Another Justified Sinner

by Sophie Hopesmith

  Another minute. ‘Twenty-three years in power.’

  ‘What?’ I had long since grown bored and was staring out of the window, watching the sun sink into slumber. The juice of prawns on my tongue.

  ‘How long the President’s been in power. It’s a dictatorship.’

  ‘Sweetheart, this trip hasn’t exactly been a democratic tour of the world. Have you only just realised?’

  ‘I guess I wasn’t thinking about it.’ Tears sprung out of her eyeballs. ‘It’s terrible.’ She turned to me, her face all wide and open and popping out of its apertures. ‘This man has had to work since he was ten. He was having to bribe the police. Every day. More than he could earn in a day. It says so, right here. It says he just wanted to make a living. He was just trying to push a cart of fruit around. And they just kept demanding and demanding these bribes. It sounds like everything here is just so corrupt and horrible. The poor guy. I feel sick. And we’re here on holiday, giving our money to a dictatorship?’

  ‘Annabelle. The guy didn’t have a permit. He should have had a permit. Shit happens like that.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like you do need a permit. Not for a fruit cart. I’m sure that’s what it said…’

  ‘Well, we’re not Tunisian legal experts, are we? We don’t know the ins and outs of any of this. The facts are extremely confusing. And does it even matter to us? We don’t live here. Come on, let’s forget about it; let’s go out, get some food…’

  ‘Marcus. He stood in the middle of the traffic. Read this. Read it again. He shouted “How do you expect me to make a living?” Look. Read it. It says that he lit the match and his skin just melted right off his body.’

  ‘It doesn’t say that exactly, you’re–’

  ‘Marcus, his skin slithered off the bones. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine being so desperate that you would do something like that?’

  ‘So you want to catch a bus, right? And go to this place and run out on the streets and join in the protests against all the unfairness and corruption and how terrible it all is? If you want to do that, we can do that. Just tell me and I’ll pack the bags.’

  She drew in a large gulp of breath. There was a long agonising pause when I thought my own bluff had been called. ‘Don’t be dramatic,’ she said, finally. ‘I’m only saying it’s terrible. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course, it’s terrible. It’s bad, it’s really bad. But we don’t know the full story. And we have nothing to do with it, anyway. This isn’t our country. Thank God. You wouldn’t see people acting like animals on the streets back home. So let’s not pay people like that any attention just because we’re here.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. I don’t know.’

  ‘Look, things will blow over. The riots will stop and life will go back to normal, like it always does. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Well, I hope so. It’s a bit scary, thinking about it. All those people protesting.’

  ‘And it’s quite far away from us, sweetheart. There aren’t any riots going on here, that’s for sure. We’re in paradise.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘So can we go get some dinner in paradise, please?’

  ‘OK. God, I’m starving.’

  ‘Thank you! Me too.’ And I dragged her by the hand and started to ramble about the wedding. I knew that would distract her – and it did. It kept her busy and whimsical for several more days. Even through the time that the TV was on, and that man, Mohammed, was served up on a hospital bed, rolled up in white sheets like one of the mummies in Cairo. Someone had placed a pretty patchwork quilt on his legs – like he might catch a chill. The only bit of him you could see were these two scorched-out lips.

  ‘I want to go home now,’ said Annabelle, as we sipped nightcaps one night.

  ‘And miss Morocco?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’

  I thought of the pylons, the circuits, the networks, the motorways. ‘Yes. I guess I’d like that too.’

  ‘It just feels right, now. Don’t you think?’

  I smiled. I’d been drip-feeding her this suggestion ever since that guy burned out. I was tired of this lifestyle. The thought of returning to my old job had fired me up and everything else was just dull and clockwork.

  Life is an orchestra and something conducts. But it is me who is playing. It is me holding the instrument with the power to play. I had seen the footage of protests spreading across Tunisia like rust or disease. I didn’t want to be on this soil anymore. I was disappointed with this country, this continent. I had expected better. I had expected epiphany, and I’d had an epiphany, and it wasn’t even all that.

  You see: we might not grow all our own food, but back home we have supermarkets. Everywhere, anywhere. Giant warehouses packed with groceries at specific temperatures, like bodies in a morgue, but none of that matters because it is food, it is food, and none of us go hollow or have rickets. Look at the lattice of lorries, the crates full of produce, and this network of circuitry that pings and beeps and bleeps and dings. Chickens plucked bare under bright ribbons of light, with wax-sheen skin pumped with water and E numbers, genes tangled up into stodge. Bees fall to the ground. Prescription after prescription, pews of antibiotics, painkillers, statins and tranquilisers, disinfectant, shower wash, floss. The grids and the skids that keep everything moving, the flow charts still flowing, all of this turned up to the maximum, the light switch, plug socket, the reverberation of boilers. A flicker of neon, the hands held at the cinema, the laughter of restaurants, a wine glass knocked to the floor. I’ll take all of it, all of it.

  ‘I’d like to go home. Everything here just seems primitive and depraved.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start that again.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Well, what about the children? They’re innocent, aren’t they?’

  ‘They’ll grow up the same way. I mean, you’d think they’d look around them, wouldn’t you? Spain isn’t that far away. We’re right near mainland Europe. You’d think they’d look up there and see something to emulate, something civilised. Instead of all these protests and wars and failed progress. Why can’t they just get their act together? We did. Europe pulled itself from the mire, didn’t it?

  ‘I mean, there is so much misdirected anger in the world. We’re always fighting the authority figures and not the scum: the beggars, the drifters, the scroungers. You’ve got to have something at the top, holding everything together. And we can only make things better if we cut out the waste. But I guess it’s the human condition. Humanity doesn’t exist anymore: only humans.’ I liked to end these speeches on a high note, even if I didn’t exactly know what I was saying.

  ‘I don’t know anymore,’ she sighed. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘This place has worn you out.’

  ‘I’m just tired of always being dragged back to such a dark place. Can’t I just be happy about our wedding? And our children? And all the potential still in me? All the things left to do? Without feeling guilty all the time?’

  ‘Of course you can. Of course.’ Then our faces melted together and there was a momentousness to the moment: special, romantic, significant.

  After all, we fit together comfortably. There have been no more arguments and I don’t think there will be more to come. We have played out our game of chess – and I won.

  And now we are sitting here in the airport, waiting for a flight to take us home. There are so many unironed, crumpled details. Like – what happened to Stephanie and Kondwani? And will the children in that Malawi school live long enough to become proper characters? And why was Philippa such a closed book? (Plot shock: her husband died on their honeymoon, but I couldn’t be arsed with the details.)

  I do wonder about these things, but then I forget them; they seem inscrutably small and unrelated to my life. My story.

  Question: But where will Annabelle stay?

  Answer: We will stay at a hotel for a day or two, as my house is still being rented, worse luck. Then w
e’ll head over to her parents in Sussex while we sort ourselves out. She hasn’t told them the news yet – about us getting married. She hasn’t told anyone. Which makes me worry that it isn’t real. Everything else feels fake and fanciful: I just want this one little thing to be real.

  Question: Are you really going back to that job? The one that made you go all English Psychopath?

  Answer: Of course; if they’ll have me. But if it’s not there, it will be somewhere else. Don’t worry: I am returning with a renewed sense of purpose, a better sense of wonder. I feel like a new man. I can see the bigger picture. Which leads me to the next–

  Question: Why did you come out here, anyway?

  Answer: Well, I don’t know, precisely. To try and conquer death? To try to be a good person? I think I’ve become one. (I love someone again, don’t I?) I don’t know what you think, and I don’t really care. How am I so different to you, anyway? Your thoughts are as murderous; your deeds just as loaded. The only difference is you don’t have the guts to write them all down, but I know that they’re there, in your head. You live out your life, try to get through the day with the least bother possible. We’re just the same, really.

  Still, that’s enough enquiring, for now. It’s my turn for questions. What if I told you something shocking – like I murdered Nancy? Like – I put a nail in her tyre? You know that convention, the unreliable narrator. Everyone does. So do you believe me or not? Why do you hang on my words? Why do you look through my eyes?

  We’re all wired for belief. That’s what Annabelle told me. But that’s not the same thing as being wired for truth. That’s what I said. We want a truth, but not necessarily a truthful one. I think that’s what they call a paradox. But she just rolled her eyes.

  It’s been a funny old journey – and it all started with Nancy dead. But it could have started with me being fat. Or having a mother with depression. Or her talking shit to me as I wafted in the womb. It could have begun in a million different places, don’t you think? But I began it with Nancy. And I still think that’s right.

  It’s true that I lost myself for a while, around the time I came to Africa. I saw everything as if I were someone else, someone new. But I don’t really like that person: he is weak and insufferable and that attitude doesn’t benefit anyone. Plus, life isn’t much fun when it’s just him around.

  So now’s as good a point as any to end it, I think. With Annabelle’s hand in mine, and her turning the magazine page, and the hum of conversations and air-conditioning units, and the shopping and eating and gentle wasting of time.

  I’m going to forget Nancy. I’ll forget Mum and Dad and the brother who got away. There’ll be no more Malawi or bleeding my heart. I’m going to let go of blame. We just want to get married, have a really big family: at least six kids and very probably seven. I want a happy ending. I deserve a happy ending. I was born into that genre and I want all the conventions. Let’s make this a comedy, not a tragedy. Come on – you’re the same.

  So, you see, that’s why we’re waiting for a plane, right now. We’ve got a chance to be ourselves and live for ourselves. We have good fortune and why should you begrudge that? And isn’t this what we all do? Don’t you think we’re justified to do it? Pull the wool over your eyes and ignore the occasional itch. Everyone’s a sheep. You live with things too, every day of your life. You pass the homeless person with your eyes on the ground, you switch over the TV when the sad news comes on. We all do what we can to get through it. That’s OK.

  And now the number for our boarding area is flashing up on the screen and Annabelle is squeaking and trying to gather our stuff, I’m patting my jacket for the feel of the passport and Annabelle is dragging the suitcase over a dropped magazine and I’m sucking a mint and tapping my jacket again, just to check the passport is still there, and it always is, but I always keep checking, and her hand’s squeezing mine and I feel the heat spill from her palms and I’m walking slightly in front, moving us down the long corridor, where we will board the next chapter, and it’s already written, it was written for people like us from the very first line.

  About Dead Ink…

  Dead Ink is a small, ambitious and experimental literary publisher based in Liverpool.

  Supported by Arts Council England, we’re focussed on developing the careers of new and emerging authors.

  We believe that there are brilliant authors out there who may not yet be known or commercially viable. We see it as Dead Ink’s job to bring the most challenging and experimental new writing out from the underground and present it to our audience in the most beautiful way possible.

  Our readers form an integral part of our team. You don’t simply buy a Dead Ink book, you invest in the authors and the books you love.

  Publishing the Underground

  Publishing the Underground is Dead Ink’s project to develop the careers of new and emerging authors. Supported by Arts Council England, we use our own crowdfunding platform to ask readers to act as patrons and fund the first run print costs.

  If you’d like to support new writing then visit our website and join our mailing list. This book was made possible by kind contributions from the following people…

  Mediah Ahmed

  Jane Alexander

  Geoffrey Allen

  Lulu Allison

  Rj Barker

  Alex Blott

  Naomi Booth

  Sarah Bradley

  Julia Brich

  Edward Burness

  Ailsa Caine

  Daniel Carpenter

  Maria Carvalho

  Sarah Cleave

  Sarah Clough

  Tracey Connolly

  Nyle Connolly

  Catriona Cox

  Stuart Crewes

  Steve Dearden

  Vanessa Dodd

  Jack Ecans

  Su Edwards

  Laura Elliott

  Lee Farley

  Naomi Frisby

  Peter Gallon

  Heidi Gardner

  Sarah Garnham

  Martin Geraghty

  Tim Gomersall

  Vince Haig

  Graeme Hall

  Paul Hancock

  Harriet Hirshman

  Darren Hopes

  James Hopesmith

  James Howard

  Laura Hughes

  Rob Jessup

  Laura Jones

  Alexa Kellow

  Haroun Khan

  Lewis King

  Cassie Lawrence

  Simon Lee

  Duncan Lewis

  Margaret McCormack

  Heather McDaid

  Chloe McLeod

  Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  Claire Moruzzi

  Chris Naylor

  Lydia Patterson

  Emily Pearce

  Ruth Pooley Ford

  James Powell

  Hannah Powley

  Sarah Pybus

  Mal Ramsay

  Liam Riley

  Matthew Shenton

  Tamar Shlaim

  Alex Shough

  Yvonne Singh

  Nicky Smalley

  Vicky Smith

  Julie Swain

  Catherine Syson

  Mia Tagg

  Michael Thomson

  Emma Tomlinson

  Anna Tyler

  Sally Vince

  Cate Walker

  Emily Whitaker

  Sara White

  Eley Williams

  James Yeoman

  Also from Dead Ink…

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  Harry Gallon

  ‘Every Fox is a Rabid Fox is a harrowing and brutal read. But I fell for its incredibly tender heart. I loved this book.’

  - Claire Fuller, author of Swimming

  Lessons and Our Endless Numbered Days

  ‘Beautifully executed tale of innocence, tragedy, and the family traumas we all carry with us and many times fail to leave behind.’

  - Fernando Sdrigotti, author of

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sfunctional Males

  Robert didn’t mean to kill his brother. Now he’s stuck between grief and guilt with only ex-girlfriend Willow and the ghost of his dead twin sister for company. Terrified of doing more harm, Robert’s hysteria and anxiety grow while Willow and his sister’s ghost fight over him: one trying to save him, the other digging his grave.

  Every Fox Is A Rabid Fox is a brutal yet tender tale of family tragedy, mental illness and a young man searching for escape from his unravelling mind.

  Guest

  SJ Bradley

  Samhain is a young, angry and bewildered squatter living in an abandoned hotel in the North of England. One day he receives a message: His father – a man he never knew – was an undercover policeman infiltrating the Green movement of the 80s. What’s more, he finds out that he too is now a father.

  As Sam leaves for Europe, he pursues freedom and flees from his responsibilities. Responsibility, however, is hard to escape. Guest is a story of disillusionment, protest and, eventually, redemption.

  SJ Bradley is a writer from Leeds and one of the organisers behind Fictions of Every Kind. She won the Willesden Herald Short Story Prize and was shortlisted for the Gladstone Writers in Residency Award. Her debut novel, Brick Mother, was published by Dead Ink in 2014.

  Sophie Hopesmith

  Sophie Hopesmith is a 2012 Atty Awards finalist and her background is in feature writing. Born and bred in London, she works for a reading charity. She likes comedy, poetry, writing music, and Oxford commas. All of her favourite films were made in the 70s.