and smiling. Benny’s on his knees at the back of the car. He’s scrubbing a hubcap with a dirty sponge. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but I can hear Angelica
laughing and I can see her shifting her weight from one leg to the other. I can trace the outline of her hips. This morning, when she collected her newspapers, she wore the same fluffy-cuffed coat
as last week and a pair of jeans. I look at her now, hours later. She’s taken her coat off and applied pink nail varnish. There’s a gap between her jeans and t-shirt and I can see her
skin. Benny dips his sponge into a bucket of water. He’s naked from the waist up, like he is when he’s painting. Angelica’s arms are folded. They keep her stomach warm and her
breasts together. If it weren’t for the frost on the lawn behind them, you’d never believe it was winter. I can’t imagine how cold they are.
There’s a dull thud behind me. It takes me by surprise. Georgina has fallen onto her front. She’s also fallen on top of the towel and pushed the blanket onto the floor. She’s
face down on the bed, completely naked and still asleep. It takes me nearly ten minutes to get the towel from underneath her, turn her onto her back and put her night dress on. I have to sit on the
chair to catch my breath. I hold her hand and imagine her squeezing mine. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she would’ve said.
I go back to the window. Benny is pointing at the car and forcing his chest out. They stand too close when they talk. Angelica puts her hand into her jeans pocket, pulls out a banknote and gives
it to Benny. Then they stop talking, look up at my window and stare at me, just for a few seconds. I stay exactly where I am. I’m not worried. There’s no way they can know that
I’m here. I’ve been watching far too long.
Heresy
John Bonsall’s skip has disappeared. It’s been replaced with a new one that has the letters ‘NF’ spray painted down the side. It’s already half
full. I’m behind the curtain with my breakfast. Kipling’s on my lap and I’m resting my plate on his back. He’s very sick. Too ill to go anywhere. It’s Monday morning
and the street is empty. Yesterday, I didn’t go to church. A hot air balloon is rising in the distance behind the houses. Red with black polka dots, like a giant ladybird. I watch it climb
into the clouds. It must have taken off from Blackheart Wood. Or where Blackheart Wood used to be, before they mined it in the 70s. It took twelve years to get the coal out. Now the trees have been
replanted and the council use it for carnivals and car rallies. The cricket club play their home games in a clearing in the middle.
A car drives into the street and swerves round the tree in the road. It gets so far, does a three-point turn and drives back again. This happens a lot. Cressington Vale is one street down from a
main road. The car slows as it goes back past the tree and the driver flicks a V-sign. I finish my toast and put the plate on the floor. Kipling is making my legs ache, so I pick him up and drop
him next to the plate. He sleeps throughout. Another balloon appears in the sky. This one’s shaped like a hammer. It looks like it’s chasing the ladybird. I reach for my pen and
notepad, start to make a list.
Nine balloons take off in forty-five minutes. I’ve been watching the street as I’ve counted them. I’ve written down shapes and sizes. Still, nothing is happening. I decide to
go downstairs and make a cup of tea. As I stand up, another car drives into the street. No, it’s the same car. Big, black and expensive. The driver uses just one finger this time as he drives
past the tree. And there’s someone in the passenger seat who wasn’t there before. The car stops opposite my house. Outside Angelica’s. I reach for my file labelled
‘Suspicious behaviour’, but before I can take it from the shelf I hear the kitchen door opening downstairs. Someone’s in the house. Someone is downstairs and
laughing and I can see her shifting her weight from one leg to the other. I can trace the outline of her hips. This morning, when she collected her newspapers, she wore the same fluffy-cuffed coat
as last week and a pair of jeans. I look at her now, hours later. She’s taken her coat off and applied pink nail varnish. There’s a gap between her jeans and t-shirt and I can see her
skin. Benny dips his sponge into a bucket of water. He’s naked from the waist up, like he is when he’s painting. Angelica’s arms are folded. They keep her stomach warm and her
breasts together. If it weren’t for the frost on the lawn behind them, you’d never believe it was winter. I can’t imagine how cold they are.
There’s a dull thud behind me. It takes me by surprise. Georgina has fallen onto her front. She’s also fallen on top of the towel and pushed the blanket onto the floor. She’s
face down on the bed, completely naked and still asleep. It takes me nearly ten minutes to get the towel from underneath her, turn her onto her back and put her night dress on. I have to sit on the
chair to catch my breath. I hold her hand and imagine her squeezing mine. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she would’ve said.
I go back to the window. Benny is pointing at the car and forcing his chest out. They stand too close when they talk. Angelica puts her hand into her jeans pocket, pulls out a banknote and gives
it to Benny. Then they stop talking, look up at my window and stare at me, just for a few seconds. I stay exactly where I am. I’m not worried. There’s no way they can know that
I’m here. I’ve been watching far too long.
Heresy
John Bonsall’s skip has disappeared. It’s been replaced with a new one that has the letters ‘NF’ spray painted down the side. It’s already half
full. I’m behind the curtain with my breakfast. Kipling’s on my lap and I’m resting my plate on his back. He’s very sick. Too ill to go anywhere. It’s Monday morning
and the street is empty. Yesterday, I didn’t go to church. A hot air balloon is rising in the distance behind the houses. Red with black polka dots, like a giant ladybird. I watch it climb
into the clouds. It must have taken off from Blackheart Wood. Or where Blackheart Wood used to be, before they mined it in the 70s. It took twelve years to get the coal out. Now the trees have been
replanted and the council use it for carnivals and car rallies. The cricket club play their home games in a clearing in the middle.
A car drives into the street and swerves round the tree in the road. It gets so far, does a three-point turn and drives back again. This happens a lot. Cressington Vale is one street down from a
main road. The car slows as it goes back past the tree and the driver flicks a V-sign. I finish my toast and put the plate on the floor. Kipling is making my legs ache, so I pick him up and drop
him next to the plate. He sleeps throughout. Another balloon appears in the sky. This one’s shaped like a hammer. It looks like it’s chasing the ladybird. I reach for my pen and
notepad, start to make a list.
Nine balloons take off in forty-five minutes. I’ve been watching the street as I’ve counted them. I’ve written down shapes and sizes. Still, nothing is happening. I decide to
go downstairs and make a cup of tea. As I stand up, another car drives into the street. No, it’s the same car. Big, black and expensive. The driver uses just one finger this time as he drives
past the tree. And there’s someone in the passenger seat who wasn’t there before. The car stops opposite my house. Outside Angelica’s. I reach for my file labelled
‘Suspicious behaviour’, but before I can take it from the shelf I hear the kitchen door opening downstairs. Someone’s in the house. Someone is downstairs and
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