Isolation

by Jenni Regan

  Tom finished his glass and went to get changed but then suddenly changed his mind. He was torn knowing letting Will off the leash could be sending him into the arms of his younger rival, but the idea of having to go and sit with their so-called friends and pretend that they were the perfect couple was too tiring.

  ‘You know what? I am actually going to hang out here and get an early night. I might even make myself a bowl of pasta or something.’

  Will looked surprised. The kitchen was more for show than function, but he let it drop as he headed off into the night, leaving Tom settled on the sofa yet feeling increasingly unsettled in his own life.

  Alice

  11 September 2018, 7 a.m.

  I awoke feeling fearful. There were a few minutes between sleeping and waking when I couldn’t remember why I was feeling this way and wondered if it was my nightmares. Then suddenly it hit me, chilling my blood and causing panic to rise in my chest. Something had happened to Granny, the woman who had been my entire universe for the last fifteen years. I still couldn’t really comprehend the enormity of what this might mean, so I decided the best thing to do was to carry on as though nothing had happened.

  I picked up my phone and told everyone I was back in the UK today. It was hard work having a public persona as an air hostess.

  Yuck can’t believe I have flown into all this rain DISLIKE!;(

  I then headed downstairs and ventured into the kitchen, walking around and gathering everything needed for my daily fry up. The quietness was scaring me, so I switched on the radio, letting my nerves be soothed by the inane chatter of some morning presenter that my gran loved. I ate my breakfast in the kitchen while checking my phone for any updates that needed feedback, wondering what kind of reaction I would get if I posted up the real situation going on in my home right now.

  Eventually, I could put it off no longer. I boiled the kettle and made two cups of tea, taking them to the living room. The first thing I did was open the curtains, and I was horrified to see the state of my gran. She was still sitting up rigidly and had turned a horrible purple colour. I noticed by the stain on the sofa and the smell I hadn’t noticed last night that Gran had obviously messed herself. I knew she would be mortified by this and vowed to clean this up as soon as I had the courage.

  I sat on the other end of the sofa and put Gran’s cup of tea down on the table in front of her, trying to pretend that everything was normal. If I didn’t acknowledge the situation, then perhaps it would go away.

  ‘Here you go, Gran. I’ve bought you a cuppa for you to enjoy in front of Lorraine. Shall I put it on?’

  I reached over and grabbed the remote, feeling a sense of relief as the room filled with the dulcet Scottish tones of Gran’s favourite morning presenter.

  ‘Oh, look, she is talking to that woman with the amazing dog who rescued the group of children. Remember we saw something about this on the breakfast show last week? Isn’t he cute?’ I turned the TV up a bit. ‘I used to always want a dog when I was a little girl, remember? But you always told me it was far too much work. You were probably right.’

  Lorraine moved onto the paper review, which was something I had no interest in, so I took my tea back into the kitchen and fired up my laptop. I was annoyed that I had received no more messages from Stan even though I could clearly see that he was online. I changed my status and tweeted out about unpacking, and then I went onto Stan’s profile page. I could see he had shared a funny video a few minutes ago, so I liked this. I knew not to be too keen, so I stopped myself from messaging him directly. I saw that he had updated his status.

  So got myself some quality pussy last night #soredick

  I felt sick with jealousy. I knew we were not officially in a relationship, but I had thought he cared about me enough not to go after other girls. I thought about texting him to let him know I was upset, but I knew men didn’t like to have women angry with them, so I left it, knowing I would have to think up a new plan to win him back.

  I then got drawn into a debate on Twitter all about some pop star’s new haircut. I personally thought the bleached crop looked good on the starlet, but I was apparently in a minority with many calling for her to hide herself away in a paper bag or calling her an ‘ugly, lesbo bitch.’ Seeing that there was such a strong feeling against the new look, I changed my viewpoint, switching to the haters’ side. I never liked to go against the majority viewpoint. It could make you unpopular.

  At five to eleven, I boiled the kettle again and put tea and biscuits onto a tray, shoving a few into my mouth as I walked into the living room. After setting it down on the coffee table, I removed the cold cup of tea that was not touched, which wasn’t surprising as there was no sign of life.

  ‘Here you go, Gran, a fresh pot with your favourite biscuits.’ I had even given up my favourite chocolate digestives in favour of the slightly odd garibaldis that my gran loved so much but which reminded me of dead insects. It was even more off-putting today as I noticed flies circling around Gran.

  After elevenses and a bit of Jeremy Kyle, it was almost time for me to start on lunch. Realising I could eat whatever I wanted, I went into the kitchen and Googled ‘lunch ideas’. Overwhelmed by the pictures, recipes and blogs that came my way, I got lost in food porn heaven for a while. A lot wasn’t necessarily to my taste—lots of foreign foods and vegetables, neither of which Gran or I were keen on—but some pictures included mountains of chips or juicy sausages stuck artfully in buttery mash. I then went to the freezer to pick out my meal. It was like I was a kid in a sweetshop. There was so much choice, and I had never been very good at making decisions. I went for a mixture and pulled out a lasagne, chicken nuggets, chips and potato wedges, dividing the food up between microwave and deep fat fryer.

  As I was waiting for my feast to cook, my phone buzzed to let me know I had a new message. I hoped that it would be Stan back to tell me how beautiful he thought I was or how he wanted to whisk me away and marry me, but I was disappointed when it was Uncle Tom. Then I felt bad because Tom was my second favourite person in the world. A message from him was undoubtedly a high point of my day. However, I felt instantly paranoid that somehow he knew what had happened, what I was trying to cover up. The message from Tom was short and told me about his week, described what meals out he had enjoyed with Will and asked me how his favourite niece was.

  I felt thrown by the niceness in his email and immediately thought about telling him the truth about the current situation. He wasn’t authority, and he had always looked out for me, but then I decided that I really didn’t want to worry him as he was so far away. There was nothing he could do. He might want to get professionals involved. I wondered how he would feel considering that Gran was his mother, but hadn’t he been the one who had vowed never to speak to her again after she had disowned him? Not to say he would be pleased that something bad had happened to her, but he might not be that upset either.

  After lunch, loneliness hit me like a tonne of bricks. For once, the familiar sounds of daytime TV and the comradery of my online friends wasn’t enough, so I signed on to Facebook as Tania, needing warmth and reassurance from Rachel. Sometimes the comments and likes from my online friends didn’t fill the gap, and I really craved what most other people had: a family, a mum and contact with people who really knew me and cared—not about what I looked like or what I was apparently doing but because I was me.

  It was days like this that I was tempted to tell Rachel exactly who I was, hopeful that she would be as motherly towards me as she was to her two other kids, but I knew I was only inviting pain and rejection if I told the truth. Instead, I posted a funny picture about mothers and daughters to my wall. Rachel liked this and added a comment and three kisses below which left me satisfied for now.

  I wondered what kind of comment she would have left if she could see how bad her own mother looked right now. I was beginning to realise that this wasn’t some made-up news or some unbelievable soap story. My gran had died, and I had no idea what I sh
ould do.

  Alice

  10 September 2018, 6.15 p.m.

  It was nearly teatime when I left my room. As I was walking down the stairs, something felt wrong. The TV was blaring out the Six O’Clock News, something my gran never watched. She was only a fan of real life when it came packaged up as a reality or talk show. I presumed Granny had fallen asleep in front of the box, as this was becoming a more frequent occurrence these days. Still, this gave me a chance to help my gran out by cooking dinner.

  It was a Friday, and I knew my gran always liked to have fish and chips on a Friday, often from the local chippy, but I thought I could cook it as well myself. The fridge freezer in the kitchen had no chips, so I headed down into the slightly spooky basement and opened the chest freezer that was filled to the brim with all the special offers Gran had picked up on her shopping trips over the months. After a quick rustle about, I found chips and a fish pie. Finishing my haul with some onion rings and peas, I felt pleased with myself.

  Once back in the kitchen, the fish pie went in the microwave and the chips and onion rings went in the deep fat fryer. I noticed that the fat in the fryer was looking old and had a few bits in it. Secretly, I enjoyed finding random bits of fried food in my meals, but I knew this wasn’t for everyone. As I cooked, I spread marg and ketchup on thick white bread, initially to serve with the meal, but I was so starving I shovelled it into my mouth, grabbing a couple more bits to butter as the meal accompaniment. After a few minutes, the microwave pinged to tell me all was ready, and I piled the food onto the plates, knowing my gran would only want about half of what I did. Shoving the ketchup under my arm, I grabbed both plates and cutlery and trudged into the living room, all smiles.

  As I had suspected, Gran had fallen asleep. I stifled a laugh as I could see my gran’s eyes half open and a fag that had burned down to the filter still in hand. I knew my gran would hate me staring at her.

  ‘Gran, I have made dinner for both of us!’ I shouted, putting the food down on the coffee table. My gran didn’t stir. I shook my gran gently, but this still got no reaction, so I shouted louder and touched my gran on the cheek. This was when I noticed that my granny was slightly cold to the touch. Feeling out of my depth, I grabbed my iPad from the kitchen and Googled ’cold to the touch’. Alongside lots of silly videos and articles, one stood out from the rest. It looked official and was in bold at the top of the page. I clicked on the link and it took me to the NHS website. To my surprise, the article was about what to do in an emergency. The website told me to check and see if the person was breathing, so I leant in close to my gran’s face, worrying she would wake up and shout at me for being so close. I couldn’t hear any breathing. I read on. It told me to check for a pulse, so I took the fag out of my gran’s hand and felt her papery dry wrist, but I wasn’t rewarded with a rhythm.

  I looked at what to do next. The website told me to phone 999. This was something that had been drummed into me as a young child at school, but I had also had bad experiences of the authorities. When I had been taken into care at a young age, it had been the worst time of my life. It was only when my gran rescued me and took me into her home that things improved.

  I knew what happened when outsiders got involved; we would be separated. She would be sent off to some home and I would have to go god knows where. I couldn’t decide between the two outcomes, so I settled on skipping that step for now and moving on to the next one.

  Paying full attention to the YouTube video that showed me what to do, I pressed down forcefully on my gran’s chest, willing her to wake up. I carried on chatting, hoping that this might help things along.

  ‘You are going to be so gutted that you are missing Hollyoaks.’

  ‘Come on, Gran, the food is getting cold.’

  ‘If you keep this up for much longer, you are going to miss all your evening viewing!’

  I didn’t know how long I had kept this up, but my action didn’t seem to make any difference, so I took a break. Sitting back on the sofa, I sat my gran back up again.

  ‘OK, I guess I will have to watch what I want on TV for a change,’ I said loudly, wondering if I could goad my granny back to consciousness. I turned over to the Channel 4 News, something my gran would definitely never watch. I had no idea what to do next, so I distracted myself with news about politicians I had never heard of and countries I was unlikely to visit. Every so often, I would check my gran, but there was still no sign of life. This all felt so unreal to me. I literally hadn’t stepped outside my door for years. This was unthinkable, and I felt useless.

  Stan

  10 September 2018, 9 p.m.

  Stan and Alice had more in common than it would seem at first glance. At twenty-six, Stan still lived at home under the care of his formidable but very nurturing mother. Like Alice, Stan was abandoned by a parent. In his case, it was his father, who, according to his mother, had baby mommas scattered around South East London like seeds in the wind. Despite appearances, Stan had also found it hard to fit in. He was too white for the big bad gangs that roamed his vast estate like wild animals, his big blue eyes and light coffee colour skin excluding him automatically, and yet, ironically, he was too black for the packs of chavs and Eastern Europeans that made up the rest of the demographic.

  What Stan had was bucket loads of charm. His mother always joked that he could charm his way out of a paper bag. This meant that, although he was not welcomed into any group with open arms, he could flit seamlessly between them, never quite lifting his head above the parapet to get himself into trouble. Stan had realised early on that this gift of charm could get him far, particularly with women. Teachers with reputations of bulldogs turned putty-like when he shined his little spotlight on him. Forgotten homework was forgiven and detentions magically disappeared.

  Despite showing some promise at school, Stan had never settled on a particular job, instead relying on a portfolio career. He sold a bit of dope, enough to keep some of the chavs gently stoned but not enough to tread on any of the gang’s toes. His charm made him a natural salesman, so he was often the ‘go-to’ man when bent goods came onto the estate. He never actually had to get his hands dirty, but he was happy to re-distribute the goods, setting up an office in the playground amongst the broken swings and used condoms. Because of this, he had become the man who knew how to get what you wanted. From frying pans to PlayStations, he always knew how to get his hands on stuff.

  By far his biggest money spinner to date, however, had happened purely by accident. Stan had never been short of female admirers, but he found himself bored easily. It was all about the chase with him, and he soon won the reputation as a heartbreaker. This was why the online world suited him so well. There was lots of female attention with little commitment or even actual contact. He had progressed steadily from schoolyard sexting to full-on webcam sex over the years, and he found that this, along with the occasional dalliance, was enough to keep him sated. He wasn’t greedy, after all. But then he had discovered that he could also make a few quid out of these women. The combination of hot girls and money making was almost too perfect for Stan.

  It was mainly in Europe that Stan sold his goods. He was amazed that people were still prepared to pay for crotch shots and fuzzy amateur masturbation films. Stan was yet to sell any actual penetration shots, but he was thinking about making his own film with one of his women. He quite liked the idea of being a porn star. Gone was the highly polished, fake porn of his youth with corny storylines and flattering camera angles. It was all about reality these days, as though the public appetite for watching supposed real-life shows about posh people or drunken Welsh youths had spilled over into porn. No longer was it about the beautiful yet untouchable woman with the bald cunt and perfect orgasm face, people wanted real hair, at least down there, and hints of cellulite. With reality came the need for evermore risky material, and it was rare for Stan to see a porn film without the woman being raped or at the very least enduring a penis or other objects up her bum. It didn’t float hi
s boat, but as a true entrepreneur, he could see this was where the market was.

  Stan did have principles and never went for girls below thirteen. He knew there was a definite market for junior porn, but he didn’t want to cross that line. He only ever went after girls he would consider sleeping with himself. Sometimes the younger teenagers were the most provocative. He never told them that the pictures or films were for anything other than personal use, and he hoped that by selling them abroad, he would avoid the girls coming across their images saved for prosperity.

  Occasionally he would come across one that was a hard nut to crack. It amazed him how easy it was to persuade girls to send him the most intimate pictures of themselves. However, Alice was a work in progress. She was totally not his usual target. For a start, she was older than he usually went for and seemed to have a successful career and social life. However, there was something very vulnerable that he could see in her, and this was what appealed to him. Usually, he went for girls who looked like they were lacking in attention—girls in care were generally the easiest, as they would do anything for some affection—but Alice fascinated him, despite her unwillingness to strip off and bend over metaphorically. He realised that he was quite enjoying the chase for once and checked Facebook often just to see what she was up to.

  She had sent him some shots that were supposed to be her in her panties, but being the seasoned pro he was, he knew they were lifted straight from Google; after all, some skin colours were different, and one girl even had a tiny belly button stud. Rather than making him angry, this made him want her more.

  He didn’t know why she was hiding from him. She was actually out of his league. Her profile pictures showed a stunning brunette with blue eyes framed by those ridiculous giraffe-like fake eyelashes and big, pumped up lips which made all girls look like porn stars these days. She was always in some nice hotel or out on the town, and he wondered when she had time to actually work.