Chapter Six

SCHERLONK went the electronic key card lock of the hotel bedroom door.

SCHLUMP went a plastic carrier bag onto the floor as Boris dropped it, striding through the door in a very good mood.

He breathed a big happy sigh and went to the mini-bar, pulled out a couple of vodka minis, sat in the armchair and drank them down in a one gulp Russian manner.

Alma had been woken from her near-coma by the door opening and was sneaking a peak from under the sheets.

Hmmm, she thought. “Not bad. Won’t be TOO much of a sacrifice”. She sniggered a little silent snigger. She was eyeing his well built tight body and beginning to think naughty thoughts.

Boris sat in the chair for a moment, looked around the room, happily, as though he wanted to tell some good news to someone. He got up. Paced about a bit. Sat down again. Got up. Looked out of the window down to the park. Sat down again. Like a child on Christmas eve waiting for Father Christmas to deliver the goods. Up, down, up, down... rub hands together, grin to self. Ants. Pants.

In her now pretend sleep, Alma sighed heavily, to catch his attention and to try to break into this silly performance of his. It was getting irritating. But she just wanted to watch him for a little bit longer. Suss him out a bit more.

Boris’ attention was caught and he calmed down a little. He went to the bag on the floor by the door and pulled something out of it. Alma couldn’t quite see what it was, but when he started to peel it, while idly looking in the mirror at the room behind him, she saw it was an onion.

“Good God, what’s that for?” Alma wondered, though not for long, as he took a huge bite out of it then polished it off in four more bites.

“Eugh.” she shuddered. “Nice bum though” she thought, trying to compensate for the onion eating. “I could just give that a little squeeze while I’m trying to get him going, won’t take much... I’ll just stick my nails in see what happens and then maybe we’ll .... OH MY GOD, what the flaming pie of hell is he DOING?!” (Alma had a rather verbose inner dialogue).... as Boris stuck some little white earphones in his ears and started to boogie. He started to wiggle that tight little backside of his and as he twirled round, with an imaginary dancing partner in his arms, Alma had a vision of “Strictly Ballroom in Gorky Park”.

Boris carried on in his dancing reverie, in a rather un-gangsterish way. If his colleagues could see him now, thought Alma, in her endless internal conversation with herself, he’d probably end up in the bottom of the Tagus by the morning. She was also trying to desensitise herself to this ridiculous behaviour... how could she shag a foxtrot wannabe?

Boris gave another happy sigh as he tired of dancing, looked out the window a couple more times before taking off the earphones. He looked for a bit more vodka, but as usual, the minibar had just two of everything. He opted for a couple of Pernods and a couple of Martini Rossos. “I feel sick, I feel sick” said Alma’s innards “...going to have to snog that in a minute” they continued... “ gonna be difficult....” they gagged on.... “but gotta get back my precious thing.” they went on... “gonna, gotta? what? why? vodka, pernod, onion, martini, vodka, onion, pernod, onion, onion, martini, ROSSO”... Alma and her innards were in a spin.... she desperately tried to cling onto the image of the tough, dark and handsome Russian gangster she had intended to shag (which was surely going to land up on her list of fantasies if she ever managed to get shagged again in her life) to get her through... she was surprisingly close to getting to the Precious Thing, since it was less than twelve hours since she’d arrived in Portugal....this was all meant to BE in the great scheme of things... she was meant to get the Precious Thing back... she was meant to be doing this superficially sexy Russian - well he DID look like George Clooney from the back - her house was meant to burn down.... oh, god, here I go....

Alma was just about to fake a wake up in a sexy come hither kind of a way, when Boris stretched out his arms, yawned and pulled off his black polo neck. Underneath was a kind of wrapping, no, a corset. “Back trouble” said inner Alma... “I’ll try to keep it gentle then!” inner snigger.

Boris undid the hooks at the back of his elasticated corset. An enormous gut literally spilled out at the front and the sides, in a wave of pure blubber. Taking his jeans off, he left on only his leopard print extremely tight y-fronts and sank back into the armchair.

Alma just said a barely audible “no” to herself and decided that she would have to find another way to keep Boris close. And although Boris fell fast asleep in the armchair, she didn’t sleep for what remained of the night.

***********

As the sun rose, so did Boris (as they all do). Luckily, Alma was already in the bathroom, for that vision would have finished her and any future fantasising about Russian gangsters.

By the time she was out of the bathroom, Boris was dressed. With appalling breath.

“Good mornink, Alma, we’re going for a little drive.... I’ve just got to go to the bathroom, and we’ll be off.

***********

They drove out of Lisbon, into the countryside.

It was beautifully sunny and the air was hot, so to counteract Boris’ Siberian air conditioning, Alma opened her window. She was still completely destroyed from lack of sleep, so drifted in and out of a deep doze as they went along.

After a couple of hours they arrived at a farm in the middle of some deserted countryside. Just olive groves and dry grass all around.


“Conceição!” called Boris and a short but broad women in a polyester wraparound sleeveless housecoat (do you want me to draw a picture?) trotted out of the house.

“Ai! Querido Borisisinho, meu russosinho!” she said as Boris and Alma got out of the car, Alma squinting at the daylight after the darkened windows of Boris’s BMW. “And who is the menina?” she asked kindly.... “ai! you’ll get a cold! you have no shoes!!!!!!!!!! ai ai ai! You must be another little russasinha!”

“No, no,” said Alma “British. And we British don’t catch colds from having bare feet” she continued.. irritated by such nonsense...but she checked herself... “don’t be rude... you haven’t had any breakfast”

“Actually, I’m starving.... is there anything to eat?”
Conceição beamed. “Of course, querida” and ushered Alma into the farmhouse.

“Sit, sit” and Alma sat. The old lady brought to the table some watery slime with oil floating on top and tiny bits of pasta sunk to the bottom and a grey hunk of bread.

“This’ll put some colour back in your cheeks,” she said, “but no, that would mean you’re terribly sick, oh god, I don’t know anymore... shoes, no shoes, hot, no hot, cold water, hot water..... I spend far too much time with foreigners and you’re all a bit crazy.” Conceição went on... though more muttering to herself as she waddled around the kitchen, maniacally finding things to tidy.

“Christ. A looney.” thought Alma.

Boris seemed to have disappeared once she had eaten her greasy water and rock hard bread so, she went off for a walk round the farm to try to clear her head. Lack of sleep was really getting to her sense of reality.

Alma walked through an olive grove wondering what the hell she was actually doing here... since Boris had said almost nothing to her in the car, just repeatedly hummed a little bit of “Love is in the Air”.

She stopped to look closely at a dead lizard on the ground, when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, expecting to see mad Boris.

With a black eye, a tooth missing from the front and a bit of a limp, it was Mr Pyre. Kevin Bloody Pyre.



by Vitriolica
illustration by blogless Pete.

Chapter Five

After Alma had calmed down Boris looked at her grimey face through which her tears had made marks like streams and decided that she needed a relaxing bath. He went into the bathroom and ran Alma a bath, liberally pouring in the bubble-bath, courtesy of the hotel. Alma lowered herself into the bath, the smooth hot water being of comfort as she lay back and tried to put together the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Her house was a pile of ashes, Lonnie had taken Selwyn away from her to her mother-in-law's in the States, Mr Pyre was in possession of Alma's "precious thing" and here was Alma, chasing after the man that had ruined her life by hiding in a suitcase bound for Portugal and ending up in a hotel room with a large Russian man called Boris.

Slowly, things started to fit together like an ill-made jigsaw puzzle.

Boris knew of George and his antiques shop and was very interested in "something" that George said that he could get hold of easily. It would be too much of a coincidence to be Alma's "precious thing", but Alma wondered if she had ever told George about it.

She blew through the bubbles, wracking her brain for clues, thinking hard over the past years when she had known George.

There was a knock at the bathroom door, startling Alma.

- "Are you alright ?" asked Boris.

- "Yes, yes, I was just thinking about the past few hours," replied Alma. "This bath is so relaxing that I'm getting sleepy. What time is it ?"

- "It's ten-thirty. I'll make up a bed for you on the couch."

- "That's very kind," Alma mumbled as she heard Boris' 'phone ring again.

Alma wrapped herself up in the large dressing-gown provided by the hotel and came out.

- "That's much better," she said, eyeing the couch that had a few blankets thrown on it. Boris was in deep conversation and appeared to be almost jubilent as he paced the hotel room.

- "Alma, I have to go out, something very, very good has happened. Don't try any of your tricks as I'll be leaving my dog to look after you. You may need some form of a body-guard. Do not answer the 'phone if it rings, nor open the door to anyone. Do you understand ?"

- "What's happening, Boris, tell me," pleaded Alma.

- "I cannot. But I believe I may have found the Pyre man - I have been making investigations while you were in the bath. Stay here and don't make a sound."

Alma nodded, a bit phased by what was going on.

- "Boris ..." said Alma, just as he was about to leave, "please don't hurt him." Boris looked at Alma and almost laughed.

- "Pyre deserves whatever comes to him." And Boris left.

Alma felt guilt flooding through her body as she sat on the large bed, sobbing gently to herself. Mr Pyre, the object of her desire, must not come to any harm, she whispered. But why ? He'd burnt her house, almost killed her beautiful son, Selwyn, taken Lonnie away and was now in possession of the only thing in the world that could bring back anything into Alma's life: her "precious thing". If Boris found Pyre, he would undoubdetly find Alma's "precious thing", most certainly bring it back to Alma and then Alma could start all over again. From the beginning.

Unless ... unless .... Boris was after the same beautiful, heirloom which rightfully belonged to Alma had she not, in a moment of lust given it away to Mr Pyre. Alma turned over and stared at the lamp almost as if it was there to answer all of Alma's questions. She closed her eyes and thought that there was only one way to retrieve her "precious thing" from Boris. She returned to the bathroom and tried patting down her puffed up eyes by splashing cold water on them. She dried her hair and went back to the bed letting the dressing gown slip from her shoulders. Puffing up the pillows, Alma got into the large bed, arranging her hair around her face and lay there, waiting for Boris to return.




by Zoe

Illustration by bonojerry

Chapter Four

As Alma’s’ vision adjusted more to the light in the room she saw that the gun was being held by a tall man of about 35 to 40 years old, with a dark complexion and dark hair. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans.

She slowly raised herself from the suitcase, her limbs feeling as if they were made of lead. She was so stiff and tired from her time in the case that she had difficulty in standing, and stood swaying slightly from side to side.

She noticed that the dog from the plane was here too. It sat at his masters’ side, lips curled back over a set of very sharp teeth, growling quietly and obviously waiting for the command to tear her limb from limb she thought. Her eyes returned to the man with the gun who stood silently looking her up and down.

“Name?” he snapped. Alma thought quickly, ‘Better not give my real name, could be trouble’, she replied “Smith, Mary Smith”

“So, Mary Smith, what were you doing in my suitcase?” Alma detected a slight accent which she couldn’t identify, but thought it was possibly Eastern Europe. “You do realise” he continued, “I could just turn you over to the police and be rid of you? However I would like to hear your explanation first, and I think we will start with your real name please”.

Before she could answer his mobile phone started to play the first few bars of “The Song of the Volga Boatman”. He flipped it open. “Da?” So that was it, she thought, he’s Russian, possibly attached to the embassy here. That’s why the case wasn’t searched at Customs. Diplomatic Immunity!


(click for bigger)

As he was talking she noticed that the gun was no longer pointed at her, in fact he seemed totally unaware that she was even there. Now’s my chance to escape she thought. She slowly edged her way to the door, intending to make a run for it once outside, but was stopped short by the dog, who had never taken his eyes off her. He was now sitting by the door, barring her way out. Alma stood very still; unsure of what to do next, when she saw the notice on the door. “Hotel VIP Diplomatico, Rua Castilho, Lisboa. Reguas e regulamentos”. So I’m still in Lisbon, she thought, that’s good.

Boris, she later found out that was his name, snapped the phone shut and spun round to face her. “Naughty, naughty” he said, raising the gun again. Alma sat on the bed, “Do you mind” she said, “I am really hungry, thirsty and tired and I would appreciate something to eat and perhaps a little sleep before I tell you how I came to be here?” He thought for a minute, “OK, I’ll call room service and get us both something”.

Later that evening they sat facing each other across the small table. “I’m waiting.” Boris said. By now Alma had decided that that she could trust him and had decided to tell the whole story from the beginning, and just hope that he believed her. Something inside her seemed to warn her not to mention that she had given Mr Pyre her “Precious Thing”, apart from that she related all the events that had taken place, even that her husband had left her and how she came to be in his suitcase.

She told him where she lived in Manchester and when she mentioned her friend George and that he was an Antique dealer Boris immediately took more than a passing interest and stopped her there. “Does this George have an Antique shop in Bramhill?” he asked. “Why, yes,” she exclaimed, “Do you know him?” He replied “Only that I had cause to visit his shop about two weeks ago. You see, I have been in England trying to find a certain antique that was reported to be there and during the course of my investigations I was led to Manchester. This George person said that he knew exactly what it was I wanted and he could get it for me for a reasonable sum. I told him to phone me as soon as he had acquired it and I would return with the money, but do go on”.

Boris sat quietly listening to her story and afterwards said “But why did you take such a risk to follow Pyre here?” “I don’t know” she lied, “I just wanted to know why he did such a terrible thing to me”.

“Can you help me find him?” she asked “ I know it’s a bit of an imposition, but with you being a member of the Diplomatic Corps at the Russian Embassy, it would be easy for you. I don’t have my passport, any money and not even a change of clothes so I don’t even know how I’m going to get back to Britain.” She felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. Now things were proving to be more than Alma could bear when she realised that she was in serious trouble, with only this stranger to turn to for help. She suddenly burst into tears and threw herself back on the bed, sobbing violently. Boris sat down beside, all his earlier anger at losing his personal possessions out of the suitcase gone. He put his arm around her and tried to console her, saying “First thing tomorrow we will get you a change of clothes and I’ll take you to the British Embassy where we can sort things out and get you back to England, and no, I am not with the Russian Embassy, I am with the Organizatsiya, who have more power than the Embassy and can help you better”. Alma thought to herself “No way am I going back home without my Precious Thing, I’ll find that scum Pyre if it’s the last thing I do!”

By Keith

Illustration by Wally Torta

Chapter Three

George hangs up the phone, his face ablaze with anger, he tosses, almost juggles, the Precious Thing. He is standing in his shop, he's not much of an art dealer really, more a slightly sleazy 'Antiques and Collectables' dealer. His shop is a little tired, and little dusty, the few nice pieces he still has are hanging on the back wall, behind his desk. On his desk are two glasses, neither empty, a decanter of something golden and a blotter - not much else.

George growls; "You prat, you'd be better off with a Cadbury Cream egg than this worthless piece of shit. Did you really expect to fool me with this?"

"It's the one she gave me, it's in the box she gave me it in, it's the only one I've seen. How do you know it's not real?"

"Derrr, because I've handled it a hundred times - I've appraised it, valued it, fucking coveted it for ten long years you stupid arse. The real one has a mark on the inside, just in there, behind the figure - this one doesn't! It's crap, rubbish, shit, merde, fake - am I making myself clear, thicko?"

Mr Pyre is still smiling, sitting as he does on stage - with the back of his chair in front of him - arms crossed over the top of it, "George, back the bloody truck up a moment, it's taken me weeks to convince that stupid moo to entrust that to me - it's gotta be the real deal, gotta be. Why would she give me a fake?"

Shouting, "I'm not falling for that, she didn't - did she? You had the fake made to palm off on me - and I'm not going to wear that, you hear? You won't be able to pass it off to anyone else - it's too recognisable, so what are you planning to do with it?"

Mr Pyre dismounts the chair and stands, his back to the shop window, the sun has set and it's getting dark outside, "You're not listening, George, that's it - that's the thing SHE GAVE ME - I'm not trying to rip you off, that's what she bloody well gave me, there's no copy - that's bloody it!"

George idly chucks the Precious Thing to Mr Pyre, who catches it easily and turns it in the palm of his hand before placing it softly back in the inlaid box. He raises an eyebrow and turns his back on George "Who the fuck does have it then?"

"I don't fucking know, but it sure as hell ain't me!"

George is close behind Mr Pyre now, very close, his hot breath on his neck, his voice loud in his ears.

"No, there we agree, I don't have it and nor do you. So that's about it really, isn't it."

George takes a step back, reaches for the decanter on his desk, he's thinking of taking a swing at Mr Pyre - but he's too late, too slow.

The blow that Mr Pyre aims at his kidney, takes him completely by surprise, lifts him off his feet briefly, takes the wind from him.

George falls to the floor, gasping for breath.

Mr Pyre stands over him, still smiling, "That wasn't a nice thing you thought just then, was it George, you were going to hit me with that - weren't you?"

George is still on the floor, his mouth is open and he can't speak - can't get his breath.

Mr Pyre drops to his haunches, "So, where is it then? No, no, don't waste your breath trying to answer, it is a rhetorical question George…"

Standing again, Mr Pyre presses the heel of his right foot down onto Georges' head, "I don't have it, she doesn't have it, you don't have it - not many people left really are there?". Mr Pyre rolls Georges' head slightly as he lifts his foot off.

Mr Pyre turns to the shop door and slides the bolt over, pulls down the blind, turns off the lights - George is starting to wriggle into a seated position with his back to his desk, labouring for air. "H, ho, how do we get it back?, If he's got it?" George gasps.

"'We', there's no more 'We' George. Not any more, this little 'partnership' is dissolved. I'm going solo now."

Mr Pyres' shoe crashes into the side of Georges' head. The second kick lands squarely on his jaw and he starts to black out.

The shop is completely dark now, but that changes as he leaves for the airport. Mr Pyres' car is outside and as it pulls away quietly, the flames are reflected in the dark glass and the dark metallic paint.


(click to see bigger)


All things considered, it hadn't gone so badly, shame about George of course, but 'that's life'. It's a short drive to Manchester Airport, his bags were packed anyway - he hadn't planned to stick around, just take the cash and go.

The radio is playing in the car as he turns into the multi-storey, he won't be able to get the tune out of his head for the rest of the day - 'Suddenly I See'.

Mr Pyre makes his way to the Lufthansa check-in desk, he already has a one-way ticket for Portugals' Faro Airport. The flight is busy and there's a queue and then another at security - where he passes through the metal detector and shows the soles of his shoes to the guard. It's quite a walk to the gate, he spots one of his bags - the burning cross he painted clearly visible as the snake of baggage carts is towed to the plane.

The news is playing on a monitor by the gate, "Fire at an antiques shop in Bramhall, three tenders in attendance…".

Mr Pyre looks up and sees the flames and the excitement portrayed on the screen, another smile, another eyebrow. He buys a paper from the newsagent, and a vodka and tonic from the bar, and stares out of the glass as the bags are loaded onto the plane.

By Martin

Illustration by Clair.

Chapter Two

It was dark and there was a slight smell of mothballs in the suitcase. Had this guy never heard that cedar and lavender were just as effective?

In her house, there had always been small bags full of dry lavender or of shards of cedar wood, small dainty little bags she had made herself, laying at the bottom of drawers, hung on closets, with soft satin ribbons: lilac for the lavender, golden brown for the cedar. They kept the moths away. Oh, yes, they kept the moths away just fine.

She started laughing and clipped a hand over her mouth, stifling the sound.
Pinpoints of light appeared in front of her eyes. A whole row of them. It took her a minute to realise that it was light streaming in through the zipper, and not some optical illusion brought on by the toll recent events had had on her mind.
Alma heard sounds around her, muffled by the thick canvas of the suitcase. Voices, and another sound. An irregular thump. Every now and then a thump. Sometimes louder than others. Thump. A pause. Thump. Louder now. Thump. Thump. The voices growing closer and now she knew what the thumping was.

She felt the suitcase she was in being lifted. Oh, bugger, they were gonna toss her!

– Gimme a hand with this one here, wont you? – said a voice somewhere above her. – Weighs a ton.

How dared he? She was a hundred and twenty five pounds and not an ounce more. She felt another set of hands grabbing the suitcase. She feared that they would realise there was something other than clothes in this particular case. But, before she had long to worry, she had a sensation of displacement followed by a rough landing.

A pain spread though her left side, as something pointy dug into her hip. She bit her lip to keep from yelping. She couldn’t be discovered now. She had gone too far.

There was movement again, smooth, rolling movement. Then a little bump, and more movement, as someone pushed the suitcase against a hard surface. The light she could see through the zipper had faded. She must be inside the plane already. Alma adjusted her position inside the suitcase, trying to get a bit more comfortable. Once they had finished loading the plane, she could get out and stretch her legs.


The voices had died out around her some time ago. There had been a heavy clang and then darkness and silence broken only by the occasional bark of a dog.

Alma waited some time after she heard the motors begin to rumble, before she tried to get out of the suitcase. She pulled the zipper carefully, pushed the top of the suitcase up and discovered she couldn’t open it more than a few inches.

She peered out. There was a safety net keeping the suitcase in place, and keeping her from getting out. She inched her arm out, searching for the catches that held the nets around the luggage, but found out she was in no position to reach them.

A Neapolitan Mastiff watched her from across the aisle, from behind the netting of its massive carrier. Alma returned his look and said:

– You’re bloody ugly, you know?

The dog growled in what she was sure was a tone of contempt. She let the suitcase shut close, her burnt arm was starting to hurt.

– And I’m a stupid woman. A bloody stupid cow!

And Lonnie would agree to that.

What was she doing? Stuck inside some stranger’s suitcase, on her way to Portugal, of all places, chasing a lover-slash-thief-slash-arsonist, seeking revenge, conciliation… something.

So she could stop not having anything at all.

Alma tried to settle in as best she could. Her side still hurt; fortunately, they had set her on her right side. She closed her eyes: maybe she could sleep all the way to Portugal, she had always slept through most airplane trips she took, it would be much easier if she could just sleep.

Portugal was somewhere in Spain or in the Algarve, wasn’t it? So it shouldn’t take more than two or three hours to get there. Two or three hours would go by quickly, if she could just sleep.

Her arms were itching. She ran her palms over the bandages, trying to soothe the itch, without scratching. But the feeling persisted, climbing up her arms, rounding her shoulders, covering her neck, her face, her scalp.

Alma balled her hands into fists and hugged herself. Mustn’t scratch. Mustn’t scratch!

She tried to think of something else. She tried to think of an old velvet bag, of what was inside it. If she could it back from Pyre, maybe she could make peace with Lonnie, and he would let her be with Selwyn. Sweet, precious Selwyn with his sweet precious eyes, that always seemed to plead for love.

She rocked herself as she had rocked her baby so many times.

Love. That was love. Real love.

She kept rocking and rocking, and suddenly she seemed to be rocking a bit too much, and she realised it wasn’t just her, but the whole plane that was rocking and jolting. The suitcase got thrown against the safety net, and Alma felt thankful she hadn’t been able to unhook it. Otherwise, she would’ve been flung against that mastiff’s cage. Not a pleasant prospect.

The dog, as if feeling she’d been thinking of him, starting howling, its cries long and plaintive. Her head throbbed, as the suitcase kept being tossed back and forth.
There was a hard ball of discomfort deep in her stomach. It rolled in time with the motions of the plane, and every now and then it would try to climb its way up to her throat. The dog kept howling, frightened by the turbulence. And her head and her stomach throbbed to the sound of its ghastly tune.

– It’s just an air pocket, – she whispered to herself. – Just an air pocket, over in no time, no time at all.

Then she found herself raising the top of the bag and raising her voice, talking to the large dog across the aisle:

– Hush now, baby, hush now. It’ll all be over soon. They’ll came and get you soon, you’ll see. They’ll come and get you soon.

The dog’s howling turned into a quite whine, as the animal settled in the bottom of its carrier, its droopy eyes fixed on her. Alma kept the top of the suitcase up for as long as her arm could take it, then she let it fall, and fell herself into restless sleep.



It was the absence of the sound of motors running that woke her up. She barely had time to zip up the suitcase before voices approached and the whole set of motions she had gone through at Manchester, but the other way around. She got picked up, tossed, carried, upturned. And she kept expecting someone would open the bag and discover her.

But no one did.

And then she was going round and round, softly, so softly that she might have just gone back to sleep, if it hadn’t been for the unbearable pressure in her bladder.
She crossed her legs, and tried to focus on what she was going to do next. Obviously, sooner or later someone would find out she was there, and she would have a lot to explain. She shrugged to herself and thought, I can always plead insanity. Maybe I can plead this whole thing to insanity.


The motion suddenly stopped as someone grabbed the bag. A voice asked something that sounded like ash ta and another one replied something she didn’t even manage to hear.

From the sounds and movements that followed she gathered that she was taken out of the airport, put into the back of a car and then taken in an elevator to a room somewhere that could only be a hotel. She couldn’t figure out why the suitcase hadn’t been put through customs, but she was too tired to worry.

Alma heard someone moving around the room and hoped that they would leave without opening their luggage. Then, maybe she could just sneak out.

After a quick visit to the loo, an annoying little corner of her mind added quickly.

Steps approached and stopped. The person seemed to be examining the bag. Hands touched her through the canvas, running over her shape.

The suitcase was opened and the sudden flood of light blinded her. The first thing she saw once her vision adjusted to the luminosity was the barrel of a gun.




By Ana Vicente Ferreira - O Cantar da Erva

Illustration by cream - Screamers

Chapter One

“Woke up this morning
Everything I had was gone.”

She couldn’t get the song out of her head.
Everything.
Gone.

And only a month ago, Alma was carefree. Not that she was skipping along through banks of daisies, singing a happy song. No. Not carefree in that conscious “Look at me, I haven’t a care in the world!” sort of a way. Just that she wasn’t consciously unhappy. She was stressed, yes. That was a natural state of affairs. She was bored, yes. Ticking over, yes. If you’d have asked her she wouldn’t have claimed to be happy. But then she hadn’t the slightest idea of what was in store, or that she had so much to lose.

If she’d known, she wouldn’t have fantasised as she did that evening, on her way to the theatre.

In the taxi with George and Lonnie, she gazed out the window at a wet Mancunian evening and pondered. It was called Love, apparently, this show they were about to see. Not “Love, Apparently.” Just “Love.” Apparently.

It was easy to forget about it. Because love wasn’t something you considered much in a long-term partnership. But now that she was thinking about it, she could remember how it felt. Not the slow-burning emotion you feel for a partner of nine years. Not the thing you don’t think about, don’t acknowledge, don’t even remember to feel, even though it’s there, day in and day out, a quietly-thrumming engine driving the paddles under the water of everyday domesticity.

No, the kind you fall into. The passion of a brand new relationship. The thing that keeps you awake at night, that carries you through the day, that has you facing glassy-eyed towards anything and everyone but the object of your desire.

She sighed. It was a while since she’d felt that. She missed it.

She wondered what would happen if she were to fall in love now, at the age of 34. Was it even possible? Did her body still contain the right chemicals? Would her habits allow her to break out into something so novel?

And if she did, could there really be anyone with a draw so strong that she’d abandon her husband and child? Surely nothing could tempt her away from her son, or encourage her to hurt him. But...

They arrived at the library and scurried through a downpour to arrive, dripping, at the doors to the basement auditorium. As the usherette tore their tickets, Alma peered through to get a glimpse of the stage. It contained nothing but a hard-backed kitchen chair, its back to the audience, and one man, sitting astride it. He was completely motionless.

She had heard a bit about this bloke. He was touring a one-man show. Written, directed, produced by and starring the man himself. She’d seen him do a stand-up routine on the television. He had a definite something.

What if she fell in love here tonight, with this actor? What if George, who was friends with his agent, took them backstage after the performance? What if she and Mr Pyre (as he called himself) parked themselves in a corner, held each other’s eyes and fell in love? What then?

As they took their seats, he caught her eye. And winked.

She was sure she could smell burning.

He had got through a few minutes of searing monologue, his lower half remaining still but his face, shoulders, eyes and hands the most expressive she had ever seen, enthused with passion and a strange unnerving focus, before people started to notice the smoke that was smouldering at the base of one of the chair legs.

Just as the audience were starting to shout with alarm, the whole chair was in flames. People rose in their seats and an alarm was sounded. A curtain caught fire and somebody screamed. The smoke was already making people cough, and there was confusion as they tried to decide between running away and attempting to help the flailing man on the stage, now aflame from head to foot and moving in eerie silence as he tried to dance his way out of combustion.


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Alma was already imagining herself dead and worrying about who would look after Selwyn. Would Lonnie’s mother have him, and badger him daily about the lack of a monster under his bed? Would she persist in her moaning that Selwyn had no imagination, that he was a creatively-backward child? Or maybe Mrs Lollipop, as he had christened his unofficial auntie from next door, would come out of her shell and admit that she desperately wanted a child; fight to be the one who would keep him safe?

What if he had to live in a home.

And then, as quick as it started, the fire was out. And Mr Pyre was once again sitting on a chair, looking out at them all, seeming slightly bewildered.

“Where’s the fire?” he said.

What a stunt.



George did take them backstage, and Alma’s head was so full of what an amazing performance it had been, that when she was introduced to the man himself all she could do was gaze longingly into his eyes.

The fantasy had developed during the course of the show. She’d imagined how they would talk and talk and talk, and everything else would fade away around them. She wouldn’t even notice Lonnie, standing only a few feet away. Her husband would be hurt, of course. That would be bad. She’d feel guilty about that. But maybe he wouldn’t notice, so secure was he in the confidence that nine years brings.

But now here they were. Here she was. Here he was. And she gazed into his eyes, and yearned for him.

Of course, this was all safe and fine and not really a problem at all. Because she was only playing. Just messing. It was like the time, as a child, she’d hung back in the town centre on a crowded Saturday afternoon. Allowing her parents to disappear ahead of her, secure in the knowledge that her grandparents were behind and would soon catch up. She wondered, that time, what it might feel like to get lost. But she didn’t think she would. It was only pretend.

It would never really happen, because even if she could fall in love, now again, after so many years and with so much wisdom stored... Mr Pyre was not likely to reciprocate. He probably got mooning married middle-aged mothers gazing hungrily at him wherever he went.

He must surely take it all in his stride.

Of course, when she was five she actually did get lost. She miscalculated. Her parents disappeared, and so did her grandparents. Half an hour later she was found sobbing at the edge of town, and taken to the local police station.

They gave her orange juice and doughnuts. That was rather nice.

And he...

He gazed right back. He pierced straight through to her core with black knowing eyes. All pupil and no iris.

She couldn’t even talk. It was as though his entire body were covered with tiny little elastic threads, like a spider’s web. Every one was anchored at each end by a tiny little piece of mirrored person. Her shoulder, his shoulder. Her knee, his knee. Her hip, his hip. Her...

When he moved, she moved too. She was trapped, ensnared, bewitched.

They talked. She made no sense. He smiled understandingly.

He offered to buy her a drink, and for the brief period that he was at the bar, the spell was broken. She started to panic. Her heart was over-beating. What was she doing? She should be thinking of her husband, her son, her nice stable life. Not drooling over an unlikely stranger with a bit of a way about him. She was getting carried away again. He probably didn’t even fancy her.

She turned to a random lovey, sipping drinks beside her. She made small talk. She practised breathing. Her pulse started the slow return to a sensible pace.

She sensed, rather than saw, when he returned carrying drinks. She rehearsed her reaction. A diffident “Oh, thank you,” as he handed her the drink. As though she had forgotten all about him. As though it was no big deal. She knew he was standing behind her. Because of the threads that bound them... no, that was ridiculous. So how did she know?

Because of the smell. She already knew his scent.

And maybe he hers. Or perhaps that was what he was trying to learn, because he paused behind her... and sniffed her hair, briefly. Her plait, which brushed lightly against the back of her neck under the pressure of his nose... and then he was gone. She was barely able to stand. He had stolen her bones. In that one small gesture, he had breathed in her very soul.

She managed to wait for half a breath, but she had to look. He was leaving the room, a glass in each hand. His shoulders were broad, relaxed and confident. They said, “You will follow.”

She did.



The sex they had in his dressing room was great. As it was the following night, and the one after that. The excuses became thinner and thinner, as first work and then friends were apparently disintegrating into chaos, and she explained yet again to Lonnie that there was an emergency; she had to go out.

During the day she alternated between joy, confusion, guilt and despair. She told herself she had never felt this way before. She had no choice. They were destined to be together. Never mind that she had only just met him, that he was prone to great loud bursts of rage and laughter, that he stated without subterfuge or shame that he had not the slightest interest in the character or wellbeing of her son.

When they were together, she felt as though everything below the skin were dissolving, like a tangerine injected with gin. They couldn’t stop talking, apart from when they couldn’t stop shagging. Sometimes they did both at once. They laughed a lot, and he told her his plans, his thoughts, his crazy ideas, and the more insane they sounded the more her neck bent as she curled herself into his aura.

He was her poison, and he burnt her throat as she drank him down, but the agony was laced with euphoria, and she didn’t care.

On the fifth night, she smuggled something out of the house and into his hotel room. It had its own velvet sack.

He opened the bag, regarded the inlaid box. His eyes were gleaming.
“I had to give you something,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking of you, and I needed to find some way... to make it solid. To prove what you mean to me. Something as beautiful as...”

He held out a hand for her to be quiet.

She shut up.

He opened the box, and was silent. He looked at her, inquiring. Was she serious?

“Why are you showing me this?”

“I’m not. I’m giving it to you. Call it a loan, if you like. Or security. A kind of connection.”

“It must be very valuable,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be worth half a million.”

He gave her another look, this time wary, suspicious.

“It belonged to Katharine the Great,” she said. “There’s a distant blood connection. An affair... an illegitimate child... it’s our dirty family secret. But it’s all about passion. So you have to have it. Keep it safe for me, and then...”

“What?”

“I’m going to leave Lonnie. You said to me, last night... that you wanted to be with me forever. Well, you’re right. And I do. I mean, so do I. And that’s my act of faith. Giving you that.”

“Half a million? Really?”

She shrugged. “I don’t keep track. It’s never made sense to me as money. I mean, look at it. It’s not money. It’s beauty. A thing to hold, not a thing to sell.”

“But what is it? I mean, what are you supposed to do with it?”

“Oh, you just have to love it,” she said.



The day came. She was leaving Lonnie. She would be back for Selwyn, she just needed to work a bit on Mr Pyre. He said he hated kids. Maybe, but Selwyn wasn’t just any old kid. Nobody could not love Selwyn.

It was all planned. She had driven him past her house the day before. There had been a spark in his eyes as he had asked her to slow down and watched it hungrily.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s where I live. With him. Lived. The next time I settle, it’ll be with you.”

“Timber frame?” he had asked.

“Yes, it’s very old.”

“Proper thatched roof?”

“Yes. It looks lovely, but it’s my prison now. It’s where my other life belongs, and the only thing it’s good for is keeping me from you. But you’ll be waiting for me, won’t you? Tomorrow evening? On the front lawn, like we said?”

“I’ll be there,” he said.



The time came. Her bag was packed. She’d written a little something, to explain. She drew the curtains back, to check. What she saw made her smile. He was such an overblown dramatic fool. He’d lit a bonfire on her front lawn! What a pyromaniac. He did tricks for her in his room late at night, pulling flames from behind her ear. He said as a child, the very first thing he was taught to do was strike a match safely. Before he could tie his shoes. And the only good thoughts he ever had came through when he stared at a blaze.

She looked at Lonnie, sitting quiet with his head in a book. She felt nothing.

“Got to go out,” she said, dropping the letter on the table as she left the room.

The hallway was full of smoke. The front door wouldn’t open.



They managed to get the child out through his bedroom window. Lonnie jumped down and Alma threw Selwyn out to him.

They stood in front of the house, blackened and coughing, Alma shaking, her arms around Selwyn, her beautiful child. It wasn’t until she was absolutely sure that he was safe and well that she even noticed the burns on her arms, neck and face. They hurt.

Lonnie had his arms around both of them as they watched the old house crumple and die, and listened to sirens approach.

And then she saw him. On the edge of the trees, watching.

She screamed his name, and Lonnie’s warm comfort stiffened into a tombstone overcoat.

“Don’t,” he said, but she was already away. When Lonnie spoke she turned and looked back. Her husband, face like a church. Her son, face wet, crying for his mummy.

She stared at the child, and didn’t move. Then she turned to look at her lover. He’d noticed her now. He was staring right at her, his face impassive. Then he shrugged, flicked a dead match into the undergrowth, and walked away.

She chased him.

She didn’t catch him.



Later that night, she listened to Lonnie as he told her what a bitch she was, what a shameless immoral rancid bitch.

She tried to defend Mr Pyre, explaining that he had a turbulent past, he was just a bit mixed up...

“He tried to kill you, you stupid cow.”



She woke up the following morning, and everything she had was gone.

They were only insured for accidental fire. The fire brigade were quite clear that it was arson. The heirloom - her inheritance - the one thing that might have rescued them... gone.

Lonnie had contacted George, to get a check on the price. George, who then refused to help once Alma explained where it was. George the art dealer, who was always asking her to sell it. Who had claimed to be her friend. Who had introduced her to her new love.

When Lonnie heard what she had given away, he got up and walked from the room. And now he was gone, and so was Selwyn, and all she had was a note explaining where they were. At the airport, catching a flight to his mother’s house in Vegas. The one place she swore she would never go.

He couldn’t just snatch her son away without even a chance to kiss him goodbye. She caught a taxi, tearful, head swimming, and suddenly she found herself wandering in a daze through Departures, struggling to focus on digital displays, not wanting to acknowledge that their flight was already gone.

And then she saw it. Mr Pyre’s suitcase. So distinctive, with its burning cross, painted by hand on the side.

It was lying on one of those conveyor belt things, behind a screen.
She had nothing. Her whole life had gone up in smoke. Her beautiful house, with all her precious things, all the pictures and papers and letters, every piece of her past hoarded so obsessively, every little thing that made her who she was, that anchored her, defined her, cushioned her... all ashes and dust. Her only child, her partner, everybody and everything. Lost. So why not?

She needed revenge. She wanted her Precious Thing back. And she had nothing to lose.

She ducked under the screen and jumped onto the belt, just as it entered a narrow tunnel. She tried his case first, but it didn’t take long to discover that what she searched for was not there. So she unzipped the case next to his. As she emptied out some stranger’s belongings and hurled them aside, she laughed out loud. Everything she’d ever worn was swirling about in the atmosphere or washing back down in the rain. Some bloke in a suit could live without his shirts and pants. She climbed in and zipped it back up, reading the airline tag as she went.

This suitcase, apparently, was bound for Portugal.

Portugal. That would do.



by Clare Sudbery - Boob Pencil
Illustration by Julie Oakley.