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Authors: Colum Sanson-Regan
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killed off.”
“Come on. How can I kill her off if it’s her story?”
Alison shrugged. She looked back at the menu. Martin leaned back again.
“I’ll just have a coffee, I’m full. You go ahead.”
“What age is Lucy?”
“Em, about your age actually, but I’ve been thinking of making her younger.”
“And what does she do? She doesn’t work in property, does she, Martin?”
“No, no, of course not. That would be far too … no, don’t worry, babe. I can be creative you know.”
“I know, I know.”
***
Chapter Eight
When Gregor comes through the door, he picks the sleeping Lucy up and carries her into the lounge, putting her on one of the sofas. He disappears and then comes back with a blanket which he puts over her. He disappears again.
Lucy hears the sounds of plates and cupboard doors, something being poured. Gregor comes through from the kitchen with a tray full of food, all in little silver trays. The smell makes Lucy’s stomach leap and she sits up. Her head feels too heavy for her body. She is suddenly aware of a great hollowness which has opened up inside her. Gregor puts the tray in front of her and passes her a plate.
“Go ahead,” he says, “it’s late, I know, but it’s really good, especially this.”
He takes a pancake roll from one of the trays and starts to eat. Lucy does the same. Inside the soft pancake is spinach and goat cheese, with the woody, fleshy meat of mushroom. The taste sends shivers to the bottom of her skull. She finishes the rolled pancake in two mouthfuls. She picks up a handful of light batter parcels and feels her teeth crunch into sharp explosions of anchovy and garlic.
Lucy starts to eat voraciously, grabbing some thinly sliced fried potato in a tomato dressing, feeling the kick of peppercorns send spikes of flavour through the roof of her mouth, up behind her eyes, and directly into the front of her brain, knocking at the inside of her forehead. She is picking up prawns in oil, tearing soft fresh bread, taking food from the foil dishes in both hands, luxuriating in the strong flavours, the salty roughness of cured pork, the juices of cherry tomatoes are dripping from her mouth down her chin.
She looks up to see Gregor sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with his rolled pancake still in his hand, watching her devour this food, but she doesn’t care. A pressure has been released. Oils and juices coat her fingers and smear across her face as she wipes her cheeks, as she cries and laughs and eats.
* * *
The next day Lucy wakes under the warm weight of a thick duvet. Her clothes are still on. Her face muscles ache, her jaw is stiff, and her head pounds as she squints around the room, at the brass lamp on the bedside table, the little girl on the wall, and the window, through which she can now see a blue sky.
There is a dressing gown on the window seat. She takes off the tracksuit leggings and boxer shorts and puts it on. She goes downstairs, following the smell of fresh coffee to the kitchen. She walks through the door then steps back again, stepping behind the frame.
Inside, Gregor is standing at the centre plinth with two other people. There is a black case on the green marble top. He has seen her back out of the doorway and gestures her in. The other two turn to face her. One is a woman, short and stubby with a massive shock of thick dark hair which is standing at impossible angles. She greets Lucy with a big smile. The other is a man, lean and angular, with a shaven head, slim glasses, orange t-shirt, braces, and a suit jacket. The woman stands as if to attention, and the man seems to be leaning against an invisible wall.
“This is Ula, and this is Franz,” he says. “Ula will take care of your hair and stuff, and Franz will fit you. Tell them what you would like, anything. I trust them. You can.”
He hands her a coffee and points to the table near the glass doors. Outside the doors the garden is green and glistening with freshly fallen
“Come on. How can I kill her off if it’s her story?”
Alison shrugged. She looked back at the menu. Martin leaned back again.
“I’ll just have a coffee, I’m full. You go ahead.”
“What age is Lucy?”
“Em, about your age actually, but I’ve been thinking of making her younger.”
“And what does she do? She doesn’t work in property, does she, Martin?”
“No, no, of course not. That would be far too … no, don’t worry, babe. I can be creative you know.”
“I know, I know.”
***
Chapter Eight
When Gregor comes through the door, he picks the sleeping Lucy up and carries her into the lounge, putting her on one of the sofas. He disappears and then comes back with a blanket which he puts over her. He disappears again.
Lucy hears the sounds of plates and cupboard doors, something being poured. Gregor comes through from the kitchen with a tray full of food, all in little silver trays. The smell makes Lucy’s stomach leap and she sits up. Her head feels too heavy for her body. She is suddenly aware of a great hollowness which has opened up inside her. Gregor puts the tray in front of her and passes her a plate.
“Go ahead,” he says, “it’s late, I know, but it’s really good, especially this.”
He takes a pancake roll from one of the trays and starts to eat. Lucy does the same. Inside the soft pancake is spinach and goat cheese, with the woody, fleshy meat of mushroom. The taste sends shivers to the bottom of her skull. She finishes the rolled pancake in two mouthfuls. She picks up a handful of light batter parcels and feels her teeth crunch into sharp explosions of anchovy and garlic.
Lucy starts to eat voraciously, grabbing some thinly sliced fried potato in a tomato dressing, feeling the kick of peppercorns send spikes of flavour through the roof of her mouth, up behind her eyes, and directly into the front of her brain, knocking at the inside of her forehead. She is picking up prawns in oil, tearing soft fresh bread, taking food from the foil dishes in both hands, luxuriating in the strong flavours, the salty roughness of cured pork, the juices of cherry tomatoes are dripping from her mouth down her chin.
She looks up to see Gregor sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with his rolled pancake still in his hand, watching her devour this food, but she doesn’t care. A pressure has been released. Oils and juices coat her fingers and smear across her face as she wipes her cheeks, as she cries and laughs and eats.
* * *
The next day Lucy wakes under the warm weight of a thick duvet. Her clothes are still on. Her face muscles ache, her jaw is stiff, and her head pounds as she squints around the room, at the brass lamp on the bedside table, the little girl on the wall, and the window, through which she can now see a blue sky.
There is a dressing gown on the window seat. She takes off the tracksuit leggings and boxer shorts and puts it on. She goes downstairs, following the smell of fresh coffee to the kitchen. She walks through the door then steps back again, stepping behind the frame.
Inside, Gregor is standing at the centre plinth with two other people. There is a black case on the green marble top. He has seen her back out of the doorway and gestures her in. The other two turn to face her. One is a woman, short and stubby with a massive shock of thick dark hair which is standing at impossible angles. She greets Lucy with a big smile. The other is a man, lean and angular, with a shaven head, slim glasses, orange t-shirt, braces, and a suit jacket. The woman stands as if to attention, and the man seems to be leaning against an invisible wall.
“This is Ula, and this is Franz,” he says. “Ula will take care of your hair and stuff, and Franz will fit you. Tell them what you would like, anything. I trust them. You can.”
He hands her a coffee and points to the table near the glass doors. Outside the doors the garden is green and glistening with freshly fallen
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