Best British Short Stories 2020

by Nicholas Royle

  Do you have secret children, Vashti? Where would I keep them? I said. I believe that it’s immoral to do anything but adopt. She opened her mouth, and kept it open, staring blankly at me. When I started to explain, she laughed. The game was to say things that shocked her. Vashti, do you have a secret husband? Because you’re old. Not old like my stepmum Fiona. Or like my mum was. But oldish. My lash glue was starting to drip onto my cheeks. There were no windows in the room, no air. I pulled the lashes off. It’s the twenty-first century and you will no longer learn anything meaningful by asking women these questions, I said. If you want to know someone, in a deep and substantial way, you ask them things like – do you make your bed every day? Do you read your horoscopes every day? Do you believe in them? I paused for breath. Did you practise psychokinesis as a child? My voice started to shake. Write those down, I told her.

  I don’t know what psychokeenis is, she said. Psycho-kee-nee-ses, I said. It’s the power of moving things with your mind. That’s not real, she said. Is your father on his way? I asked. The glue was webbing my fingers together, I was starting to feel hot. Her phone buzzed. She shouted: He’s here! and threw up a little fist in the air.

  I’ll come with you. I’m old enough to go on my own, she said. You don’t know who’s out there, I said. I hiked up my thin tights, arched into my heels. Cherri rolled her gloves back up. We left the dressing room. She put her hand in mine. Outside, the air was shimmering, the horizon smeary like a dirty window. In the distance, I could see John leaning against his car. His hair was pouffed out and he wasn’t wearing his leather jacket, just a suit jacket like most businessmen his age.

  John looked up as I smiled at him. He grimaced but maybe he was just tired from franchising all day. He waved weakly, glanced at Cherri before getting back into the driver’s seat. There’s your dad, I said. She scanned the road, finally noticing the car. How did you know which one it is? I just guessed, I replied. Aren’t you going to say hello? she asked. I should return to the school, I said, knowing that it would be wrong to go any further.

  John called me that night, after our date. When the phone rang, I thought it was coming from outside of the house. My mobile never rang unexpectedly. The dialling code was for a landline. John had always rung from his mobile, sometimes withholding his number to make it suspenseful. But I knew it was him each time because I only heard from him in the middle of the night. I can’t keep doing this, he said, when I picked up. I stared at the smiley face on the ceiling. I tried to focus, remembering the advice in the self-parenting book about grounding panicked children. I hadn’t yet asked him any questions when he started speaking again. You have expectations of me that you’re unwilling to admit, he said. What if I did, I said, even though I hadn’t expected him to fulfil any. I can’t fulfil them, he said, as if reading my mind. I had low expectations, I clarified. That’s passive-aggressive, Jackie, he said. Who’s Jackie? I asked. He coughed loudly, cutting off my question. Stop contacting me, he said. His throat caught, so I had to bring the phone right up to my burning ear to hear him. It was a mistake and you took advantage of my vulnerability. Before I could reply, I heard a woman whisper loudly in the background: put the phone down, John. You’ve told her now.

  I didn’t switch my mobile off for the rest of the night. Its red death signal started blinking in my peripheral vision. That was not the end of it. I would not allow someone to be so cowardly. I grabbed the bed sheet which had been crumpled in the corner since John’s last visit. He had slapped vanilla oil on my body and made minute adjustments to it as we had sex. My limbs had been cold, oil had stained the Egyptian cotton. I dragged the sheet to the kitchen like a dirty wedding train and stuffed it in the washing machine. A greasy trail glittered in the semi-darkness. On the counter were some half-empty beer cans from when John had last been around. I opened the back door. It had rained; the smell of meaty wet earth dizzied me. I emptied the rain out of the bowl I kept on the step and poured in the dregs to stop the slugs coming in, but it was too late.

  Barbara called me for a meeting when she came back. The blinds in her office were down again, the lamps were on, the room smelled of clary sage. I was trapped in her sunglasses like a slow-moving target. She said that she had important news for me: she wasn’t ready to retire yet. It wasn’t for her, slowly losing all her functions like an outmoded piece of technology. I’m going to look into YouTube, though I’m unconvinced. It’ll never catch on, she said. She sniffed, took a deep breath. But the good news is that I want you to take over the day-to-day running of the school.

  She leaned forward so we were only a few inches apart. I could see reflections of myself everywhere: her glasses, the golden orb that she had around her neck. If you want to, of course, she said. I knew she was waiting for my answer. I didn’t tell her that I had imagined myself somewhere else next year. The image – a big city nowhere near a sea, a waiting audience – wouldn’t disappear. I hadn’t even visualised it. It was as instantly familiar as an advert. She moved back, put her fingers on the orb and made me disappear. Don’t be afraid of change, she said. There’s only so many fires that one person can accidentally start.

  John texted me before the class that day: I wd like to c u. Things bad. But that not why. Come to beach cafe with C. He always used text speak, even though I replied in full sentences. I wanted to weep. Something was pressing against the inside of my chest, a balloon swollen with water. I walked around the hall, watching the girls as they rehearsed for the finale. They were singing the song they had chosen for the dance: fun fun fun fun. A spitty croon through a girl’s new teeth – was anything as sweet? It was the last time that I would see them dancing before the show. Time goes quickly! I said. Practise! In the corner, I could see Cherri dancing as if someone invisible was trying to push her over. She was practising her solo, the one that I said I’d help her with.

  I remembered the bits about consistency in the self-parenting book, how important it was to treat the child of a man who had humiliated me like any other. Be the most consistent person in your life, the book said. Can I copy you? I asked Cherri. If I learn your dance, you can see how it looks. And then you can change it if it’s not working. She nodded. I began moving, imitating her steps, fluidly bringing them together. That’s not right, she said, staring at my feet. You’re making it different. I stopped. She looked embarrassed, as if I were the one who couldn’t dance.

  Can I ask you a question? No one was nearby. Do you know anyone called Jackie? Or maybe Jacqueline? Cherri’s pigtails flapped as she slowed down. How do you know about Jackie? she replied. I don’t know her. Who is she? I asked. Cherri wobbled on one foot, shielded her face. I gestured for her to put her arms down. Her face was redder than usual. Jackie was a bird who used to sit outside my window, she said. Not a real one – well, she was sort of – she was my ‘imaginary friend’. Cherri did quote marks in the air. She had big purple feathers and made loud noises in the middle of the night. She couldn’t fly, like a dodo or an ostrich, she said. Cherri carried on speaking but I couldn’t hear her any more. Was I a private joke between them, the father and daughter unit? I wanted to vomit, but I pinched my neck instead to retain my composure.

  Later, I saw Taylor approaching Cherri. I watched them from the back of the class. Cherri looked at Taylor suspiciously. They had not spoken to each other – as far as I had seen – since I first placed them in Britney House together. Taylor rarely spoke to anyone but her friends. She liked to jangle in unison at the other girls. She liked to intimidate them with her height and comedy stomach beating. I could always intervene if anything happened between them. Or I could just watch. Who was I to think that Cherri needed my help in every situation?

  I began circling. I stopped near them, looked into the middle distance. If you point your toes when you do the step, it’s easier, I heard Taylor saying. Do this – she started spinning – and keep it pointed. She danced out Cherri’s steps, her eyes trained on Cherri to make sure she was watching. When Taylor stopped, Cherr
i copied her, moving faster with confidence. She finished more quickly than she expected, looking surprised when she neatly rounded off the sequence. Taylor beat her stomach: You can do it! she said. Cherri stared, before beating back: Yes, I can!

  I reread John’s text as Cherri and I left for the beach. I can’t believe you’re coming too! she kept saying, as we walked down the deserted road. I thought of Jackie the bird, flapping hopelessly at the window. The flat glaze of oil on the bed sheet. John was sitting outside the only cafe on the stretch that led to the pier, where all the daytrippers and carers gathered. His suit was rumpled and he was spooning ice cream from a bowl. He hadn’t noticed us coming. We had never seen each other in stark daylight.

  He nodded at me, before turning to Cherri, who was now standing at the table looking at the dessert. He took a five pound note out of his wallet and handed it to her. Take this, he said. Get what you want. Apart from the ice-cream. He stuck his arms out, puffed his cheeks and moved from side to side like an inflatable mascot in a storm. If you want to eat something fatty you have to pay for it yourself, Cherri said in a robotic voice. Exactly, he said. She grabbed the five pounds and went into the cafe, stamping her feet on the concrete.

  After the door closed behind Cherri, John turned to me, focused on the empty bowl. I’m sorry about the Jackie thing, he said. Why did you call me Jackie? I asked. Fiona found the restaurant receipts and the extra phone, she made me call her – you, he said. I couldn’t tell her it was Cherri’s teacher. Not a one-off. As for Jackie – I can’t remember where the name came from. He looked down, fiddled with the spoon. My feelings had been hurt, I told myself. And then she left, he said. She cut her hair a few weeks earlier. It was like this. He made a box-like shape around his head. Very neat, very sensible, he said sadly. She made me call you and she bloody left anyway. And took the car. I had to walk all the way down here. His shoulders fell, dried sweat flaked off his forehead.

  Cherri came out of the cafe, carrying a can of Fanta. I’m going to the beach, she said. She dropped the change on the table. We watched her cross the empty road and disappear down the steps. No one came to that stretch of the beach: it was too far from the pier, and most people in Wakesea were old or had mobility problems. We could see Cherri walking near the groynes, stopping to look across at us, small as we were. She’ll be fine, he said. We used to come to this beach a lot when she was little, with her mum. He looked up at the sky, as if she were hovering above us.

  I know you’re disgusted, he said, after a few seconds of respectful silence. You hate me, don’t you? I don’t hate you, I began. You should hate me, he said. Are you going to stay? He asked, after I didn’t reply. As in, are you going to stay after the school ends? I thought of Barbara, of all the coastal towns ahead, of an audience waiting in a darkened room. Without wanting to, I caught his eyes brightening, even though he didn’t know what I was undecided about.

  Tinny, familiar music rose from the beach. It was the finale song: never stop being young/fun fun fun! In its pauses, we heard a phlegmy cough turning into laughter. We both looked towards the sea, the sand. There was no one there, no sign of Cherri. John got up, brushed down his ill-fitting suit. I followed him across the road, stopped with him at the ramp that led to the beach. Below, there was no sign of recent occupation, apart from a jagged red bucket that was half-buried in pebbles. Cherri, he shouted over the music. The ramp was covered in a lurid green slime. He turned to look for another way down. The laughter broke out again. We both leant over the iron railing. In a recess only visible when we craned forward was a balding man sitting on a crate. Lined neatly next to him was a portable radio, a thin blue carrier bag and a pair of old brown shoes. He was rocking back and forth with laughter. If his hands hadn’t been wrapped around his knees, he would have fallen headfirst into the sand. In front of him was a small pink cowboy hat I recognised from the school’s prop box. Cherri came out from the recess, wearing her finale costume, her other dress sticking out from underneath it, so she looked twice her normal size.

  The man began to clap. She started dancing, hesitating between each step. John reached over the railings, yelled her name. The music was too loud. He stuck a foot onto the mossy ramp. He would have to go further down to the other set of steps in order to get Cherri, or risk sliding down the slope and injuring himself. He would have to leave her there with the man, just for a minute or two. He couldn’t decide. I shouted her name. She went on dancing, grimacing and mouthing numbers to herself. It was the first time I had seen her whole solo, its steps in sequence. She moved without pause. She twirled, both of her dresses flying up and exposing her red thighs.

  She stopped and punched her gloved arms in the air, one after the other. Jumping back, she stumbled and recovered with a big smile. She was sure of herself. I had never known her to be so confident, so composed. The old man threw some coins into the hat; they glinted in the sun. Cherri, what are you doing? John shouted as the finale song segued into a tune I hadn’t heard before. Cherri looked around and up. The old man walked past her quickly, carrier bag dangling from his wrist, shoes held to his chest. She saw her father, waved. He didn’t wave back, just stood there, his hand on his chest, breathing heavily. Her gaze went from him to me, and back again. She ran to the hat, picked it up carefully, stared back up at us. Look! she shouted. Can you see me? I’m here! I’m here!

  RICHARD LAWRENCE BENNETT

  ENERGY THIEVES: FIVE DIALOGUES

  1. HOW TO INCREASE ATTRACTIVENESS

  ‘My theory is that most people are energy thieves and will gravitate towards those persons who have the most energy. So if we take the example of a large number of people being in a room for a party or a get-together or a conference or whatever, and of their gravitating towards someone, as far as anyone does gravitate anywhere, then they will always gravitate to the most energetic person there, because that person will make them feel good, or will make them laugh, or will give out something that will make them feel fortunate to be there. It’s a matter of physical and mental energy. Same difference.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For as long as there is an excess of energy and plenty to go around, there is a good chance that you will get some for yourself. An anecdote, an opinion you can use, a joke perhaps, or some information, a story, a lead, a job, a reference, an amusing insight … and thereby a feeling of renewal or liveliness or pleasure. Just something, anyway, that will make you feel better than you did before.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean, no one drifts towards the worried-looking guy with a headache in the corner of the room who wishes he wasn’t there. That is because it is physical and mental energy that we seek.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And just as unluckiness and unhappiness in others can be seen as infections to be avoided by sensible and self-centred people, similarly laziness and tiredness in others can make us feel as though they might be catching, too, so we want to get away from people exhibiting them. Quickly, in fact, since we can all be prey to such feelings.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the reverse, that is, to be full of energy and ambition, is inspiring for others. It is difficult to have great ideas and transmit them while suffering from idleness and fatigue, but it is easy and possible when one is full of sparkle and zest. And so we look out for the lively ones.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With energy you get to express yourself and win over others who will love you both for your ideas and for the enthusiasm with which you transmit them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Therefore to be more attractive, have more physical energy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  2. HOW TO DISPEL WORRY

  ‘People often say that when their doctor gives them a diagnosis for a disease that will cause their death they suddenly feel much calmer. They have been told they have six months to live or something similar and it is only then that they can relax and enjoy life. You must have heard of that?’

  ‘I have. It happens frequ
ently to those sort of people to whom it happens.’

  ‘And then they report some greater wisdom that comes from knowing that they are going to die. That is: knowing what is finally and truly important, enjoying the good things in life, and laughing off the bad things.’

  ‘Yes, they do indeed say those things that they say.’

  ‘But I have a theory that turns that on its head.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Which is that they don’t appreciate those things that they say they do – families and sunsets and such like. At least, not exactly in the manner purported.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But simply that they have no worries, which liberates them to enjoy everything all the time. No worries, except one. Only the big one. Having only one worry in the whole world reduces and ultimately annuls all the other worries which they might have. Indeed all the other worries seem no longer to count as worries at all, so great is the main worry. And so the death-marked person realises of a sudden, “Oh, I am not worried any more, how odd. Apart from that, of course.”’

  ‘So it is the number of worries, rather than the severity of them, that comprises the debilitating strain of worry?’

  ‘Indeed. The more the worse and the fewer the better, regardless of size. By surrendering the sum total of all worries to one giant worry, one finds that the rest of life is worry-free. Hence the enjoyment of sunsets and love of family life.’

  ‘So death cures worry?’