Best British Short Stories 2016

by Nicholas Royle

  – There.

  When Susan claps down the lid a petal falls from a rose on the piano top. One of the removal men must have put it there. What was that all about, Molly wonders.

  – So. Come on Molly, we can’t sit on orange crates all day.

  – No.

  her mind is back with the Evening Standard

  – It weighs less than a little packet of sugar. It would be a toy in your hand.

  – No pets. Is it true you’ve kept mice?

  – What if I did? Oh Susan don’t worry, it’s not as if speaking the words can make a monkey appear.

  or maybe they could

  that was the thing about words, the word-thing that began with Hal Hamm . . .

  she checks the Standard

  – 430 grammes it says, while you have your ton of piano.

  – Ton? A ton of piano would be quite a piano. Are we going to see the Boat Race or not?

  Molly takes a cap from a box. Susan calls it jaunty. Don’t say that Susan, you make us sound old. They leave the beach chairs propped by all the boxes. They will walk alongside the Overground to get a riverside view of the eights (Susan calls them eights; Molly thought she said aches). They pass cow parsley behind the row of houses and cow parsley behind railings and cow parsley beside the meadows and cow parsley by the Health Club and more cow parsley by the rail tracks.

  parsley but no cows

  They sit on a concrete wall by Barnes Bridge. A girl with a tray of Mars bars passes. As they wait for the eights to shoot by, Molly still hears the piano. She hears the lid shut. The water is dark. She wonders how cows swim.

  – Remember Hal Hammond and the Liquorice Angus?

  – Who?

  – Hal, Hal Hammond.

  – Hal Hammond. Who is Hal Hammond?

  Molly flaps her cap at Susan’s knees.

  – Oh him, says Susan. That little country outing. Him with the hair.

  – Yes with the hair, that looks like the monkey I’m going to get us.

  – Like the monkey you’re not going to get us. Besides, those monkeys are almost extinct.

  – Oh really, are they now?

  – It’s not like getting a dog. Get realistic, Molly . . .

  realistic? thinks Molly, realistic

  a police launch ploughs upriver

  . . . shut that door, get him out of your system. Have a Mars bar, get your teeth in it, and cheer like mad when they go by.

  – Why? Why should we cheer?

  – To let it out. Forget him.

  – It’s so hard, hard to forget.

  Damn Hal Hammond. She was constantly reaching out from under his shadow, but his shadow was large, larger than she ever thought possible.

  At their first meeting (also beside the Thames, at Hammersmith) she was struck both by his white hair and the force of his words. The words stuck. The Internet was a bureaucratic technology. England was a nation of bumblers and bunglers

  my golden girl, he called her

  she was no girl, how did that slip through

  and what about the my, could that be right

  the word-thing

  words added to things everywhere

  more to cows than being cows

  If the black and white blotches on cows in a field put him in mind of liquorice and he said the cows were Liquorice Angus, then for Molly they were, as a fact, were and always would be. After he said they were called Liquorice Angus she saw them everywhere. Following, grouping and re-grouping like Travellers, roaming the country, chewing their parsley. And so casually. Knees knocking and hooves going tonk at tree trunks and gateposts. Resting their heads on SUVs. About to appear again, at any moment.

  As they wait by the black water, she imagines cows, the cows, gathering at the back of the Health Centre. About to cross in single file over Barnes Bridge. Looking over the back fence of their newly acquired property. Leaning on the fence so it collapses.

  There had of course been more searing, more personal instances of the word-thing, in which – simply – he had pointed out where he found her wanting. It had begun sweetly in June. By November all was sour. Her admiration had peaked, and flipped: she feared his words. Damn Hal Hammond: casting such a shadow. He wasn’t even a looker.

  Leaving him in the clatter of Chelsea, where nothing ever stopped or was quiet – youth and crime at every corner – Molly had struck out with her new friend Susan Thress.

  Susan had hesitated – when she heard Molly had bones in boxes; had kept an animal skull in her bathroom, better to observe the maggots. Oh well, Susan had said, it doesn’t sound life-threatening. They agreed a quiet week to consider before signing, contracting themselves to equal responsibilities.

  In that time Molly contemplated the pleasure of hearing Susan enter the keyboard – as it felt. In she went, inside the music, in the piano. She liked her habit of clapping down the lid on finishing. At each thud Molly felt she could start anew, from that point.

  Now there’s a rumble from the Barnes side. Will she wave her cap, she’s not sure. A growing rumble. There they are. The eights are coming up fast. The dark blues seem ahead. All is dark for a moment, dark overhead and over the river.

  – I know a shady little pet shop, Susan. They’ll get me one. I’ll call it Hal.

  – In exorcism? Is that how it works?

  Molly has no idea.

  – Yes, she says, in exorcism.

  On the way back it drizzles. There is cow parsley on the river bank, cow parsley around the car park. The drizzle thickens. The Liquorice Angus behind the Health Club will be sheltering in the squash court.

  Hal the monkey would be made to feel at home, provided they found somewhere for it to swing in. They would have to raise him not to stray. To depend on them.

  – We’ll have irresistible food, says Molly behind Susan at the door. The glass door-pane reflects the next aircraft coming in to land.

  – He will come scampering at the sound of his name.

  Susan puts the kettle on. Molly flops on the sofa, closes her eyes and murmurs to herself.

  We can try to establish minimal communication. I will go around repeating useful phrases:

  I hear no snakes. What about you, Hal? There are no snakes. Hawks. What’s that? Sh. Chichichichichichichi.

  We’ll speak his language.

  snakes, hawks (the Standard listed the few enemies of the tamarin)

  ocelots

  what are ocelots?

  a fly lands, he snatches and eats it

  or:

  There are seeds on the floor there, Hal are you blind? There, by the window.

  when Hal the monkey talks I will imitate him:

  Jujuju. Dibble dibble.

  – Here.

  Molly opens her eyes to take the mug of tea from Susan, who takes her own to the piano.

  She plays the river piece again. This time the lid closes gently.

  – I like the way that slows. Maybe I should do more slow pieces. Moon River. Joni Mitchell: River. Didn’t Springsteen . . .

  – Sh, can you hear a snake?

  – Snake?

  that’s how it would be

  the three of them

  Where? Susan would say.

  In the kitchen.

  they would worry about him, like a child

  keep him away from the foxes and squirrels

  not that his hair could turn any whiter

  Hal’s on edge, Susan. Switch on a light and he jumps. He can’t understand electricity.

  Are you suggesting we don’t switch lights on any more?

  that’s how it would be

  Susan blows on her tea.

  Molly on hers.

  I tell you Molly, Susan would say: that monkey has got claws. He’s been ripping the
curtains. He saw me drawing them, now he’s doing it himself.

  He’s not a monkey, he’s Hal.

  And his hairs are everywhere.

  I know. Even in the air.

  He’s all over the place. I wish he wouldn’t climb over everything.

  Wait. Hal’s saying something.

  word-thing, man-thing

  He just wants more flies. But he’s yours, Molly, you get them. It’s no trouble. The cows leave so many.

  The cows have moved on, haven’t you noticed? You’ve been in your piano so much.

  yes that’s how it would be

  He’s saying something else now. Look at those whiskers. That quivering. He loves you, Molly.

  Hal? No way, not Hal Hammond. He wasn’t capable. He never loved me, never will. That’s not what he’s saying to me now.

  Greg Thorpe

  1961

  New York, April 22, 1961

  I decided I ought to quit my job after attempting courtship with a young woman who worked for the company. We had been on a number of dates and were soon the talk of the typing pool which I found to be unbearable and so I took to standing alone in the bathroom stalls for as long as I reasonably could at various points of the day. The girl was forward, a New York girl. Her kisses were wet and designed to encourage. She touched my leg in a bar where the bartender watched us with an unusual amount of interest. His sleeves were rolled up neat to the elbow showing forearms exotically brown against a pristine white shirt. He mixed a martini too dry and observed me as I drank it. The girl reminisced about high school and such as I dutifully lit her cigarettes.

  For our final date together I had shown up drunk. I believe I was unkind. The girl ran down the street away from our rendezvous point outside the movie theatre. I immediately stumbled into traffic and hailed a cab that took me downtown where I was refused entry into a bar. A guy dressed mostly in white approached and said he knew of a place nearby where his friend worked the door and a guy like me might get a drink without any trouble. I followed him a little ways down the street and onto a quieter side street where he suddenly turned to face me. He held my jacket lapels with both hands and pulled me in. My blood began to pound. One hand was on my chest and into my jacket. He found my wallet, lifted it without a fight and in a couple of quick moves he popped the back of my knee and dropped me on the sidewalk. When I opened my eyes he was gone. I lay there a while listening to the rats.

  I decided I would live downtown and after that a lot more drinking started to happen. One night I slept under trees in Central Park after sending my cab in the wrong direction. (I forgot I had a new address and ran short of money to pay the driver.) I was too far gone to make it home on foot so I swerved my way three blocks to the park instead. Sometime in the night I woke from sobriety and the cold. I could smell cigarette smoke all around me but saw nobody.

  The new apartment is a little cheaper and a lot smaller and anyhow I never mind starting over. Soon I will be twenty-six years old. I have never made any plans except to come to New York City. In the new apartment I have clothes and records and a record player and shelves awaiting their books. Whatever else I owned has been returned to the collection of deserted city trash, going round and round, apartment to apartment, trying to find a place to fit.

  I’m on Sixth Avenue and I jaywalk to Radio City Music Hall as a man is leaving the building. We look at one another on cue as if someone has sounded a bell. For a chilly morning he seems underdressed in white shirt with a jacket under his arm but soon I am close enough to notice that his forehead is glassy with sweat. I speculate that he works backstage at Radio City and for a second or two we are walking side by side in the same direction but he takes the lead and I slow a little and twice he looks over his shoulder to meet my eye as I fall into step behind him.

  A little further along the street and he stops and turns. I instinctively go for my wallet which I have yet to replace.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he asks, ‘do you happen to know the time?’

  ‘I’m afraid I forgot to wear my watch today,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s too bad.’ He stays right where he is. The sweat is evaporating from his skin. My guess is he was making a delivery to Radio City and was late but now his errand is done.

  ‘Are you late for something?’ I ask. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m running late myself. I have an interview this morning, all the way downtown.’

  ‘I see. Good luck with that,’ he laughs. ‘I live midtown. Nearby. I guess I’ll find out the time there.’

  He stares at me and my mouth dries.

  ‘Two guys without a watch, huh?’ he continues through my silence. ‘If you need to know the time right away, you could stop by my place, I guess. It’s real close.’

  In the hallway of his apartment it is cold but warm at the same time and I hold my breath for too long and study the top of his head with the perfect parting in his hair and a crescent of shine from his pomade. When I reach to touch the side of his face my jacket sleeve pulls back and my watch face is caught in the meagre light.

  When I return to the sidewalk shaking, I promise myself I will be here at the same spot at the same time at Radio City Music Hall tomorrow on Sixth. I walk all the way downtown, look nobody in the eye, miss the interview, go to a bar.

  At home I am sorry to discover a full bottle by the bed, and one that’s half empty. I drink shots and play a record but it was a mistake to arrive here empty handed. There is nothing to keep me home for long. The music puts me in the mood for a bar. Not company, just a bar. The Scotch puts me in the mood for company. I don’t know the neighborhood so I walk the streets smoking cigarettes. I pass a bar twice and as I finally go to enter, men begin to pour from the doorway and disperse on the street. The last guy to leave pulls a hat down over his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Cops.’

  A few blocks away now and this same guy is paying for our drinks. I guess he is ten years my senior. He wears a sharp cologne. He is easy enough to get along with. Even without the suit and the superior hat and the cologne I would guess he had money, the way he holds your eye, firm like a handshake. We have some laughs. My mind occasionally slips back to the hallway and the crescent of shine and it puts a pain in me so I finish the beer and switch to Scotch.

  I know he doesn’t live in the city and I want to know what has brought him to New York. He shows me a hotel room key and asks if I recognise the place. He isn’t subtle but I’m too drunk for subtle so I ask again what brings him here and he tells me business.

  ‘I have tickets for a show while I’m in town. Would you like to join me?’

  ‘I’m too drunk for shows. I’d fall asleep.’

  He laughs. ‘Not tonight, tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t you wanna bring your wife?’ I look at his wedding ring.

  ‘Chicago’s a long way to come for a night, even for a show like this one.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘We’re having fun, right? Come to the show. You’re busy tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m never busy. Except when I am.’

  ‘So we’ll meet back here tomorrow night?’

  I finish the whisky and offer the empty glass to him without a word, like a kid waiting for milk.

  ‘What if I change my mind?’ I don’t mean this to come out like a threat but it seems to.

  ‘Then you can call me at . . .’

  ‘There’s no telephone where I live.’

  ‘Then I guess you either don’t change your mind or I go to the show alone.’

  ‘I’ll meet you back here.’

  ‘Seven. We’ll eat after the show.’

  ‘I didn’t say eat. It’ll be late, tomorrow’s Sunday, I got a new job starts Monday.’

  ‘Great, we’ll eat early.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at seven.’

  ‘Seven. Okay.’

 
‘Uh-huh.’

  He pauses before ordering me another whisky.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a nightcap at the hotel . . .’

  ‘You suppose right.’

  I drink the whisky in one slug and walk out through the door of the bar and onto the street. A second later I hear music again as the door of the bar opens again. I feel him watching my back. He’s okay though. He’s alright. I didn’t ask what the show was. Tomorrow at seven.

  New York, April 23, 1961

  A kid is screaming overhead. I shave and go to the corner for coffee, ditching bottles in the garbage wrapped up in newspapers like a baby I didn’t ask for. I eat and I stand out on the corner, looking as far as I can along the curved street. I picture myself falling off a white building I have seen up in midtown and the thought takes some of the pressure off my chest. On Mulberry I collect a newspaper and I go to Columbus Park.

  On a seat there I remember the night before. The glass, the ring, the cologne. I regret showing up drunk for my date with the girl from the office. I could have stayed at the job. It was something. I don’t know what to do about it now. I will get a new position, make amends, work hard, participate. I will decide on the prettiest girl. I will notice.

  Back in the apartment I stand in a nowhere part of the room. I turn around a couple of times, looking at nothing in particular. I say ‘Hello’ out loud and test the sound of my voice. I have no telephone and I haven’t told anyone that I moved. I think about where I might have seen a payphone. I don’t know the neighbourhood, only a little in the dark. I don’t know the payphones. I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know what to do about any of it.

  I sleep a little and get to the bar at six. He is in the same seat wearing a better suit than the night before, a better suit than me.

  ‘I guess we could’ve dined together after all,’ he says, more jokey than disappointed. ‘Okay?’

  He hands me a beer. I don’t know what ‘Okay?’ means so I say, ‘I ate. Sorry.’