The Red One

The ice shone black, his voice bellowing under the sails, through the wind. She couldn’t hear him but she knew what he was saying. Numb, her hands still knew what to do. They quickly tied off the ropes and dove under the deck. He poured her a vodka. She was only 13 but he taught her all about the ways to drink. You could heat it up and add honey. When there was heavy wind, add sage, for the throat. When there was sleet on the way, add cloves to fire up the belly and protect the bones when the cold set in. They had been at sea for three whole months. He was showing her everything he knew and she was wide eyed to all of it. The vodka knocked her sideways, and she curled up blissfully under the thermic blanket. The lilting of the boat rocked her to the purring engine room and puffed out scent of herbs and petrol. The air thick like opium skies she let it take her back.

She knew every brick, each snail trail, the position of the dumpsters before and after they were collected, where the doll had been dropped and which child it belonged to. She grew up on an estate where her bedroom windows faced both ways, like a lighthouse. She could see the inner courtyard and the park on the main road. She knew the lives of all her neighbours, when they walked in and out each day, who forgot their keys all the time. Who went out enthusiastically, who didn’ want to leave, who didn’t want to come back. For some she even remembered birthdays. She was sad when the girl at 89 went to university. When the dog from 42 stopped barking. Happy when the couple at 12 had a baby. Scared when the police came to arrest the guys at no. 13. Now, so far away, she just had to let the waves rock her and she could touch the gravel walls again. The memory was vivid, but not nostalgic, as she snoozed.

She crawled into the corner of the bed, her mum's tv flashing through the door. If she wedged herself in the corner of the wall, she could just see the park bench. He was there again. Like every night. He stayed for an hour, and left. Smoking cigarettes, so she could just see the red tip burning. Three cigarettes, then he stood up, like every night, and walked down the alley.

Duthk! The boat was hit. Her father roared through the hatch in a whisper “Satya, come quick!” His arm reached down and she seemed to fly into his gruff, calloused paw, as she anticipated their dance. With one bear tug he hauled her up on board and wrapped his coat around her. His beard mingled with her hair, and their joy was shared. His big warm belly on her back, he breathed into her hood, the vodka steam of his breath burning on her skull. The fangs of the arctic air sunk deep into the surfaces of all skin, but in the microscopic gulf between them was enough warmth to thaw the continent.

“Look!” A dancer beneath the ocean’s surface knocked them again. She had dreamt of this moment. Meeting the blue whale. “I promised you we’d find him”. The dancer cooed underwater. Her heart flooded as far as the black horizon. They did it! They found him. He bumped the side of the boat again. “How did you know where he’d be?” “Old friends never lose touch Satya. It’s impossible. Never believe anyone who says that distance keeps you apart.”

That was a long time ago, she thinks, staring out from behind the reception window at the patients waiting to be seen. They’re such a cigarette ash grey. Not just them, everyone in the city. Under the faded GP surgery lights especially. Her bum aches from so many hours sitting in the chair. She gets up for a cup of water, stretching her sides. Her thirst is unquenchable. She wonders if she too is ash grey. There are no mirrors in her home. She doesn’t want to see the world through the prison of her image. She feels ash grey, with a touch of mould of cave. A still glimmering spark of the real world.

James will be along any second now and they can go home. There he is, with the umbrella.

James can never wait to lock up the shop and go over the road and pick Satya up. He doesn’t understand why she still doesn’t want to work at the shop with him. One day she'll change her mind, he hopes.

He’s brought her carrots and suede. The silence of her movements and the hissing, kissing orchestra of her kitchen hypnotise him every night. Satya disappears. He’s left on the other side of some invisible curtain. She’s not following recipes but writing them down, in her little black book. He wants her to look up at him just once, to be seen. She doesn’t, never, she never looks up, just deeper and deeper into the book. He clasps his phone. He flicks through his apps again, email, bank, wallet, news headlines.

As her orchestra swirls to the crescendo, she teases out the final sirens before finally the cymbals crash and their dinner is poured. James is half way to the table already by the time the bread breaks its sweat from the toaster and the melting butter makes him salivate. Satya pours him a glass of wine. She’s more blushing than the roses.

As he finishes the doing dishes she steals a kiss. Her cashmere makes him hard as it settles under the palm of his dry hand. He wants to slide the wet one in underneath her top and pluck her. She’s gone before he can finish the thought, to her the chair to be with her little black book. What does she write in there? Every night, she makes notes as she cooks, and goes on for an hour by the light of the streetlamp.

“How many of those do you have?” Her black deer’s eyes dart up at him. “How many of what?” “Those books”. “These? Twenty one. Why?” “Just wondering. I’ve never seen more than one at a time but you write in there every day. Where do you hide them?” “They’re in the drawer under the bed.” She doesn’t realise she’s answered a question he has desperately tried not to ask since she got here. A whole eight months of wondering, brushed off as though it was nothing. He sits down opposite her. Out comes the phone, he really would rather smash it on the concrete outside, but pretends its interesting. Look at me, he thinks. Look at me Satya. Her hands glide like pond skaters on the page. He can’t stand it.

A bull on his screen jumps out leering at him. A golden bull with flaming blue horns, he clicks on it. 200, fuck it, why not, actually, that’s so pedestrian. Make it 2,000. That’s right, he puts two thousand pounds on the bull bit and he doesn’t care, because she doesn’t care, does she?? He wants her to look at him. Look at me Satya he thinks. She does. The streetlamp floods through her red hair and she’s like a devil woman. Her black eyes finally on him. “What happened?” “Come with me.”

She’s sleeping.

He can’t sleep.

The ocean of black books beneath the bed pulsates. There’s almost a moaning from under their sheets. He goes for a glass of water in the bathroom. She stirs. “Baby, are you ok?” “Go back to sleep babe, I’m fine.” “Can you bring me some water? I’m parched”. He sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s up with you tonight, James?”

“James?” “Are you happy, Satya, here with me, are you happy?”

She’s shocked. “Well, I mean, I know it’s not the most awesome corner of the earth, but yes. Here with you is where I want to be.” “I can’t help it, I don’t think you’re happy.” “Why?” “You’re just always in your little black book, and you’re never here, really. I thought when we moved in together that we’d be- I don’t know. You’re just so into your book, like I don’t exist.”

She turns under the duvet and she reaches out her hand for him to come to her. He follows her command. “James, are you jealous of a book?”

He wants to erase the last few hours, but then again, no he doesn’t. “I’m not jealous of a book, I just can’t stop wondering what’s so interesting in those blank pages and why when you come home to me every night you never do. You’re always in there, doing something beyond my comprehension.”

She slips her feet out from under the duvet landing them perfectly in his slippers. She looks at him, hesitating, then reaches under the bed and pulls out a case full of the same identical black books, lined up and stacked like dollar bills or bags of cocaine in a Hollywood picture.

“I’m writing all the things my dad taught me, and drawing illustrations to go with the descriptions.” He's confused. “I thought you didn’t know your dad.” She freezes, her hair the only thing in motion, almost quivering. “I said I never really knew him and that my mum never told me anything. That’s true, but it’s not everything. I did go on a trip with him once. We traveled for 4 months around the Arctic when I was thirteen.” “What?” “He was a sailor, and he came to take me on a trip once. He waited till I would be old enough to understand everything, so he could pass on his knowledge” “What about your mum, did she go with you?” “No, she trusted him. She knew who he was. When he came to meet me, she was happy, and she let me go with him.” Satya looks at James with her black eyes. “Sorry I didn’t tell you before, I think I only started writing it all when I met you. It was in me for so long, but I couldn't let it out till now."

For hours they read. His arms hold the books as she lays on his chest, flicking the pages, explaining what everything means, all the ingredients, all the way to sail, all the changes of the sky and what that means for the weather to come, then how you start to prepare for the eventualities that come of that. He can’t believe what she knows. All this information that seems like it comes from an infinite source, flowing through her like breath itself. Her hair sprawls like algae, and he wants to listen to her speak forever. They drift off to the sound of the early bird and are brutally awoken by an alarm ringing from his phone, too soon. They both stay motionless as it bleets and bleets.

He reaches out to shut off the alarm. There’s a notification. “Satya, fuck.” His whole body is on the edge of the bed. “Fuck” “What, are you ok? What happened?” He is speechless. “I - I did a stupid thing last night. I was worked up, about the book and I put some money on a bit coin, I forgot about it and I think, I think we just made 20k.” She smiles. “He promised.” James doesn’t get it. “Who promised what?”

Satya rummages through the flood of books on the bed. “He promised that this story would bring me fortune. He said not to tell anyone thos until I was sure I could trust them. He said that then our travels would bring me fortune. See, I wrote it in the first book, there.”

She pulls out another book. “How come this one is red?” “It was black originally. It's the one he gave me.”