Best British Short Stories 2020 by Nicholas Royle (reading books for 5 year olds txt) 📗

he said. What if I did, I said, even though I hadn’t expected him to fulfil any. I can’t fulfil them, he said, as if reading my mind. I had low expectations, I clarified. That’s passive-aggressive, Jackie, he said. Who’s Jackie? I asked. He coughed loudly, cutting off my question. Stop contacting me, he said. His throat caught, so I had to bring the phone right up to my burning ear to hear him. It was a mistake and you took advantage of my vulnerability. Before I could reply, I heard a woman whisper loudly in the background: put the phone down, John. You’ve told her now.

I didn’t switch my mobile off for the rest of the night. Its red death signal started blinking in my peripheral vision. That was not the end of it. I would not allow someone to be so cowardly. I grabbed the bed sheet which had been crumpled in the corner since John’s last visit. He had slapped vanilla oil on my body and made minute adjustments to it as we had sex. My limbs had been cold, oil had stained the Egyptian cotton. I dragged the sheet to the kitchen like a dirty wedding train and stuffed it in the washing machine. A greasy trail glittered in the semi-darkness. On the counter were some half-empty beer cans from when John had last been around. I opened the back door. It had rained; the smell of meaty wet earth dizzied me. I emptied the rain out of the bowl I kept on the step and poured in the dregs to stop the slugs coming in, but it was too late.

Barbara called me for a meeting when she came back. The blinds in her office were down again, the lamps were on, the room smelled of clary sage. I was trapped in her sunglasses like a slow-moving target. She said that she had important news for me: she wasn’t ready to retire yet. It wasn’t for her, slowly losing all her functions like an outmoded piece of technology. I’m going to look into YouTube, though I’m unconvinced. It’ll never catch on, she said. She sniffed, took a deep breath. But the good news is that I want you to take over the day-to-day running of the school.

She leaned forward so we were only a few inches apart. I could see reflections of myself everywhere: her glasses, the golden orb that she had around her neck. If you want to, of course, she said. I knew she was waiting for my answer. I didn’t tell her that I had imagined myself somewhere else next year. The image – a big city nowhere near a sea, a waiting audience – wouldn’t disappear. I hadn’t even visualised it. It was as instantly familiar as an advert. She moved back, put her fingers on the orb and made me disappear. Don’t be afraid of change, she said. There’s only so many fires that one person can accidentally start.

John texted me before the class that day: I wd like to c u. Things bad. But that not why. Come to beach cafe with C. He always used text speak, even though I replied in full sentences. I wanted to weep. Something was pressing against the inside of my chest, a balloon swollen with water. I walked around the hall, watching the girls as they rehearsed for the finale. They were singing the song they had chosen for the dance: fun fun fun fun. A spitty croon through a girl’s new teeth – was anything as sweet? It was the last time that I would see them dancing before the show. Time goes quickly! I said. Practise! In the corner, I could see Cherri dancing as if someone invisible was trying to push her over. She was practising her solo, the one that I said I’d help her with.

I remembered the bits about consistency in the self-parenting book, how important it was to treat the child of a man who had humiliated me like any other. Be the most consistent person in your life, the book said. Can I copy you? I asked Cherri. If I learn your dance, you can see how it looks. And then you can change it if it’s not working. She nodded. I began moving, imitating her steps, fluidly bringing them together. That’s not right, she said, staring at my feet. You’re making it different. I stopped. She looked embarrassed, as if I were the one who couldn’t dance.

Can I ask you a question? No one was nearby. Do you know anyone called Jackie? Or maybe Jacqueline? Cherri’s pigtails flapped as she slowed down. How do you know about Jackie? she replied. I don’t know her. Who is she? I asked. Cherri wobbled on one foot, shielded her face. I gestured for her to put her arms down. Her face was redder than usual. Jackie was a bird who used to sit outside my window, she said. Not a real one – well, she was sort of – she was my ‘imaginary friend’. Cherri did quote marks in the air. She had big purple feathers and made loud noises in the middle of the night. She couldn’t fly, like a dodo or an ostrich, she said. Cherri carried on speaking but I couldn’t hear her any more. Was I a private joke between them, the father and daughter unit? I wanted to vomit, but I pinched my neck instead to retain my composure.

Later, I saw Taylor approaching Cherri. I watched them from the back of the class. Cherri looked at Taylor suspiciously. They had not spoken to each other – as far as I had seen – since I first placed them in Britney House together. Taylor rarely spoke to anyone but her friends. She liked to jangle in unison at the other girls. She liked to intimidate them with her height and comedy stomach beating. I could always intervene if anything happened between them. Or I