Tag: cloud

Categories
serial

The Cloud Episode 58

April 2021, Edinburgh

Janet keeps her eyes wide open. Sees clouds where there is no sky. Fingers where there are no hands. Liquid where is no container. Janet studies these oddities not with surprise, but with intent. They are telling her something important, she just needs to learn the code.

Janet knows her carrot soup from her stewed apple. Feels the cold of the vanilla ice-cream and the heat of the minced beef and tatties. But the swathes of material on and around her are incomprehensible. She plucks and scratches and writhes and undresses herself several times a day. They have tied her up. They have kidnapped her and they won’t let her go.

Janet knows her left from her right. Understands up and down. She is also clear that one foot is lucky and one is not. On weekdays she must set off on her ten steps an hour from the left foot. On weekends, she must start with the right. She hasn’t told the physiotherapist this. This is one of her secret weapons. And no one gets to know.

Janet knows the name of each fidgeting fairy that tiptoes along the table beside her bed. Can recognise the one with the limp, the one with the itchy back, the one that likes to cover her face with a perfect starling feather fan. The fairies don’t talk to Janet. There’s no need. They communicate with facial expressions, or a crooked finger, or the raising of an arm. Speaking is too dangerous. They all agree on that.

A woman in a red trouser suit with tangerine lips and green sludge above her eyes turns up with small machines and pens and notebooks and lays them out in front of Janet on a tray. Asks Janet if she can record the sessions. Asks Janet to pick up her pen. That she should write her memories down. Janet knows this woman is a secret agent. This woman has been sent to trick her. Janet lets the pen roll loose in her hand. Sometimes she draws a cloud the way a child would. A cloud that would be a sheep if four short lines were added. Janet doesn’t add the four short lines. Janet is not going to give the woman in red a single clue. Especially not about the sheep.

Through the long, never dark enough, nights, Janet knows the voice from deep within her mattress is different to that one in the ceiling, and that coming up the pipes and into the hand basin. Janet knows these voices have a pecking order, that the voice in the ceiling is in charge, that the one in the mattress is still finding its way with pronouns and adverbs and complex nouns. The voices speak to each other more than they speak to Janet. Sing song voices that only she and they can hear. Janet never looks in the direction of the voices. She knows not to give the game away.

Janet has stopped asking Sergi where she is and why can’t she leave. Sergi seemed to struggle with such questions. But Janet knows Sergi isn’t as stupid as he looks. Sergi is monitoring her. And she, Janet, must never lower her guard. Janet relaxes when Sergi enters the room. Leans back on her pillows or into the chair and opens her eyes slowly.

Ah, Sergi, she says. It’s you. Could you close the blinds a little. The sun is terribly bright. There are no blinds to close, but Sergi goes through the motions. And the smallest of crinkles crease around Janet’s eyes.

To be continued

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 48

February 2020, Edinburgh

‘What do you take in your tea, Mrs Waters?’

‘Ms Waters. Just black thanks, and weak. Wave the teabag over it.’ The receptionist, a wilted man of around fifty with a melancholy chin and a an olive green waistcoat that suckered in around his navel region, nodded and disappeared through the glass doors into the hall.

‘Aren’t you having anything?’ Janet asked Jeremy.

Jeremy shook his head. ‘I’ve been here before. Arthur makes dreadful tea.’ He flicked at a thread on his tie, smoothed the creases down on his trousers, picked up a magazine that had something to do with home security on the front cover, and sat down on the chair opposite Janet.

Janet waved a hand at the room. She said ‘I didn’t expect something so…’ He interrupted her.

‘Smart? Professional?’ Janet didn’t like his tone.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said, ‘since I’ve had anything to do with private detectives. Thirty years, maybe more. They were all a bunch of crooks then. Vietnam vets. Or police that couldn’t stick the uniform.’ Why was she telling Jeremy this? To impress him? To show him she wasn’t just a puddly old woman with eccentric tastes in pets? They sat in silence until Arthur returned, the tray with its white cup and saucer and a single plastic-wrapped shortbread on a matching plate shaking in his hands.

‘She’s just finishing a call,’ he said to them, ‘Dr Connolly-Smythe I mean, and then I’ll take you through.’

A doctor? Jeremy hadn’t said anything about her having a doctorate. Janet’s hands moistened. Heat flashed through her cheeks. She laid her palms flat on her lap and took two deep breaths. Doctor of what? Forensics? Investigations? Biology? She looked across to Jeremy. He was leafing through the magazine, pausing at the pages with the bigger pictures. She shouldn’t have come. This detective woman would work it out. She’d know as soon as she saw her. See it behind her eyes. The peccant wrinkles around her lips. Why was she here? Risking everything over a ridiculous cloud. She took a sip of tea, burnt her upper lip, and rattled the cup back onto the saucer.

‘OK, Lisa’s ready now, let’s go through.’ They followed Arthur down a wide bright corridor lined with large succulent plants and a series of closed doors with burnished copper name plates. Arthur tapped at the last door on the right, listened for a moment, then opened up. ‘Mrs Waters and Mr Hartridge,’ he said, ushering them in. ‘The ones with the missing cloud.’

The woman that walked out from behind the desk to greet them was short and neat, in a black suit with loose wide legs and a narrow boxy jacket that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a ship. Her shoes, impossible to ignore, were patent black gloss, with thick crepe soles and cherry red laces. Janet stared at the shoes as they came towards her and stopped just in front of her own.

‘Ms Waters,’ she said, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’ She reached out to grasp Janet’s hand. The detective’s hand was cool, and larger than Janet had expected. ‘Do take a seat,’ she said to them both, ‘and we’ll start from the beginning.’

Janet sat down beside Jeremy. Let Jeremy do the preamble while she studied the other woman. There was something odd about her, something unnervingly familiar. Her squared off chin. Her ears that angled out just too far to be attractive. Had she been on television? The woman was speaking to Janet now.

‘How about in your own words, Ms Waters,’ the detective said, with the lightest of an Antipodean twang.

‘Yes, of course,’ Janet said. ‘Cyril. But first, your accent? I was just wondering…? The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I was born in Australia. Been trying to get rid of the accent ever since.’ She flicked open her laptop. ‘You sound a bit similar yourself. Did you live in Oz, too?

It was the way she said Oz. A faint Australian drawl with a stronger Scottish burr. Janet’s vision blurred. It couldn’t be. He’d never mentioned children. Had he lied? She stared at the detective’s skin. Tried to estimate her age. It was possible. Yes. And the name. That double-barrelled name. Why hadn’t she spotted that? Worked it out before they came. All it would have taken was a quick search on the Internet.

‘Are you alright, Ms Waters?’ Doctor Connolly-Smythe was looking at Janet without a hint of recognition. But Janet knew. She was certain. The detective was the Inspector’s daughter.

To be continued.

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 46

February, 2020. Edinburgh

How do you get rid of a ferret? Ferret, polecat, what’s the merit of a ferret? Especially a ferret that has moved in of its own accord, has no manners, and has taken to rubbing its backside on the treasured purple and gold velvet cushion that Janet had picked up on a Syrian road trip back in the 90s.

Would a ferret make a good wig? Were there even wig makers in Edinburgh? And would they take a live ferret? Maybe they’d insist on it being dead. Like taxidermists. You wouldn’t take a live animal to be stuffed would you? Drowning it would be easier than ringing its neck. She could pop it into a pillow case and do it in the bath. But how long would she have to hold it down for? And where would she put the body? She couldn’t just throw it into the wheelie bins in the street. It would be a health risk for sure. No, she was being daft. She couldn’t kill it. She didn’t have the gumption for that sort of thing. Not any more.

Janet took the half empty tin of cat food from the fridge and emptied the remains of it into an old saucer, gagging on the smell. She put the saucer down on the floor. The ferret shot out from wherever it had been guddling, slid across the wooden floorboards in the hall, looked up at Janet with what might have been a smirk, and settled down to eat.

The ferret wig thing was a bad idea. Its fur was too short. And then there was the smell. No matter how many times she lathered the ferret in the bath she couldn’t get rid of its stink. She was starting to wonder whether the bath made it even worse. And the carry on as she tried to dry it. All the keening and squealing and wriggling and nipping. You’d think she was murdering it. She’d had to explain to the neighbour’s children when they’d tapped on her door, their eyes all pink and teared up, that it was simply the ferret’s bath time and they were welcome to take over the task any time they liked, just say the word. Oh, and here’s an idea, if they’d like to keep the ferret they only had to ask.

Katherine did need a wig, though. Ridiculous to think she could go undercover without one. That was for Netflix, not Edinburgh’s Old Town. Janet had worn a wig herself for a few months after all that furore over Edward. She’d rather enjoyed the subterfuge. The blond bob had suited her. Especially with the sunglasses. She’d turned heads. Even got the odd wolf whistle. She’d walked from the hip instead of the knee. Lengthened her stride. Bought a new handbag that swung from her arm instead of her shoulder. Borrowed some orange corduroy wedges to match. She’d even tried smoking, just a cigarillo or two on Saturday evenings. She’d never inhaled, but she’d perfected the pout and the deft heft of it between her two fingers.

Where do you buy a wig these days? And what about the quality? This wasn’t Janet’s business. It was Katherine’s wig, not hers. But Janet had to know the how. It was her cloud. Her Cyril. Her rescue mission. It had been different in the 70s. Her wig didn’t need to look that good. Hadn’t needed to be fool proof. There’d been no CCTV, no social media, no camera phones, no busybodies wandering around capturing your every move.

This time the wig would have to look natural. More than natural. It would have to have character. Depth. A history. Katherine would no longer be Katherine. She’d be a gangster (or whatever they called themselves). And the wig couldn’t make her look prettier. That wouldn’t be right. Or fair. Not if it was being paid for out of the Contrails budget. The wig was for the return of Cyril. Nothing more and nothing less.

Janet looked down at the ferret. It had finished the cat food and was lying on its back at her feet. She bent down and tickled its belly. It curled up its toes and dooked, clucking like a hen that’s just laid an egg. How could she have thought of killing it? She would ask the neighbour’s kids to name it. Why did she care about the Syrian cushion anyway? The trip had been a disaster. And the woman that had made it was probably dead.

To be continued.

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 42

February 2020, Edinburgh

The first official meeting of the Save Cyril Operation  (SCO – code named Contrail) was in a boutique hotel, tucked away in a side street in Edinburgh’s West End. Jeremy had sent out the invitation via the new WhatsApp group. Bessie had told Jeremy, inadvertently replying to all, that it wasn’t happening in HER room. Jeremy, also replying to all, had noted that he had already booked the PRIVATE dining room and there was no need to shout. Janet hadn’t dared to reply to any of the messages until she had checked with Katherine on how WhatsApp worked and would the police be able to monitor their conversations?  

Janet was the last to arrive. She sat down at the round table and took a peppermint from the bowl, unwrapped it, put the wrapper in her jacket pocket, and popping the clear sweet into her mouth. She poured herself a glass of water, took a sip, and rolled the slap of the cold liquid and fresh menthol over her tongue. She hadn’t been in a private dining room since she’d retired. They hadn’t changed. The trolley by the door had two black thermoses, a plate of individually wrapped shortbreads, and a bowl of half-hearted oranges. No one ever took the oranges in meeting rooms. Presumably, thought Janet, because it was impossible to peel and eat one without spraying orange juice over oneself and the other participants.

The room was windowless, deep grey, and tarted up with maroon and teal furnishings. It wasn’t a colour combination she would have chosen. It made her nauseous.

‘When you’re ready, Janet,’ Jeremy said. Bessie gave Jeremy a sharp look.

‘She’s on time,’ Katherine said. Jeremy flicked open his iPad. Katherine wrote something at the top of her blank notebook. Janet picked up her pen and rolled it between her fingers. She was underdressed. That is, if Jeremy was the standard. Jeremy’s white shirt was fresh, his lilac tie unstained, and his cufflinks chinked in just the right place above his wrist bones. Bessie had also made an effort. A long loose sky blue dress with dungaree straps. A silky crimson shirt. Thick silver bangles that jangled every time she moved. Janet hitched her chair closer to the table. Her tights were suddenly too brown, her skirt too tweedy, and her functional flat shoes an abomination.

‘I assume,’ said Jeremy, ‘that you’ve all heard the police aren’t following up the theft in Glasgow.’

‘The kidnapping you mean,’ Bessie said.

‘So I’ve made contact with the owners.’ Jeremy slid a finger across the iPad. Janet, facing him, couldn’t see the screen. Katherine stopped writing and looked up at him.

‘That wasn’t your decision to make,’ Katherine said.

Jeremy continued, ‘they want to stay out of it, in the background, but they’re happy to contribute funds as and when needed.’

‘Funds?’ Janet said.

‘Yes,’ Bessie replied. ‘We may need to hire someone. You know. An investigator. I mean the police aren’t going to do anything which is why we’re here and Jeremy has experience using experts. He has a whole network and he’s written so many contracts. There are several in Edinburgh. We should get a great price.’ Katherine interrupted her.

‘I said I would go undercover. Why are we hiring investigators? Janet hasn’t got much money.’ Janet stared at Katherine. What did she know about her financial status?

‘I am in the room,’ Janet said. All three looked at her. ‘And it’s my cloud. My Cyril. Why are you all taking over?’ She stopped, not knowing what to say next.

‘Of course,’ Bessie said. ‘We’re all here to help you, Janet. I’m sure Katherine was just being thoughtful. Anyway, we’ve got the money issue covered. There’s nothing to worry about on that front.’

‘I’m not a charity, Bessie.’ Janet’s cheeks were hot. She put a hand to her face, trying to cover them. How had she let them get to this stage? She was perfectly capable of dealing with it. She’d managed much worse successfully. What had happened to her? Was this age? They were treating her like a child. Worse. Same as her mother. She took another mint, straightened her back and looked at each of them in turn for several seconds. Jeremy nodded at her. Bessie twisted her bangles. Katherine blushed and wrote something down on her pad.

‘Let’s get back on track, shall we.’ Jeremy tapped the table with a slender white finger. ‘I’ve done a bit of research. That pair, Dan and Amy…’

‘I’d already done that. We know who they are. Animal rights activists. Can we just get on with it.’ Katherine’s lips were tight.

‘If you’d stop interrupting me I would get on with it. So, Amy and Dan are part of a group operating across the UK called Animal Rights and Protection League. ARPL for short. The others that were with them were probably satellite members – extra cover but not the brains behind the operation.’ He slid a finger across the screen again. ‘It seems they are well funded, and have effective legal support. They’ve been charged three times, been through the judicial system, and found not guilty each time.’

Jeremy carried on talking. Janet worked her way through the mints. Why were men so pompous? Katherine got up and made herself a cup of tea from the thermoses. She interrupted Jeremy every few minutes. Bessie looked across at Janet several times, smiling and jangling. Then there was silence. They were waiting for her to say something.

‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘Could you repeat that?’

‘We have a plan, ‘Katherine said. ‘We need you to agree to it.’ Janet scratched an itch on her elbow. What was wrong with her? She seemed to have lost several minutes. She leant back in her chair.

‘Could you just summarise it’ said Janet. ‘I’m fed up with you all arguing. Jeremy,’ she looked at him, ‘you didn’t do your research on me.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Jeremy.

‘I’m a lawyer,’ Janet said. ‘Retired, but a lawyer.’ Jeremy studied his cufflinks. He didn’t reply. ‘So, go through the plan again and make sure we all understand. And agree. We’re wasting time. Cyril could be anywhere.’ She got up and walked over to the tea trolley. Poured herself a black coffee and took two of the biscuits. ‘And,’ she continued as got back to her chair, ‘Katherine is going undercover and no decisions involving money will be made without checking with me first. But you can hire an investigator. And it has to be a woman.’

To be continued.

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 41

1966, Sydney.

A police inspector drapes an arm over the bare shoulders of a young woman. The woman’s face is hidden under the flop of a wide-brimmed hat. A yellow polka-dot ribbon swings from the hat, tickling the sun-bleached hair on the Inspector’s arm. The arm spans an age gap of eighteen years.

A man spinning clouds of pink candy floss has lost a shoe. Children notice and point. Parents keep their eyes on the prize. Maybe the missing shoe is part of the sell. Maybe not.

The bar across the beach is tasselled with dogs waiting for their men. The dogs pant pant piss. Most of the men piss out of sight. At least three of the dogs will be named Bluey.

A small child runs into the legs of the police inspector with a melting ice-cream in a cone. The Inspector’s navy shorts are dolloped white. The Inspector laughs, wiping at the cream with his fingers. The child’s mother offers the Inspector a red balloon on a long string. He shakes his head, no.

Eucalyptus rubbed between the fingers is a medicament for some. A memory of something lost by others. The woman selling it from a basket promises an end to flies and a future flushed with fortune. New migrants invest handfuls of unfamiliar coins in her augurs.

So we sailed up to the sun. Til we found the sea of green. Try to see it my way. I’m picking up good vibrations. We can work it out. She’s giving me excitations. Smooth tanned feet everywhere drumming to the beat.

Immigrants are surprised by the rain’s vertical nature and its mocking insistence on dribbling where it shouldn’t. Most didn’t pack umbrellas. Those that call themselves locals lie on the beach, face up, and just carry on.

The young woman has never seen so many people on a beach. Has never felt sand so hot. Has never smelt that salty sun oil barbecue sweet. It’s her first time out in a bikini top and a matching mini. She could be on the cover of a magazine.

A police inspector leads a young woman down through the crowds onto the steaming sand. He is holding her hand. Guiding her steps. Picking past the picnickers. Kicking a stray football back to a group of running lads in black shorts. He takes her to the edge of the water. Removes his sandals. Then hers with a grinning bow. He throws them all back up the sand.

The water will be colder than it looks. He lifts her up. She shrieks. He wades in deeper, holding her just above the ocean. The waves crash up to his waist. He is soaked. She is salt sprayed. She is laughing. She has her arms around his neck.

The kiss yokes the Inspector to a murder. The kiss yokes the young woman to the Inspector’s yet to be declared bastard child.

To be continued.

Categories
fiction serial

The Cloud. Episode 37

1966, Sydney

It’s not easy to sleep on your first night in an old house in a new country on the wrong side of the world on the back of the death of your brother.

When your living brother, snoring softly up the hallway, knows you’re a murderer.

When your parents, still whispering and snuffling on the pining wooden chairs in the kitchen, wouldn’t use the actual word murder but you’re sure they’re sure you had something to do with it.

When the cicadas outside are thrumming your brother’s name.

When the large spider on the naked white wall is scuttling out his initials P.O.W.

When the night scent of the garden flowers is bristling the bitter sweet of funeral laurels through the fly screen.

When there should have been five in the new old house and now there are four.

When one small brown leather suitcase remains conspicuously unopened and unpacked just outside your door.

When some bird has cocked up the dawn chorus and has ramped up a solo so euphoric, so ecstatic, that it could bring a whole congregation to its knees.

When it’s your first night on dry land in six weeks and your bed, with its pre-slumped mattress, pitches and shakes and fouls your stomach until you’re retching into your pillow.

When you ache for the night to keep on going but the moon is already sweeping into its dying arc and cold white light is readying itself to turn warm golden rose.

When the sweat is weeping down your back and across your buttocks and you’re so so thirsty but you don’t know if the water out of the tap is safe to drink.

When you plot escape plan after escape plan, each more outlandish than the last, until you remember you have no money.

When you want the water out of the tap to be mephitic and pestilential, and you see yourself standing in the dark in a long white nightdress, gulping down glassful after glassful.  

When you draft the first family breakfast scene in your head and you try every which way to change the chronicle but there’s no way that you can stop your father throwing you out into the street before you’ve even had your toast.

When the mantel clock, brought by your mother on a whim in her hand luggage, is so upset by the epic nature of its journey, that it chimes four then three then two then one.

When every creak is the footstep of a passing ghoul.

When your sheets, too white and starched stiff, crab and scuttle with every toss and turn.

When the whine and buzz of a mosquito becomes a sharp angry welt on the side of your neck. And then again between your breasts. And then again on your cheek.

The night was long, and when Janet finally came to in the dim grim of the morning, Philip was still dead and nothing had changed. Nothing had changed at all.

To be continued.

Categories
fiction serial

The Cloud. Episode 36

2020. Portobello, Edinburgh

New Year’s Day in Edinburgh. Janet had nothing to do, at least nothing useful. Katherine had told her not to call, that she’d be hung over and that they’d touch base on the second on the third. Touch base? What did that even mean? Something to do with rounders? Or American football? And who was supposed to touch whose base? Was she to ring Katherine? Or would Katherine ring her?

She didn’t understand the rules and she didn’t want to. It irritated her, that sort of lazy English. Why couldn’t people just say what they meant and get on with it? She’d never say that to Katherine of course. But she’d frowned at the time and Katherine had arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow in response.

Of course, she could phone a friend, or family. But the author has been remiss in not setting this up. Episode 36 and we still don’t know whether Janet has any living relatives. Pop George is definitely up there somewhere, sat back on an armchair of lenticularis, having died of a shattered heart after the first inquest.  

But where is Edward? And what about her parents? Bernadette would be 102 in a month’s time. And Eric, her father, 104. Are they still alive? If so, Janet has been a dreadful daughter. Negligent in her attention. Not even a mention in her innermost thoughts. Unless of course there’s been a family rift. Which wouldn’t be surprising given the circumstances of Philip’s death. And what about Bessie? There was mention of her way back, a childhood friend. Are they still in touch? Or has Bessie also met some unfortunate end that may or may not implicate Janet?

Janet threw the duvet to the other side of the bed and examined her naked legs. It was hard to remember now whether her legs had always been that boxy shape or whether gravity was just getting the better of her. A thin blue vein had appeared on her right shin a few months ago. It was a lovely graceful thing, winding its way down her leg the way a half decent skier would tackle a new mountain run with wide gracious arcs. It stopped somewhere just above a puffy area around her ankle bone.

She reached down and pushed a finger into the distended skin. It was flaccid and malleable. She gave the area a hard rub with two fingers, pushing the errant fluid up towards her calf. Two years ago, after a sudden and unexpected bout of cellulitis brought on by knocking her ankle on a dry-stone dyke in an old sheep fank, a doctor had told her to wear those long socks that kept the circulation going. The doctor had smiled and said she wore them herself when she worked long shifts at the hospital. Janet had tried to smile back at the tall woman in the casual white coat, and had taken a note of the brand the doctor recommended. The socks turned out to be tight, ugly and grasping.

Janet levered herself off the bed, picked her dressing gown off the floor, put it on, flicked the blind cord up, and opened the window a few inches. The beach, grey and dreamy in its lace curtain haar, was starting to fill with people. Janet shuffled through to the kitchen, put the kettle on, dropped an Earl Grey teabag into a mug, picked up the binoculars, went back into the bedroom and studied the beach.

The people looked odd. Not because of the way they moved, although even that was strange. No, it was what they were wearing, or what they weren’t wearing. Some men were simply in trunks. Short snug black or red affairs that cinched in tight around their hips. Some, men or women, she couldn’t tell, were dressed up in tiger costumes. Some cut a dash in sailor suits. Some were bears, football mascots, or something indeterminate with beehive wigs and long glittery frocks.  The hardier of the women were stripped down to their swimming costumes, with pink frilled tutus, thick woolly hats and those funny shoe slipper things that Katherine wore into the sea.

One group had lit a fire and were huddled together around it, singing and beating small round drums. Two of the men fanned the young flames with pieces of cardboard, and a third was pouring whisky into small plastic tumblers. Everyone in that group had the same short bobbed blue hair. Janet chuckled at their wigs, and the ferret appeared from whereever it had slept the night, stood up on its hind legs and sank its claws into Janet’s graceful blue vein. Janet slapped down it down and it shot away between her legs, mewling.

The smell of smoke eked into the bedroom and she shut the window and sighed. No matter what was burning on the fires out there, it always smelt like smouldering tyres.  Janet checked the time on her radio. Eleven-thirty. She’d slept late. All those people out there on the beach must be the loony dookers, gathering early, read for the gunshot sprint in and out of the freezing Forth.

Janet enjoyed the loony dook. She’d never done it herself of course. She had what others would call a healthy respect for the sea. Not that the Forth was the sea. Any fool knew that. But it was close enough. Sometimes, when she walked along the water line in the early morning as the dawn pinked across the smooth sand, she’d see a thick stump of driftwood and wonder, just for a moment, whether it was Philip. She’d see a pixie ear, or a bony shoulder, or the nape of a young neck, and her skin would goosebump and she’d hurry back to her flat for a mug of hot mint tea and another hour under her duvet.

Janet put the binoculars down, sat down on her bed, and fingered her phone. No messages. She checked her emails. Nothing. No one wishing her a happy new year. She ran a hand through her hair. First day of 2020 and not a single message. She picked up the phone, ran through the contact list, found Bessie, and tapped the dial button.

To be continued.

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started