pip is transfixed, Emma clutched against her. Time’s run out. The Sunflower Seed Man is using a chair leg as a battering ram. The door frame won’t yield but the door panels buckle and splinter.
Do something.
The wardrobe is old and deep. Pip lifts Emma up and puts her inside, behind the dresses that are hung up like martyrs in a row.
“No matter what you hear, stay put. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
Pip kisses her. The dresses fall back into place and she closes the wardrobe.
The Sunflower Seed Man has made a hole low down in the door. His arm comes through, then his head, followed by the other arm. In he crawls and Pip is rooted to the spot.
He stands, taking off the tattered jacket and throws it on the bed. The gesture has panache. Intent. That of a man who wants his wife. The Sunflower Seed Man undoes the tie’s bungled knot and pulls at one end. It slides from under the collar in a way that makes her shudder. The shirt buttons are trickier. His foliage fingers lack dexterity. His damaged hand hampers him. Impatient, he rips the shirt open.
Pip bolts to the far side of the bed. He follows. She scrambles across the mattress but being nimble is no match for his long reach. She struggles to stay upright but he wrestles her down. The stems twine around her arms and legs. The Sunflower Seed Man’s head nuzzles her face. His withered mane stands erect in halo around his head. She seizes at it trying to pull him off but the stuff comes away in handfuls. Her mouth and nose are filled with seeds.
I’m suffocating, Pip thinks.
The Sunflower Seed Man is heavier than seeds and leaves ought to be. Stronger too. His rough leaves grind against her skin. They leave bloody abrasions where they’ve been, her belly smeared and sore where her t-shirt has ridden up.
“You’re not Jack.”
Her words are full of his debris. He lifts his head, as if to hear her better. She spits bits of him out.
“You’re not Jack.”
The stems are barbed wire around her wrists and ankles. As she struggles they tighten, drawing blood. He lays a loving cheek on hers. He presses himself close. Pip cries, dry smothered rasps that pass as sobs.
“Mummy.” Emma whimpers from the wardrobe.
Mummy. Not daddy. The Sunflower Seed Man turns his head, looking for the source of the sound.
“Look at me,” Pip says.
The Sunflower Seed Man looks at Pip and back to the wardrobe.
“No, look at me.” She kisses his gritty, grinning mouth.
She feels his hold slacken as his desire grows. Pip pulls her hands free and cradles his monstrous head with tenderness.
“You can’t have her, she’s mine.”
Pip fumbles to finds the main stem that is the Sunflower Seed Man’s neck. She grips it with both hands, hard as she can. He kicks and bucks, realising her ruse too late.
Jack’s dead.
Her fingers sink into the stem, making it hard for him to prise them off. It feels fleshy and wet. The sap stings her skin.
Jack’s dead. You’re not Jack.
He pummels her with his fists, indiscriminate, panicked blows. Pip feels something in her left cheek crack but refuses to let go.
Jack’s dead but I’m not. Neither is Emma.
Pip holds on long after the struggle has gone out of the Sunflower Seed Man. His great head flops to one side.
Pip cries as she lies there, clutching the carcass of the dead sunflower in her arms.
The Ballad of Boomtown
It’s estimated that in 2011 there were 2,881 semi or unoccupied housing developments in Ireland.
*
There was a time when we put our faith in Euros, shares and the sanctity of brick. A time when we bought our books from stores as big as barns and ate strawberries from Andalusia, when only a generation before they’d been grown on farms up the road.
The wide avenues of Boomtown were named for trees when there was grand optimism for growth. Now nothing booms in Boomtown. It’s bust and broken.
I miss you. You were a lick of cream. I can still taste you.
I walk to the village on Mondays. I pull my shopping trolley the three miles there and back along the lanes. I used to drive to the supermarket, just for a pint of milk, without a thought to the cost of fuel. It doesn’t matter now. I like to walk.
Sheila-na-gigs look down on me from the church walls as I pass by. These stone carvings are of women with bulging eyes and gaping mouths, displaying their private parts. These wantons are a warning against lust. Or a medieval stone mason’s dirty joke.
The shop’s beside the church. Deceased, desiccated flies lie between the sun faded signs. There’s a queue inside. I’ve heard all their grumbling about prices and supplies. They decry the current government, the one before, the banks and then apportion blame abroad. Despite the orderly line and polite chatter, I can imagine these women battling it out with their meaty fists if the last bag of flour in Ireland was at stake.
We’re not so poor as yet that we can’t afford a veneer of civilised behaviour.
I put my face to the glass as the shop owner takes the last slab of beef from the chilled counter and wraps it. I wish I’d got up earlier. I would’ve spent half my week’s grocery allowance to smell the marbled flesh sizzling in a pan.
The bell jangles as I push the door open. A few heads turn. A woman leans towards her companion and whispers in his ear. I catch the words blow in. I’m a Boomtown interloper, buffeted by changing fortune. There’s a pause before the man looks at me. His salacious glance suggests he’s heard scandalous stories.
I’ve no doubt a few of them recall me from before, when I first came here to talk to them about my book. There was a certain glamour in talking to me.
I take my time considering the shelves’ contents while the others pay and leave. There are budget brands with unappetising photos on the cans. Boxes of cheap smelling soap powder and white bread in plastic bags. I tip what I need into my basket.
“I want freshly ground coffee.”
I can’t help myself. I’m the Boomtown Bitch. It’s cruel. The shop owner’s never done me any harm. She always offers me a slow, sweet smile. It’s fading now.
“We only have instant.”
“Olives then.” I want my city living, here in the country. I want delicatessens and coffee bars. Fresh pastries and artisan loaves.
She shakes her head.
“Anchovies, balsamic vinegar. Risotto rice.” The world was once a cauldron of plenty.
“I only have what’s on the shelves.”
She’s struggling to contain herself in the face of my ridiculous demands. I sling the basket on the counter where it lands with a metallic thud and slide. There’s a dogged precision in how she enters the price of each item into the till. She doesn’t speak but turns the display to show me the total, waiting as I load my shopping into the trolley. Her refusal to look at me isn’t anger. There’s glimmer of unshed tears. It’s not her fault. It’s yours. It’s mine.
I feel sick. Yet another thing that can’t be undone. I try and catch her eye as I hand her a note but she’s having none of it. I want to tell her that I’m sorry. It’s shameful that I don’t even know her name and now she’ll believe the worst she’s heard and won’t ever smile at
me again. She slides my change over the counter rather than putting it into my hand.
The bell above the door jangles as I leave.
*
The chieftain stood before the three sisters, flanked by men bearing swords and spears, and said, “This is my land now.”
“We lived here long before you came,” they replied.
“By what right do you claim it? Where’s your army?”
“You can’t own the land, it owns you.” That was the eldest sister. “Rid yourself of such foolish desires.”
“No. Everything you see belongs to me.”
“Do you own that patch of sky?” the middle born said.
The chieftain was silent.
“Is that water yours?” That was the youngest. “See how it runs away from you.”
“I want this land.” The chieftain stamped his feet. “Look at my torque. Even metal submits to my will.”
“You’ll be choked by that gold around your throat.” The eldest stepped forward. “You’re master of ores and oxen, wheat and men alike, but not us. We’re like the grass. We only bow our heads to the wind.”
The chieftain looked at them, pale witches in rags with swathes of dark hair and there were the stirrings of a different sort of desire.
The chieftain and his men raped the sisters, one by one.
“See,” he said, “I possess everything.”
“We are ancient. We are one and we are three.” The youngest covered herself with the tatters of her clothes. “We were there at the world’s birth. We are wedded to the earth. We don’t submit. We endure.”
A cold wind came in carrying rain even though it was a summer’s day.
“We curse you and your greed.” The middle sibling swallowed her sobs and raised her chin. “It’ll grow so large that it’ll devour you and your kind.”
Thunderbolts cracked the sky.
“We’ll dog your children’s steps from womb to tomb.” The eldest had the final word. “When their fortune’s in decline we’ll rise again. No one will be spared our wrath. Then we’ll go to heal what you’ve rent.”