Mother of Floods

By Madeleine F White

The future depends on reconnecting to our past...

Do you have the courage to hit the reset button in your life? Does humanity as a whole? Madeleine White's sci-fi-meets-fantasy novel Mother of Floods immerses the reader in the brave new world of 24/7 self-sustaining algorithms, showing how individual c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crowsnest Books
• Release date: Mar 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780921332671

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Mother of Floods

Mother of Floods

Madeleine F. White

Copyright © 2020 Madeleine F. White

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit accesscopyright.ca.

Crowsnest Books

www.crowsnestbooks.com

Distributed by the University of Toronto Press

Edited by Allister Thompson

Proofreader: Britanie Wilson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada

ISBN (paperback)

ISBN (ebook)

Printed and bound in Canada

Acknowledgements

Despite a lifetime of writing and storytelling, Mother of Floods is my first novel. I couldn’t have done it without the help of a number of people and organisations and would like to take a little space here to say thank you.

So many stories contained in Mother of Floods are based on the wonderful women in my family and those I have met in my work; women’s whose bravery, resilience and determination to do the best they can, with whatever life has given them has humbled me. I very much hope that I have done them justice. Many will recognise their names in these stories, although to protect identities, they are not in context.

There are a couple I can name though. Emmy wouldn’t not been born without Emily Jackson’s bravery, both in overcoming anorexia and then sharing her story with me. The white rabbit analogy is directly based on a story she Emailed me and is extracted in Mother of Floods with Emily’s permission.

Indira Abidin, my birthday sister, and Chief Happiness Officer (her own term for CEO of the Fortune PR corporation in Jakarta), sadly lost her battle against cancer last year. However, her enthusiasm for her country and Anjani’s story was critical in bringing the Indonesian narrative to life and I thank her for it.

I would like to thank my early readers, starting with Eden Jessiman. Without her help I’m not sure I would have had the courage to push past the initial chapters. But unflagging enthusiasm for the story and the characters, along with her insightful editorial comments, was key to bringing this story out of my imagination and onto the page. The many positive comments from Marianne Schoening, Linda Denny and Sue Lawton OBE also kept me going through the many rejections. Pen to Print, an organisation that supports emerging writers and connects diverse voice in print and online, had an important part to play as well. Being placed in their national poetry competition helped me believe in myself again when I felt all hope was lost. Similarly, Thanet Writersprovided an outlet and forum which kept me writing.

Expert help has come from IT specialist Andy Green, economist Callum White and leading technical strategist Tom Pelc, whose wife also supplied Emmy’s drawing of Dennis. The Crowsnest team, with particular thanks to publisher Alex Wall and editor Alistair Thompson, have helped slough off what was not needed to reveal the novel I wanted to wirte, but didn’t quite know how to.

The Rain Song cited by Khalid, was taken from Iraqi poet’s Badr Shakir al Sayyab’s formidable body of work and indeed, the beauty of Arabic poetry, albeit in translation, has inspired some of the wider songs contained in Mother of Floods.

I do hope my Canadian family will forgive me, for drawing inspiration from my First Nation roots and indeed my quest for identity around them. Joe Friday was a real person and was indeed the twin brother of Charlotte Friday. I have however, taken significant license with Charlotte’s character. Her presence in Mother of Floods,therefore owes far more to my imagination than who she was in real life. However, Friday Memories, by June Friday MacInnis provided some fascinating family background.

I have spent my life cobbling together my identity through safe spaces that have presented themselves, and have indeed created many of my own, through websites and print publications. I believe that we are all storytellers, with stories of worth and value contained within each of us. I therefore invite others to join me on this journey of connection, using vehicles such as Write On! magazine at pentoprint.org and maketrade.se. You will be welcomed! I’d also love to hear what you think, so please do leave reviews and comments where you can or get in touch on social media – I’m @madeleinefwhite on both Twitter and Instagram.

Finally, a huge thank you to my long-suffering husband Evan and children Callum, Lucy and Erin. Without your faith in me, Mother of Floods would never have been conceived, let alone created.

Contents

Prologue 9

Part 1: What Is 15

Chapter 1: The Better and the Bad 38

Chapter 2: Musikavanhu’s Dream 49

Chapter 3: The Punishment of Dewi Rinjani 60

Chapter 4: Of Humans and Heroes 74

Chapter 5: The Fire of Renewal 91

Chapter 6: The Lament 105

Part 2: The Shape of Things 127

Chapter 7: The Surprise 142

Chapter 8: On Wickedness 158

Chapter 9: On Innocence 178

Chapter 10: The Internet of All Things 201

Chapter 11: Universal Cattiness 223

Chapter 12: The Woman Who Walks Alone 249

Chapter 13: The End of Words 263

Part 3: What Comes 281

Chapter 14: Fatima’s Retelling of Zuhak’s Demise 300

Chapter 15: Eve Tackles the Apple in a Different Way 310

Epilogue 329

Extras 334

A. Dramatis Personae 334

B. Map 339

C. Pictures 340

Mother of Floods is dedicated to my family, past and present across the UK, Germany and Canada

"My ancestors’ wisdom drums through bones

That hold me upright as I run towards the future

While cupping the delicate flame of now in my hands."

Prologue

Baba John sat in his one room, wrapped in the orange and saffron robes of his calling. Despite his long white beard and mane of hair, he had a strong, healthy physique that belied the many decades he had spent in Gangotri. When he had moved into his guru’s hut nearly seventy years ago, it had been virtually inaccessible. Not any more, though. These days, it seemed as if everyone wanted to come here, and corresponding numbers of roads and houses had been built. India’s Tiger Economy had consumed most of the subcontinent’s untouched places, including this, the source of the Ganges.

The Western journalist was typical of those who came to see him now; paper people, blown here and there by a desire to be whole and yet missing the point entirely. Did they not realise that pilgrimage started within? One just needed to be. Barely registering the woman’s proclamation of how her journey would start here, at the birthplace of the Goddess Ganga, he cast his mind back to the splendid wilderness as it had been. To the time before the number of those seeking to connect with something beyond themselves had smothered it all.

Feeling compelled to pursue those memories, he used the ubiquitous Shanti to cut off his visitor. Watching her departing form, his eyes found relief in the black-and-white photographs of the once verdant flora and fauna that had covered this region. The next set of images, though, depicting all the hotels and houses that had sprung up in the wake of the receding glacier, caused him to feel physical pain. With each decade it had got worse, and the farther down Gaṅgā’s length one travelled, the more despoiled her healing waters became. By the time she swept out into the Bay of Bengal, this goddess of wholeness and purity, whose wild advent on earth had once needed Lord Shiva’s hair to bind her, had become the embodiment of death and decay.

There was, however, always hope. He should know. Many years ago, his truth had been broken into pieces, and it was that hope he’d come in search of.

Once he’d been Amresh, a bright, middle-class Indian boy and typical product of the British Raj. Thanks to a number of unfathomable coincidences, the eighteen-year-old had been given a chance to study in the UK. Seduced into being part of a culture that was not his, he had grabbed the razor-sharp spires of 1930s Oxford with both hands. At the time, he hadn’t realised that he was cutting away his name and colour in the process.

It was only twelve years later, when the self-styled John had found his hollowly echoing soul too much to bear, that he turned clay feet back to this remote part of northern India. As his squeaky-new climbing boots made their way up the Gangotri glacier, the empty shell of his carefully cultivated identity fell away, leaving a bleeding, childlike soul to stand bare before Gaumukh. Released by his scream of brokenness, water seeped from the fissures in the bedrock, lacerated vocal chords heralding a new existence.

Having heard his call, a shrunken figure reclaimed him and led him back down to safety. Baba John remembered deep, welcoming eyes of kindness. He had come as Seeker but was told, when the time came, that he was to become the next Watcher. As his damaged voice recovered, so did his soul, and like raven’s wings, a sense of purpose brushed his consciousness. He must wait. Another would come. There would be other screams, more pain, but no longer his.

By the time he was back on his feet again, his rescuer had taken to the pallet John had so recently vacated. From his deathbed, hoarse whispers set his successor’s task.

The time is coming when the balance will be lost. The world of spirit and our physical world will be consumed by one that is yet unseen. This emerging dimension will take the earth’s energy, causing Ganga to fail, but in her death throes the next Seeker will be birthed.

A weak hand clawed at his sleeve, the inexorable will of a dying man shaping the rest of Baba John’s life.

Watch for the signs. You must help the next Seeker shape this destruction. Only so can resurrection be found.

Casting his mind back, the nonagenarian remembered the billowing, acrid smoke from the perfumed fire as if it were yesterday. He’d still breathed it in, though, along with his predecessor’s prophecy:

When I die, you will be the last Watcher, the very last of our lineage. You will watch for the failure of the Ganges and the Seeker able to harness the energy of the death of one source to birth of another. You will find her, but she will not know you. She will, though, recognise your will. It will cause her to blaze out, calling others also. They will release the spirit realm along the ancient paths it once owned in the physical world to pass into a new one.

He died shortly afterwards, and, as with countless generations of Watchers before, the passing of one transferred visions and signs into the consciousness of another. The succession of impressions that flooded through the new Watcher bore no relation to anything meditation had allowed him to access previously. It came at him much faster than he was able to process, and he had felt himself drowning in information. The reality of it was unbearable. Then it stopped. In his mind’s eye, the fissures of Gaumukh closed up and Ganga’s waters ceased. There was a moment of blessed silence.

From that emerged a throbbing. Like a heartbeat at the centre of the earth, it made him feel he was not alone, made him believe that the Seekers’ voices would eventually come to him. But when he thought he heard the screams of new voices through the reassuring regularity of the thrum, his momentary calm turned once again to an anxious urgency. It took him back to the beginning of his journey, when he’d chosen to be known by the Western name that had caused his own primal scream — prefixed with the Baba that bound him to his Sadhu vow. It was a reminder of what was needed.

Reluctantly, the old man dragged himself back to the task at hand. Seeking the reassurance of the familiar, his eyes swept over the pictures one more time. In the end, all his meticulous records had proven unnecessary. Having come back from an arduous trek to Ganga’s Source only yesterday, her death had been clear for all to see. All that remained of the bubbling, crystal waters was a red-tinged pool. It confirmed what he had suspected weeks ago: the Age of the Downfall was upon them. In order to be reborn, creation would have to be consumed, and if anything was to be salvaged, he must hear the call of the next Seeker.

He pulled the curtain across. Trying to settle into a meditative state, Baba John found that a grey cloud of fear was stopping his spirit from soaring. Despite scouring his memories for other reassuring moments, the gathering gloom became increasingly suffocating. His guru had been mistaken. He wasn’t up to it. The last Seeker was too elusive. He wouldn’t be able to find her, let alone help her shape what was to come.

To still his ragged breathing, he started humming. And then it came. Thump, thump. A steady drumming that reminded him of that first heartbeat. The same need that had once forced a scream of rebirth, propelled him beyond the smothering darkness to the place the physical and spiritual planes met: the Source. Here he must wait. This was where the calls of those who were broken would echo. Among them would be the Seeker, the one who would bind the new energy as Shiva had once bound Ganga. Only so would the coming flood be managed.

But even as he assimilated this newfound knowledge, he recognised there was something missing and returned from the elsewhere that kept on eluding him. He reached for the ancient Sheesham box in the hut’s darkest corner, the faint heartbeat getting louder as he disturbed the heavy dust that covered it. The last time he’d opened it was sixty-five years ago. He remembered his eyes sliding over the pages of writing as if it were yesterday. How he hadn’t been able to hold on to the sense of what he was reading.

Hoping that in this hour of need, the underlying beat signalled some kind of approval, Baba John went to decipher the learnings passed down the long line of Watchers. Some sheets were typed, some handwritten, and most were yellowing. The oldest rolls of parchment were right at the bottom, though. Unrolling them, he found that this time the spidery Sanskrit flowed into him. Whistling though his remaining teeth in triumph, he allowed himself to surrender to the truth of the story.

Like the Ganges, Turtle Island held many beginnings: flood, sacrifice, death, and rebirth. As the words and messages rolled over him, they also passed though him — as if casting out a net to their rightful owner. He no longer needed meditation to straddle the dimensions. In this new state of omniscience, he started to see how inevitable the devastation was. He also saw, though, that even an unstoppable flood could be directed if the channel was deep and wide enough.

Part 1:

What Is

Maybe, just maybe the pain’s not all mine.

And maybe the place beyond time and space

Deep beneath the sea

Might include others, not just you and me.

And it was that, that made me cry, you see.

Extracted from Martha’s book of poems, Summer 2011

Act 1

Martha knew she was late. Eyeing the blinking display on her car clock radio, she swung into the Tesco Metro Car Park, late but hungry, which was why she was here. A small pit stop wouldn’t hurt. Being fifteen minutes late wasn’t that awful, was it?

She had always been such a good timekeeper. Since Dave’s death a few months ago, though, the initial bout of extreme self-pity had been replaced by an overwhelming numbness. In this new world, things were dancing to their own tune, and because she couldn’t keep up, time didn’t seem to matter much any more. And, her employers, although a good digital marketing agency, were hardly the emergency services.

She came to a stop, her sense of self-righteous indignation warring with that deadness she was trying so hard to keep at bay. Looking around, she realised that in her bad mood, she’d pulled into a mother-and-child parking space. Knowing that her fifteen-year-old son and seventeen-year-old daughter were hardly the family they’d had in mind when allocating it, she brushed off the momentary pang of guilt by rationalising that she’d only be a couple of minutes. And, talk of the devil — just as she had shrugged metaphorical shoulders, her phone buzzed. It was Amelia, a.k.a. Emmy. She had run out of make-up wipes and was asking whether her mum could pick some up. The PURLEEASE was capitalised on the embarrassingly cracked iPhone 5S.

Even though she knew the minutes were ticking by, she scrunched down in her car seat. Deciding to keep her phone out, in quick succession she tapped into Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Connecting into her digital personae always made her feel more present. She was pleased to see one new follow and a few likes for yesterday’s picture of a pretty sunrise.

On Facebook, she had announced Dave’s death. Here, she was the grieving widow who put the occasional post up that everyone liked, in order to show they cared. Smiling through the tears was who she was on Facebook, giving others the opportunity to feel better about themselves with a click and a comment. Here she was liked and likeable. Sometimes, she thought, she preferred the digital Martha to the real one. That was certainly the case on her professional sites. No reference here to anything bad in her life. Here she was meticulous Martha, a networker to the core, picture from about ten years ago, with opinions based on whoever was paying her.

As she heaved herself out of the car, she noticed that the air conditioning had definitely taken the edge off the heat of the day. It was only 9:00 a.m., and the tarmac was already sweating. She found herself in the baked goods section in front of shelves that throbbed with scents and colours. Whatever it was that had stripped colour and light from other parts of her life was strangely absent here. Lobbing some reduced-price croissants into her basket, along with a few other things she fancied, she topped her food shopping off with a half-price tray of sushi. Glancing at her watch, she knew there were just the make-up wipes left to get. She was already well past the fifteen minutes she’d allowed herself.

This was something that did matter. Samantha-Jane, her thirty-something boss, had made it clear that her tardiness would not be tolerated for much longer. The fact that Martha had been delivering substandard copy had not helped either. As she felt her anxiety mount, Martha’s heart rate sped up, its beat catching at the base of her skull. As she lengthened her stride, the rhythmic thudding of her feet on the ground only served to further increase her pulse rate while making the fleshy friction between her thighs even less comfortable.

Glancing up the toiletries aisle, she spotted the make-up wipes. She made a grab for two packs that were on special offer and plonked them in her basket with a sense of satisfaction. The thudding at the back of her head had got even louder, a sure sign that her anxiety was getting out of hand. To focus on the practical, she surreptitiously looked for any tell-tale damp patches under her armpits.

She stopped in her tracks. Her hand had disappeared, and the basket she was holding was floating in midair. Closing her eyes, she felt an odd, counterpoint heartbeat thrumming through her entire being. What was happening? When she finally plucked up the courage to open them again, she heaved a sigh of relief. Her hand was most definitely back where it belonged again, flesh bulging out around the wedding ring she hadn’t, as yet, been able to get off.

She felt tears well up. In the real world, it wasn’t just her hand disappearing; it was all of her. Not even her children saw her any more. They just wanted her to do and get things for them. She looked back down at her hands and realised that something had to give. As she focussed on the last echoes of the beat she’d felt run through her, she hoped to goodness it wouldn’t be her sanity.

Everything all right, miss? A friendly voice shook her out of her moment’s reverie. A navy-clad elderly gentleman was looking at her with concern. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

Do you need a chair?

Slightly irritated that he’d broken through that strangely soothing, underlying thrum, she shook her head.

After what seemed like an age, she reached the safety of her car. As she turned the key in the ignition, she forced herself to breathe deeply, a sure way to calm frayed nerves. It worked so well that by the time she reached the office car park, she’d been able to reason most of what had happened away. Just in case low blood sugar was to blame though, she delicately opened a pack of shortbread on her way in.

Up she went. Naturally, everything was open-plan. In this age of blue-sky thinking, sharing was caring, collective creativity was commendable, and keeping an eye on each other was mandatory. Samantha-Jane’s desk had been positioned with this in mind, making it necessary to pass her in order to reach any of the other working areas. Thankfully, at this moment, it was empty.

Making her way to her desk, Martha ticked off other things she had to be to be grateful for. Not only was she slightly out of the way, there was even a window that opened. As with all things, though, there was always a downside. Hers was the ever positive, twenty-four-year-old Kate, who’d been placed directly opposite. The hope had been that the younger woman would benefit from Martha’s expertise. Martha ruefully admitted to herself that, based on recent performance, there’d been definite flaws in that particular plan.

As Kate glanced up from her desk, smiling past the photograph of handsome Harry, her boyfriend, Martha found herself responding in a similar vein. Of course, she knew deep down that what was being said behind her back was more reflective of Kate’s real thoughts. A smile, however, didn’t cost anything and made her feel better.

Everything all right Martha? You look a bit flustered today. How about I get you a glass of water.

Her colleague had been very kind since Dave’s death, that much was true. But because Martha’s default position was inadequacy, she’d been unable to take it at face value.

What must Kate think of me? I’ve achieved nothing. I’m a mess. This dynamic gave their relationship an odd flavour, since it was impossible to work out whether it was governed by contempt or pity or where the seniority lay. However, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Martha accepted Kate’s offer. The thought of tucking into her sushi without interference from the almost imperceptible wrinkling of Kate’s nose was just too appealing to resist.

Looking across at her colleague’s long-legged stride, Martha realised that despite mixed feelings, she admired the younger woman’s sense of purpose. She’d once been like that herself. Where had it all gone so wrong? When she’d met Dave, they had been two people, but it hadn’t been very long until they’d felt like one being, their shared aims and goals creating a powerful momentum. She remembered how he’d encouraged her to go for a BBC graduate scheme, calling her his Valkyrie when she’d got it.

A fierce goddess able to choose the kind of life and death us mere mortals will enjoy, he’d said.

Sticking to the Norse theme, she’d replied that if that were who she was, he’d have to be one of Odin’s all-seeing ravens.

You’ll take flight to make our dreams come true, just wait and see.

They married a couple of years later, by which time her feet had been firmly planted on a career path that was going places. Martha didn’t acknowledge it very often, but since his death and despite everything that had happened, she felt like the half that had been left behind. A fierce longing for a different kind of death for him burned as strongly as it had that day she’d found out he’d gone.

Popping the remaining piece of fish into her mouth, she decided that self-pity, what-ifs, and petty jealousies notwithstanding, today was the day she was going to get a grip. Her job was necessary. She needed it to keep up with the mortgage payments, not to mention the other debts Dave had left her with. She opened up her MacBook, and the first email pinged up on her screen.

Lateness

From: [e-mail]

To: [e-mail]

Cc: [e-mail]

Monday, 19th June 2017 09:35

Dear Martha,

It has come to my attention that despite previous verbal warnings, you are once again nearly forty minutes late. Whilst we very much value your contribution as an employee and recognise the significant experience you bring, it is essential that you are able to support William Jones (

WJ

) as a coworker who is able to support the team, not just as our senior copy writer but also by setting an example to our less experienced employees.

We do recognise the difficult nature of the last few months and have tried our best to be accommodating and supportive. However, this is the last informal warning. Paul from Human Resources has been cc’d so as to recognise the start of a more formal approach on our part.

The next time there are any irregularities with reference to either timekeeping or quality of work, you will be issued with a formal, written warning.

Best wishes,

Samantha-Jane

Sure enough, SJ was darting glances at Martha over the top of her iMac, obviously watching for any reaction. Martha hoped that her little half wave looked suitably contrite. It obviously didn’t, though, and realising too late she’d not even had a sip of her water, she found herself standing in front of her grim-faced boss.

I do hope, Martha, that you start taking this more seriously. Despite your wealth of experience, I’m sick of covering for you. Mark was only saying the other day…

As she’d done so often in the past, Martha zoned out. Beyond the fact that Mark had the hots for SJ, who, it was said, was only too pleased to bend over backwards or any other which way for him, she truly had no interest in whatever the company’s owner had to say. However, remembering her earlier resolve, she tried her best to look contrite. When had she got so cynical? And why did it seem that everything had become twisted up inside her?

Are you listening to me, Martha? Unless I get the council copy through by 5:00 p.m., we will be implementing a reporting sheet to monitor work levels. And just in case it’s slipped your mind, it’s currently three days overdue.

Martha knew that Samantha-Jane had a point. WJ was a marketing agency. A local one, but fairly established at that. The council was an important client, and even though there was leeway on the deadlines, she was cutting it fine. Although it was lost in the mists of time, she did have a pedigree as a national features writer, and it did mean she was expected to support key clients. She just wished she were able to summon the energy to create the crap that was required.

And don’t forget to comment on ‘Positive Connections.’ You’ve not been active there lately either, came SJ’s final rejoinder.

As Martha made her way back to her desk, she thought about how much she hated pretending to be someone else, so she could comment on the various platforms she was tending. She’d once prided herself on her real voice, but it had all but disappeared. Looking down at her intertwined fingers, she realised the earlier disappearing hand reminded her of the way she felt when she was doing her digital thang, even on her own behalf. On the one hand, she loved the online personae she’d created for herself, dipping into earlier, more successful versions at will. On the other, though, it was exhausting — and the effort of maintaining those constructs made the real her fade into insignificance.

Feeling her heart beating at the back of her throat again, she threw a loo in Kate’s direction and grabbed her handbag. Despite the stairs, she preferred the toilets a couple of floors up, since hardly anyone went to them. Pulling her shortbread out, she shoved it into her mouth on her way up, footsteps plodding, packaging rustling, mantra in her head getting louder with each step: worthless, useless, worthless, useless — it was like a song.

As she put the loo seat down, the first sob shook her body before she’d even locked the door. Crumbs splattered everywhere. The emptiness inside her, causing her to hold her stomach in agonised silence.

What the fuck, Dave! And there was the anger. What the fuck! she said again, louder this time. I can’t do it, I just can’t do it anymore.

She had the momentary urge to hurt herself to prove she was still there. One thing was for sure: if it weren’t for Emmy and Henry, she’d have acted on it long ago. It wasn’t just the fact that Dave had died; it was all the shit he’d left her with.

They had had all kinds of insurance policies. Apparently, though, Dave had stopped paying them a couple of years prior to his death. And the ink hadn’t been properly dry yet on his death certificate when she’d found out about the separate bank account. Twenty years of married life, and she’d had no idea. He’d been using it to pay various credit card bills and loans he had taken out. It turned out that he’d only been paying half his salary into their joint account; the other half was being used to service his ever-mounting debt. Theoretically, it was all in his name, but thanks to the kind debt management people, she’d discovered that she was liable. She needed this job, that was the long and the short of it. However, she had neither the strength nor the energy to do it properly.

You bastard, how could you…. The ever-present anger bubbling up inside her, she screamed. It felt as if her vocal cords were bleeding, but it was probably just her heart. The memories came crashing in the opening created by the anguished cry. The first time he hadn’t come home, the first empty bottle of whisky she’d found in the airing cupboard, the unexplained texts and emails. He was a digital specialist and had been able to mislead her. Deep down she had known but just hadn’t wanted to confront the full extent of their problems. It was easier to pretend that it was okay. Until the day the police had arrived at her door and told her it wasn’t any more.

Her scream shifted into a dry, heaving sobbing. Thank God she was on the third floor. Nobody around. That was enough to have shaken the birds from the rafters. She coughed spatters of blood onto her hand. Quickly wiping them off with a piece of toilet roll, she realised that giving physical vent to her pain had released something.

It did no good, looking back. She needed to be strong and look forward. Although she was still shaking, the tears stopped. Come hell or high water, she was going to finish that copy on time. Splashing water over her face, she glanced in the mirror. Her features were tear-streaked and bloated, the startling blue of her eyes hidden behind flesh and sadness. Her hair was no better; wavy and grey-brown, it was scraped back into a severe bun. Her backbone stiffened. She didn’t need to be a victim. She had once looked and felt good. She could do both again.

As she reached her desk for the second time that day, she eyed the picture of her family. Despite everything, it still included him. An old phrase came to her: Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset.

It was an extract from the Great Spirit prayer. She’d purchased the bookmark at the Museum of Anthropology in Vancouver after manufacturing a work trip in an attempt to pin the shadow of her missing grandfather’s identity onto herself. It had been after she’d found out that he hadn’t so much abandoned them as been rejected, and she’d wanted to know more.

She came back to the photograph. Short, dark hair, twinkling eyes, slightly reddened cheeks, and nose of a drinker; still handsome. His looks hadn’t been his beauty, though. His belief in her and the way he’d helped embrace the new Indigenous Canadian aspect of herself had been his special gift. Probably because he himself was a mixture too, part Irish, part Swedish, and immersed in the folklore of both, when he got half the chance. She’d gone from Valkyrie to Minnehaha, his gentle teasing making all the other bits fit together more easily — in the first years of their relationship, at least.

Wondering whether she still had the bookmark, she thought back to when the picture had been taken. It was over five years ago and had been just after they’d walked around King’s Wood. Even though she was sure that at this point he’d no longer thought of her as beautiful, they’d still been a real family. It was reflected in the children. Emmy was a lovely, healthy weight, and Henry’s deep eyes still looked on the world in childish wonder rather than the reproach they offered now. Everything worked, hung together somehow.

These days, she was left with the impression of a life of raw video files, unedited and completely disconnected from each other, clips of various lengths, from a few seconds to a few minutes, with no data attached to them to explain where they were taken or when.

Yes, I will get my shit together, she vowed. I owe it to them. I love you just the way you are floated back at her.

By 5:30, she had finished the work that had been overdue. Pressing send with a tremendous sense of satisfaction, she escaped the building. It had been a long time since she’d felt like this. It would have been great to go to the beach for a bit — an easy thing if they’d remained in Westbrook. However, a few years ago she had wanted to find a way to pull them back together again; It’ll be better, I promise. So they’d moved out to St Nicholas at Wade, land-bound and bang in the middle of rural Thanet. Dave’s main office had been based out in a converted barn near Maidstone, so the move had been irrelevant to him. At the time, though, it had meant the world to her. She’d realised too late that the remoteness of the location had only pushed them further apart.

Reaching the car, she was pleased that it had cooled down slightly. Fumbling under her seat for the ubiquitous Diet Coke and emergency crisps, she remembered with a shudder how the police had broken the news to her about the vodka bottle they had found under the driver’s seat of the car Dave had died in. They’d been very kind when they told her but had nonetheless spelt out that his death had been down to drink-driving. Since there had been no one else involved and there was no damage to anything other than a wrecked wall in a country lane near Maidstone, the police didn’t pursue it. She was still grateful to them, allowing as it did for a death by misadventure verdict. The kids didn’t ask too closely either. As always, the appearance of normalcy was more important than what had actually happened.

Once again, she was on autopilot. Without knowing how she’d got here, she found herself at the Minster McDonald’s drive-through window, ten minutes from home. The kids wouldn’t notice if she was a bit late — and if they were delayed in eating, well, it was only really Henry who would say anything. She inhaled her food, revelling in the warm comfort of the Quarter Pounder and the scalding heat of the apple pie. Although she understood that the effect was ephemeral, in that moment it filled up the places that had started echoing hollowly again.

Five minutes later, she was ready to dispose of the evidence. A container just past the nature reserve would serve. As she opened it to throw the brown paper bag in, she sensed the strange binary beat she had felt earlier cutting across the silence. As it flooded through her, she looked up and found herself able to see the green lid she was lifting through both hands. The shock