Breathwork

She’s in the hall, the sprung wooden floor beneath her feet. Ahead, rows of girls; some in socks, some in their slippers, some barefoot. The floor moves, gently rising and pressing beneath the weight of them, as the teacher leads them through the motions: 

shine/yes/shining/up/step/step/push/windmill/
fall/brush/brush/brush/step/roll/and burst

Again, the teacher says. 

They follow along the words punctuating the flow, reminding limbs where to go, feet where to step. 

shoulder roll/breathe/and frame/thread the needle/frame/hand to chest/
step/hands/step together/one/sway/right/step/and left/
lift up/chin/head drops/sway/clasp/chin/sway

Clarissa is near the back. She is always near the back. There are politics to the placement of bodies in the rehearsal room and Clarissa has never been more than two rows from the back.

The teacher barks and immediately they realign. They know this bit.

froggylegs/step/step/lean/turn/step/drop/two/three/
reverse/breath/breathing/in/step/and down

Moving through it, Clarissa considers the bodies ahead of her. Those in the rows at the front. How they can fold themselves up and stretch out like plasticine. 

Those girls don’t have what you have, her mother says. They’re dull. You’re earthy. Unconventional. In my industry, she says, it does you good to stand out. They don’t have your passion. 

Clarissa thinks a lot about passion. About this secret ingredient her mother has told her she has. If she has passion, the girls in front of her have something else entirely. Perhaps an ingredient her mother has forgotten. Whatever it is, this unnameable thing, it is not invisible. When thirty girls go up on stage performing identical moves, each with their own precision and delicacy, your eye will still be drawn to one, maybe two of them. These girls, and whatever they have, will take the gestures and translate them into something beautiful, while everyone around them is stuck performing something pretty. Clarissa thinks maybe it is really these girls who have passion, and her mother is hoping by saying it enough, Clarissa will become one of them. 

What Clarissa does have is a nervous disposition and an unquenchable desire to appease her mother. She never asked to be a dancer, but it is something her mother feels is essential, even when they are running out of money, and she shuts the bedroom door to have screaming phone calls with people. 

I can stop the classes, Clarissa suggested before. 

Don’t be stupid, her mother said. I’d rather go grey and starve than have you give them up. 

So if her mother wants her to have passion, she’ll keep looking for it. 

So far it has gotten her two rows from the back and destined to play the part of any animals or foliage in the recitals, though she is hoping to be upgraded to a human role this term. 

*

After rehearsal, in the changing rooms, the girls are undressing and discussing the new show. They will be performing a dance interpretation of Christina Rosetti’s Goblin Market. The girls have been divided into maidens and goblins and the two lead roles of Laura and Lizzie. Clarissa, is of course, a goblin, but right now she is grateful that she is, if not human, at least humanoid. She can imagine a version where she was cast as a peach or a crab-apple. Two front-row girls have been cast as Lizzie and Laura. 

I can’t believe it, the Laura says. I really can’t believe it. 

Everyone else can. She has previously played Rapunzel in Rapunzel and The Little Red Hen in The Little Red Hen. Titular characters are well and truly in her repertoire. 

You’ve worked really hard, the Lizzie says. Really. You deserve it. 

Yeah, a second-row girl says. And Miss was really impressed with your breathwork. And your flow. 

Yeah, your flow is amazing, the Lizzie says. You had to be Laura. 

I’m just happy to be a maiden, another girl says. I hope we have costumes like the children in The Pied Piper. With all the ribbons. 

What about the Goblins? someone asks. What’ll they wear? 

Masks, the Lizzie says. They’ll have to be in masks. None of the parents will want to know who’s who with the Goblins. 

Why? a girl asks. What do you mean? 

The Lizzie shrugs. Well, they’re the rapists, aren’t they? 

The maidens and goblins wait for her to go on. The Lizzie has four older sisters and has accepted her role as deliverer of unfortunate truths. She had to explain abortion to the girls before the last show.

How are they rapists? the Laura asks. Everyone else exhales in appreciation. 

Oh, come on, the Lizzie says. They want to steal the fruit? Sweet juicy fruit? It is not good for maidens to loiter in the glen?

Everyone is still looking up at the Lizzie.

The fruit is our virginity, she says. Obviously. 

Oh, a maiden says. 

I thought it was just about Goblins, the Laura says. 

Well, it’s layered, every good piece has subtext. 

Right, another girl says. Of course. 

I get it, someone else says. 

Clarissa is feeling less content with her role as a Goblin now, and she looks around at the other unlucky girls. She tries to figure out what has distinguished her and the others from the maidens. It seems to her a pretty clear divide between those who have and have not started shaving their legs. Clarissa has been wondering how to solve the issue of the hairs poking out through her tights for some weeks now, but every time she attempts to bring it up with her mother, Clarissa clams up and has to rush to the bathroom and splash her face with cold water. 

As the girls are leaving the changing room, their dance teacher calls Clarissa aside. 

I’ve just had a call from your mother, she says. Something about work. And that your father will collect you, just to wait in the foyer. 

Clarissa blinks. Are you sure? she says. 

Of course, the teacher says. Come on, I’ll bring you up. But I can only wait a short while. Get your things. 

Clarissa already has her things. She is holding her drawstring bag containing her leotard, tights, her socks, dance shoes, a notebook, a pencil and an old apple that’s started to wrinkle from sitting at the bottom of the bag for over a week. If she had known today was going to be the day, she might have packed differently. She grips the strings of her bag but feels completely empty handed.

*

The things Clarissa knows about her father are as follows: he is a salesman, or he was a salesman; he was a lawyer, or else, he could have been a lawyer; he speaks Russian; he occasionally sends brown envelopes with money to her mother, with notes Clarissa has fished out of the bin which alternately contain the phrases I’m sorry and You bitch; and his name is Terry. 

She knows she looks like him too, because once, with her ear pressed to the wood of her mother’s bedroom door, she heard her mother crying: If you could just see her, Terry, please. How she’s grown. She’s your portrait. She’s like a portrait of you. 

*

In the foyer, the teacher sits beside Clarissa with her coat on, checking her watch. 

It’s okay, Miss, she says. I’m sure he’ll be here soon. 

Yes, I suppose he’s on his way. 

I’m sure he is, Clarissa says. 

It’s only that I have another appointment. 

It’s fine, Miss, Clarissa shrugs. I’m fine. 

Right, well I’ll get the receptionist to make you some tea, and she has a phone behind the desk if you need it. You know the numbers, do you? For your parents? 

I have the home phone and my brother’s number written down, Clarissa assures her. 

She takes a sip of tea the receptionist brings over and scalds her mouth. The tea tastes of nothing so she stirs in three sachets of sugar. 

She notices him before he notices her. His face disturbs her, in its resemblance to her own. But his is hardened, almost waxy and his hair sticks out in tufts from under a flatcap, like a scarecrow. Looking at him she thinks: Of course I am a Goblin; I am destined to always be a Goblin if this is my blood. There is something goofy about him too, like he could be a toy with a string at the back which when pulled would force him to tell jokes or pull out a tin drum to beat repeatedly. 

Well, he says, finally spotting her. 

He puts his hand out in front of him, his fingers shrivelled and thick like parsnips. You’re Chrissie’s girl, are you?

She takes his hand and says, That’d be me. 

That would make me your old dad, I suppose, he says. 

That’s what I’ve been told. 

You’re a right little Nina Ballerina then, are you? 

My name’s Clarissa, she says. 

Isn’t that something, he says.

And though she knows under normal circumstances to not follow a man she doesn’t know to his car, he says, I got an earful from your mother this morning, so I said I’d better help her out. And the casualness, the ease with which he mentions her mother and the strange familiarity of his face means she does follow him, and she finds herself nodding when he says, You’re gonna help me on a few little errands this afternoon, how about that? She looks back at the desk as she leaves, but the receptionist is holding the telephone between her ear and her shoulder repeating the words, I know, baby, I know, so she doesn’t see Clarissa’s little wave. 

He opens the passenger door, and she gets in. A patch of the seat is slightly sticky and above the dashboard she can see the torsos of people passing by and some chimney stacks in the distance. One chimney has hearts cut into the top of it, and she wonders has anyone else noticed this before. The car smells like cigarettes and there’s some other oily stench she can’t name. Traffic is heavy around the city, so they move slowly away from the dance school. Occasionally her father looks over to study her and looks back at the road shaking his head and smiling. 

I suppose you have a lot of questions, Miss Clarissa, he says. 

She shrugs. I do and I don’t. 

Well whatever you want to ask, I’m here now. Let the interrogation begin. 

She looks out the window at the people on the street. A woman dressed head to toe in green, a man walking a poodle, and a girl, about Clarissa’s age, wearing a red coat, one Clarissa has admired before in the expensive shops near her dance school. 

Honestly, her father says. Shoot. We’ve got time. And he beeps the horn, she supposes to show her that this car isn’t going anywhere quickly. 

Were you in love with my mother? she asks. 

And he laughs, his face crinkles up and she sees his teeth properly for the first time, all square and yellowing, fighting for space in his mouth. 

I’ve got a thing for alley cats, he says. I might have known your mother didn’t want to be brought home with a collar on, someone serving her milk on a saucer. Some people can’t be, you know, domesticated. 

Clarissa considers this, and she can think of no one who would like more to drink metaphorical milk from a metaphorical saucer than her mother. Her whole life, Clarissa thinks, has been a hunt for the pourer of this mysterious milk. 

And you, she says. Are you domesticated? 

He laughs again. 

You take one look at me, little dancer, what do you think?

Are you homeless? Clarissa says.

He looks at her then, not smiling. 

I suppose I have to watch myself around you too. 

The cars ahead are moving more steadily now, and they push through across to the other side of the city. 

Now, he says. First on the list. Won’t be long. Just over here. 

He takes a sharp right and pulls up outside a row of houses. 

You stay put, I just need to pick up some bits and pieces. 

He heads into a house with wooden boards over the windows, and she pulls open the glove compartment to inspect its contents. She finds a bottle of cologne that smells metallic and peppery, she finds scrunched-up empty wrappers of KitKats and a notebook in which are scrawled addresses, phone numbers, and bad drawings of stick men. 

When she hears her father returning, she shoves everything back into its place. He looks breathless and pink-cheeked and is holding a big cardboard box. 

Open up, princess, he says from outside, so she gets out and opens the backseat door. He places the box on the seat and covers it with a mouldy blanket. 

A good magician never reveals his tricks, he says, and winks at her as they get back into the car. They drive on again, back the way they came a bit and then down some streets Clarissa doesn’t recognise. 

You don’t have to be shy, he says, after a while. Really. But she doesn’t respond. It’s turning into evening and everything around them is grey. 

I’m sure there’s a lot you want to ask, he says. I’m an open book, I’ll answer anything. Except what’s in the box. He laughs then, teeth exposed again, spit flying out like little sparks. 

No, I’m joking, he says. But really, any questions. You ask, I answer. 

She just shrugs. She feels there is nothing good to learn from this man. 

I know what I need to know, she says. 

Oooh, he says, making his voice high and pouting his lips. I reckon there’s a lot you don’t know, little miss. But some people want to remain ignorant. I know a lot of these people. 

She folds her arms and turns to look out the window again. 

Nah, he says. You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? Any kid of mine is gonna have brains coming out of their nostrils. You’re only giving me a hard time. 

I wasn’t trying to, she says. 

No, I get it, he says. Don’t take any shit. That’s right. 

Okay, she says. 

Okay, he says. What about you then? What sort of person are you? 

I don’t know, she says. 

A chancer and a dancer, is that right? 

Something like that, she says. 

You any good? 

I don’t know, she says. 

Well, you got any shows? 

Yeah, she says. It’s about rape. 

He nearly doesn’t see a red light and puts his foot rough to the brake. 

Jesus, what are you, like, eight?

It’s just the subtext, she says. 

Subtext, he says. Okay. 

I’m eleven, also. 

Huh, he says. 

And I’m one of the goblins, she continues. The goblins aren’t the ones that get raped. 

What kind of dance school is this? 

Contemporary, she says. 

The traffic moves forward again and some of the streetlights come on around them. 

So your mother’s finally booked for something, he says. 

I suppose so, Clarissa replies. Out the window she can see the warm lights on in other people’s homes, the glow of their tellies lighting up living rooms. 

It’s a big one, he says. She said it’s a big one. Huge, she told me. 

Oh right, Clarissa says. 

But it’s always huge with her, isn’t it? 

Maybe it is this time. 

Now, he says. One more stop. And then how about some ice cream? 

Sure, she says. 

They pull up outside a pub and he flattens his eyebrows in the wing mirror with his index finger. 

Won’t be long, he says. 

I need to use the toilet. 

Can’t you hold it? he asks. 

I haven’t gone in ages, she says.

He sighs. Right, okay, up you get. 

He pushes open the door of the pub, and the sound of chatter and smell of smoke pours out. 

You! a woman shouts from across the bar. I told you not to come back here!

Tanya, Tanya, Tanya, he says. If I could stay away, I would.

Enough, she says, and comes over to let him kiss her on the cheek. Jesus, Terry, what are you doing with this one? 

He puts a heavy parsnip hand on Clarissa’s shoulder and says, I told you. Before. Didn’t I? This is Chrissie’s little girl. 

Tanya flips the tea towel she was using to dry her hands over her shoulder and stares at Clarissa. Clarissa can feel that Tanya should be saying something, but she isn’t, so she puts her own hand out and says, Nice to meet you. 

Tanya gives Clarissa a warm, damp hand to shake, walks back behind the bar and says, Well, she didn’t get her manners from you. 

Clarissa goes to use the bathroom and when she comes back Tanya says, He’s just in the back room so you just take a seat somewhere. 

Clarissa walks to a table near the fire and warms her legs. She sits for a while, then gets up to look at all the old photos of men on the walls. She sits then for another while and counts all the knots in the wood of the pine ceiling, starting again each time she loses count. 

Tanya comes over with a packet of crisps and a glass of lemonade. 

Remind me what’s your name love, she says. 

Clarissa, Clarissa replies and takes a sip of her lemonade. 

And he’s your dad, then? she asks. 

That’s what it seems, Clarissa says. 

That man, Tanya says. 

Clarissa opens the packet of crisps and starts to eat them one by one, sucking the flavour off first and letting them soften between her tongue and the roof of her mouth so that when she crunches them it’s not as loud. 

And is your mum still modelling? Tanya asks. 

She wants to do films now, Clarissa says. 

She was always beautiful. I remember her. 

Yeah, she is, Clarissa says. 

I’ll go check on Terry, Tanya says, and goes through the door to the back of the bar. 

He doesn’t come out right away but when he does Tanya follows with a stack of empty glasses. 

How’s it going, little miss? he asks, standing beside her. 

Okay, she says. 

You got something to eat? He points to the empty crisp packet. 

Clarissa nods. 

Terry sits down on a stool opposite her and crosses his arms on the table. 

Do you have any friends, kid? he asks. 

Some, she says. 

Like good friends?

Yeah, I have a few. 

You reckon you could stay with one of them tonight? I don’t know where your mother is. And I don’t want to drag you into it, but, well, she made threats. And it’s not that I’m not having a good time hanging out. But you know, well, there was a lot of pressure. And normally, I’d be doing other things. Work and things. 

Okay, Clarissa says. 

So if there were any friends you could call. Tonight just isn’t good, you know? And your mother, well, I don’t even want to get into it. 

Yeah, okay, she says. 

And he slaps the table. Great, he says. That’s actually great. I’m not trying to jump ship or anything. But that’s great. So you’re sure? 

I have friends, she says.

Well, great, he says. 

Can I use a phone? she asks. 

Tanya, he calls across the bar. The lady needs to make a call. 

Clarissa stands up and wipes her fingers on the edge of her jumper. 

She pulls out her notebook from her bag and flips to the last page. First, she calls her home phone, in case her mother has returned. It rings out and she imagines the sound of it, there in their empty corridor. Then she dials her brother’s number. It rings. And rings. Then a man answers. 

Hello? 

Is Billy there? Tell him it’s Clarissa. 

She can hear the muffled call of her brother’s name. Then his voice. 

What’s wrong? he says. 

Hi, she says. It’s me. 

Are you all right? Did something happen?

I was just wondering if it would be possible to maybe come and stay with you. Tonight?

What? he says. Did Mum make you call? 

Technically, Billy and Clarissa have the same mother. She has seen pictures of him and her together from when he was young. Billy on her knees, in her arms, her mother smiling as she pushes him on a swing. Content, happy to be there. This is not a woman Clarissa knows. 

No, she didn’t, Clarissa says. 

I told her I have classes, he says. I have work to do. 

I won’t be in the way, she says. 

I have things to do, he says. 

She lowers her voice: I’m with my dad.

Jesus, Billy says. 

Yeah. 

What’s he like? he asks. 

The usual type, Clarissa says, looking across at Terry, a pint of cider now in front of him. 

Where are you? Billy asks. 

A pub. 

But you’re okay? You’re not hurt?

I suppose. 

You’ll be fine, he says. Mum will be back tomorrow. 

Okay, she says. 

She can feel it but she doesn’t have the word for it: what keeps him from coming to get her, or reassuring her, or saying anything about love. She feels if she poked the air, the silence between them, it’d be solid. And then he hangs up. 

*

Her father is halfway through the pint and a story which he doesn’t pause as Clarissa returns. 

Well? he says. Any takers? Laughter around him.

 It’s late notice, she says. Everyone’s busy. 

Whatever happened to a bit of spontaneity? Everyone wants a plan now, a big elaborate plan. 

She shrugs. 

Not to worry, he says. Pull up a pew. 

Clarissa takes a stool from a nearby table and sits opposite her father. 

You want anything? he asks.

Can I have some more crisps? she asks Tanya, who looks at Terry, who reaches into his pocket and pulls out some coins. Tanya tosses Clarissa a packet of salt and vinegar. 

A woman at the table pulls her stool closer to Clarissa and says, I’m Nell. 

Clarissa, Clarissa says. 

What are you drinking? Nell asks. 

I was drinking lemonade, Clarissa says. But I’m done now. 

Have a sup of this, she says, pushing her glass over. 

Watch it, Terry says to her.

Nell says to Terry, Like you’re a saint. 

Clarissa takes a sip. It’s sweet and sharp, like 7 Up with metal in it. 

Like it? Nell says. 

I think so, Clarissa says. 

Nell tips half into Clarissa’s glass. 

I said watch it, Terry says to Nell. 

The girl has an empty glass in front of her, Terry, I’m being generous. 

I like it, Clarissa says. Can I have one? 

I think I need another myself, he says, and takes his empty glass to the bar.

Clarissa can feel Nell looking at her and she tries to think of something to say. She thinks Nell is probably doing the same.

Do you have any boyfriends? Nell asks. 

Clarissa shakes her head. 

Don’t worry, she says. Some people grow into their looks. I did. 

Do you have a boyfriend? Clarissa asks. 

Another woman at the table laughs, She wishes she had a boyfriend! 

Stop it, Carol, Nell says. Don’t listen to her. But they both look over to Terry at the bar. 

You like… him? Clarissa asks. 

They both laugh. 

It’s not really like that, Nell says. 

So you don’t like him? Clarissa says. 

I wouldn’t say that, Nell says. Terry’s an old friend. It’s just—

Sex complicates things, Carol says, nodding emphatically. 

Oh, Clarissa says. 

Carol leans forwards, and Clarissa can smell alcohol, sour on her breath. 

Let me tell you something about men, she says. It’s like this: women are expected to have a big fortress up, gates and pillars, a moat. And men will be begging and begging to be let in, so you lower the drawbridge, they come in for a party and everyone has a good time. And then they’ll say you’re trying to keep them prisoner. 

Exactly, Nell says. 

They don’t want to be domesticated, Clarissa offers. 

You’re a funny one, they say. And they top up Clarissa’s glass. 

What are you ladies talking about? Terry says, returning to the table. Not corrupting my little one just yet, I hope. 

He places a lemonade down in front of Clarissa and winks at her. 

She’s a firecracker, Terry, Carol says. 

Is that right, he says, and smiles across at his daughter. 

The room grows hazy from everyone lighting cigarettes and it seems to Clarissa like Tanya has turned the music up. 

Around her people are talking, but not really listening to one another. Clarissa can’t concentrate on anything people are saying but she watches and sips her drink. Terry is talking to a man beside him about another man; Carol looks like she might fall asleep, eyes starting to droop, she’s nodding in response to no one; Nell is talking about some trip she took where all her bags got lost. 

It really freed me, she says. I’m so grateful for that. 

She lights up a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke. It catches in Clarissa’s throat, making her cough. 

Oh God, Nell says. You never had a cigarette before? 

I don’t smoke, she says. It’s bad for dancers. For their lungs. 

Are you a dancer? Nell asks. 

Sometimes, Clarissa says. 

That’s amazing, Nell says. To have a talent like that. I could never dance. Too clumsy. 

It’s so beautiful, Carol says. Moving, just beautiful, just wow. 

I think so too, Clarissa says. 

Show us, Nell says. Show us something. 

Oh, Clarissa says. No, I’m not very good. 

Come on, Nell says. 

I’m still learning, Clarissa says. And I’m tired.

Come on, up you get. Nell stands and pulls Clarissa up by the wrists. Have some fun with me. She starts clapping. Clarissa is going to show us her dance!

We’re getting a show, says the man beside Terry. Terry looks over. 

Clarissa is a little unravelled and she can feel everyone staring at her. She can’t close her eyes because she feels wobbly. She tries to steady herself, to listen to the music, to see if there is something in the rhythm she can move to. The music seems to be swelling and deflating, vibrating like it’s leaking out of the speakers and moving around her. She tries to imagine this stuffy old pub as her dancehall. She lifts her arms to start: 

shine/yes/shining/up/step/step/push/windmill/
fall/brush/brush/brush/step/roll/and burst

She does it a few times, staring at a point on the wall to keep her balance like when they were first taught to do turns. She keeps going. She spins around and around. And when she stops the whole room keeps spinning and she feels dizzy in every part of her body, in her fingers and her brain. 

Nell claps and cheers and the group at the table half-clap as well. 

See? Nell says. You are so good. I knew you’d be good. 

Like a little butterfly, Carol says. 

A spinning top, Nell says. 

Clarissa just stands there, feeling the dizziness. She catches her father’s eye. 

So, one drink turns you into a show off. That’s good to know. He takes a slow sip from his drink. 

She looks at the table, the people. Everyone is melting, everyone’s limbs have grown floppier, their speech slowing, eyelids drooping. Her own head feels heavy; she wants to lie down, to curl up somewhere. 

Come on, then, Terry says, finishing his drink. Looks like you’ve had enough. 

He pulls on his coat and tells her to get her things. 

Bye, Clarissa says, but no one hears her. 

*

Outside, Terry struggles to find his keys in his jacket. He pats his front and back pockets repeatedly. Then he pulls the keys out of his front left pocket, which he’d already checked. 

Aha, he says, and gets into the car.

The roads are quiet, but Clarissa crosses her fingers, hoping to see someone, another car or a bus, or maybe someone walking their dog at night. She’s not sure why, but someone seeing her, noticing her in the car would make things better, she thinks. 

Terry burps a few times, and it smells like acid and onion. 

Sue, he says, after a while. That was my mother’s name. Your grandmother, I suppose. 

I suppose, Clarissa says. 

That’s what I would’ve called you, he says. But your mother said it was plain. I suppose she expected a movie star for a daughter. 

I don’t know, she says. 

Well, you just keep your feet on the ground. There’s no good filling your head with big ideas of yourself. You’ll only be disappointed. 

Okay, she replies.

And it’s quiet again for a bit.

You don’t say much, he says. 

I guess not, she says.

And you really don’t want to know anything? 

She shrugs. 

Nothing you want to ask me? Come on, now. Nothing? 

What’s in the box? she says. 

He presses his lips together slightly before he replies, Batteries.

When they pull up outside the house Terry turns to her. 

I didn’t have time to prepare for a visit, so don’t go expecting a palace.

That’s okay, she says. 

She follows him up the path to a house. I’m on the second floor, he says. So the journey’s not over just yet. 

The hallway is carpeted red, but its dusty and marked with black burn stains. On the stairs Clarissa is slow. She grips the banister, but each step takes great effort.

All right, Terry says, up you get. He takes her into his arms. She doesn’t protest. She lets him carry her up to his door.

He leads her inside to a half kitchen, half living room. One side is wallpapered orange and there are stacks of newspapers everywhere; the other has grubby white tiles and a greasy cooker and stacks of dishes by a sink. Empty tins of beans and tuna fish. On the coffee table there’s an ashtray, more newspaper, magazines and a plate of toast crusts. 

Oops, he says, don’t want to be tempting the other houseguests. He sticks his teeth out like a rat. Sit yourself down and I’ll make some tea. 

She sits on the sofa, leans her head against the arm rest. Bleary eyed, she takes in the room around her. Tries to imagine how Terry must spend his time, and wonders if he ever gets lonely. 

He makes two cups of milky tea, and finds a blanket for Clarissa. She pulls it around herself and takes a cup from him as he sits into the armchair next to her. 

I don’t have pyjamas, she says.

You’ll be okay.

He settles into the chair and, remote in hand, flicks the telly on. Clarissa pulls the blanket around her. A black and white film plays out into the room and the actors’ words—urgent, desperate, full of feeling and devotion—blur into low rumbling which blurs into nothing. 

 She wakes then. In the living room, the orange walls, the patterned carpet. She wonders how long she’s been there. She stays a little longer under the blanket, not quite sleeping, but feeling time pass around her and through her. It’s light outside and Clarissa sees seagulls fly past the window. She sits up and takes a jumper from the arm of another armchair. It smells like the cologne from the car. She pulls it on. It’s cold in the kitchen and she can see her breath. She pours some milk into a mug advertising a tyre company and drinks it, scanning the room. Her father’s snores get louder and catch in his throat; he splutters but doesn’t wake. He looks so unguarded. One sock has a hole at the top and she can see the tip of a toenail.

Terry’s coat is on the floor by his feet, his wallet poking out of its pocket. She pulls it out and takes two notes. The red coat with the buttons, the paint set in the enamel tin, enough to buy them both, maybe some left over to help with the telephone bill. Then she slips out the front door, and onto the street. It is bright. It must be early, because people are in suits and workwear, waiting at bus stops and checking their watches. People move around her, so deep into routine that do not see their surroundings, but move through them with the ease of habit. She walks away from the house and into the town, the money gripped in her fist, like it’s something that can keep her safe. As she walks, she exhales and lets go of something tight and knotted inside of her. She exhales and realises that nothing bad happened. Nothing bad happened. None of the things that she hadn’t allowed herself to think about happening, happened. She is fine. She feels a pang of hunger. She reaches a crossing in the street and turns to the left to see a hill sloping down, and at the bottom a sliver of blue sea. She walks this direction. Outside a shop, she spots a big plastic ice-cream cone, taller than her. Inside, she breaks one of her notes to buy a 99, some Kola Kubes and a bottle of Pepsi. She walks further, down to the beach, and sits down on the pebbles. She remembers herself in the dancehall, how that was only yesterday morning. Stretching at the barre, staring at her reflection in the mirrors. She watches the waves, the pull of the tide and the crash, then, into white foam. Pull and crash. Pull and crash. Ice-cream has melted onto her fingers; she licks it up and digs her feet into the pebbles.