Alexis Thompson

Dear Mr Walker,

In response to your recent letter, I am sorry to once again inform you that the speed-limit sign beside your house cannot at present be moved. As explained in our previous correspondence, it doubles as the welcome sign for Stunbridge and marks out the village boundary. Sorry as we were to hear of your wife’s tragic accident, the logistics of having the sign moved are more complicated than you might imagine, involving numerous departments and agencies and a great deal of paperwork. 

   As per your suggestion, please do feel free to contact a private surveyor if you believe there is sufficient evidence the village boundary is in need of updating and that the Ordnance Survey are currently incorrect on this matter. Please be aware, however, that any such work would need to be carried out at your own expense. Unfortunately, demands on council resources are currently such that we cannot look into this matter further on your behalf. 

Best wishes…

Michael slipped the letter into a clear plastic folder in which dozens of similar correspondences were filed, and placed the folder on the vegetable shelf he used for crockery. Please do feel free. Of course, he had no such evidence that the village boundary was inaccurate. His just happened to be a house on the very limits of Stunbridge before the road veered off into the trees, hedgerows and hills of the surrounding countryside. The very presence of a house so close to the sign with nothing more beyond, would appear to prove the point that the boundary was perfectly correct. 

   Michael was already quite tired by the time he arrived home, having just returned from a strange and unsettling visit to Amelia Bevan’s house. The week before she had called to tell him that she had some news to announce, and asked him if he would like to come over for tea. He had not seen Amelia in almost a year, around six months into his ‘crusade’, as she put it–– ‘crusade’ when she was feeling generous, ‘obsession’ when less so. In her email, Amelia had said she had ‘wonderful, important news’ to share with him. The description jarred Michael; he no longer believed that news could be both wonderful and important. ‘Important’ meant change and the last important change he could remember was a car accident that resulted in the death of his wife and of a four-year-old girl. The girl’s father, who had been driving, was left in a permanent vegetative state and the mother was Amelia.   

   Michael turned off the harsh overhead lights and switched on the standard lamp in the corner of the kitchen, creating a pool of gold that somehow spread far enough across the room to illuminate it. He opened a bottle of wine and searched the cupboards, fridge and freezer for something to eat. The freezer was empty: tupperware containers of frozen beef stew like hockey pucks, rigid bricks of lasagne and shepherd’s pie, all eaten through like doomsday supplies. The only ingredients he had would require more effort to cook than he was currently capable of. He rarely cooked quick meals anymore, preferring batch-cooking which he could later heat up in the microwave.

   The kitchen was, as always, spotless. The squalor and misery that followed Celia’s death led Michael to create a rigid routine of cleanliness and order that, while not the source of any real happiness in itself, kept unhappiness from manifesting in his surroundings. All plates, cups, glasses were washed up as soon as they were used. Spills or crumbs were wiped away immediately. He could not remember the last time the house needed a deep clean, or even when the drying rack beside the sink contained more than two or three items.

   His thoughts returned to that afternoon's visit. The news Amelia had wanted to announce was that she was getting remarried. The first, most obvious concern that came to Michael's mind was ‘what about Andrew?’   

   Amelia seemed to have expected this question and shyly lowered her eyes to the table. ‘It’s simpler than you might think,’ she said, ‘legally anyway. Because of Andrew’s inability to give consent, a divorce can be obtained without it. Of course, emotionally it’s been terrible, but Martin has been very supportive.’

   ‘His name’s Martin?’

   She smiled at the mention of his name. ‘That’s right, Martin Green. You would absolutely love him. I really want you two to meet before the wedding.’

   ‘I’d like to. What about next week?’

   ‘Well, that might be a bit tricky. He lives in New Zealand.’

   ‘New Zealand? Have you even managed to meet him?’

   ‘In person, only twice. He sometimes travels to London for work.’

   ‘How did this happen?’

   ‘You’ll laugh, but we actually met online. Once Andrew was finally settled in the home, I realised, with all those terrible things that needed to be arranged, that I hadn’t properly allowed myself to grieve over everything that had happened: not over Charlotte, not over Andrew. There was so much to do, so much to take care of, that it wasn’t until the logistical side of things had been dealt with that the shock finally wore off. After that, I more or less fell apart. It sank in that, in their different ways, neither Charlotte nor Andrew would ever be part of my future.’

   Michael had not been aware of this. He tried to remember what he had been going through during this time.

   She continued, ‘I began seeing a therapist who suggested an online group for people suffering from traumatic grief. That’s where I met Martin. His wife had committed suicide about the same time as the accident. The guilt and responsibility he felt over it almost led him to the same fate. We started talking almost every day. Something about his strength and honesty and the fact that we’d both been through so much and come out in more or less one piece produced this indescribable connection between us. It’s a bit like how I feel about our friendship, Michael.’ 

   She'd reached out and squeezed his hand, which just happened to be resting on the table. 

  Michael hadn't seen anyone himself: counsellors, therapists, bereavement groups. Even when Amelia  suggested he join a book club, the thought of ‘opening up’ or ‘connecting’ with others seemed out of the question. It was not that he disapproved of such things, or even that he wasn’t in need of some help, only he couldn't picture himself in those rooms: the lighting, the furniture, the sterile atmosphere of a ‘judgment-free space’. Routine, steadiness and trying, bit-by-bit, to piece his life back together seemed an effective enough way of dealing with it. 

   The doorbell rang, causing Michael to send a great ribbon of wine out of his glass, as if the doorbell’s wiring was connected to his ribs. As he stood at the open front door, the pale orange of the security light glaring down on him, Michael noticed something moving in the dark outside. It appeared to be the beam of a headlight passing on the road. Then the light paused mid-air, dead centre inside the box-hedge frame of the driveway entrance. It hung suspended for a few seconds before vanishing into the darkness.

    Michael took a cheese sandwich and what was left of the bottle and sat down in front of the TV. There was nothing much on, so he flicked between news channels and history documentaries. It didn't really matter what he watched; it was background company while he processed the afternoon. He was hoping the wine would help him make sense of the whole business, or at least quieten his thoughts and eventually send him to sleep. However, the more he went over what Amelia had told him, what she was planning with this man, the less it seemed to cohere. What if Martin were one of these black widower, bluebeard types who preyed on vulnerable women and drained their bank accounts? Perhaps he had murdered his wife and made it look like suicide. Was Amelia really going to move to all the way to New Zealand? 

   It suddenly occurred to Michael that it wasn’t any of his business. Despite becoming friends, and Michael couldn't quite remember how that had come about, the situation between Michael and Amelia was at permanent risk of collapsing under the weight of their compounded grief. While the question of liability had long been settled, there was a temptation, never expressed, for one side to blame the other. Amelia may have secretly cursed Celia for simply being where she was at that particular moment. Michael might have placed the blame on Andrew for not being attentive enough. But, to see him as he was now... the breathing personification of blamelessness. Of course, Michael had never met Andrew before the accident. Even to say they had met seemed almost euphemistic. Michael had only really observed Andrew. That was it, he thought; Amelia had reached out to Michael, a little time after the accident, inviting him to accompany her on a visit to the nursing home. She believed it would help him process his anger. He had joined her perhaps four or five times since then and she was absolutely right. But it did occur to Michael, now and then, that he might not have liked Andrew as he had been before the accident. He began to wonder if these visits were not some form of impotent revenge fulfilment: to stand over the man who killed your wife and feel nothing but pity.

   Then there was Sophie, the little girl. In effect, her actions were those most responsible for what happened. Having removed her seatbelt in a fit of childish impatience, setting off the safety alarm, then reaching toward her father as he drove were enough to distract Andrew from noticing the speed-limit sign and Celia’s brake lights.

    These were the dregs of Michael’s tired thoughts, to go with the last dregs of the wine. After tidying everything away, he poured himself a glass of water. It was time for bed.

* * * *

    Michael awoke several hours later, damp with sweat, his legs aching. The strange, churning dreams faded instantly from memory as a hard, round pressure in his abdomen drew him out of bed. He turned on the lamp, shielding his eyes from the glare, put on his slippers, and padded out to the hall. The curtains had not been drawn across the window and a large, waning moon shone through, casting the floor to the colour of raw marble; moonlight shimmered on the laundry basket's glossy wicker weave.

   Michael avoided the main beam in the bathroom, opting for the softer glow of the light above the mirror. He emptied his bladder, the sweet, dark odour rising, foam forming around the spray like an atoll. Then he flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and closing the bathroom door behind him, felt a second relaxation followed by the warm feeling of urine soaking through his boxers. His pyjama bottoms, which were too loose for him, had stayed dry somehow and he slowly stripped from the waist down. He performed this undignified manoeuvre as quickly as possible, despite some stiffness in bending down He straightened his back. The hem of the pyjama top reached far down enough beneath his waist to cover him. A chill around his legs contrasted the warm bundle of cotton in his hands.

    As he turned toward the basket, he saw a small, shadowy human form crouching on top of the lid. The hair and silhouette revealed it to be a young girl. She lifted her head, not looking at Michael, but straight ahead. She was smiling. The smile suddenly burst into a silent laugh. Nothing she did made any kind of sound, not even a creak from the wicker beneath her bare toes. Michael remained still. He knew who it was, recognising Sophie from a photograph on Amelia’s mantlepiece. Her arms and hands seemed to be reaching out, as if trying to steady herself. She was re-enacting something, a strange half-levitation, as she propped herself up, making solid forms of the empty space to either side of her. She leant forward as though there were a distinguishable space between these invisible columns. Her small teeth and pink, girlish gums conveyed a sincere, innocent joy, surrounded by a profound atmosphere of love.

   Michael followed the outline of her hands’ movement and recognised the shapes as headrests in a car. No sooner did this realisation occur than a terrible sound filled his ears: glass bursting, plastic and metal twisting, screaming and the shrill peals of on-board warning alarms. The sensation of smoke filling Michael’s lungs caused him to choke and he fell to the ground, his naked lower half chafing against the rough carpet. 

   After what felt like several minutes, Michael recovered himself, his forehead beaded with sweat. When he looked up, the little girl had gone. 

* * * *

Having endured the rest of the night on the sofa, Michael awoke as dim daylight filled the yellow curtains. The clocks had recently gone back, so it was difficult to know the precise time. Long shadows from the furniture and the sun’s sharp angle suggested it was still morning. On the television, a monochrome couple were conspiring silently in a London cafe on a channel playing old black-and-white films. Michael must have muted the TV at some point in his sleep. He changed the channel which brought up the time as 11:04. 

   Low, indistinct sounds could be heard from outside, before the reverse signal of a work van cut through the din. Michael put on his shoes and wrapped a winter coat over his pyjamas. He tried flattening a tuft of hair he could feel swaying as he moved. Outside, flashing orange lights showed through the yew branches. Beside the road, he found two men in orange high visibility jackets, one digging a hole around the boundary sign. 

   ‘What's all this?’ asked Michael, shouting over the noise to the man not digging. 

   ‘Are you the owner?’ the man shouted back, nodding in the direction of the house.   

   ‘I am. What's going on?’

   ‘We’re moving the sign.’

   Michael couldn't believe it. A charge of pure joy filled his veins and a tingling warmth ran across his skin, despite the cold. Behind the work van, a long queue of cars had formed, suddenly forced to give way to the oncoming traffic.

   ‘I've been asking the council to do this for months. I never thought they actually would.’

   ‘Don't get me started on that lot,’ said the man, flicking through sheets of paper on his clipboard. ‘We’re the ones who have to work for them. And frankly, half the time they'd rather we didn’t.’

   Michael smiled and wrapped the coat tighter around him as a sharp breeze danced around his ankles. ‘Well, I won't keep you. Just shout if you need anything.’

   ‘Thank you. I'm sure we'll be all right.’

   The news all but returned Michael to a feeling of sanity. The visitation from the night before lost its grip on his nerves. Despite the depth of its detail and the length of its duration, he decided the strange event was no more than a combination of strong cheddar and too much alcohol. Amelia's announcement and the way it reopened such strong feelings had perhaps influenced the images that manifested. But why had it brought up the little girl, rather than his wife? He would have much preferred that. Michael had not dreamt of Celia for at least a year. He would wake up heartbroken, but it was always worth it for the chance to see her again. That was often the way, he thought; dreams, visions, mild hallucinations, only ever seemed to be peopled by the supporting cast of one’s memories. None of that was important now. What was important was that he had won. Persistence and common sense had triumphed over petty bureaucracy and penny-pinching councillors. Michael returned inside to shower and dress. He would contact the council to find out what had changed their mind, but not just yet. Now, he wondered how best to celebrate. He decided to call Amelia. 

   ‘Congratulations, Michael. You can finally close this chapter in your life and begin to enjoy yourself.’    

   ‘We can start now, if you like,’ said Michael. ‘Let me take you out for lunch.’

   ‘That's very sweet of you, but I can't today.’ 

   Michael felt his cheeks flush. He'd gone too far in his excitement. ‘I didn't mean...’ 

   ‘Of course not, Michael. But I really am busy today. I was going to message you, actually. I've arranged to see Andrew on Friday, to announce the engagement. I would really appreciate your support. You've always been such a comfort to me.’ 

   ‘Of course, I will,’ said Michael. 

   By Thursday evening, the old sign had been removed from its post, leaving only a pair of muddy holes the shape of molehills. Michael set out early on Friday morning for Bellevue Nursing Home. Having been directed by a receptionist, Michael travelled various L-shaped corridors, past ice-cream-coloured walls and obscure pieces of equipment. Terrible sounds came from the wards as he passed. At last, he spotted Amelia standing in a doorway. Andrew’s room had been redecorated since Michael’s last visit, with new painting added to the walls and blue and lilac check curtains around the bed.

   The paintings were the sort only found in institutions like this, or else in provincial high-street galleries: sail boats gliding on the Thames, a rusty charcoal sketch of a lighthouse, a fruit bowl in shades unseen in nature. Between each painting was a hand-sanitiser dispenser mounted to the wall. One in particular caught Michael's eye as he rubbed disinfectant foam into his palms, waiting for the carers to finish wiping Andrew’s mouth and clear away his plates. The painting was of a squat, grey standing stone in the middle of a field. Michael thought it rather good. It wasn't at all the usual thing for a place like this. The idea, he presumed, was that art in medical environments needed to be innocuous to the point of invisible. But, the stone had presence. It could have been a still-life or a landscape, but in its way had more the quality of a portrait. He turned and walked over to the bed. Andrew was also looking intently at the picture. 

   ‘Hello Andrew,’ said Michael, the way a childless adult engages a toddler in conversation. ‘I like what you've done with the place.’ 

   He could feel Amelia patting his arm. ‘Oh, Michael don't.’ 

   Michael hadn’t meant to sound so sarcastic. As Andrew stared through him, mouth slightly open, Michael recognised the sharp tone of his comment.

   ‘That's quite an unusual painting,’ said Michael to Amelia, pointing behind them at the wall. ‘Where did it come from?’

   She turned to the painting and said in an unimpressed tone: ‘I don't know. It's quite gloomy isn't it?’ Then, after a pause: ‘I much prefer the others.’   

   Michael went over to have a closer look. It was unsigned. Instead, where the signature should have been, was the title of the work, Vinegar Stone. 

   Amelia had been standing behind him, clutching a piece of paper in her hand, her expression a mixture of anxiety and impatience, like someone waiting to go on stage. She read dramatically from the paper, combining the heartfelt solemnity of marriage vows with the forced courage of a break-up missive. As she read, Michael watched Andrew’s reaction or, more precisely, kept watch should any reaction present itself. But, Andrew was still vacantly staring at the picture and the area of wall directly beneath it. Michael had come across a new word recently, ‘quickening’, to describe the light that enters person's eyes as they approach death. This was the exact expression Andrew had at that moment. Michael hadn't seen such animation in his eyes before. Whether it was related to Amelia's tear-punctuated speech or something he perceived as he stared into space, was impossible to say. 

* * * *

   Later that night, as Michael slept, he felt a small, soft hand against his hairline, waking him up. It was Sophie. Lit by the streetlight coming through the window, she seemed more fleshlike than before and older somehow. Not the look of a child permanently amused by what it doesn't understand, as she had appeared before, but as if she knew something which Michael did not understand. Despite only just having woken up, Michael did not feel tired and rose out of bed easily, as Sophie led him to the door.

   He followed her out and when they reached the stairs she put out her hand for him to take. Diffuse blue light filled the downstairs hallway, making the wooden frames of the pictures on the wall appear white. They went into the sitting room where bright moonlight shone through the window. When Michael's eyes adjusted, he noticed that in the centre of the room was a small standing stone exactly like the one in the picture in Andrew’s room. The girl took Michael's hand and led him to the window. Out in the field he saw the figures of thirty or forty people: men, women and children. Some of the children, formed a group and came running in the direction of the house, grinning and leaping. 

   A low hedge where the field sloped down formed a barrier to the back garden. Michael turned to Sophie who was smiling back at the other children and beckoning to them. Other than their strange, moonlit teeth, Michael could not make out their features. Still, he didn't want them in the house. Their seeming complicity with the girl made him uneasy. When they eventually descended the slope, the hedge obscured them from view. The girl pulled at Michael’s pyjama sleeve. He turned and saw the children were now in the room, dancing around the stone. Their clothes and hair were dirty and on their necks and cheeks were foul red boils. Their eyes were milky with cataracts. They danced with joined hands, skipping in time to some music only they could hear. The girl extended her hand as if to induce Michael to join them. But, Michael was frightened of these children, their dirty clothes, their pestilent cheer. A gap opened in the ring and the children slowed, as if on a reel of film. Then the two children on either side of the gap raised their free hands and the dance resumed its previous speed. Though there was no-one visible in the gap, an additional presence had joined the ring. Michael was sure of this; an adult weight seemed to vibrate the floorboards in a way the children's movements hadn't. Suddenly, they stopped their dancing and, hands still clasped, scrunched up their faces in time with each other. Twice they did this –– Sophie looking up at him, grinning wildly –– then all fell backwards on the carpet in the shape of a broken star.

* * * *

Michael woke in his bed, struggling for breath. Michael woke up in his bed, struggling for breath. He had curled himself into such a tight ball as he slept that he was effectively suffocating himself. Disturbed again by the workmen outside, he got up groggily and went to the window. The team had doubled in size. Temporary speed limit signs had been put up, further up the road. However, for some reason, work was being done right in front of the house, effectively blocking the entrance to the drive.

  By this stage Michael didn't have the energy to question anything; he assumed they had their reasons. He checked his phone. It was 9:25. There were four missed calls and a voicemail: 

   'Michael, it's Amelia. I don't know what to do. I've just had a call from the doctor. Something strange is going on with Andrew. They say that something is the matter with his skin. They want me to come in and talk to them about it. Would you come with me?'

 ‘It's a punishment,’ said Amelia, from the passenger’s seat. 

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For getting engaged again, for abandoning Andrew. I'm being punished for it.’

 ‘Don't be ridiculous. Firstly, whatever it is, it's happening to Andrew. If anything, he's the one being punished. And what reason would there be to punish him?’ Michael paused. ‘I mean, he's being punished enough as it is. Secondly, you're not abandoning him, not in any meaningful way. Staying married to a man with no knowledge of your existence, denying yourself any future happiness, all out of a misplaced sense of loyalty, is frankly idiotic. Let's speak to the doctors and find out what's going on.’

* * * *

Andrew was being quarantined in a room with a two-way mirror through which the doctors, Amelia and Michael could watch him.

   ‘We cannot confirm anything until the results are back,’ said the doctor, ‘but we've requested blood tests are made highest priority. This isn't something any of us wants to wait for.’

   Andrew sat at the edge of the bed, facing the mirror. Three red lumps, the shape and size of golf balls, lined the area of neck beside his left jaw. A pair of nurses in head-to-toe protective suits came in to check on him. One of the nurses rolled up his sleeve and prepared a syringe. 

   ‘What are they doing?’ asked Amelia.

  The doctor removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘It's only a precautionary measure. We're treating

Andrew with Gentamicin.’

     ‘What's that?’

   ‘An antibiotic. It's the normal first-line treatment for particularly susceptible bacterial infections. It's very, very unlikely, but, judging from his symptoms, we cannot definitely rule out bubonic plague.’

   Amelia and Michael looked in astonishment at the doctor. 

   ‘Again, there's only a very slim chance, but I do feel obliged to tell you that we are treating this with the utmost seriousness. This means we will have to ask you both, given the recent exposure you've had to Andrew, to

have some blood taken before you go.’

   Amelia leaned her shoulder into Michael. He pressed his hand against the top of her arm.

   ‘We must also ask you to quarantine once you go home. As frightening as it sounds, whatever this is, it's easily treated. There hasn't been an outbreak of plague for over 150 years. But, we need to move quickly.’   

   Amelia began to cry. 

   Michael looked out again to Andrew sitting on the bed. The quickening expression from the previous visit had returned. He was staring at the space beneath the two-way mirror. The nurs Then, from beneath the frame of the mirror, Sophie emerged. She walked slowly toward the hospital bed. Reflexively, Michael reached for Amelia’s arm.

   ‘Michael, what is it?’

    He wasn’t sure how to respond.

   ‘What’s the matter? Is it Andrew?’

   ‘Do you see it, too?’ asked Michael, his throat dry, his hand shaking slightly, frightened of how Amelia might react.

   ‘See what? Oh God…’

   ‘What?’

   ‘It’s Andrew. Look at his face.’

   Amelia obviously couldn't see Sophie, but she must have seen the pronounced change in her husband’s expression. His gaze, which usually moved aimlessly from one corner of the room to the other, was now fixed on the mirror. He glared confusedly at his own reflection. Amelia put out her hand, as if to touch the glass. Sophie sat down on the floor and wrapped her arms around her father's legs. He looked down at her, smiling. Something of the man's former personality seemed to be breaking through. He looked up again to the mirror and seemed to meet Michael's eyes. Then Sophie did the same.

   They were reuniting on some separate plane of existence, somewhere beyond death or disability. What Michael could not understand was why he was being given access to this, while Amelia was not. It was like intruding on two peoples’ dreams simultaneously: trespassing on the common ground of two souls reconvening after the most violent of separations.

* * * *

Michael dropped off a distraught and exhausted Amelia. Martin was due to arrive at the airport later that week but would have to stay in a hotel, until the test results came back. Michael wondered if Amelia would mention anything about Andrew’s brief recovery. 

   By the time Michael returned to Stunbridge, the sun was dissolving into the trees behind the village rooftops. As he passed the first bend, onto the straight stretch that led to his house, the muscle memory of the thousand times he'd made this approach seemed to be malfunctioning. He had not quite covered the necessary distance for the speed sign to already be visible. He thought the workmen must have finished moving it, but the strange jolt of perspective should have been reversed. The sign should have seemed further from the house, not closer. It was then Michael realised that the sign had indeed been moved, but was now directly in front of the driveway. Ordinarily, Michael would have begun to slow down. Instead, he accelerated. The sign was giving him permission to do so. Its timber frame, like the loose farm fences from a child's toy set, newly painted in white, seemed to draw the car on.  

   In those infinite-seeming seconds before the white wooden beams broke through the windscreen glass, an image of two forms flashed quickly into Michael’s mind, so quickly they might have been forms made purely from the glare of his headlights against the white paint. They were the figures of Andrew and Sophie standing together, hand in hand, beside the vinegar stone.