Asphodel Meadows

By A. M. Vivian

Welcome. Welcome to my story. I'd shake your hand only, well, it's just a story. My story.

Who am I? I guess you want to know that. Well, I'm that presence following you home. That presence you can feel just behind your right shoulder but can never see. I'm the one who knows everything about you. Everything. Don't believe me? You'll soon see.

My name's Jamie Scott and I'm your narrator, guide, whatever. I live on the seventh floor between the Lotts' and the fire escape. I was born in this shithole thirteen years ago and I always thought I'd die in this place too. Time is nothing in Asphodel Meadows: day is day is day and nothing changes—ever. And EastEnders is on TV again, and it's scraps from yesterday's dinner again, and it's the same conversation never concluded that you hear around every walkway every day and every night.

Except for tonight. Tonight is not the same as every other night.

It's seven o'clock, 6 September, and they're here. Finally.

Jamie's a precocious teen with a messiah complex. And he wants vengeance. Skulk along the walkway with him as he spies on his neighbours and he'll show you why he's called four malevolent strangers to the tower block.

You'll meet Kath, recently divorced and sacked after an affair with a student; Paul, a writer who can't write; Jamie's abusive mother, the Fat Beast; Char, a sex worker and her clients; the strangely perfect Lott family; and Sam, the resident drug addict as they struggle with forgiveness, missed connections, and loneliness.

And if you're lucky, Jamie will give you the best seat in the tower block for the final act.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walter's Writing Emporium
• Release date: Jan 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781916216839

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Copyright

British English is used throughout this book. Please note that some spelling, grammar, and word usage will vary from US English.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relation to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written consent of the author, except for a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

Asphodel Meadows by A.M. Vivian

Copyright © 2020 A Head

ebook ISBN: 978-1-9162168-3-9

Print ISBN: 978-1-9162168-2-2

Cover designer: Hayes Design

Published by Walter’s Writing Emporium

www.walterswritingemporium.com

For C.C.

PROLOGUE

Footsteps, fast, fast, and breathing. Erratic breathing wheezing from a runner: an out-of-shape runner. Many frantic footsteps along a deck but this is no ship. It’s going nowhere: it’s a lump. It’s a concrete oblong: greyed, unclean, and pockmarked like its inhabitants. Some people are foolish enough to call it home. It is Asphodel Meadows: a high-rise amongst high-rises. Come watch with me as I peer out of a window.

Four men are outside the building, waiting to be buzzed in. I have called them here. They look like they might be trying to sell something: insurance, gas, a starving child in Africa. The buzzer has been stripped of wire. The door is broken, and when one of them pushes his shoulder against it, the latch slides free. They are admitted into Asphodel Meadows’ innards.

The ceiling is low and grey. The foyer is long and thin. It keeps in the smells of rubbish spilt from split bin bags: tuna mayonnaise, over-ripe bananas, remnants of dog food. Orange paint has peeled off the walls in patches, showing the plaster beneath. The community notice board has been ripped off the wall and old messages have been lost. One of the men bends down to pick up a copy of the local newspaper—there is a pile of them dumped by the door. He reads only the front page before tossing it back.

Voices are yelling at each other, real and TV voices: men, women, children, the breaking voice of a teenager. Loud bass is chugging through floors and walls. There’s nowhere for these sounds to go; they are forced against sharp corners, down hallways and across hallways, back again, completing a square. These are the sounds I hear every night. A seagull, trapped inside, is squalling in response to the noise. The overhead lights are harsh and show up every imperfection along the skirting. There are no imperfections on the faces of these men. The footsteps are running along the walkway above the men but they do not move their heads to seek out the source; if they did, they might see me.

The men walk straight ahead, their shoes tapping on the blue tiles. They’re in time with one another. One man steps in fresh chewing gum. They open a brown door and guide the seagull out of the building before they too head into the courtyard. The seagull waddles over to peck at a patch of purple sick on the tarmac. I tiptoe after the men, ducking behind a metal bench when one looks up: red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. There’s the faint smell of salt and seaweed mixed with the metal scent of trains.

One man surveys the courtyard, spots a group of boys by an abandoned flat. They’re all in navy and black, their faces hidden by their hoods and made more shadow-like by the flame coming from a single Bic lighter that they’re bending over to light cigarettes from. The tallest boy has a mutt on a chain, and that dog has the air of a worried old man. It starts barking but it’s a broken bark that sounds more like it’s trying to clear its throat. The man isn’t afraid; he doesn’t need to be afraid. Instead, he looks at his companions and they exchange a thought.

‘What you looking at?’ a boy says, but he isn’t speaking to them and he doesn’t want an answer.

Mr Lott is rushing across the courtyard, a Spar bag in his hand. He keeps his head down, searching for safe spaces of concrete amongst the splits and weeds. His grey hair is thinning at his crown, and his scalp is the same colour as an angry baby. The carrier bag twists and turns, trying to escape from his tight grip. He takes the longer route past the swings to avoid the group of boys who are now shouting at the dog as it mithers and keeps shaking. Mr Lott slows and softens his tread as he becomes conscious of the noise his sensible shoes are making.

He stops in front of the four men, frowns up at them, and peeks back at the boys. Drizzle has collected on the carrier bag, in his grey hair, and on the shoulders of his green anorak.

‘Are you from the council?’ he asks.

One of the men puts his hand in his trouser pocket and pulls out a leather wallet. He flips it open. Mr Lott forces a smile, showing his tiny teeth. ‘Bit late, isn’t it? It isn’t safe here, not at this time of night.’ He whispers this last part as if he’s giving away a secret then he shuffles towards the foyer door, opens it and, for a moment, it seems he intends to leave the four men, but instead he gestures for them to follow.

‘Still, better late than never,’ Mr Lott mumbles to himself.

The men look at each other, agree, and walk after Mr Lott. They let the door bang shut behind them. The handle is cold against my hand as I pull it open and sneak in after them.

Back inside the tower block, the footsteps have stopped, almost as if their creator is hiding in hope that their pursuer has vanished, but still, there is that breath: in, out, shallow. Mr Lott calls for the lift, which has decided to work, though it grinds, scrapes, and rattles in a show of indignation.

‘Do you see what I have to put up with?’ Mr Lott says, nodding towards the courtyard. He would see the tip of my trainer if he bothered to really look. ‘This isn’t right. No. I have three girls. Three. And this …’

The lift doors ease open, letting out the smell of piss, lager, and cigarettes. Its steel walls are sprayed with names no one can read, a few swear words, and a proclamation that such and such is a batty boy and has AIDS. In the corner is a used nappy, carefully folded to hide its contents. Standing by this nappy is a man who appears to have been riding the lift all day. His suit trousers are faded and baggy around the knees and his shoes are scuffed. There are five reflections of him, all with skin mottled in the colours of Asphodel Meadows. His lips look sore. He doesn’t lift his head or acknowledge the five men when they join him. He’s muttering to himself and as he mutters his breath gives off the aroma of coffee. The doors jerk together. They are going to floor seven: my floor, Mr Lott’s floor.

I dash to the fire escape beside the lift. I run up the stairs, two at a time. Round and round, second floor, third floor, over a collapsed pushchair and a trail of spilt milk. I use the railings to pull myself up and up as fast as I can. Now it’s my breath and footsteps echoing through Asphodel Meadows.

I stand on the walkway of floor seven, searching for the men. Concrete arch frames concrete arch frames concrete arch all along the walkway, receding into the distance. There is no end. Rows and rows of doors and windows. Windows that look across to other windows, where the curtains are closed, where a blanket has been pinned up, where there is plywood. Empty crisp packets and pages from pornos bustle together, smack against the railings, and fall, inert.

The men have stopped in front of a royal-blue door flanked by hanging baskets full of flowers that are trying to be proud even without sunlight. There’s a brass door knocker in the form of a lion and a matching brass letterbox. And behind that door are Mr Lott’s wife and his three daughters: Kitty, Kate, and Meg. He unlocks the door and waits for the men to enter. When he shuts the door I run after them. I drop to my knees and lift up the letterbox. It’s not the first time I have done this.

Mrs Lott takes the bag from her husband and offers to make tea. There’s a game show on the TV where contestants win things by luck and chance: Mr Lott’s favourite. He makes space on the sofa for the men by bundling together his wife’s knitting, a magazine, and the local newspaper. Kitty is sitting on the floor with an open textbook in front of her; in the margins, she has doodled pictures of trees, cats, and a wasp. Meg is playing with her Barbie, the one with the shorn hair. Kate is still eating her dinner: fish pie with peas. She likes to eat one pea at a time and prefers the mash when it’s cold. Their cheeks have a hint of apple blush, freshly washed and buffed. They glance up at the men but don’t ask questions: that is not their way. It’s only Kitty who stares longer than she should.

The whole family pretend not to hear that breathing, that running, a knocking coming from their neighbours; they are used to these sounds. Meg thinks she can hear a howl, a low rumbling howl. She glances up at Mr Lott; he is unconcerned. She glances at the door, locked as always: a Chubb lock locked, two bolts bolted, the chain across. The letterbox is up, letting the wind in. It’s only the wind, the howl isn’t real, she tells herself, it’s the same as any night.

But it isn’t the same.

It is 7 p.m. and the antique clock is chiming in Mr Lott’s flat. Once, twice, again, and again. It sounds irritated that no one is paying attention to it. It’s seven o’clock, 6 September, and they’re here. Finally.

PART ONE

WELCOMES & INTRODUCTIONS

Me

Welcome. Welcome to my story. I’d shake your hand only, well, it’s just a story. My story.

Who am I? I guess you want to know that. Well, I’m that presence following you home. That presence you can feel just behind your right shoulder but can never see. I’m the one who knows everything about you. Everything.

I press my face against your windows: the living room window, the bedroom window, and even the bathroom window. I leave breath marks and sweaty prints from my nose and palms on the glass. I’m inside your house. I’m inside your head. That noise you hear at night, the one that makes you jump and your heart race while you try to convince yourself there’s no one there—that’s me too.

Don’t believe me? You’ll soon see.

My name’s Jamie Scott and I’m your narrator, guide, whatever. I live on the seventh floor, as you already know, between the Lotts’ and the fire escape. I was born in this shithole thirteen years ago and I always thought I’d die in this place too; the Fat Beast would fall on me, suffocate me between her rolls of fat out of revenge for my having been born, and no one would find me until our bodies had rotted together, and so the police wouldn’t be able to tell where I ended and she began.

It’s Wednesday, 6 September, and we’re going back in time to 6 a.m. Why? Because I can. Because I own this story. Because time is nothing in this place: day is day is day and nothing changes—ever. And EastEnders is on TV again, and it’s scraps from yesterday’s dinner again, and it’s the same conversation never concluded that you hear around every walkway every day and every night.

So come skulk along the walkway with me and I’ll show you why I had to call those men. We’ll visit our first flat right at the end of the walkway where Miss Charlotte Fortescue lives. Her clients call her Sally. No one cares about Charlotte Fortescue except for the bank, the council, and the utility companies. She’s preparing for her first meeting of the day. Duck down and keep quiet because he’s coming out the lift now.

He’s fat and middle-aged, indistinguishable from any middle-manager in his navy suit. Packed in his faux-leather suitcase is some unimportant document, a limp cheese sandwich, and some stale resentment. Watch as he minces down the walkway, thigh trying to avoid thigh.

I digress; it’s not him we’re interested in. He’s as inconsequential as a pizza delivery leaflet. No, it’s Miss Charlotte Fortescue that we’re interested in. Come closer and lift up her letterbox. She’s too busy staring at herself to notice us. Start with her black ballet pumps, then the long white socks up to her knees, then the short, pleated skirt that stops mid-thigh, then a white shirt that bulges around the straining buttons, and finally a navy blazer that’s also too tight. Her blond hair is in two drooping pigtails, held there by pink plastic bobbles, and on her head is a straw hat. A large mirror frames her like a masterpiece in some free gallery—she thinks. Maybe, just maybe, if you were slightly blind and looking from behind, she’d pass for a schoolgirl.

Breathe in the scent of her perfume oozing out her letterbox: violets and sweets. Do you like that heady mix? Listen to her humming an old show tune. Watch as she tugs those ponytails a little higher, trying to be graceful but the gesture looks borrowed. She’s practising a new smile in the mirror, one for when he leaves—note the hint of wistful longing. This smile is also someone else’s, someone she observed a long time ago because, yes, she is a watcher, too, but a different kind than you and I are.

Finally, Brian’s at the door. Don’t worry, he’s too obsessed with himself to notice us, most people are—it’s what I rely on. His mouth is dry: see how he swallows and then licks his teeth. He’s nervous because he knows it’s Sally who has the power in this transaction; she could ruin his fantasy at any time by showing him who he really is, like Jenny in accounts did at the Christmas party, or Sandra from reception, or Carol from purchasing—doesn’t matter who. It’s what Charlotte should do: it’s what I’d do.

His knock on the shiny red front door is light and timid.

When Sally opens the door she’s smiling in a way that makes a dimple appear on one cheek. Her gaze is lowered—ready to pretend. She’s thirteen. She shouldn’t be opening the door. She’s pleased to see him.

‘Don’t be shy, little girl,’ Brian says.

She giggles.

‘I’ve sweets.’ He gets out a grubby paper bag from his pocket and jiggles it.

Now we must creep slowly, silently, my friend. And slyly we enter.

Charlotte Fortescue

‘Sweets? Goodie.’ When I try to look into the bag Brian pulls it away.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks, one foot already over the threshold. He’s wearing new shoes and they look a bit small for his feet.

He did say on the phone he’d be in a hurry this morning, something about a presentation, and he’s late so I better cut short our normal preamble. He thrusts the bag of sweets at me; its bottom is slightly damp.

‘You are good to me, Brian.’ They’re rhubarb and custard, not my absolute favourite but it’s a nice surprise so I take one and pop it into my mouth. The sharp sugar cuts across my tongue. ‘Would you like one?’ I hold out the bag for him.

‘They’re for you.’

He stands in my hall, his belly stuck out against his navy suit jacket. There are a few drops of rain on his shoulder and his glasses have steamed up, so he takes them off and wipes them on the cuff of his burgundy jumper. His eyes are small without them, like little black buttons. I close the door behind him. He hands me his jacket and I hang it up on the reclaimed iron hook that used to belong in a butcher’s, I think. He seems awkward this morning, unsure of himself since we’ve cut our normal script, so I best take charge; I’ll take his hand, lead him where he wants to go.

‘Oh, what are you doing with me?’ he says with a mock gasp, and the tips of his ears pinken in anticipation. ‘You naughty girl.’

We walk to the bedroom.

‘Where are you taking me?’

I open the bedroom door. The pink candle by the window makes the room smell of bubble gum. Mr Bear’s sitting on a pink pillow, already casting judgement. Don’t be so unkind, Mr Bear.

‘No. No. We shouldn’t … We shouldn’t … I’m too old for you. You should be with boys your own age.’

‘I don’t like those boys. I like you.’ I flutter my eyelashes at him, press myself against his belly, and kiss his thin mouth. ‘I want a man.’

He keeps his lips closed, even when I loosen his tie and reach between his legs. He pulls away, but not far enough away for my hand to fall.

‘I shouldn’t,’ he says. ‘We shouldn’t. What if anyone found out?’

‘I promise not to tell and you won’t tell, will you?’

His gaze is over my head. That’s the thing with Brian: he can never look me in the eye. Sometimes I wonder what he thinks he’s hiding when his body shows me every disappointment and fear.

‘Don’t make me unhappy.’ I pull a sad face again.

He sits on the bed and tugs me down beside him, perhaps realising how pressed for time he is because he checks his watch before his hands dart under his jumper. He scrabbles about undoing the top few buttons on his shirt and then he yanks jumper and shirt off together, knocking Mr Bear off the bed. Thank God I remembered to move the lamp. Brian’s hand darts up my skirt and pulls down my knickers, not even stopping to notice that Wednesday is printed across them. I undo his belt, start trying to pull his trousers down only they catch around his bottom.

‘Leave them.’ He wangles his willy out of his navy briefs and plops it onto my palm. Then he shuts his eyes. ‘Oh, we shouldn’t. We shouldn’t. What if your mum hears?’ he says, as my hand glides up and down to make him hard.

‘Mummy’s not home. No one’s home.’ I lean across his body to get a condom out of the drawer.

‘Oh, no, no. I have so little restraint,’ he says, as I slide the condom onto his willy. He climbs on top of me, guides his willy in and starts snuffling away around my neck, breathing in my Impulse body-spray. He’s kissing up that synthetic scent as I continue sucking on the rhubarb and custard sweet; other than that I stay perfectly still, just as he prefers.

‘Oh, you fucking bitch. You fucking whore.’

That’s a new one. Must be the stress of his presentation getting to him. It’s all right, Brian, it’s Wednesday and nothing bad ever happens on a Wednesday. The hair on his right shoulder tickles my nose and I suppress a sneeze. This morning his hair is greasy and it smells like those beef crisps Lucy used to like.

He grunts. His neck tenses, stretches, and his left leg twitches: he’s quick this morning. Well, he did say he was in a rush. His body becomes a slack weight and his glasses fall off his nose.

‘Phew.’ He rolls over onto his back and wipes his face on a pillow. It leaves a damp print. Will it now smell of beef, too? His willy shrinks up, leaving the condom half empty and looking like a redundant piece of skin.

‘Satisfied?’ I ask.

‘Yes, thanks, Sally.’

I give his belly a quick rub before he gets up. The condom clings by its edges, the end wiggling about. He pulls it off, ties it up, and puts it on the bedside table.

‘Best be leaving,’ he says. ‘Can’t be late for work.’ He picks up Mr Bear and puts him on the bed beside me, chuckling as he does so.