I could see marbled green and slab grey. The Mabley fields and Homerton High Street. I would spend days happily slipping between my room on Oriel Road, the offices at fURLINE fINANCIALS and Jackdaws public house. There was a rhythm, a swirl to my being. I bought Acareje curry from Pablo, a Brazilian street vendor and ate it sucking sweet smog and enterprise. I was a screen beaver, a deeply satisfying job. I was content and if not content, happy. There was a revolving, migratory feel to our ten person house share which meant I was always meeting new people. Mr Khadiz, our landlord, lived abroad, in a newer country. He left us alone. We paid our £1200 pcm in peace, in welcome silence. In Homerton, I had everything.
Furline was from the Orient and notoriously private. We were his beavers. He was coming to Homerton, to see us, for the first time. He wanted to be sure he had the right people working for fURLINE fINANCIALS. Right, in a spiritual sense. He had organised a task for us to prove our spiritual worth to him. He called it a mission of self discovery. It wasn’t a team building exercise, the opposite, our jobs were at risk. Failure to convince Furline of our moral goodness would result in immediate termination of our contracts. As beavers, we took our worry to the Jackdaws and discussed Furline’s proposition over pints of Jackie O and consternation. Simian, my best friend, owned the Eco lounge on Glyn Road and had been growing his hair for many years. He knew about Eastern rationalisation techniques and claimed to have impressive karmic credentials himself. I knew better than to doubt Simian on these matters. He wasn’t surprised by Furline’s approach. He said it was the Eastern Way. Connie and Dave worked in the DesignFlow dept, they escaped the email. I watched them play mah jong in a corner of the Jackdaws and envied their job security and bright jumpers. They asked why so many beavers were in and I showed them the email on my phone. They became excited by the idea of a trip to the countryside and a mysterious box to present our findings. Connie wanted to know who I was partnered with. I hadn’t opened the attachment. I did it there and then. Connie and Dave watched my face slip.
Michelle and I began working at fURLINE fINANCIALS on the same day. We shared a starters lunch: packaged sandwiches and sliced packaged fruit. Her nose and eyes and full cheeks caught me off guard. I told her about my personal life, something I didn’t normally like to do. I shared in stutters and trepidation. She twirled her magic lips and I thought she was my future. There was an incident, one night in the Jackdaws, a misjudgement on my behalf that meant I got to see the real Michelle. Now that I had seen her, I developed a deep mistrust of her every action. I told Simian that Michelle was leading my team and he shared my disappointment. He knew all about the way she operated. He retied his ponytail and squeezed my shoulder. I knew he would understand. Simian always did.
When I got home, there was a parcel waiting for me in the hallway. I took it to the kitchen. A person I didn’t know was preparing a meal with unfamiliar smells. They took a mild interest as I opened my box and removed a red anorak and binoculars. My resource kit. A present from Furline. I tried the anorak on. The person I didn’t know stopped cooking and took a photo of my red plastic body on their phone. In my room I read the Dalstonist and listened to a C60 cassette Connie and Dave had leant me, a new album by the ‘Sitting Ducks’. I decided to tell Connie and Dave it was the best thing I’d heard in a long time because of their youth and sensitivity, even though it was not. I fretted about my job at fURLINE fINANCIALS. If I couldn’t prove my spiritual worth, I was out of a job, I might even have to leave Homerton. Nothing was more depressing than leaving Homerton, a place I had come to breathe like oxygen. I didn’t want to go back to Sedgley; with its squashed, two storey ambition. On my fortieth birthday, my mother told me my old bedroom was a home office, as I was so settled in London and happy in Homerton. Her new man, a grief exploiter of the highest proportions, worked from home. She did it for him. I enjoyed reading the Dalstonist and was pleased to see a pop up aquarium had opened on Mackintosh Lane.
Michelle and Charlie waited by the barriers in their anoraks, green and blue. My red anorak was still in my bag. I always looked out for film crews at Liverpool Street. I have appeared in several BBC and ITV dramas as a result so I wasn’t going to risk showing up in an episode of Silent Witness wearing a red anorak. Charlie, our other team member, was tall and stooped. He had a dome of thin, listless hair that never grew, it was officially dead. Charlie had been beavering at fURLINE’s longer than any of us but I rarely spoke to him. He didn’t come to the Jackdaws, not even on a Friday. Charlie was a family man. He waved in my direction but I had seen them already. I saw Michelle’s face as soon as I walked in. It never left me.
Once we’d found suitable seats and sat down, I buried myself in my LoveEast magazine and let Charlie and Michelle converse. I was nervous and disinterested. Charlie was disinteresting.
‘Did I tell you about my visit to the bank last week?’ Said Charlie.
‘No.’ Said Michelle. ‘What happened?’
Michelle was employing her usual tactic of faking interest in other peoples lives. It was one of the ways she manipulated people.
‘We paid off our mortgage last month.’
‘Already? Congratulations Charlie.’
‘Well, we’d been overpaying for the last five years.’
‘We’re all overpaying, it’s London, Charlie.’ I said from behind my LoveEast, both listening and not.
‘Yes, well with the base rate staying so low…’
I didn’t know what Charlie was on about, or why he cared about these things. He was only forty two. None of it mattered, yet. He was such a geriatric about these things.
‘…I assumed the bank would be rather pleased we had reached our target so swiftly, but a week or two passed and we hadn’t heard a thing.’
Michelle crunched on an apple. Michelle often showed off by doing things like crunching on apples, pretending she was healthy. It’s why she did running and Judo too, adding to the illusion.
‘We’d been paying them generously for fifteen years, I was expecting a card or some flowers, a gift voucher at least. It didn’t have to be John Lewis, anywhere would have done. I told the cashier, I’m a loyal customer. A thank you would be nice. Where’s the gratitude. All that money!’
‘Quite right Charlie. What did the cashier say?’ Said Michelle.
‘She got the manager.’
‘They always do.’
‘Who was quite unbelievable, when he eventually arrived. He said I had it the wrong way round, I should be thanking them!’
‘Why?’ I said, without knowing I was joining in again.
‘Something about the price of our house in Hackney Wick. He said it was worth twenty times the original loan. They had effectively enabled me to become rich. The nerve! I stormed out of there, bought some Cava and pretzels from Marks and told Maggie and the kids we would be celebrating alone.’
I didn’t know why Charlie had chosen to pay double on his rent or whatever the deal was. I could have told him that was a mistake. My life would be irreparably diminished if I paid Mr Khadiz double rent. I would have no money for Pablo’s curry at lunchtime or the pints of Jackie O in Jackdaws or weekly fashion shopping with Connie and Dave. How could I make the most of living in Homerton without a large disposable income? I wouldn’t be the same person. Why had Charlie done it to himself? It was a crime to live in East London and go without. I couldn’t imagine living in Homerton and going without.
We chugged to the countryside. I watched black faces come and go. London, come and go. There were a few scattered souls remaining, feet on seats, emptied cans of sugary nothingness. When I looked sideways out the window I saw a cow leaning its chin on a knot of barbed wire, its adams apple skewered, and still, the cow was happy. The countryside was for them I thought, not us.
‘This is where gangsters live.’ Said Michelle. ‘They say it’s the new East End.’
Michelle did not know about gangsters, I was sure that. She had made it up. She was always making things up, pretending to know. As my boss, she asked me to do things that were arduous and time consuming and pointless. I don’t think she understood her role or what was required. Michelle’s parents had a pile in Surrey and a boat house in Norfolk. She was from old money. She was from timber and slavery. She did not know about gangsters.
‘Yes, it’s all white Range Rovers and new builds.’ Said Charlie.
‘I’ll keep my eye out for Ronnie and Roger, shall I?’ I said to be funny.
‘Who?’ Said Michelle.
‘The Kray twins.’ I said and rolled my eyes in the direction of Charlie. It came as no surprise that Michelle did not know about the Kray twins. We all laughed at her mistake.
‘Can I see the box?’ Asked Charlie.
Michelle removed a wooden oblong from her rucksack and placed it on a formica wing in front of us. The box was dark wood, the size and shape of a shoe box; mahogany, like the one in my mothers house that we brought home and sat beside without speaking. The one she moved into the loft when the new man arrived. The one I wasn’t allowed to take to Sedgely ponds to remember and forget.
‘Any ideas about what to put inside?’ Said Charlie. ‘How do you prove your spiritual worth with an object?’ He smiled weakly.
‘I’m sure we’ll find something.’ Said Michelle, which was unhelpful and typical of Michelle.
Not an hour later, I was on a hill, looking, with some desperation, for London. I could only see an outline, a charcoal sketch. I was looking through a net curtain, a haze. The countryside was gloomy and white. The wind punched. I didn’t know where to start looking for enlightenment. Through my binoculars I saw Michelle, in the next field, striding. She was marching with purpose. It looked like she might have found something already. It was a trick she had mastered. Looking busy. I was never in a hurry. I knew it was bad management practice, to be in a hurry. It makes those around you feel tense. If I had Michelle’s job, I would never rush. The entire mezzanine floor would be at ease under my command.
The fields were rumpled, uneven. They weren’t the green of my imagination, they were brown, sometimes yellow. Hedgerows appeared diseased, they had holes and knots inside. The trees looked misshapen and arthritic. A green moss spread over everything; furry lime, ectoplasm poured from the sky. I took out my phone and messaged Simian to see if he wanted to meet for a few Jackie O’s in the Jackdaw and discuss our findings, given his karmic credentials. The message sent successfully, there was no shortage of pylons and cables in the countryside. I had one unread message from Connie and Dave inviting me to a cassette night at Bethnal Green Working Mens Club so I cancelled Simian and said yes to Connie and Dave. They had invited eighty two other friends but I was still flattered to be asked and would never let them down.
It was a scant, shivering space, the countryside. I struggled to find inspiration. I studied my countryside code. The motto was Respect. Protect. Enjoy. I didn’t understand. What was there to Respect, Protect, Enjoy? The countryside was empty. I could hear screeching voices in the sky but there was nothing to see. I crouched and magnified berries, blackened and soft; chevron shaped tractor tracks; orange and white gas pipelines; tiger striped tree trunks, litter, caught and fluttering, rotting. None of it was connected to the soul. None of it good enough for Furline. I hung my binoculars around my neck and looked up at a break in the clouds. Streaking light, stilt like beams, illuminated a hole, a celestial tear. Beside the blackening clouds it looked dramatic, biblical even. I wished God would poke his eye through and wink at me. I took a picture. The image was different on my screen, not as good. My phone tingled. It was Michelle asking me to meet her. She attached GPS co-ordinates. I turned them into a flashing dot and walked.
Michelle stood next to a line of water, a brook or a stream, I didn’t know. The trees behind her were hunched forward, listening in. She said we had lost Charlie and pointed upwards at an anorak hanging from a branch. It was Charlie’s. I suggested we ring Charlie but Michelle had done so already and left messages. She asked me if I thought it was strange. Not really, people are strange, I said, to prove I could be wise.
I saw a dove, lodged and flapping in a hedgerow. It was Charlie’s countryside code. It was wet. There were red spots from a squished berry blotting the word Protect from their motto. For an impossibly short moment, a plump yet tiny bird perched by my side. It was restless, bobbing, on edge. I understood its fear, its shakiness. On the train back to London I too was bobbing and shaking, worried about Charlie and worried about our empty box. I confessed to Michelle, I wasn’t feeling good about the days events. She told me I didn’t need to worry. The job, Homerton, they didn’t matter to Michelle like they did to me. She wasn’t committed and appreciative, like I was. I wondered about the gangsters. What if Michelle was right and they had got to Charlie. What if the red smear on his countryside code wasn’t a squashed berry but ‘claret’. Michelle told me I was being paranoid. I told her that’s what people said about JFK before the truth came out. Of course, Michelle didn’t understand.
That night, in my room on Oriel Road, next to my convection heater, readying myself to go and meet Connie and Dave at Bethnal Green Working Mens Club, Michelle called. Right before sliding my finger, I paused, imagining it was good news, that Michelle had spoken to Furline about Charlie’s disappearance. Once I’d slid my finger, Michelle told me she was in Homerton hospital with Charlie who was in a coma.
I knew Homerton hospital well. It was a proud institution. Famous people such as Marc Bolan and Ray Winstone were born in Homerton hospital. On the steps of Homerton hospital, Peter Doherty waved a healthy goodbye after successful if somewhat transitory rehabilitation. I liked it very much. My doctor, Dr Sorenson, wore expensive trainers and was always very nice to me, although we didn’t agree on many things. I first went to see Dr Sorenson with a stomach complaint. He became suspicious when I told him I ate Pablo’s Acareje curry for lunch everyday. He questioned Pablo’s hygiene. Dr Sorenson could be very cynical. I wasn’t worried about Pablo’s hygiene: he had plenty of napkins, and besides, street food was everywhere in Homerton. But Dr Sorenson was persistent. When I returned with headaches and more stomach issues, he quizzed me about the damp in my room, the amount of Jackie O’s I drank, he asked about my mother and why I left Sedgely. He was very interested in all aspects of my life and rarely gave me medicine. He was more like an overly concerned friend. He lent me books and articles that linked psychic and somatic pain, described what sadness can do. I told him how happy I was in Homerton, that I was grateful but I didn’t need to read them. He recommended I speak with a friend of his, another doctor but a different sort. He said Homerton was causing my ill health. As much as I enjoyed seeing Dr Sorenson, he had some very strange ideas.
On the walls of the ICU were photographs of Winstone and Bolan, the Glam and the tough nut, two very different local heroes that Homerton hospital hoped would provide an awakening force. Michelle stood next to Maggie, Charlie’s wife, by Charlie’s bed. He was strapped and beeping, his torso bandaged and red. I approached with solemnity and asked what had happened. Maggie said something about a wound and severe blood loss and how she hadn’t told the children. I stared at Charlie and imagined him in a few weeks time. I pictured him with a beard, bushy and grey. I was surprised to see it suited him. Michelle asked Maggie what she was going to do with the house, now they had paid off the mortgage. It didn’t seem an appropriate question but Maggie looked flush with excitement. She said she had already spoken to a potential buyer. She said the money was crazy. She squeezed Charlie’s limp hand and admitted she would rather not spend it alone, there was so much of it. I nodded sympathetically. Michelle did same. She had a hand on Maggie’s shoulder which I had also thought of doing. It was typical Michelle, stealing other peoples ideas about sympathy. I didn’t know what to do. Charlie’s tubes were breathing noisily and I wasn’t interested in Michelle and Maggie’s excitement over house prices and equity, so I went to see if Dr Sorenson was free for a chat. A nurse said he wasn’t free, he was on a break, in the canteen. I went to the canteen and found Dr Sorenson at a table by himself, eating salad out of a plastic bowl. He wasn’t his usual friendly self. He was hunched. When I told him about my day he looked angry. He told me eight years was too long and I should get on the next train to Sedgley and speak to my mother. He said Homerton was like a vacuum with only enough air to keep me alive. He said the sooner I left Homerton the better. I told him it wasn’t a very doctorly thing to say, especially as my job was under threat and my colleague was in a coma. He apologised and I forgave him. Dr Sorenson didn’t understand that Homerton was the best place for me, it was my cure. When I returned to the ICU, Michelle was on her own. She told me Furline would see us first thing in the morning and she had found something to put in the box. I asked what it was but she told me not to interfere, to let her do the talking. I walked back to Oriel Road and went to bed. I forgot all about Connie and Dave and the Bethnal Green Working Mens Club. I just lay there, allowing the convection heater to warm me.
For years, Simian worked in the City. He had stress and pressure and short hair. It is because of this he had so much wisdom now. I sought his advice in the Eco lounge the following morning. He was testing coffee grown in Kent and packaged in Burkina Faso. Neither of us had any good ideas about what Michelle was going to put in the box but Simian thought I should trust her even though I had a rule never to trust Michelle. I felt aggrieved that to continue living in Homerton and have everything, I was relying on Michelle. Simian gave me a tiny paper cup of coffee to try. I didn’t drink coffee, I found its bitterness emitic but I knew that wasn’t what Simian wanted to hear. I told him it was much better than any other coffee I had tried and he seemed pleased. He told me life had a way of making things right. I suppose if anyone knew, it was Simian.
Michelle carried the box and I followed her. Furline didn’t use an office to receive the boxes. We met him on a balcony so he could smoke cigars and drink wine. I was expecting Furline to be young and exotic, a suave man about town, but he was diminutive and old. He had tousled, grey hair that was wiry and thin and sprang from different places in coils, including his ears, nose and knuckles. He wore a purple suit and a green shirt. On the table next to his ashtray was a hat, a cape and a crystal handled cane. I wished Furline was in full costume, I imagined it was quite a sight. The thought of Furline wandering the streets of Homerton helped me with my nerves. Michelle stepped forward and handed him our box. Furline opened it and I caught a distinctly unpleasant odour, the smell of something that was no longer alive, like the mice we found in cupboards in Oriel Road. Furline removed a fountain pen from his breast pocket and unscrewed the lid. He poked the contents of our box with the nib and nodded his approval. I moved to the side for a better view. Inside the box was a blob of deep red jelly, parts of which were grey and tied in translucent, gooey string. When he clicked his fingers an impossibly tall man stepped on to the balcony and took the box. Furline signed a document with his fountain pen before wiping the nib and returning it to his pocket. He congratulated us for understanding his quest perfectly. We thanked him and I bowed, slightly out of relief and also because I felt it was the Eastern way and would be appreciated. He said it was a shame that business had to be conducted this way but as we had calculated, Charlie, with all his money, no longer needed fURLINE fINANCIALS and so it stood to reason that we no longer needed him. Spiritual balance had been restored.
At Charlie’s funeral I was in a funny mood. Charlie had spent two months in a coma and I felt compelled to visit him everyday. I suppose it was because my father had been in similar straits, I was used to it. Although, that was a long time ago. Maggie and his children had moved abroad weeks beforehand, their house sold in under three minutes. I stopped seeing Connie and Dave. Despite liking all the same things we didn’t seem to have much in common anymore. They were young and this suddenly mattered. I spoke to some of Dr Sorenson’s friends. They helped me to think about things differently. They made me cry but not in abad way. I saw Michelle at Charlie’s graveside and told her I was sorry about the incident all that time ago. I hoped it wasn’t too much of a stain on her psyche. I thanked her for securing our jobs but admitted I was planning a change. She asked if this meant I no longer needed fURLINE fINANCIALS. She was very serious. Yes, I said, perhaps that was it. I was starting to wonder if Homerton was the right place for me after all. She said I should go where I was needed. Moments after walking away, I forgot what Michelle looked like completely or what was inside the box.
Simon Lowe is a British writer. His stories have appeared in AMP, Storgy, Firewords, Ponder Review, Visible Ink, Chaleur magazine, and elsewhere. His new novel, The World is at War, Again, will be published in 2021 (Elsewhen Press). www.simonlowebooks.com