Read Online One Step Too Far by Tina Seskis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tina Seskis
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and held her tenderly, for the very first time, 15 years too late to save either of them.
9
I wake up in my new room and it smells of paint. My sleep has been full of emulsioned visual canvases, splattered and raw, Pollock-like, and I can’t seem to get rid of them unless I open my eyes. My bed is comfortable enough although I’m not used to a single, and it feels strange not to lie with my back to my husband, apart from him, not touching yet knowing he was there, our marital bed having felt like the loneliest place in the world by the end. I try not to think about him or our son, instead I focus hard on my new surroundings and notice that the bedding is still stiffly new and feels almost good. The sun is leaking through the sheer white curtains and when I check my new phone it's still only six o’clock – they may look great but they’re useless at keeping the room dark. I wonder dully what I can do today. I’ve had such clear deadlines for the two days since I left – find somewhere to live, make my new room habitable – that today stretches in front of me, expansive, boyless, empty. I know I need to get a job soon, open a bank account, but somehow it all feels too much. My body tells me I’m tired, that I need time to recover from the upheaval and stress, from this latest trauma. I’m a survivor at heart, I guess. It’s too early to get up but I’m wide awake, so I scrabble under my bed and find Monday’s paper, the one I bought at Crewe. I prop up my new pillows against the white bumpy wall and open the pages. I read about a disease affecting yellow finches, making their throats swell so they can’t eat: half a million of them starved to death last year, it says. I try not to think about this, try not to picture them, but still my eyes fill and so I move on to the next story. A man has raped and killed his twelve year old niece, she only went round to watch the football and her aunt happened to be out, surely she’d be alive otherwise. I turn the page. A merchant banker has been convicted of murdering his wife’s lover, whilst they were all camping together in Brittany. A woman in a shop has been beaten by robbers with batons, it’s been caught on CCTV – it’s probably already available to watch on YouTube.
I stop reading. The news is making me feel depressed again, adrift. I try to go back to sleep but my mind is too active, wired, thoughts of my golden boy keep drifting in, uninvited, and I’m worried that any progress I've made in the last two days will be dissipated here, in this blank white room. I didn’t bring a single one of my books from Chorlton and the novel I bought at Crewe is trashy, what was I thinking. I can’t face the bathroom again, I’d rather not even bother this morning, although I’m sweaty from the night. I’ll make sure I buy some flip-flops today to use in the shower, and maybe a wash bag that hangs on a peg and folds open, so I don’t have to put it down on any of the surfaces – that will help make the bathroom bearable, give me something to do. I’m restless still so I try the paper's review section this time. My mind won’t concentrate on any of the articles, and as I go to put it down I notice the Sudoku on the back, next to the crossword. I’ve never done Sudoku before, it always seemed such a total waste of time, yet that’s exactly what I want to do now, waste time, help make the gaping minutes go by. The level is moderate, it says, but although I try and try I can’t fill in a single number. It’s something to do with patterns, I remember my sister telling me (forget about her), and I keep staring until the random numbers swim, and then finally I’ve got it and I fill in my first number and I’m off. I’m good at maths but this has nothing to do with maths really. It's strangely compulsive and I keep going and it takes me ages and I’m on a roll now and then in the very final box I find I have two 6’s but no 3. I must have made a mistake,
9
I wake up in my new room and it smells of paint. My sleep has been full of emulsioned visual canvases, splattered and raw, Pollock-like, and I can’t seem to get rid of them unless I open my eyes. My bed is comfortable enough although I’m not used to a single, and it feels strange not to lie with my back to my husband, apart from him, not touching yet knowing he was there, our marital bed having felt like the loneliest place in the world by the end. I try not to think about him or our son, instead I focus hard on my new surroundings and notice that the bedding is still stiffly new and feels almost good. The sun is leaking through the sheer white curtains and when I check my new phone it's still only six o’clock – they may look great but they’re useless at keeping the room dark. I wonder dully what I can do today. I’ve had such clear deadlines for the two days since I left – find somewhere to live, make my new room habitable – that today stretches in front of me, expansive, boyless, empty. I know I need to get a job soon, open a bank account, but somehow it all feels too much. My body tells me I’m tired, that I need time to recover from the upheaval and stress, from this latest trauma. I’m a survivor at heart, I guess. It’s too early to get up but I’m wide awake, so I scrabble under my bed and find Monday’s paper, the one I bought at Crewe. I prop up my new pillows against the white bumpy wall and open the pages. I read about a disease affecting yellow finches, making their throats swell so they can’t eat: half a million of them starved to death last year, it says. I try not to think about this, try not to picture them, but still my eyes fill and so I move on to the next story. A man has raped and killed his twelve year old niece, she only went round to watch the football and her aunt happened to be out, surely she’d be alive otherwise. I turn the page. A merchant banker has been convicted of murdering his wife’s lover, whilst they were all camping together in Brittany. A woman in a shop has been beaten by robbers with batons, it’s been caught on CCTV – it’s probably already available to watch on YouTube.
I stop reading. The news is making me feel depressed again, adrift. I try to go back to sleep but my mind is too active, wired, thoughts of my golden boy keep drifting in, uninvited, and I’m worried that any progress I've made in the last two days will be dissipated here, in this blank white room. I didn’t bring a single one of my books from Chorlton and the novel I bought at Crewe is trashy, what was I thinking. I can’t face the bathroom again, I’d rather not even bother this morning, although I’m sweaty from the night. I’ll make sure I buy some flip-flops today to use in the shower, and maybe a wash bag that hangs on a peg and folds open, so I don’t have to put it down on any of the surfaces – that will help make the bathroom bearable, give me something to do. I’m restless still so I try the paper's review section this time. My mind won’t concentrate on any of the articles, and as I go to put it down I notice the Sudoku on the back, next to the crossword. I’ve never done Sudoku before, it always seemed such a total waste of time, yet that’s exactly what I want to do now, waste time, help make the gaping minutes go by. The level is moderate, it says, but although I try and try I can’t fill in a single number. It’s something to do with patterns, I remember my sister telling me (forget about her), and I keep staring until the random numbers swim, and then finally I’ve got it and I fill in my first number and I’m off. I’m good at maths but this has nothing to do with maths really. It's strangely compulsive and I keep going and it takes me ages and I’m on a roll now and then in the very final box I find I have two 6’s but no 3. I must have made a mistake,
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