by Tom Becker
“Oh,” says Rae, fanning her mouth against the heat of a nuclear chip, a heat that comes welcome, wrapped as they are, much like their food, but in scarves and hats and jackets like duvets. The sea plays the role of the vinegar bottle, sprinkling them as each wave hits the wall. “I just do the robbing,” Ben adds with a pride that doesn’t seem so misplaced at the time. So when he leans in to give Rae a Tango-and-tomato-sauce kiss, I – Rae loves him back with all of her might.
*
Back home, in the thin night, Rae prepares herself for a sermon on the sinfulness of men. What she does not prepare herself for is the sight of the ogre standing at her open bedroom window.
“Go,” says Rae to the prince, pushing him away. Though he knows more than her about calling up at windows and winning over the sad, he knows nothing of ogres, the way they are filled with pain, leaving no room for love.
“Are you sure?” he asks, looking up, watching as the fat, glassy tears of the ogre are whisked away by the wind.
Rae nods and the prince does as he’s told, untangling his fingers from hers.
“And you can go, too,” yells the ogre to his daughter. “Stay out! You’re not coming back in here now you’ve betrayed me. The cat’s got you. He can keep you. You’re as bad as your evil mother.”
“Shall I call the police?” These are Prince Ben’s final words, but Rae shakes her head and he drives away, the sound of Jacob’s engine eventually lost to the sea.
The ogre and his daughter listen to the waves sigh and swallow.
“Come out,” says Rae.
“No,” growls the ogre.
“Please, Dad,” she says. “Let your hair down. We all need to let our hair down every once in a while.”
The seagulls cry, filling her silence, and the ogre disappears from the window with a shake of his head. Rae is left alone in the wasteland of the cobbles, with the rise and fall of the sea, the cotton-wool bass of passing car stereos, the chatter and the giggle of the amusements.
But that’s when the door opens, the one that leads from the street to the two-bedroomed flat above. The ogre is there – a silhouette in the yellow light that trickles down from the lobby’s tired lampshade. One more step and the ogre will be out in the night, in the dangerous night, where a boy could rob him of his wallet any minute, rob him of his daughter, even. And he takes that step, the ogre, and he doesn’t turn to dust, so he takes another, and another, towards the orange light of the streetlamps, towards his daughter.
Two stray passers-by twist their necks to stare at this miraculous scene – an ogre showing itself to the world, out in real life. They turn to whisper about how he seems so much more human than they remembered. One even dares to say hello.
“Hi,” replies the ogre, his voice crackling like the sound when you unwrap a parcel.
Rae takes the hand of this half man/half ogre/all father and they go, steady on the frosting cobbles, around the corner of the building to the main road, towards the excitable notes of the Magical Palace, past the boys and girls in their flammable anoraks, blowing smoke up at the artificial illuminations. And this is when the snow starts – an omen that they should go inside. So they do, Rae leading the way, towards the grab machine that promises dreams but never delivers.
“Here.” She hands the ogre some gold, explains how you must press this button first, then this one, and how you only get one chance, you can’t go back for more. She understands that the ogre, quivering in the newness of the air, will need directions, but she’s prepared to steer him a little through the wilderness if it means she can go, every once in a while, into the undiscovered country herself.
The coin drops and the machine immediately wakes, burbling its delight. The ogre presses the first button and, as he does, Rae tells him about the wonders of the town next door, the shiny fairground, the hot fat chips. As he presses the second button, she tells him about the A-level college that’s there, its impressive library.
Down drops the claw, open and ready. It closes, hungry, around … the bluebird! The bluebird! It’s quite violent in a way, the sudden reflex of that grab, but so wonderful all the same. Rae grips the human skin of the ogre’s wrist in anticipation as they watch the crane wobble its way back to the drop chute. She doesn’t want to let go, not just yet. She wants to hold on to this moment, have it hang there in sight. Here is the promise of a ‘yes’, the greatest treasure of all.
But Rae does let go – because the universe has paid out! Life has delivered! The claw has opened and the bluebird is theirs! Rae jumps up and down. She claps her hands and she cheers. The machine plays a song in a key just right for a time like this. The ogre’s eyes are shining, and not with tears. This Christmas won’t necessarily be big and jolly, but little and merry, Rae decides, will do. She crouches down so that she might ceremoniously collect their winnings. Here it is, a bird set free.
Routes and Wings
–
Lisa Williamson
With thanks to members of Crisis for sharing their stories
I’m sitting in the windowless staffroom of Sandwich City eating the sandwich of the day (tuna melt). ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’ by Shakin’ Stevens is crackling out of the ancient radio. It reminds me of the CD Mum used to play every year as her Christmas-present-wrapping soundtrack, singing along tunelessly, pausing every so often to swear at the Sellotape dispenser.
“Pete, can I have a word?” I ask.
Pete is my boss. He doesn’t like me very much.
He groans like I’ve just asked him to run a marathon on my behalf.
“Fine,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just make it quick, all right. I’ve got some calls to make.”
Pete’s always got ‘calls to make’.
“It’s about next week’s rota,” I say.
“What about it?” he asks, setting what smells like a Starbucks gingerbread latte down on the table.
Even though we get a hefty staff discount, Pete always goes elsewhere for his lunch. Today he has a brown paper bag from the burrito shop next door looped over his wrist.
“It’s just that I’ve only got one shift. Tomorrow. Then nothing until after Christmas.”
“Sorry,” he says, shrugging and sounding the exact opposite. “That’s the way it worked out.”
“It’s just that Angel has six shifts.”
“She’s been here longer than you,” he replies, sitting down opposite me and unwrapping his jumbo-sized burrito. Even though I’m officially a veggie, it smells incredible. “She gets priority.”
Nothing at all to do with the fact she has legs up to her armpits and insists on wearing an extrasmall Sandwich City polo shirt, her tits permanently straining against the thin cotton material.
“She started, like, two weeks before me,” I say. “And she’s always late.”
Pete glares at me, the bright yellow strip-lighting illuminating every single blackhead on his greasy nose.
Sometimes I wonder what might happen if I flirted a bit, giggled at his sexist jokes and let him ‘accidentally’ rub up against me behind the counter, the way Angel does. Would the rota look a bit different right now if I did?
“Are you telling me how to do my job, Lauren?” Pete asks, lowering his burrito. There’s a blob of sour cream on his chin, clinging to his pathetic attempt at a beard.
I have my usual fantasy of tearing off my apron and telling him to stick his shitty job before storming out in a blaze of glory. Only I know I won’t. Pete may be awful and the job may be crap, but I can’t risk losing it.
“Of course I’m not telling you how to do your job,” I say eventually. “I was just hoping for a few more shifts, that’s all.”
“You and everybody else,” he says, spraying rice and refried beans with every syllable. “You have no idea how stressful it is managing you lot. No idea at all.”
I take a deep breath. “Well, if anything comes up, I’m available.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He pauses to sip his coffee. “Was th
at all you wanted?” he asks.
I hesitate before nodding my head.
“Good,” he says, taking out his phone and tapping at the screen with the stylus he keeps permanently tucked behind his left ear. I sigh and shovel my sandwich wrapper and empty cup into the bin.
*
My mobile vibrates against my hip as I wash my hands in the loo. I dry them off and fish out my phone from my pocket. It’s an old-fashioned Nokia Milly donated after my phone got stolen.
Milly is my sort-of girlfriend. I say ‘sort of’ because she always acts a bit funny when I use the ‘g’ word – claims she doesn’t like labels. I met her online before I moved down here. She’s seventeen, like me, and studying hotel management at college. I smile when I see her name on the screen, but it quickly fades as I read her text.
Soz L, Mum’s got the lurgy so not going out any more :( Will u be ok finding somewhere else to kip? M xx
Milly’s mum doesn’t like me either. Ever since she walked in on us kissing and went ballistic, she won’t have me in the house. She was supposed to be out at a party tonight and Milly was going to sneak me in, then back out again in the morning while her mum slept off her inevitable hangover. I’ve been looking forward to it all week, every spare minute spent fantasizing about a night curled up in Milly’s squishy bed, her warm body pressed against mine.
I hesitate before tapping out a short reply.
No worries. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Another time? L xoxo
No reply.
*
My official job title at the Oxford Circus branch of Sandwich City is ‘Sandwich Artisan’. What a laugh. As if there’s any artistry involved in dolloping meatballs and slices of cheese on to a bit of bread.
There’s four of us behind the counter today – Angel on the till, Tao, Stacey and I constructing the sandwiches. They’re all students and either living at home or in ramshackle house shares. As far as I’m aware, they assume the same of me.
“Any joy with Pete?” Stacey asks as I pull on a fresh pair of plastic gloves and slide into the gap beside her.
“What do you think?”
She screws up her face in sympathy.
“If it’s any consolation, I only have two shifts,” she says. “And I haven’t finished my Christmas shopping yet. I’m going to be soooooo skint come January.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmur.
“You coming tonight?” she asks.
She’s talking about the Sandwich City Christmas ‘do’ – a meal at Pizza Express followed by drinks in Tiger Tiger; all Angel’s choice from what I can gather.
I shake my head.
Stacey’s face falls. “Why not?”
“Can’t. Got to babysit.”
“Who for?”
“My neighbour’s kid. I agreed to it ages ago. I thought I mentioned it.”
The lies trip off my tongue almost too easily.
“Guys,” she announces to the others. “Have you heard this? Lauren’s ditching us tonight to babysit!”
“What?” Angel says, pouting. “But I’ve booked the table for eighteen.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t turn it down. The money’s really good.”
“How good?” Tao asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Like fifteen quid an hour.”
“Nice one,” he says, raising his hand for a high five.
Here at Sandwich City, we’re all on between four and six quid per hour, depending on our age, although I wouldn’t be surprised to find out Angel gets more. As the youngest member of staff, I’m at the very bottom of the pay scale.
“Jesus,” Stacey says. “I thought you lived in Harrow, not bloody Chelsea.”
I shrug. “Last Saturday before Christmas, innit. They must be feeling generous.”
“In that case, why are you moaning on about your shifts?” Angel asks. “You’re gonna be loaded come tomorrow.”
She can talk. I know for a fact her dad pays her whopper of a phone bill and gives her pocket money on top of what she earns here.
“It’s just a one-off,” I mutter, regretting making my imaginary hourly rate so high.
There’s a sudden flurry of customers. By the time there’s another lull, the conversation has moved on to the X Factor final and I’m glad.
*
“You sure you can’t come out for one?” Stacey asks at the end of our shift.
Before the meal, everyone is congregating in All Bar One on Regent Street.
“Best not,” I say. “I said I’d be round there by seven.”
We’re crammed into the tiny locker room just off the staff room getting changed out of our T-shirts and polyester trousers. Angel has just poured herself into a skintight minidress, which will probably guarantee her any shift she wants for the foreseeable future. Stacey is sniffing at her hair and frowning.
“God, I’m sick of smelling like this place,” she says, sighing and spritzing it with perfume.
I shove my uniform in my locker and pull on the puffa jacket Milly lent me. It’s not really my style and a bit too short on the sleeves, but it’s about a hundred times warmer than the coat I had before.
“You off, then?” Stacey asks, watching me zip it up to my chin.
“Yeah,” I say, heaving my backpack on to my shoulders.
She cocks her head to one side. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she says. “What the hell do you keep in that thing? It always looks like it weighs a ton.”
“Just stuff,” I say, my voice wobbling slightly.
“What kind of stuff? Bowling balls?”
I hesitate.
“Stace is on to something,” Angel chimes in, pausing from her false eyelash application. “You look like a teenage mutant ninja turtle with that thing on your back.”
I laugh. It’s a hollow laugh though, one with no destination.
They’re both still looking at me, waiting for an explanation.
“It’s just my gym kit and that,” I say. I glance up at the clock to avoid making eye contact with either of them. “Shit, I’d better get off,” I stammer. “Have fun tonight, yeah.”
I slip out of the door with my head down before they can say anything else.
*
It’s cold outside, my breath forming a little white cloud every time I exhale. I’ve walked maybe twenty metres when I realize I’ve left my gloves at the bottom of my locker. I debate going back to get them before remembering the expressions on Stacey and Angel’s faces as they speculated over the contents of my overstuffed backpack. I shove my hands deep in my pockets instead and hope I won’t regret my decision later.
When I first arrived in London it was summer. Light evenings and leaves on the trees, an outbreak of freckles on my face and shoulders. Now it’s dark all the time and my face is permanently pale and waxy, starved of vitamin D, despite the blusher I apply from the tester pots in Boots when no one’s looking.
Oxford Street is predictably packed. I wander in and out of the stuffy shops, pretending to browse. I make a list of gift recipients in my head, assigning them presents I could never afford – one of those Nespresso coffee makers for Mum, a cashmere cardigan for Nan, a pair of Nike Free trainers for Milly.
A one-way ticket back to Australia for Craig.
As I drift around Debenhams, I become aware of a security guard on my tail. I zigzag across the shop floor, just to make sure I’m not imagining it, taking sharp corners at random. I glance over my shoulder. He’s a couple of metres behind me, murmuring into his walkie-talkie. For a few seconds we eyeball each other, waiting to see who will make the next move. I want to stay, go up to the toy department and pick out an imaginary present for my baby cousin, Noah, but the dickhead security guard has sucked all the fun out of my fictional shopping spree. I give him the finger and leave by the nearest exit.
I head east up Oxford Street, before taking a left on to Tottenham Court Road, where I spend an hour mooching around the big Paperchase. I love all that stuff – notepads and pens and pencil sh
arpeners and rubbers and things – always have. Under my bed at home there are two ice-cream tubs crammed full of rubbers I’ve collected over the years – interesting ones, though, shaped like different things. My favourite looks just like a slice of watermelon – even smells like one, too. When I was little I would just sit there and sniff it for hours on end. Mum used to laugh and call me her ‘little loony toon’. I wonder if they’re still there or whether they’ve been chucked out by now. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. Craig, I mean. I picture my old bedroom stripped of my furniture and stuff, replaced with his stupid weights bench and rowing machine.
I leave Paperchase and head south down Charing Cross Road until I reach Trafalgar Square. It’s packed full of tourists taking photos of the Christmas tree and listening to the carol singers gathered at its base. I weave among them, listening to their accents intermingling – Italian and Russian, Mandarin and American. I pop out on Piccadilly, near Fortnum and Mason. I’ve never been brave enough to go in before, intimidated by the doorman in his top hat and the fancy window displays. I enter gingerly, relieved to find it chaotic, stuffed with people searching for last-minute gifts. I head up the winding staircase to the Christmas department where I find a decoration I know Mum would just love – a turtle dove constructed from delicate white feathers. I let it dangle from my index finger as I check the price tag. Thirty quid. They must be taking the absolute piss. I notice the price of everything these days, quibbling over every last penny in my purse. Mum might even be proud if she knew.
The shops are starting to close. I head to M&M’s World because it’s open until midnight, watching as spoiled little kids fill up massive paper cups with sweets until they’re overflowing. I check my phone. Still nothing from Milly.
Dinner is a one pound slice of pizza from a kiosk near Leicester Square station. My fingers are so cold I almost drop it. I eat it in a shop doorway, savouring every cheesy bite, saving the crust for later, wrapping it in a napkin and sticking it in my pocket. I’m thirsty, eyeing up the cans of Coke in the fridge, but daren’t risk drinking anything at this stage in the night.