I entered a story into the Anansi Archive Winter 2021/2022 Short Fiction Competition.
WHAT'S WILD IS WILD
I don't take the short cut specifically to be murdered- although that welcome relief briefly crosses my mind- but I don't expect to get hopelessly lost either. In my mind's eye it's easy- just a clear diagonal path from one gate to the next, with the opportunity to partake of some much-needed calorie burning and stomp my impotent frustration into raw earth. A third interview with no semblance of a conclusion is about as much procrastination as I can take, and I scowl and claw forward.
Summer is almost spent, but the sun seems way too high for this time of day, sitting there all defensive and white hot, as if refusing to bow down and conform. I briefly close my eyes yet it infiltrates like an x-ray. It hasn't rained for weeks and it shows in patches of pockmarked humus, exposed and flaky like dead men's eyes, and frazzled grass tufts. I pick my way around coconut gourds festooning this rustic carpet. They tell of a festival but this surprises me- after the woman was found dead in here I thought events had been cancelled. Obviously I am wrong. I plough on and the landscape quickly becomes untamed and organic; movement rustling at my toes near the supine remains of a tree trunk. I see the shadow of something alive and kicking within its hollows- maybe a mole or a vole; a dense, squirming black oval. My platform raffia wedges are killing my feet so I take my them off, using their ankle straps to tie them to my huge shoulder bag, cursing the heavy art portfolio weighing it down. I pull a grimace of a smile. Timmy hates me dressing like this, in a floral dress with free-flowing hair. He's all chrome and cream, and blacks and whites, like the girls at my call centre job.
'You can do more than three days a week,' Timmy had reprimanded.
'Yes, but I don't want to. It's not my career, and I have to get a proper job.'
'I don't like your silly flower paintings anyway. That's what I call art.' He pointed to his Mark Rothko print on the wall; dual midnight squares over a madder background.
'There's room for modern art too,' I'd said. 'Just not coming from my paintbrush.' I'd leant forward to attack the sunflowers I was painting, wanting to be done with this useless symposium, anger adding sudden character in furious red fronds delineating the petals.
'Artists only make money once they're dead.'
I need that job. A year out of art school- with a first- and it's the only opening I've had. Assisting in a small gallery, with time to paint and exhibit, the description seemed like the culmination of a dream. They mentioned that there was an attic room available to rent, and I couldn't believe my luck. They took me up crochety stairs and yes, it was tiny, but the skylight let in just the right portion of daytime. I'm also aware that I need to leave Timmy. I only moved in because I had nowhere else to go- I'd been staying in halls of residence, and they're never available after graduation.
Trees are silhouetted in silver curiousness, and I drop my bag onto the ground, fiddling for my camera, as I like to photograph then work back in the comfort of the studio. I'm no al-fresco artist, so I take some time with my newfangled digital gadget, attention drawn by a livid squawk to an exotic bird high up in the tree; pungent yellow with a red necklace. It must be introduced, rather than native. I manipulate the shutter, look down and smile wryly. My feet are absolutely filthy now, despite the dryness of the ground, and a push forward out of the denser trees finds me in a meadow. Totally surprised, I bend down to pick a poppy, a daisy, a couple of forget-me-nots and some buttercups, winding them into the hair clip taming my tresses. Papaver, bellis perennius, myosotis and ranunculus- a keen gardener once taught me their Latin names. I remember a poem I'd read and bite my lip: “What's wild is wild and can't be caught...” I'm not sure I should be picking flowers but there's plenty more, they will regrow and besides, I haven't been excessive. It strikes me that this wildness is contrived, and I think that an odd thing to do. This place must have been totally wild once- that's the way of the world, nature always wins. But then to try and tame it into civilisation, and then recreating man's ideal of a wilderness? It seems a convoluted way to carry on.
It always looks simple on the map- cross over the bridge and them I'm halfway there, but I seem to be stuck in a corner, and panic flows though me when I see five fountains, contained and landscaped, with spiky reeds controlled within a metal mesh and carefully maintained lily pads. I realise that I've made a mistake- this place is rhombus shaped, and I've walked along the back, having not navigated a deep enough diagonal. I turn back on myself in a zigzag, licking my lips, grateful that I thought to bring water- being murdered might seem like an answer to my troubles, but committing suicide is not an option.
As I veer south the ground becomes flatter and I think, from left-field, of calling someone to ask where I am. But the idea is absurd. Who would I call? I'd called Timmy from the landline, leaving a message about my impromptu interview and besides, there's no juice left in my cell phone. It's the way I like it. I hate the damn things, and didn't want to accept it off Timmy.
'It's so I can know where you are.'
'I don't want you to know where I am,' I'd said, and a horrible moment had passed between us.
He wants to control me and I don't like it. That flaming sun feels hotter than ever, and I feel my thighs starting to chafe together. That's another bone of contention between us- Timmy thinks I'm too big.
'Too big for what?' was my tart answer, but I have enough problems dealing with my sluggish metabolism and don't need his input. I was shocked- he's a giant of a man, and although he's not unattractive his long hair is seriously balding at the front and he has quite a gut on him. I crave a cigarette, and wish I had some on me. Timmy doesn't like me smoking. In fact, we were in a bar only three days ago when I accepted one his friend offered. Timmy squeezed my hand under the table, crushing it and digging his nails in. I look down at the marks and impulsively stroke their ridges- little half moons along my thumb knuckle.
'I'll bloody make you good. I'll make you respectable.' His answer only strengthened my resolve to leave him. I didn't want to walk his version of me. He'd held me in that intimidating way he did, where his hands were on my shoulders but... slipping too close to my neck.
The sun was a blood orange now, seeping like osmosis into a lilac sky. I pass the nursery; masses of window and chrome, thinking how Timmy would love this, knowing his adoration for the man-made. 'People need somewhere to live,' he always tells me when I question this continuing obliteration of photosynthesis, of our vital oxygen.
I walk on tiptoes to see clearer through a window, and tobacco plants- nicotiana- peer back at me. I know what it is- the man who'd lived next to the children's home I was brought up in had grown it in his expansive garden. The soil here looks a different colour- all dark and peaty, as if it's been transplanted. I think back to Timmy some weeks back, scraping black soil from the hefty boots he wears with his business suit. He's always picking something off them- be it sods of earth, concrete or cement, depositing chunks into the kitchen bin.
'Being a property developer is not all about making money,' he'd shook his head.
'You've done well enough from it.'
'Yes, but sometimes you have to spoon-feed these bloody builders.'
There are uniform stake holes in the ground, and it dawns on me that this is where the murdered woman had been found, over a month ago. The police have finished their investigation but the evidence is clearly there, in a trampled section of grass beaten bald, ripped yellow cordoning tape trodden in. I shudder, almost at a run now. I remember that they were linking this murder to a similar case that had taken place over three years ago, and that both woman had worked in property, like Timmy. He'd thrown his leonine head back when I'd told him to be careful.
'Caitlyn, I'm six foot four! I can kill a man with one hand!'
This place is too damn quiet. It's because the police have advised people against coming here. In fact, I haven't seen anyone out, although I glimpsed a body working in the greenhouse, and the sound of a saw drones from far off. I plod on, bitterness in my mouth, determined to get to the sanctuary of home.
From literally out of nowhere a man appears, jogging and gasping. Is he the murderer? Tall and as slim as a reed, he advances towards me with purpose.
'Excuse me,' this willowy human says. 'I'm lost. I'm on a fun run and need to find the boat house.'
The timbre of his vowels is so delicate that it calms me, and I can sense his panic, although my heart still clatters. 'It must be near the lake. That way, I suppose.' I point in the direction I'm going and he falls into step beside me. Any minute now he'll jump on me, I think, eyeing him as if being a perpetrator's a requirement. But he just gulps at the air, trying to align his breath. I'm on concrete now and pick my way gently over hard ground. He doesn't notice my bare feet, and we pass a drain cover and I'm surprised to hear a swooshing sound.
His perception is astonishing. 'That's the River Westbourne. It used to be visible but the evolving population forced it underground.'
'That's interesting,' I say, although it worries me that I cannot see his eyes. Why is he wearing dark sunglasses? They wrap around his head and can't allow any light to infiltrate.
Sensing my confusion, he tries to mollify me. I think it a weird thing for a stranger to do, but he continues. 'There used to be a cheesecake house where the boat house is, serving syllabub and cakes to the gentry. It didn't serve what we call cheesecake, though. In those days it was more like a custard tart.' He unclips his phone from his waistband and pushes it right close to one eye and tuts. 'I wish Google would hurry up and put their maps onto phones.'
I have no idea what he's talking about, but the greenery empties out and I can see the khaki lake glistening as the sun bears westward, and the boat house. I point, and a couple of people within a huddle appear to be waving back, shouting. The man peers myopically and they gesture more energetically.
'Can't you see them?' I frown. They're not exactly quiet.
He takes off his glasses as if to explain himself. 'Not well. I'm very visually impaired. My group is for blind people.' His eyes are a soft honeysuckle, but I can see a translucent white veil coating them and one iris clearly has a chunk missing from it, as if it's an apple and someone's taken a bite- an Apple Mac eyeball. 'See you around.' He runs to be with his people and I head for the bridge, relieved, knowing where I am now, shocked that I could think a blind person a murderer!
I pass a man who points at my mucky feet and barks, 'Lady, where are your shoes?' in heavily accented English. I point to them, hanging off my bag. Is he the murderer? But no, he leaves me alone as I cross, my shoulder nearly cracking from the weight of my portfolio. I see the exit from Hyde Park and smile. London has the opportunity to go from untamed to tamed in just that one turn.
Achy now, I don't bother replacing my shoes as I head down the street, and the newsagent's board outside the shop screams: LONDON MURDERS- MAN QUESTIONED! I whoosh through the gates of our apartment compound, old grey walls offering a masculine sense of protection.
Timmy is furious. 'Where have you been?' He advances, aghast at my messy feet. 'And why the hell are you barefoot? Sort yourself out, woman.'
'I left a message,' I say, defiant. 'My cell phone ran out of gas.'
'You look a right old state. And what are these?' He yanks the flowers out of my hair but continues, 'Some woman called, about a job. You're to call her back. She'll be there all evening.'
I don't bother hiding my conversation from Timmy (from out of nowhere thinking; what kind of grown man calls himself Timmy?) I accept the job. I can start immediately and I can move in tomorrow. I turn and try to do this gently. This setting myself free has to be done in stages, to appease him.
'We can still see each other, but... my independence... I need it...'
He pushes me against the wall oh-so-gently by the shoulders, as is his way.
'I was worried about you...' he supplies.
I laugh, breathing in day-old, expensive cologne. 'Don't worry about me being murdered. He's been caught.'
'That's if they've got the right man.' Timmy says it slowly and stares right through me, animated, and in that few seconds something horrific passes between us, and I see a glimpse of ruthlessness and pure evil darken his burnt chocolate eyes; eyes deeper than a rotten soul. His hands tighten towards my neck almost caressingly, and I close my eyes. I can bluff it. I can make out that I haven't cottoned on to this secret we now share. I know that someone with a background like mine is destined to be damaged. I know that he joined the army because he had nowhere else to go. And I know that he can kill. I open my eyes and that look is gone, and he's calmer, releasing his grip. I know he loves me and it might just save me.
'I'll tame you,' he says.
'What's wild is wild and can't be caught.' I make my way towards the bathroom, to wash the day off.
I'll move out tomorrow. That's if I haven't been murdered.
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