Page 48 of Pyg

I hope the dragon fucking dies.

“George,” Bernard screamed, but I felt so far away. I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell my little brother that Pyg was alright. That our mother was alright. That I’d light the stove and make hot blackcurrant. We’d turn on the little red radio.Pick of the Popswould be on, and I would laugh as Bernard made up dances to the new songs and Pyg would bark and swish her tail. And everything would be alright. Because I didn’t know what to do if it wasn’t.

And then I stumbled, spluttering, falling. I dropped to my knees. Bernard was crying, and I wanted to hold him, stroke his hair and smooth down the stubborn tufts at his crown, because that’s what Mum would do. I wanted to rub those black smudges off his face.

But I couldn’t feel my arms. And then, there was black. I sunk into the darkness, swallowed by its depths.

9

NOT MY CIRCUS

Alice twisted the wand to open the vertical blinds and natural light flooded the office. She reached up and opened the sash window — not too far because of the piss-taking pigeons, but enough to let in some air. The blinds flapped and rattled against the windowsill in the light breeze, damp and fragrant from the morning dew burning off in the bright sunlight.

Alice drew in a deep breath and smiled,because the fragrant morning dew wouldn’t have even crossed her mind until recently.

So much had shifted since she’d last been in this room.How was that only three days ago?Surely, the seismic change she’d experienced needed longer than days? But perhaps it had all started before she’d even realised.

Alice stowed her handbag under her desk and flicked on the computer. As the machine whirred to life, she went to the kitchenette with the supplies she’d picked up on her way in. The tube light buzzed as Alice popped the biscuits in the cupboard and the milk in the fridge — semi-skimmed for Jeremy, oat for Truscote. She tipped last week’s milk away, rinsed the containers and left them to drain in the sink.

Alice checked her watch and frowned. Another thing to add to the growing list of ‘Stuff to Replace’ — she didn’t want to be reminded of Fran every time she looked at her wrist.

8:23 a.m. Jeremy always arrives at precisely 8:30 a.m.She’d boil the kettle and get a cafetière ready. She’d leave the phone lines off until they’d had their meeting.Shit, the meeting!

Alice rushed around her desk, leaned over the keyboard, and entered her login credentials. She clicked straight into Jeremy’s calendar, which was thankfully empty until his first appointment at 9:30 a.m.

Alice checked Truscote’s diary too; she really should speak to each of them face-to-face, seeing as she worked for them both. For some reason she was dreading the Truscote conversation more, even though it wasn’t Truscote’s wife she’d been sleeping with.

Bollocks.Truscote was at The Milverton all morning.

Oh well.She’d have to arrange something with her separately. Perhaps by then the wounds would’ve had a little more time to heal and Truscote wouldn’t be able to pick her apart and scrutinise her real motivations for leaving. Also, in her current state, Alice would likely still react if Truscote were to round on Fran.

Fran was Alice’s mistake, and it really was none of Truscote’s business.

This was Alice taking responsibility. Claiming her power back and moving on with her life. God, Maggie had really got in her head. But she’d also chatted it through with Ash over coffee yesterday. It helped that Ash agreed Alice resigning was for the best. The triangulation of opinion bolstered her, convincing her it was the right decision, even though she didn’t have another job to go to and a mountain of debt looming large.

“You can text me if you wobble.” Ash had pulled a pen out of her pocket and scribbled her phone number on a muffin café napkin. “But you’re stronger than you think. You’ve got this.”

Alice had picked up a SIM card on her way home and Ash’s had been the second number she programmed into the phone, right after Maggie’s.

Everyone else, she’d have to message on Facebook with her new contact details; if only she could remember her password to log in.

Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, Alice watered the office plants. Hopefully, her successor would keep them alive too — they were her plant-babies. And, yes, they may well have come off the back of Fran telling Jeremy he needed to allocate some budget to ‘brighten up the dreary place,’ but it was Alice who’d picked them out and nurtured them, even if she couldn’t actually identify most of them. Now that she could trust herself to keep them alive, she would buy some plants for her flat. First, she needed to get a new job. And write a list to remind herself of the order of things.

One foot in front of the other; less chance of tripping over.

Alice returned to the kitchenette and rinsed out the cafetière whilst humming that Annie Lennox song about walking on broken glass which had been stuck in her head for days now. But it felt happy and hopeful, so she didn’t mind it spinning on repeat. Despite her trepidation about handing in her notice, the levity of her mood could only be a good thing.

“Morning, Alice.” Jeremy’s low voice rumbled through from Reception.

Alice popped her head around the doorway. “Morning.”

“Can I talk to you in my office, please?”

“Sure, I need to speak to you, too. I’m just making coffee. I’ll be there in two.”

Briefcase in hand, Jeremy glanced down at his polished brogues and frowned. “Don’t worry about the coffee.”

“Are you sure? It’s almost ready.”

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