On a number of occasions in her mid-twenties she found herself awake in the night, watching a figure creep into the room through a crack in the door. Then the smell of Issey Miyake, Benson and Hedges, clear spirits. A vague hunched form, a dark shape rippling the dark, visible only because it was moving, wobbling towards the bed, bracing itself on the furniture, bending at the waist. Rigid, she could only follow it with her eyes. It would always crouch near the foot of the bed first, murmuring down there near her feet. With her toes curled, she could look at it but somehow not see it as it made weak, mewling sounds.
Are you awake, Ashy? Ashy?
No. No, please.
She knew that it would go the same way whether she pretended to be asleep or not, in any case she was never able look away as it stiffly climbed into the bed and poured itself over her like cold oil. It would cradle her head, claw gently at her hair, whisper hoarse, fearful things into the top of her head, horrible things, adult things and adult feelings that she did not understand and did not want to think about, certain things about her father, certain things about other men, things about men in general, things about her, terrifying true things about her and her future. She could feel these awful things travelling down her spine. Every muscle tensed, rocklike.
It would end with the crying. The creature would cry into her ear, hot and wet, louder and louder, until it was moaning and howling like an animal. Only when she tried to scream herself would the memory dissipate, releasing her. And she’d be lying there, often crying, slick with sweat. Once or twice wet with piss. Sometimes another body near her in the bed, breathing peaceably.
On mornings after she has been drinking, in her latter sleep phases, she silently, unknowingly says awful things to herself. Fuck you. You idiot. Fuck you. Kill yourself.
And so on.
Sweat gathers in the crevices of her neck, behind her ears, in the middle of her chest. Long, curved talons pin her arms down and probe her soft, warm belly, then effortlessly pull it open. The head comes down, tugs sharply with its beak and unspools her intestines. She opens her eyes and it is still dark. She turns and brings her legs up into the foetal position, but soon another sharp pain in her gut rouses her and sends her to the bathroom. She sits on the toilet scrolling video content on her phone, slow blinking. The hangover routine goes like this: ibuprofen, cigarette, toast, rehydration salts in a pint of water, hot shower. Ideally some weed. But she doesn’t have any weed. In the kitchen she is reminded that she doesn’t have any bread either, and that what remains of her tobacco is brittle and dry.
The Nazis occupied this city for nearly five years, during which time they murdered, among hundreds of others, a young writer. They strapped her to a table and sliced her head off with a guillotine. There is a modest bronze statue of her on a small roundabout on the way to the 24hr minimart. She passes it on the left, as she does several times a week, glancing at the serene, empty, expression on the dark metal face. The sky blushing purple, road still tinted a dirty orange under the streetlights. A knot still in her chest and a medium-to-severe headache pulsating now in her temples and her eyesockets.
In the minimart they are playing licence-free smooth jazz. She puts pre-packaged bread in her basket, a packet of pre-sliced cheese, a packet of instant noodles, a carton of orange juice and a vacuum brick of ground coffee. A tall, muscular young man is working the till and he doesn’t seem to understand her when she asks for a pack of Lucky Strikes. Cigaret, she says, pointing to the shelf behind him.
Ahh ok, he says, turning to the cigarette shelves. For a moment he handles the pack, regarding the stark government label as if deciphering some forgotten rune. Lookie Strik, he says.
And some ibuprofen, she says, pointing and drawing out her bank card. A while ago she watched a short video in which an influencer wearing tight clothes confidently asserted that chronic depression was, in fact, an inflammatory issue. The influencer herself had turned her life around after discovering a specific brand of anti-inflammatory gummies, which were available to buy on subscription. No need for a prescription with this subscription, she said, smiling happily. Now whenever she takes ibuprofen she secretly allows herself to imagine the little pills going to work and shrinking the bad, inflamed parts of her brain. She breaks two out of the blister pack as her card is authorising, the cashier averts his eyes as she swallows them with a swig of orange juice. She imagines being able to return to London with a new, sunny disposition and a stomach full of ulcers.
Outside, shoulders hunched inside her coat, she unwraps the expensive box of cigarettes, shoves the cellophane into her pocket, pulls the tab and drags one into her mouth with her teeth. The shame still roaring like a jet engine inside her skull as she smokes and feels her blood slowing. Spending your pocket money on things like cigarettes is bad. Un-quitting smoking is bad. But this is what she does, because she’s bad person.
In the shower she puts conditioner in her hair and lets the water run over her face for a while. It feels incredibly good. Then she is aware of someone standing behind her at the sink. As she rinses her hair, she resists the urge to turn and check. Stop it, she says.
The clock in the bedroom says 8:40. She redraws the curtains, lies on her back with her hair in a towel and scrolls her phone for a while, before putting it down to stare at a prismatic curve of daylight on the white ceiling. Light rain on the window. The seabirds arguing. Extractor fan still humming through the wall.
…
She is woken up gently by the rhythmic buzzing of her phone. 10:07 am. It’s Gary.