Someday Find Me. Nicci Cloke

out the weekend before and taken pictures of things and people who caught my eye without thinking too hard about them. When I looked back through the pictures at home there was shot after shot of people eating, food in their hands and hanging out of their mouths, empty wrappers on the street, pigeons picking at a takeaway, a baby with ice-cream smeared over its face. These things did not sound great or perfect.

      I felt the first familiar prickles of anger. It wasn’t fair to move the boundaries, to include videos and CCTV and free TVs. It was the same story but with different rules, different people pulling the strings – I was used to moving my own goalposts, but having someone else to edge them away made my skin begin to crawl and my chest feel tight. Everyone else was filling space so fast there wasn’t time or place enough to fit everything they could do. My pages were blanker than ever.

      John was talking to Millie now, little Millie who was a year younger than everyone else because she’d skipped a year of school, and two years younger than most because she hadn’t had a gap year, and four years younger than me because I was backward, Millie with her study in still lives, objects taken from people she’d met in the street, in interesting places, and arranged together and painted to represent a cross-section of modern society in an old style, and John thought that sounded great, great, perfect too. I closed my eyes tighter.

      The flat is cold and lonely, so I turn on the radio and start to fill the sink so I can wash up the dirty plates before he gets home. This will make him happy, and as the sink begins to fill with bubbling water, I imagine his dimple and the hair falling in his eyes as he reaches down to cuddle me.

      The radio plays old songs, it’s Motown hour, they say, and I hum along as I put the plates on the draining-board. A song comes on that I know. My dad used to sing it to my mum when I was little and she’d get annoyed and flick at him with a tea-towel, even though she wanted to laugh really. It’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ by Marvin Gaye and I begin to sing along.

      I hear his voice behind me. He puts his skinny arms round me and we sway along and sing even though we don’t quite know the words, my hands in the soapy water and his cold against my skin.

      He turns me round and suds run down the back of his neck as I hold him close and we dance, round and round, in circles. We dance for the whole of Motown hour, with Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, the Four Tops and the Temptations spilling out of the little radio and him and me dancing round, spinning and clicking our fingers, wiggling and laughing and kissing. When Quin finally comes home he laughs and joins in and the three of us sing until Crazy Bob and Ket Kev next door start knocking on the wall.

      John moved past me, invisible me, and began leafing through Gennifer’s sketches of her handmade dress, formed of photographs printed on fabric, painstakingly stitched together. I opened my eyes and looked down at the page in front of me. I knew that I had to be better.

      The smallest things can be the biggest jobs, if you let them. Fitz liked to take his time choosing which song to put on, weighing one up against another and fretting about whether people would like it, watching their faces in fear as the first bars began to play. Quin could never choose an outfit to wear each day. He’d spend ages putting things on and then pulling them off, leaving them in tiny piles on the carpet like shed skins. Lilah spent an hour every day straightening her hair, over and over again, tiny strand by tiny strand. My mother found it difficult to tell someone awkward or unpleasant news. You could hear her on the phone, skipping and skirting round what she needed to say, tripping up on the words and jumping out of the way of questions. When my sister seduced her maths teacher in the store cupboard, my mother told everyone for months that he had assaulted her. All of them were just putting off the real thing they had to do; the going outside or the telling of the truth or the letting yourself be seen. They reminded me of my sister Lulu when she was tiny, when she knew that putting your toys away was the thing you did before you went to bed, so she’d put the things back in her toy-box, one by one, then take them out, one by one, and lay them on the floor in neat rows, then start all over again. If you watched her from the doorway, without her noticing, sometimes you’d catch her giggling to herself; maniacally happy that she’d beaten the sequence of things.

      Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if we’d all just done the things we were afraid of.

      Fear was the feeling knotting my belly that evening, though I didn’t realise it then; a weird creepy feeling all over my skin and crawling in my insides. I was standing by the counter with my hands just floating above the surface, frozen. The sound of Fitz singing in the shower and the water hitting the tiles were the only noises in the flat.

      The things were lined up on the counter. They were staring at me.

      This was not how it was supposed to be. These things were my routine, my security. I chopped and sliced and created and looked and saw and did not eat, and in this way the world stayed upright and Fitz was happy and I was strong. I looked at the globs of chicken in their purple polystyrene tray, the plastic peeled back. I looked at the knife in my hand. I reached out and took a pepper instead, holding it in my hand like a grenade. I tried to ignore the feeling of its skin against mine, ignore the smell of it, sharp and green. I sliced it, singing a song in my head, wishing the radio was on. When it was done, when I had won, I slid the strips onto a plate and looked again at the chicken. I reached out to pick up the first thin slab. I imagined the feel of it in my hand, the wet it would leave on my fingers, the thin white veins of fat stretched across its pale, flabby flesh. I put my hand down. I put the knife down.

      The peppers and the purple tray of chicken went to bed in the bin.

      By the time Fitz came out, I had put the telly on and turned off the main light and turned on the lamp. I held out ten pounds, crisp and dry in my hand, safe.

      ‘I think you deserve a treat,’ I said. ‘Fish and chips? Kebab? Proper pie and mash …?’

      His eyes lit up and he looked at it like it was a million pounds. ‘Where’d you get that, lovely?’

      ‘My mum sent it to me. Think she knows I’m working hard. Here, go on. You deserve it, for looking after me when I’m being such a pain.’

      I loved the way his face creased up all the way to his ears when he grinned.

      Later, as we sat in front of the soaps with our feet tucked up under each other and our fingers laced up together, I tried not to smell the scent of frying fat on his skin, or feel the grease on his fingers, seeping into the edges of mine. On TV they were showing a special programme, a live show about safety in the city, a woman’s guide to avoiding crime. I leant my head against his shoulder and tried not to breathe.

      When you take drugs, things that were once opposites become the same.

      Too much = Never enough

      Standing still = Spinning around

      Feeling at ease with someone you know well = Falling head over heels in love all over again