Of all things, she hadn’t expected it to be the bin bag that was speaking to her. The best case scenario was that it was the wind roughly mouthing her name. The wind tended to do that, she’d noticed, the first time she walked over Dean Bridge, only an hour or two before. And now the second time, hurrying her way home, there it was again – that sirenish sibilance, just at the point of the bridge that felt as if the earth had just given way below it, taking everything except the pavement under her feet. All around her was the vast and velveteen night, and the wind’s voice around her, beckoning her closer to the side walls, to peer into the bitumen glitter of drizzle-wet trees and houselights staggering their long way down to the firth. And stagger she did too: it was almost below her feet, the bag, before she came to know its true nature.
‘Charlene!’
It was the round and curling voice that she recognised. ‘Lucy?’
‘So it is you!’
And it was her, Lucy, despite all appearances. Despite the orange cast on her skin from the streetlamps, the deep shadows lingering on every curve of her face. Despite the head of matted hair, which Charlene had originally assumed was a wayward tangle of garden refuse. Despite the fact she was sitting at night on a bridge in the rain in a – well, in a bin bag.
‘Off shopping?’ Lucy asked.
‘Uh, no.’ Charlene tried to think of a plausible reason to be outside. She had worried about getting caught, but not enough to have prepared a story. And although it was still a novelty to be able to walk around without a tiny can of pepper-spray dangling from her keys, she was still more worried about men waiting in the gaps between streetlights than one telling her to go home. She still knew next to no one in Edinburgh, but not that that was her fault.
‘Ah,’ Lucy said, knowingly. ‘So you’re breaking lockdown.’
OK, Charlene thought, that was her fault. In her defence, it had been twenty-one days since she’d last had any social contact beyond nodding at the postman, and forty-seven days – she had counted; oh, she had counted – since she’d had a fuck. There’s only so long she could sext with a boy on Bumble before needing to be disappointed in person. On her way to his house she consoled herself against guilt with the thought that, well, she indeed deserved to feel guilty. Now, her walk home interrupted, she realised she was right – just not in the way she’d imagined. It wasn’t often you ran into your drug dealer – was there some kind of etiquette here? Was it like the therapist? Charlene knew therapists were only supposed to greet you in public if you greeted them first. But then again, they could afford discretion. Therapists were way more expensive than dealers: £35 could buy you forty-five minutes of subsidised psychoanalysis, or two grams of OG Kush. Charlene knew which was better value. ‘Well,’ she riposted, ‘what are you doing out here?’
‘What’s it look like?’ Charlene didn’t really want to say. Next to Lucy was a blue enamel mug, its bottom scattered with copper coins like dregs of coffee. What was the etiquette here? Does one just ask one’s dealer if she was living on the street? She guessed one did.
‘It’s just temporary,’ Lucy explained. ‘Until this whole…’ – she waved her hand in the air – ‘thing blows over.’
Charlene looked around. ‘Interesting spot you’ve picked. You know, a bridge.’ She flinched as a bus sped past, empty save for its driver.
‘Gets busy when the sun’s out. Poshos don’t stick to rules.’ Lucy jingled and looked into her cup. ‘Stingy pricks.’
Charlene nodded, and thought of the man whose apartment she’d just come from, how it took her longer to walk to his place than for him to get off, the entire time him saying – with a grin he probably thought was charmingly naughty but instead made him look like a little boy – ‘We shouldn’t be doing this, we shouldn’t be doing this,’ and Charlene in her head agreeing enthusiastically. Like then, all she wanted now was to be able walk away. But she couldn’t, obviously. There was, indeed, something to observe here, something even a touch more graceful than just cheerily greeting an aquaintance on the street, who just happened to now be living on the street, and walking away. What did her human economics textbooks have to say about this? Maybe if she’d read them she’d know.
‘I would have imagined you’d have a lot of custom at a time like this.’ Shop talk, Charlene thought – that always works. ‘You know, everyone forced to stay at home… doing… you know…’ – she whispered it even though there was nobody around for roughly a hundred yards in any direction – ‘… drugs.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Lucy. ‘No, that’s good. Or, it was good.’
The wind picked up.
Lucy changed the subject. ‘Meeting someone?’
‘What?’
She repeated herself. ‘Are you meeting someone here? You keep looking around.’
Charlene hadn’t realised. ‘Just worried about the police, I guess.’
‘Ach, they don’t bother patrolling around here.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t worried about you.’
‘I know,’ Lucy said.
Charlene suddenly felt like she didn’t need such a thick jacket on. The heat rose from her shoulders, the back of her head. ‘I should get going,’ she said, cutting her losses.
‘Aye, you’re right. No good for a woman to be wandering about alone.’
‘But what about you? Are you… OK?’
‘Yea,’ she said again, but gruffer, pulling the bin bag closer to her body, as if it were some kind of armour. ‘You don’t think you will, but you get used to it. There’s a spot I’ve been going to once I’ve got enough change. Which’ – she looked into her mug – ‘doesn’t look like it’s going to happen today. Anyway.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘You best be off, I suppose.’
‘I suppose,’ Charlene nodded, and put her hands in her pockets as they traded see-yous. Turning away, though, Charlene felt her fingers settle on the ridges of a pound coin. It took only one second to do what she did, but even by the second after she dropped the coin in front of Lucy she wished she hadn’t. Its dull ching-thunk against the mug’s bottom echoed in her head all night.
It was the round and curling voice that she recognised. ‘Lucy?’
‘So it is you!’
And it was her, Lucy, despite all appearances. Despite the orange cast on her skin from the streetlamps, the deep shadows lingering on every curve of her face. Despite the head of matted hair, which Charlene had originally assumed was a wayward tangle of garden refuse. Despite the fact she was sitting at night on a bridge in the rain in a – well, in a bin bag.
‘Off shopping?’ Lucy asked.
‘Uh, no.’ Charlene tried to think of a plausible reason to be outside. She had worried about getting caught, but not enough to have prepared a story. And although it was still a novelty to be able to walk around without a tiny can of pepper-spray dangling from her keys, she was still more worried about men waiting in the gaps between streetlights than one telling her to go home. She still knew next to no one in Edinburgh, but not that that was her fault.
‘Ah,’ Lucy said, knowingly. ‘So you’re breaking lockdown.’
OK, Charlene thought, that was her fault. In her defence, it had been twenty-one days since she’d last had any social contact beyond nodding at the postman, and forty-seven days – she had counted; oh, she had counted – since she’d had a fuck. There’s only so long she could sext with a boy on Bumble before needing to be disappointed in person. On her way to his house she consoled herself against guilt with the thought that, well, she indeed deserved to feel guilty. Now, her walk home interrupted, she realised she was right – just not in the way she’d imagined. It wasn’t often you ran into your drug dealer – was there some kind of etiquette here? Was it like the therapist? Charlene knew therapists were only supposed to greet you in public if you greeted them first. But then again, they could afford discretion. Therapists were way more expensive than dealers: £35 could buy you forty-five minutes of subsidised psychoanalysis, or two grams of OG Kush. Charlene knew which was better value. ‘Well,’ she riposted, ‘what are you doing out here?’
‘What’s it look like?’ Charlene didn’t really want to say. Next to Lucy was a blue enamel mug, its bottom scattered with copper coins like dregs of coffee. What was the etiquette here? Does one just ask one’s dealer if she was living on the street? She guessed one did.
‘It’s just temporary,’ Lucy explained. ‘Until this whole…’ – she waved her hand in the air – ‘thing blows over.’
Charlene looked around. ‘Interesting spot you’ve picked. You know, a bridge.’ She flinched as a bus sped past, empty save for its driver.
‘Gets busy when the sun’s out. Poshos don’t stick to rules.’ Lucy jingled and looked into her cup. ‘Stingy pricks.’
Charlene nodded, and thought of the man whose apartment she’d just come from, how it took her longer to walk to his place than for him to get off, the entire time him saying – with a grin he probably thought was charmingly naughty but instead made him look like a little boy – ‘We shouldn’t be doing this, we shouldn’t be doing this,’ and Charlene in her head agreeing enthusiastically. Like then, all she wanted now was to be able walk away. But she couldn’t, obviously. There was, indeed, something to observe here, something even a touch more graceful than just cheerily greeting an aquaintance on the street, who just happened to now be living on the street, and walking away. What did her human economics textbooks have to say about this? Maybe if she’d read them she’d know.
‘I would have imagined you’d have a lot of custom at a time like this.’ Shop talk, Charlene thought – that always works. ‘You know, everyone forced to stay at home… doing… you know…’ – she whispered it even though there was nobody around for roughly a hundred yards in any direction – ‘… drugs.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Lucy. ‘No, that’s good. Or, it was good.’
The wind picked up.
Lucy changed the subject. ‘Meeting someone?’
‘What?’
She repeated herself. ‘Are you meeting someone here? You keep looking around.’
Charlene hadn’t realised. ‘Just worried about the police, I guess.’
‘Ach, they don’t bother patrolling around here.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t worried about you.’
‘I know,’ Lucy said.
Charlene suddenly felt like she didn’t need such a thick jacket on. The heat rose from her shoulders, the back of her head. ‘I should get going,’ she said, cutting her losses.
‘Aye, you’re right. No good for a woman to be wandering about alone.’
‘But what about you? Are you… OK?’
‘Yea,’ she said again, but gruffer, pulling the bin bag closer to her body, as if it were some kind of armour. ‘You don’t think you will, but you get used to it. There’s a spot I’ve been going to once I’ve got enough change. Which’ – she looked into her mug – ‘doesn’t look like it’s going to happen today. Anyway.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘You best be off, I suppose.’
‘I suppose,’ Charlene nodded, and put her hands in her pockets as they traded see-yous. Turning away, though, Charlene felt her fingers settle on the ridges of a pound coin. It took only one second to do what she did, but even by the second after she dropped the coin in front of Lucy she wished she hadn’t. Its dull ching-thunk against the mug’s bottom echoed in her head all night.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Charlene had hoped leaving Cape Town would have made her kinder, in the way that studying economics had made her less so. This move, temporary as it was supposed to be, was the first step in what she imagined would be a rehabilitation of her conscience. Not that she thought she was that far gone – she’d only cheated on her now-ex-boyfriend and drove home slightly drunk once; that wasn’t too bad for someone on the wrong side of 22 – but that she had perhaps become the sort of person that, if she was a different person, she wouldn’t want to know.
This was what this was about. Scotland, where people were both brusque and kind. Ecological economics, where the goal was to envision a world that was both sustainable and sustaining. Nevermind that her ex had accused her of believing in ‘fairy-tale shit’, which was – well, it was fair enough. By her standards, it was fairy-tale shit. Still, she’d thought, it would be good for her to imagine herself outside of an economic machine that ate up everything of use and value in the world and only spat out oceans of waste – something that she already felt she did of her own volition. After only one seminar her thoughts had come alive with the myriad ways she might subvert the dogma of neoliberalism, to put people and nature first, to halt the march of predatory capital. Intoxicating stuff – but even then she knew it might eventually give way to some crippling, meta-academic hangover. Either way, she didn’t have to find out, because, well, the pandemic. Forecasting the end of the world was pretty hopeless when it felt it had already arrived.
Maybe she had become kinder though, if only by default. She’d arrived in Edinburgh three months ago, only to be in lockdown for the past two, which meant she had little opportunity to have any negative interactions with the usual combatants – construction workers, men with moustaches, stray dogs. But even then she had managed to maintain her standard levels of heartlessness. She, for example, wasn’t exactly sympathetic when her flatmate had cried about how she might not be able to go to Provence this year, and that her father’s real estate listings were going to take a hit, so they might have to sell their house there anyway. She practically packed the woman’s case for her when she decided to head back to Fulham. Since then, though, she’d been wondering what life would have been like if she had gone back home when she had the chance. Wearing a hazmat suit on a plane for twelve hours might not have been as tortuous as the realisation that she’d traveled six thousand miles to end up attending seminars via Skype. She wouldn’t be actively studying a subject that by the day became both oppressively immediate and increasingly irrelevant – the global economy was collapsing just fine, thank you very much. And she certainly wouldn’t have been back on Dean Bridge, twenty-two hours after she was last there, having neither slept nor paid attention during her afternoon webchat seminars, open-eyed dreaming the entire time of being able to re-do the night before. Because then she wouldn’t have been double-taking through bleary eyes the entire way through an unfamiliar and empty town at every bush or tarpaulin that moved, which was all of them, seeing as it was windy and raining, and that this was evidence of the cruel truth that this was just the way you spent most of spring in this country, fighting existentially with an umbrella.
There had been no sign of Lucy, and still there was none as Charlene crossed the bridge. She hoped that this meant Lucy had gotten enough change for the day, but more likely she was sheltering. Whichever one it was, Charlene both was and wasn’t relieved. Coming to find Lucy was doing nothing for her conscience, just as not finding her was doing nothing to help her understand this week’s readings on entropy pessimism and resource re-allocation. Putting theory into practice was always the hard part. She walked the length of the bridge, and having ascertained Lucy wasn’t on it, searched for her around the big old church on the other side, looking under the damp lintels, testing the huge, locked doors even though the stained-glass above them were unlit from within. Frustrated, she walked the way back on the other side of the bridge, peering over the edge to the gardens below, praying for a human-sized shadow in one of the more sheltered bits, a shadow like the one that materialised in front of her just as she pitched her umbrella against the rain in the direction of her flat.
‘Looking for me?’
‘Oh… oh, Lucy!’ Charlene said, as if they were meeting unexpectedly in a pub. ‘Fancy seeing you here, two nights in a row.’ She looked around. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘My mother.’ Charlene only started laughing when Lucy did, a few excruciating seconds later. ‘I was coming out to spy any foot traffic.’ She pointed to a small staircase. ‘Can’t see much from down there.’
‘Ah, so that’s your spot.’ Charlene craned her head to see where the staircase led, but saw nothing but damp stone. ‘Looks… cozy.’
‘So were you?’
‘What?’
‘Looking for me.’ Lucy’s smile had vanished. ‘You don’t live around here. I remember now. You live over the other side of town.’
‘Oh, no. No, no, no. No. I’m just on my way to the shop.’ Funny how lies sounded worse when they were pre-meditated.
‘In this weather?’ Lucy wiped some rain off her face, and pointed back across the bridge. ‘And isn’t it that way?’
‘What’s that way?’
‘The shops.’
‘Oh, ja. I mean I’ve just been to the shops.’
‘So that’s what your rucksack’s full of.’
‘Ja,’ Charlene said, and grimaced. She jostled the straps of her backpack on her shoulders, pretending it was white wine and cup noodles weighing her down, and not two fleece blankets and a brand-new pocket umbrella. ‘Managed to get my creature comforts.’
‘Must be nice.’
‘I’ve got something for you, if you want.’
‘Oh god, I don’t need your food.’
Good, Charlene thought, until she remembered the food was also in fact a lie. And if it was, why did her bag now feel so heavy? It was time to put theory into practice. But because she had lied, she couldn’t offer the pocket umbrella, otherwise Lucy would know she had been lying about lying. Instead Charlene offered over the umbrella she was holding, angling it over toward Lucy. She tried to seem casual. ‘You want this?’
Lucy regarded it sceptically, as if it had a hole in it. ‘No, you’re fine. No need for both of us to get wet. I’ll manage to dry off anyway.’
She tried again. ‘I’ll be OK. It’s spare.’
Lucy held out her hand, catching raindrops. ‘I don’t know. Doesn’t look spare to me.’
‘No, really.’ Charlene started to close the umbrella, but only ended up shaking more droplets onto Lucy. ‘I insist.’
Lucy stepped back. ‘You’ve given me enough, thanks.’
Charlene’s eyes went bleary again. She told herself it was the rain. ‘Are you sure?’
Lucy wiped her face again and stood back, resting her back against the side wall, beckoning Charlene passage. ‘You best be getting home.’
But Charlene didn’t walk by. She’d come too far to just walk by. She couldn’t stop herself from speaking – maybe if she kept saying things, she’d eventually say the right thing. ‘OK, so I was.’
‘Was what?’
‘I was looking for you’.
At this Lucy softened. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why’d you lie about that?’
‘Oh, I was just… ashamed.’
‘Of what?’
Charlene wanted to tell Lucy the truth. That she wanted to be kinder. But she remembered that sometimes what she intended to be a kindness was anything but. Maybe she just wanted to seem kind, to be seen as kind. Maybe all this thought was failing her. Instead she improvised. ‘I was wondering, do you have any weed?’
For a moment Lucy just stared at her. ‘If I’d any to sell do you think I’d be here?’
‘No.’
‘And you think if I’d any in this fucking storm I’d be sharing it?’
Charlene didn’t need to answer. She could feel it in the distance between them. ‘I’ll be going home.’
‘Nice one. Enjoy it.’
Charlene strode ahead, eyes cast down at the shimmering, grey-brown pavement. She couldn’t stand the thought of Lucy reading whatever emotion was on her face, no more than she could stand the shame of opening the umbrella again the second she turned the next corner.
This was what this was about. Scotland, where people were both brusque and kind. Ecological economics, where the goal was to envision a world that was both sustainable and sustaining. Nevermind that her ex had accused her of believing in ‘fairy-tale shit’, which was – well, it was fair enough. By her standards, it was fairy-tale shit. Still, she’d thought, it would be good for her to imagine herself outside of an economic machine that ate up everything of use and value in the world and only spat out oceans of waste – something that she already felt she did of her own volition. After only one seminar her thoughts had come alive with the myriad ways she might subvert the dogma of neoliberalism, to put people and nature first, to halt the march of predatory capital. Intoxicating stuff – but even then she knew it might eventually give way to some crippling, meta-academic hangover. Either way, she didn’t have to find out, because, well, the pandemic. Forecasting the end of the world was pretty hopeless when it felt it had already arrived.
Maybe she had become kinder though, if only by default. She’d arrived in Edinburgh three months ago, only to be in lockdown for the past two, which meant she had little opportunity to have any negative interactions with the usual combatants – construction workers, men with moustaches, stray dogs. But even then she had managed to maintain her standard levels of heartlessness. She, for example, wasn’t exactly sympathetic when her flatmate had cried about how she might not be able to go to Provence this year, and that her father’s real estate listings were going to take a hit, so they might have to sell their house there anyway. She practically packed the woman’s case for her when she decided to head back to Fulham. Since then, though, she’d been wondering what life would have been like if she had gone back home when she had the chance. Wearing a hazmat suit on a plane for twelve hours might not have been as tortuous as the realisation that she’d traveled six thousand miles to end up attending seminars via Skype. She wouldn’t be actively studying a subject that by the day became both oppressively immediate and increasingly irrelevant – the global economy was collapsing just fine, thank you very much. And she certainly wouldn’t have been back on Dean Bridge, twenty-two hours after she was last there, having neither slept nor paid attention during her afternoon webchat seminars, open-eyed dreaming the entire time of being able to re-do the night before. Because then she wouldn’t have been double-taking through bleary eyes the entire way through an unfamiliar and empty town at every bush or tarpaulin that moved, which was all of them, seeing as it was windy and raining, and that this was evidence of the cruel truth that this was just the way you spent most of spring in this country, fighting existentially with an umbrella.
There had been no sign of Lucy, and still there was none as Charlene crossed the bridge. She hoped that this meant Lucy had gotten enough change for the day, but more likely she was sheltering. Whichever one it was, Charlene both was and wasn’t relieved. Coming to find Lucy was doing nothing for her conscience, just as not finding her was doing nothing to help her understand this week’s readings on entropy pessimism and resource re-allocation. Putting theory into practice was always the hard part. She walked the length of the bridge, and having ascertained Lucy wasn’t on it, searched for her around the big old church on the other side, looking under the damp lintels, testing the huge, locked doors even though the stained-glass above them were unlit from within. Frustrated, she walked the way back on the other side of the bridge, peering over the edge to the gardens below, praying for a human-sized shadow in one of the more sheltered bits, a shadow like the one that materialised in front of her just as she pitched her umbrella against the rain in the direction of her flat.
‘Looking for me?’
‘Oh… oh, Lucy!’ Charlene said, as if they were meeting unexpectedly in a pub. ‘Fancy seeing you here, two nights in a row.’ She looked around. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘My mother.’ Charlene only started laughing when Lucy did, a few excruciating seconds later. ‘I was coming out to spy any foot traffic.’ She pointed to a small staircase. ‘Can’t see much from down there.’
‘Ah, so that’s your spot.’ Charlene craned her head to see where the staircase led, but saw nothing but damp stone. ‘Looks… cozy.’
‘So were you?’
‘What?’
‘Looking for me.’ Lucy’s smile had vanished. ‘You don’t live around here. I remember now. You live over the other side of town.’
‘Oh, no. No, no, no. No. I’m just on my way to the shop.’ Funny how lies sounded worse when they were pre-meditated.
‘In this weather?’ Lucy wiped some rain off her face, and pointed back across the bridge. ‘And isn’t it that way?’
‘What’s that way?’
‘The shops.’
‘Oh, ja. I mean I’ve just been to the shops.’
‘So that’s what your rucksack’s full of.’
‘Ja,’ Charlene said, and grimaced. She jostled the straps of her backpack on her shoulders, pretending it was white wine and cup noodles weighing her down, and not two fleece blankets and a brand-new pocket umbrella. ‘Managed to get my creature comforts.’
‘Must be nice.’
‘I’ve got something for you, if you want.’
‘Oh god, I don’t need your food.’
Good, Charlene thought, until she remembered the food was also in fact a lie. And if it was, why did her bag now feel so heavy? It was time to put theory into practice. But because she had lied, she couldn’t offer the pocket umbrella, otherwise Lucy would know she had been lying about lying. Instead Charlene offered over the umbrella she was holding, angling it over toward Lucy. She tried to seem casual. ‘You want this?’
Lucy regarded it sceptically, as if it had a hole in it. ‘No, you’re fine. No need for both of us to get wet. I’ll manage to dry off anyway.’
She tried again. ‘I’ll be OK. It’s spare.’
Lucy held out her hand, catching raindrops. ‘I don’t know. Doesn’t look spare to me.’
‘No, really.’ Charlene started to close the umbrella, but only ended up shaking more droplets onto Lucy. ‘I insist.’
Lucy stepped back. ‘You’ve given me enough, thanks.’
Charlene’s eyes went bleary again. She told herself it was the rain. ‘Are you sure?’
Lucy wiped her face again and stood back, resting her back against the side wall, beckoning Charlene passage. ‘You best be getting home.’
But Charlene didn’t walk by. She’d come too far to just walk by. She couldn’t stop herself from speaking – maybe if she kept saying things, she’d eventually say the right thing. ‘OK, so I was.’
‘Was what?’
‘I was looking for you’.
At this Lucy softened. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why’d you lie about that?’
‘Oh, I was just… ashamed.’
‘Of what?’
Charlene wanted to tell Lucy the truth. That she wanted to be kinder. But she remembered that sometimes what she intended to be a kindness was anything but. Maybe she just wanted to seem kind, to be seen as kind. Maybe all this thought was failing her. Instead she improvised. ‘I was wondering, do you have any weed?’
For a moment Lucy just stared at her. ‘If I’d any to sell do you think I’d be here?’
‘No.’
‘And you think if I’d any in this fucking storm I’d be sharing it?’
Charlene didn’t need to answer. She could feel it in the distance between them. ‘I’ll be going home.’
‘Nice one. Enjoy it.’
Charlene strode ahead, eyes cast down at the shimmering, grey-brown pavement. She couldn’t stand the thought of Lucy reading whatever emotion was on her face, no more than she could stand the shame of opening the umbrella again the second she turned the next corner.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
It was torture, this. A question to which there was no correct answer. A semester abroad had turned into something resembling a holiday on Mars, or at least some other place where the atmosphere outside threatened to kill her. She didn’t think she’d slept, but she must have. One moment there was no light behind the blinds, and the next there was. The first thing on her mind rising out of bed was the question of whether she really had no weed left. She thought she had none, but asking Lucy made her wonder if she really knew it for a fact. Thought and knowledge, theory and practice. It was this kind of stress-driven feedback loop that made her a stoner in the first place. Five years ago, managing the discombobulating effects of leaving home by embracing the art-kid stereotype, pulling cottony clouds from a hubbly in some boy’s res room while watching Neon Genesis Evangelion. It wasn’t a surprise that she failed both semesters of first-year philosophy. Asking a question – ‘How can we believe our beliefs are believable?’ – wasn’t the same thing as answering it. At least she heeded the warning. She saved the zol for weekend nights, and begged the registrar to let her switch her major over to economics, which she had chosen as a throwaway credit but which she ended up actually being quite good at. Because economics was just philosophy with money. And it was pretty much the only branch of philosophy in the entire universe that listed companies paid people to get degrees in. It was either that or a second student loan. A couple years’ hard labour at her funders’ Sandton office – below-average starting salary, healthcare included, no petrol allowance – seemed a fair price at the time. But it had loomed so oppressively over her after graduation that when the company said that they’d send her to get an honours overseas, it didn’t matter that she’d have to pledge even more of her youth to them – that was future-her’s problem, and it seemed even less like one with a smouldering roach in her fingertips. She’d had barely gotten off the plane by the time she’d scored a phone number from the sketchiest person she could find hanging outside Potterow. But she was surprised when a woman answered. Charlene had kind of imagined there weren’t any women drug dealers. Or maybe: not that she imagined there weren’t any, but just that she hadn’t imagined there were. Not that her imagination was particularly vivid anyway. She had expected someone else to show up outside her house, maybe someone blaring ‘Santeria’ out the driver-side window, or a person dressed top-to-bare-toes in hemp and crochet, like a human hacky-sack. But no. Lucy wore a nice sweater. She listened to Radio 3. She dug around in her handbag for the two gram baggies and made small talk over the click-clunk of the hazard lights. She had the aura of someone conducting legitimate business, even a little blacklight pen to check the legitimacy of Charlene’s fifty pound note, still crisp from the bureau de change.
This was what was particularly bothering Charlene. It wasn’t so much that Lucy was living on the street, but rather that she had apparently been forced to do so in the space of two months. She’d bought two grams from Lucy that first night, and another two a month later, when she heard that Italy had closed shop. That was a hundred quid from just one customer, and surely if things had gotten really bad she could have sold the car.
She rummaged under her bed for the shoebox. Just as she thought, the film canister she kept her buds in was empty, save for some stems and a couple seeds. There was a layer of yellow kief on the inside of her grinder, and a bit more in the pollen catcher. She thought – hoped – there would have been more to scrape together from the four grams that had gone through it. There were some crumbs and dust in the corners of the shoebox. If she scraped everything together and mixed it with a little tobacco it might resemble the backyard special she used to buy from the car guards outside Stones, back in the days she used to smile at people on the street. Problem was she had no tobacco. Maybe, she thought, she’d go to the shops later.
This was what was particularly bothering Charlene. It wasn’t so much that Lucy was living on the street, but rather that she had apparently been forced to do so in the space of two months. She’d bought two grams from Lucy that first night, and another two a month later, when she heard that Italy had closed shop. That was a hundred quid from just one customer, and surely if things had gotten really bad she could have sold the car.
She rummaged under her bed for the shoebox. Just as she thought, the film canister she kept her buds in was empty, save for some stems and a couple seeds. There was a layer of yellow kief on the inside of her grinder, and a bit more in the pollen catcher. She thought – hoped – there would have been more to scrape together from the four grams that had gone through it. There were some crumbs and dust in the corners of the shoebox. If she scraped everything together and mixed it with a little tobacco it might resemble the backyard special she used to buy from the car guards outside Stones, back in the days she used to smile at people on the street. Problem was she had no tobacco. Maybe, she thought, she’d go to the shops later.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
It wasn’t nearly as cold that night. Charlene might have even called it pleasant, as long as she stood in the sun, didn’t move, and the wind didn’t blow too much. Nevertheless, how abruptly an evening becomes habitable, the trees in shocking bud and the sounds of birds coming from them. It was the one thing that had been getting her through being locked inside for two months, the non-human things outside, just carrying on. The reliable gargle of seagulls every morning, every evening; the sudden, quixotic appearance of daisies in the fucked up patch of grass outside the Scotmid. The swarms of midges, undeterred.
Then again, how suddenly it could restart raining. She didn’t have an umbrella, not in her hand nor in her bag. She didn’t bring a bag at all, nor had she prepared any stories. She put her earphones in and walked through town, letting the drizzle land and settle like dew on her hair.
Lucy was there, as she both did and did not expect, sitting at the mid-point of the bridge, cup beside her. Her bin bag looked fresh; for a moment Charlene thought of commenting on it. Something insensitive like, ‘New threads?’ For once, though, she thought better of it, and let Lucy let rip as she watched her approach. ‘Out of food already?’
‘Nah,’ Charlene said, and steeled herself. ‘I was just wondering if you needed some company.’
‘No, you’re fine.’ Lucy looked her up and down, but didn’t say outright for Charlene to leave her alone, so she sat down against the stone wall, a few metres away. Together they watched some buses go by, still all empty.
‘Much foot traffic today?’
‘Not really.’ Lucy looked into her cup. ‘It’s been almost completely quiet. Someone bought me a coffee, but they didn’t put any milk in it. Vegans.’
‘Cool,’ Charlene said. Cool? Here was the limit of conversation. A number of thoughts went through Charlene’s mind, thoughts in the rough shape of questions, like the clouds overhead, nothing coherent. Wordlessly she pulled a small purse out of her inside jacket pocket, and held out its contents to Lucy. ‘Would you like this?’
Lucy cast her face upward, as if this was exactly what she dreaded. ‘Don’t you ever stop?’ But Lucy was making too much of a show of her exasperation to see exactly what was being offered, her eyes widening after they finished their long and exaggerated roll, resting on and discovering the true nature of the object pinched between Charlene’s fingers: a tiny, stick-thin joint. ‘Is that…?’
‘Ja,’ Charlene said. ‘It’s the last I’ve got.’
Lucy’s face softened. ‘I won’t take it from you.’ Charlene began to pull it away until Lucy continued: ‘But I’ll split it.’
‘What, here?’
‘No one really comes along here. Some joggers, but they’re too scared of stopping. Trust me,’ – she winked at Charlene; she winked! – ‘I know.’
Still, Charlene had second thoughts. She stood up, looked left, looked right. She looked over the railings to the gardens and the river down below. Lucy just laughed at her. ‘Spy Miss Inconspicuous here,’ she said.
‘Just checking for the police.’
‘Down there? Aye, they can see through fuckin’ concrete.’
Eventually Charlene settled back down, schooching closer to Lucy. She took out a lighter from the purse, put the purse back into her jacket pocket, and lit up. She took a polite drag of acrid smoke, then passed it over. Lucy pulled from it as if it was the only thing keeping her alive, but began to cough as if it was killing her. ‘Jesus,’ she said, smoke spilling out from her mouth and nostrils. ‘This is terrible. Who sold you this shite?’
‘You did.’
‘Fuck off.’ Lucy laughed and took another short pull. ‘God, it’s awful.’ She shook her head, coughing again, tapping ash onto the pavement before handing the joint back to Charlene. ‘Was it all like this?’
‘To be fair,’ she said, ‘I didn’t have that much left, so I ripped open a teabag and padded it out with that.’
‘Jesus,’ Lucy said again. But after a deep breath she started laughing, and sat back against the wall, the binbag riding up toward her neck like a collar. ‘Feels good, though.’
‘Ja. Ja, it really does.’ Charlene took two pulls, then handed it back to Lucy. She took one more pull, then offered the roach back. ‘No,’ Charlene said. ‘It’s all yours.’ Lucy held the tiny butt-end of the joint with the points of her fingernails, and pulled on the ember until the cardboard filter started burning. She held in the smoke for as long as she could, releasing slowly as one long sigh.
For Charlene the stone and the street already felt melty. The rain was a fine spray from a garden sprinkler. They looked at each other for a moment. ‘Thanks,’ Lucy said, to which Charlene gave a thumbs up, which made them both giggle. A bus passed by, throwing up off mist from the road, shining rainbows until it settled. She looked at the church at the end of the bridge, where she had looked for Lucy yesterday. It looked like a cathedral, she thought, but half the size. ‘Couldn’t you stay there?’ she asked, pointing at it.
‘Hm? Where?’
‘The church. I don’t know much about them, but–’
‘Naw, it’s closed.’
‘Oh.’
‘They’d say it’s my fault anyways.’
‘What’s your fault?’
And then Lucy did something unusual, so unusual Charlene couldn’t look at her as she did it. She began to speak. Charlene just let the words arrive and rebound in her head like the darkening clouds in the darkening sky. ‘Well, maybe it is my fault. It was definitely my fault for leaving the house without packing a bag. But she just wanted me gone so quickly. Throwing shite at me. You’ve ever had the book literally thrown at you, Sharla?’
‘Charlene.’
‘Have you ever had the––’
‘No, I mean… I haven’t.’
‘Those edges hurt. And, sure, I lied to her about how I was putting up my share of the rent. I said I was just delivering pizza now. But come on. She’d had to’ve known. Or I thought she'd had to’ve known. Right?’
Charlene nodded, as if she understood.
‘And she fucking turfs me out of the house during a plague. Great timing. She’s throwing me out and she’s saying, “oh, how dare you go around selling cannabis to strangers, you dinnae know if they’ve got this virus, and you bring it back home to me when I’ve asthma and everything.”’
‘Jesus, Lucy. I’m sorry.’
‘And the money’s probably still coming off my bank for the rent. And she’s probably driving around in my car. Throwing me out without my purse. She’s done this before, Sharla, let me tell you, so she’s got all the tricks this time. She knew I wouldn’t go to the police because she’d grass me in pronto. And she knew all the shelters would be full.’ She raised her face to the sky, letting the drizzle fall on it. ‘Well, that would be expecting the bitch to be thinking.’ She puffed out her cheeks and closed her eyes. ‘Jesus, now I’m lightheaded.’
Charlene felt herself rocking forward and backward. Her eyes had been focused on one point this entire time, on a section of blunt iron spikes that ran on top of the wall on the other side of the bridge. When she turned to look at her, the afterimage imposed itself on Lucy like a cage. It then came to her: ‘You can stay with me if you want.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Lucy said.
‘No really. There’s a spare room. My flatmate’s gone.’
Lucy opened her eyes and looked into Charlene’s. ‘No, I really can’t do that. If Simone found out I’ve stayed with another woman she’d never have me back. And I mean never.’
‘It’s better than sitting out in the rain, surely.’
Lucy sighed. ‘I make her out to be a monster, Simone, but she’s not. She’s really not. If anything it is my fault. She just needs to be taught a lesson, you know? It’s why I came here, because she’d never think to look for me in Stockbridge.’
‘So she’ll be trying to find you?’
‘Oh yeah. Yeah. Definitely. I bet she’s panicking by now. She’ll be sorry she’s done this to me. She won’t dare to do this again, not now. This’ll be the final straw.’
They stopped talking when they saw a man approaching from the Comely Bank side of the bridge, walking his dachshund. He jay-walked to the other side of the bridge before he got to them.
‘People keep their distance, hey?’
‘Ach,’ Lucy said, ‘they’d be crossing the road at the best of times.’ She began coughing again, deeper this time, as if from the bottom of her lungs, and gradually Charlene felt a distinct sensation. She could feel the exact place in the middle of the parting of her lips where she had placed the joint, where she had placed something that had been placed against Lucy’s lips. As if something hot had been placed there and had begun to tingle. She felt her heart in her chest, the sublime and icy creep of paranoia.
‘Hey, Lucy… are you sick? I mean, do you have…?
A frown deepened between Lucy’s eyes. ‘Do you think I’d share a joint with you if I thought I was? Fuck, I should have checked you weren’t sick!’
‘Sorry, I–’
‘It’s your shite weed that’s doing this. I mean, my shite weed.’ She descended from her high fury. ‘I mean, my great weed, and your shite teabag.’ She started giggling. ‘Phew, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. I’m trying to be angry. Why am I laughing?’
‘I think it’s the tea.’
This set Lucy off even more, her laughter filling the air with its edges. It wasn’t a joyful laugh, Charlene thought. A trio of seagulls passed overhead, replying to the wordless noise. OK, she thought, maybe this was the time for her to offer some encouragement. Maybe the weed had finally distilled her thoughts and words to their perfect essence, into a useful thing. ‘You know,’ she said after a moment, ‘when you think about it, it’ll be alright.’
‘Why?’
‘Think about it,’ Charlene drawled, ‘you’re a dealer. You know ¬– you can deal.’
‘Jesus.’ That, it turned out, was the thing that could stop Lucy laughing. The warmth between them dissipated immediately, dispersed by an arriving wind. Above them the clouds broke where the spire of the church rose, as if it had scraped and grazed the sky’s skin, bleeding its light. Charlene felt like pointing it out to Lucy, but she knew she was looking at it too. Words were useless anyhow. They just didn’t do the same thing that they used to do. That was the problem with now. Not just this now, but everything around now that also constituted now. Now, generally. Everything happening now. Being outside when no one should be outside. Everything that in its size and depth rejects being described. This, now. The words people use to describe the thing without saying what the thing is. As if every word was worn down, and its meaning just flowed over it, effortlessly and uselessly over other words, like the river running over the rocks a hundred feet below them.
The clouds then closed over, the strange moment gone. ‘I should go now,’ Charlene said. She expected a sharp reply: a ‘Good’; a ‘Fuck off’; at best a ‘See you later’, a simple, throwaway lie. Instead she heard a smaller voice, not like Lucy’s voice at all, but another person’s, coming from the woman still sitting on the pavement.
‘Will you come back?’ that small voice said. Lucy wouldn’t meet Charlene’s eye. ‘In case Simone doesn’t find me tonight?’
Charlene felt the remains of the smoke in her lungs. ‘Sure.’
‘And do you still have that umbrella? Can you bring that umbrella?’
‘Sure.’
‘And I could use a blanket too.’
‘Sure,’ Charlene nodded. She didn’t smile.
Then again, how suddenly it could restart raining. She didn’t have an umbrella, not in her hand nor in her bag. She didn’t bring a bag at all, nor had she prepared any stories. She put her earphones in and walked through town, letting the drizzle land and settle like dew on her hair.
Lucy was there, as she both did and did not expect, sitting at the mid-point of the bridge, cup beside her. Her bin bag looked fresh; for a moment Charlene thought of commenting on it. Something insensitive like, ‘New threads?’ For once, though, she thought better of it, and let Lucy let rip as she watched her approach. ‘Out of food already?’
‘Nah,’ Charlene said, and steeled herself. ‘I was just wondering if you needed some company.’
‘No, you’re fine.’ Lucy looked her up and down, but didn’t say outright for Charlene to leave her alone, so she sat down against the stone wall, a few metres away. Together they watched some buses go by, still all empty.
‘Much foot traffic today?’
‘Not really.’ Lucy looked into her cup. ‘It’s been almost completely quiet. Someone bought me a coffee, but they didn’t put any milk in it. Vegans.’
‘Cool,’ Charlene said. Cool? Here was the limit of conversation. A number of thoughts went through Charlene’s mind, thoughts in the rough shape of questions, like the clouds overhead, nothing coherent. Wordlessly she pulled a small purse out of her inside jacket pocket, and held out its contents to Lucy. ‘Would you like this?’
Lucy cast her face upward, as if this was exactly what she dreaded. ‘Don’t you ever stop?’ But Lucy was making too much of a show of her exasperation to see exactly what was being offered, her eyes widening after they finished their long and exaggerated roll, resting on and discovering the true nature of the object pinched between Charlene’s fingers: a tiny, stick-thin joint. ‘Is that…?’
‘Ja,’ Charlene said. ‘It’s the last I’ve got.’
Lucy’s face softened. ‘I won’t take it from you.’ Charlene began to pull it away until Lucy continued: ‘But I’ll split it.’
‘What, here?’
‘No one really comes along here. Some joggers, but they’re too scared of stopping. Trust me,’ – she winked at Charlene; she winked! – ‘I know.’
Still, Charlene had second thoughts. She stood up, looked left, looked right. She looked over the railings to the gardens and the river down below. Lucy just laughed at her. ‘Spy Miss Inconspicuous here,’ she said.
‘Just checking for the police.’
‘Down there? Aye, they can see through fuckin’ concrete.’
Eventually Charlene settled back down, schooching closer to Lucy. She took out a lighter from the purse, put the purse back into her jacket pocket, and lit up. She took a polite drag of acrid smoke, then passed it over. Lucy pulled from it as if it was the only thing keeping her alive, but began to cough as if it was killing her. ‘Jesus,’ she said, smoke spilling out from her mouth and nostrils. ‘This is terrible. Who sold you this shite?’
‘You did.’
‘Fuck off.’ Lucy laughed and took another short pull. ‘God, it’s awful.’ She shook her head, coughing again, tapping ash onto the pavement before handing the joint back to Charlene. ‘Was it all like this?’
‘To be fair,’ she said, ‘I didn’t have that much left, so I ripped open a teabag and padded it out with that.’
‘Jesus,’ Lucy said again. But after a deep breath she started laughing, and sat back against the wall, the binbag riding up toward her neck like a collar. ‘Feels good, though.’
‘Ja. Ja, it really does.’ Charlene took two pulls, then handed it back to Lucy. She took one more pull, then offered the roach back. ‘No,’ Charlene said. ‘It’s all yours.’ Lucy held the tiny butt-end of the joint with the points of her fingernails, and pulled on the ember until the cardboard filter started burning. She held in the smoke for as long as she could, releasing slowly as one long sigh.
For Charlene the stone and the street already felt melty. The rain was a fine spray from a garden sprinkler. They looked at each other for a moment. ‘Thanks,’ Lucy said, to which Charlene gave a thumbs up, which made them both giggle. A bus passed by, throwing up off mist from the road, shining rainbows until it settled. She looked at the church at the end of the bridge, where she had looked for Lucy yesterday. It looked like a cathedral, she thought, but half the size. ‘Couldn’t you stay there?’ she asked, pointing at it.
‘Hm? Where?’
‘The church. I don’t know much about them, but–’
‘Naw, it’s closed.’
‘Oh.’
‘They’d say it’s my fault anyways.’
‘What’s your fault?’
And then Lucy did something unusual, so unusual Charlene couldn’t look at her as she did it. She began to speak. Charlene just let the words arrive and rebound in her head like the darkening clouds in the darkening sky. ‘Well, maybe it is my fault. It was definitely my fault for leaving the house without packing a bag. But she just wanted me gone so quickly. Throwing shite at me. You’ve ever had the book literally thrown at you, Sharla?’
‘Charlene.’
‘Have you ever had the––’
‘No, I mean… I haven’t.’
‘Those edges hurt. And, sure, I lied to her about how I was putting up my share of the rent. I said I was just delivering pizza now. But come on. She’d had to’ve known. Or I thought she'd had to’ve known. Right?’
Charlene nodded, as if she understood.
‘And she fucking turfs me out of the house during a plague. Great timing. She’s throwing me out and she’s saying, “oh, how dare you go around selling cannabis to strangers, you dinnae know if they’ve got this virus, and you bring it back home to me when I’ve asthma and everything.”’
‘Jesus, Lucy. I’m sorry.’
‘And the money’s probably still coming off my bank for the rent. And she’s probably driving around in my car. Throwing me out without my purse. She’s done this before, Sharla, let me tell you, so she’s got all the tricks this time. She knew I wouldn’t go to the police because she’d grass me in pronto. And she knew all the shelters would be full.’ She raised her face to the sky, letting the drizzle fall on it. ‘Well, that would be expecting the bitch to be thinking.’ She puffed out her cheeks and closed her eyes. ‘Jesus, now I’m lightheaded.’
Charlene felt herself rocking forward and backward. Her eyes had been focused on one point this entire time, on a section of blunt iron spikes that ran on top of the wall on the other side of the bridge. When she turned to look at her, the afterimage imposed itself on Lucy like a cage. It then came to her: ‘You can stay with me if you want.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Lucy said.
‘No really. There’s a spare room. My flatmate’s gone.’
Lucy opened her eyes and looked into Charlene’s. ‘No, I really can’t do that. If Simone found out I’ve stayed with another woman she’d never have me back. And I mean never.’
‘It’s better than sitting out in the rain, surely.’
Lucy sighed. ‘I make her out to be a monster, Simone, but she’s not. She’s really not. If anything it is my fault. She just needs to be taught a lesson, you know? It’s why I came here, because she’d never think to look for me in Stockbridge.’
‘So she’ll be trying to find you?’
‘Oh yeah. Yeah. Definitely. I bet she’s panicking by now. She’ll be sorry she’s done this to me. She won’t dare to do this again, not now. This’ll be the final straw.’
They stopped talking when they saw a man approaching from the Comely Bank side of the bridge, walking his dachshund. He jay-walked to the other side of the bridge before he got to them.
‘People keep their distance, hey?’
‘Ach,’ Lucy said, ‘they’d be crossing the road at the best of times.’ She began coughing again, deeper this time, as if from the bottom of her lungs, and gradually Charlene felt a distinct sensation. She could feel the exact place in the middle of the parting of her lips where she had placed the joint, where she had placed something that had been placed against Lucy’s lips. As if something hot had been placed there and had begun to tingle. She felt her heart in her chest, the sublime and icy creep of paranoia.
‘Hey, Lucy… are you sick? I mean, do you have…?
A frown deepened between Lucy’s eyes. ‘Do you think I’d share a joint with you if I thought I was? Fuck, I should have checked you weren’t sick!’
‘Sorry, I–’
‘It’s your shite weed that’s doing this. I mean, my shite weed.’ She descended from her high fury. ‘I mean, my great weed, and your shite teabag.’ She started giggling. ‘Phew, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. I’m trying to be angry. Why am I laughing?’
‘I think it’s the tea.’
This set Lucy off even more, her laughter filling the air with its edges. It wasn’t a joyful laugh, Charlene thought. A trio of seagulls passed overhead, replying to the wordless noise. OK, she thought, maybe this was the time for her to offer some encouragement. Maybe the weed had finally distilled her thoughts and words to their perfect essence, into a useful thing. ‘You know,’ she said after a moment, ‘when you think about it, it’ll be alright.’
‘Why?’
‘Think about it,’ Charlene drawled, ‘you’re a dealer. You know ¬– you can deal.’
‘Jesus.’ That, it turned out, was the thing that could stop Lucy laughing. The warmth between them dissipated immediately, dispersed by an arriving wind. Above them the clouds broke where the spire of the church rose, as if it had scraped and grazed the sky’s skin, bleeding its light. Charlene felt like pointing it out to Lucy, but she knew she was looking at it too. Words were useless anyhow. They just didn’t do the same thing that they used to do. That was the problem with now. Not just this now, but everything around now that also constituted now. Now, generally. Everything happening now. Being outside when no one should be outside. Everything that in its size and depth rejects being described. This, now. The words people use to describe the thing without saying what the thing is. As if every word was worn down, and its meaning just flowed over it, effortlessly and uselessly over other words, like the river running over the rocks a hundred feet below them.
The clouds then closed over, the strange moment gone. ‘I should go now,’ Charlene said. She expected a sharp reply: a ‘Good’; a ‘Fuck off’; at best a ‘See you later’, a simple, throwaway lie. Instead she heard a smaller voice, not like Lucy’s voice at all, but another person’s, coming from the woman still sitting on the pavement.
‘Will you come back?’ that small voice said. Lucy wouldn’t meet Charlene’s eye. ‘In case Simone doesn’t find me tonight?’
Charlene felt the remains of the smoke in her lungs. ‘Sure.’
‘And do you still have that umbrella? Can you bring that umbrella?’
‘Sure.’
‘And I could use a blanket too.’
‘Sure,’ Charlene nodded. She didn’t smile.
Nick Mulgrew was born in Durban in 1990, and lives in Edinburgh. He is the author of four books, the latest of which is a novel, A Hibiscus Coast. A Mandela Rhodes Scholar and recipient of the 2018 Nadine Gordimer Award, he is currently studying toward a PhD in Writing Practice at the University of Dundee, and as well as directing uHlanga, a multi-award-winning poetry press based in South Africa.
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