Everybody KnowsThis Is

NOWHERE

Alice Furse

Burning Eye

Copyright © 2014 Alice Furse

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designsand Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in anyform or by any means without the prior written consent of theauthor, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding orcover other than that in which it is published and without a

similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This edition published by Burning Eye Books 2014

www.burningeye.co.uk

@burningeye

Burning Eye Books15 West Hill, Portishead, BS20 6LG

ISBN 978 1 90913 644 1

The Trafc Warden

I always woke up at his alarm.I’d get breakfast while he was in the shower, and then sit in bed

eating sugary cereal – the kind that my mum would never allow –and watch him opening drawers with a towel around his waist.Before he was dry all his hairs pointed downwards, straight asarrows and flowing in the same direction, like trees on a map.

I liked watching him dress. I liked the shapes he made as heput his trafc warden uniform on, as if he was dancing for me. Thegroove down his bare back as he bent over his belt buckle. The cat-like stretch to tuck his shirt in. I admired the way he remained soscruffy, even with epaulettes.

After he went to work, I would get up and make the bed. His mum had chosen the duvet some time before I moved in,

dark brown with little silky white swirls like sugar decorationsembroidered at regular intervals, so it looked more like a hugesquare chocolate cake than a bed. The pillows matched, and whenI lay down they crackled like crepe paper. They felt unused. Theyfelt like guest pillows.

I found his dirty boxers on the bathroom floor almost everymorning, usually in a figure of eight where he’d stepped straightout of them.

I’d hook the elastic waistband – slack, grey, peppered withbobbles – on a bent finger, drop them on his pillow, and shut thebedroom door.

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I’d open the blinds in the front room and then the windows to letthe previous night’s smoke out, and then do the washing-up.There were trees outside the window and I watched them sway inthe air.

I watched Jeremy Kyle and hated it, made toasted cheesesandwiches and collected second-hand books. I had been led tobelieve that such a lifestyle would be romantic and bohemian, butit was neither. I batted around the flat with no more clue than awasp at a window.

I kept rereading a story by Roald Dahl called The Hitchhiker,about a man who could take your watch or belt without youknowing. My dad read it to me when I was little, and I had beenhaunted by it ever since. I don’t believe in ghosts but I know youcan be haunted.

Every Tuesday I bought the local jobs paper, The Argus, andlaid it out on our coffee table amongst the receipt balls and tearings. I’d go through every job advert with a pen, crossing throughany that were too far, didn’t offer enough hours, requiredspecialist qualifications or were too vague or obviously dodgy.

I was meant to be doing all the things I used to talk about and Iwas doing nothing.

Sunday. I was on the bed reading when the Trafc Warden cameand stood in the doorway, eating bread straight from the bag.

He spoke with his mouth full. “My mum’s invited us fordinner.”

I sat up. “Why are you eating bread?”He shrugged. “Hungry.” His hair was damp round the edges

with sweat.“Is it a roast?”“Of course. It’s Sunday.”

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“So?”He dropped the bread bag and ran over and tackled me back

onto the bed. He lay on top of me so I couldn’t move.When I’d stopped laughing, I said, “You’re sweaty,” and

rubbed my thumb up his forehead and into his hair. “Your hairsuits you this length. It’s not marine and it’s not Stig of the Dump.”

He lifted up my T-shirt and spoke to my stomach. “Are yougoing to come then, Belly?”

“Yeah.”

His parents only lived about ten minutes away, so I was surprisedwhen the Trafc Warden started heading for his car.

“Let’s walk.”“Nah.”“Why not? Weather’s good. We should make the most of it.”“Nah.”He kept going towards his car, so I followed. “One day it’ll be

too late.” I hadn’t meant to sound so ominous.

His mum was waiting for us at the front door. She’d done her hairand I wondered what she made of me, turning up in a T-shirt thatwas semi-clean at best and old flip-flops. She had a new tablecloth.It was sage green, and she’d put a cream crochet runner down themiddle and a vase of flowers in the centre.

It felt very strange to sit on plump cream chairs that allmatched. His dad sat at one end of the table and he sat at theother; his mum and I sat in between.

I started with the vegetables, as always. I like to eat a roast in aspecific order.

“So how are you?” she asked me.“I’m fine. Still job-hunting.”

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“It’s hard, isn’t it?”“Yeah. You sort of have to evaluate what you’ve done and

ultimately realise how little it is.”She smiled benignly. “I’m sure you’ve done lots.”“Not really. Got an interview, though.”“Oh, that’s good. What for?”“Data entry.”“That sounds promising.”“Promising of boredom,” the Trafc Warden said. His mum speared a potato. “Well, we’ve all got to start

somewhere.”

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Big Nathan

The book was about torture. The main character caught wasps and fed them into the middle

of a trap he’d rigged up from an old town clock, each numberrepresenting a different way to die.

The book wouldn’t fit in my only smart bag, and I realised onthe train that I was going to have to sit with The Wasp Factory onmy lap during the interview. Or hide it.

As the train eased into the platform I looked at the insectsswarming on the cover and imagined being asked what the bookwas about by some chipper interviewer and saying, deadpan,“Torturing animals.”

The woman I had spoken to on the phone earlier that week hadtold me that the ofce was only a short walk from the trainstation – “Just follow the road round until you reach us” – butright outside were a roundabout and four possible roads tofollow.

Ip dip, sky blue,Nanny sitting on the loo,Singing songs, dropping bombs,Out goes you.The last road left didn’t really seem that promising, but I

followed it and sure enough, halfway up the hill there was asquare prefab with a doorbell and three labels, one sayingWeblands with a dull blue business logo.

“Hello?” The voice was fuzzy but I was fairly sure it was the

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same woman I had spoken to on the phone.“Hi, I’m here for the interview.”“Come up to the first floor,” she said.The door buzzed and there was a click as the catch released.

The stairwell seemed very dark after being outside, and it smeltdry, like plaster. When I opened the door marked Weblands withthe same generic business logo, I found myself in a strange Lshape created by a couple of brown screens, strategically placed soI couldn’t see how big or small the ofce was.

The voice on the intercom belonged to a short lady who wore along skirt and cork wedges, which struck me as a strange choicefor someone who looked almost sixty. I smiled and held The WaspFactory behind my back. “You’re… Mary.”

“Yes, that’s me. If you’d like to take a seat, our managingdirector will be with you shortly.” She clasped her hands togetherand tipped her head on one side, like a saint in a stained-glasswindow. “Would you like a drink of anything?”

Anything. “Um… water?”“That’s fine, fine. Take a seat.” She motioned to a line of three

low chairs, made of the same brown fabric as the screens thatsectioned me off from the ofce.

The weather was hot and my clothes were stifling and prickly, likeelectricity on my skin. My previous job had come with a uniformthat consisted of a polo shirt and a pair of men’s trousers, so Iwasn’t used to the tightness of cotton shirts in my armpits.

Mary brought me the water in a glass with a base as heavy as apaperweight and sides so thin that I didn’t want to hold it tootightly in case the thing shattered in my fingers.

I went over all the lies I had in my head, about why Iwanted this job, what skills I had, where I saw myself in five

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years’ time.After fifteen minutes, Mary poked her head round one of the

screens. “Sorry to have to ask you this, but we need you to sit atyping test.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”I followed her into the ofce, where about twenty people sat at

an array of desks, some on the phone and some typing, and awoman stood at the printer, hand on hip. I sat down at thecomputer Mary had gestured towards.

It was opposite a guy who looked about my age, wearing awhite shirt with a thin blue grid on it, like graph paper. He didn’tlook up. I set the book face-down on the desk beside me.

The test was ancient and difcult, and I knew that I wasscoring badly even while I was doing it, despite the fact that I wasa good typist.

When I was done I sat back and Mary came and clicked a fewbuttons and noted my score on a Post-it note.

Then I sat back down on the brown chair and waited for afurther ten minutes with nothing to stare at but the brown screenbefore a clean, tall man approached me.

I stood up holding the book behind my back, smiled and shookhis hand.

“I’m Nathan?” His voice was slightly high for a man his ageand he pronounced it like a question.

I followed him back downstairs, through the door of anotherofce, into a room made of glass and blinds and a huge table oflaminated wood.

While he was examining my CV I slipped The Wasp Factoryunder my left thigh and realised that my shoes had rubbed streaksof polish onto my stockings.

He said, “This won’t be a formal interview.”

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I felt pretty formal, but I folded my hands on my lap andsmiled and said, “Okay.”

“We like to keep things informal here.”I wasn’t sure what response he might expect to that, so I

nodded without a word.“So. You graduated… two months ago.”“Yes.”“What did you think of university?”I tried to think what kind of answer he would like and decided

that if I sounded like I was a poor girl who’d worked hard thatmight be something good.

I weaved my fingers together and put them round my knee.“Well, I was lucky to go,” I said. “I learnt a lot. I came across booksand ideas that I would never have otherwise.”

“Anything else?”I rolled my thumbs around each other. “Um, I don’t know. I

guess I learnt what it is that I really want to do in life.”“What is that?”I felt that I had fallen straight into the first trap. I should’ve

sensed the danger.“Well, I’d like to work in publishing. Or in a library. Something

creative. Something with books would be good.”He smiled.I smiled back.An interviewer makes up their mind about you in the first sixty

seconds, so I knew the battle was already lost or won.“You worked in McDonald’s while you were at university.”“Yes.”“What did you think of it?”I had to find some way of side-stepping saying I had hated it.

“Well, even though I don’t agree with the ethics of their business, I

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did learn a lot while I was there.”“You became a manager.”“After a year, yes.”“What was that like?”“It was okay. Not always easy. I worked hard for the money. I

had to train people, and I also dealt with some cash and safeduties, and with customer complaints. I enjoyed it in some ways.Working for a big corporation is… an interesting experience.”

“Well, we’re a fairly small ofce.”“I want to work somewhere that’s different to what I’ve done

before.”That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. I had applied

for a data entry position principally because it didn’t seem torequire any contact with the general public. I had this dreamy ideaof a solitary desk by the window, the sun making warm rectangleson my papers, tea on tap and a pot plant with dark green leaves.

Perhaps I could be happy here.Perhaps I could spend my days unfulfilled but also

undisturbed and slowly, slowly, fade into anonymity.“Okay, well, the job does involve some telephone work. About

one per cent.”“Okay.” The dream faded slightly, but I could cope with one

per cent.“I mean, you’ll very much be a part of the ofce.”I thought he might just be saying that to make me feel better, so

I said, “That sounds good.”He narrowed his eyes at me and for a moment I wondered what

he was thinking. Then he glanced back at my CV, then at me again,and a silence hung in the room, floating with the summer dust.

*

15

When the Trafc Warden got in from work he went straight to thefridge, pulled out a block of cheese and bit right into it. “How didit go?”

I was reading on the sofa and lowered the book but didn’t situp. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.” It was one of his manyannoying habits, like putting empty bottles back in the fridge andleaving the bread bag open.

“I really wish you wouldn’t speak.” He paused and craned hisneck to watch something out of the kitchen window, whichoverlooked the car parking area for all the flats in our block.

“It was all right, anyway. I think,” I said. “I don’t know. It wasa strange one. Hard to predict.”

He was still looking out the kitchen window.“Something interesting going on?”He spoke through another mouthful of cheese. “Mini Man’s

welding.” Mini Man lived in Flat 4 with his moody girlfriend and their

daughter Jessica, a toddler who was always crying. The onlytimes I saw him were when he went out front to have a fag, orwhen he was in the courtyard tinkering about with his Mini. Itlooked like he’d made the whole thing from scrap parts as it wasabout two feet shorter than a normal Mini and rust-coloured,apart from the black roof, which he could just take off wheneverhe felt like it.

“Fascinating,” I said.“He’s got all the gear and everything. I wonder where he learnt

to do all that stuff.”“Why don’t you ask him?”The Trafc Warden didn’t respond.“How was work, anyway?”“All right.”

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“How many tickets did you give out?”“Eight.”

That night as we were getting into bed, he pulled back the coverand seemed to scrutinise the pillows.

I leaned over. “That’s dribble, I think.”“I know.” He picked the pillows up and banged them together

like cymbals. “I’ve seen loads of spiders lately, I don’t want themcrawling on me in the night. Did you know that you swallow eightspiders—”

“—every year. You don’t, though. It’s an urban myth.” I sighed.“It was made up by this woman who made up a load of similarfacts and put them on a website, just to see if people would believethem. And what d’you know? They did.” I leaned back on thepillows. “I mean, the spider’s effectively committing suicide. Whywould a spider do that?”

He got in bed, lifting the duvet clean off me.“Oi, that was warm, don’t let all the cold in.” I settled my

head on his shoulder. “And don’t steal it, like you did last night.”“Me? It was me who didn’t get any.”“What absolute bollocks. I woke up twice with cold feet.” I

kissed him and felt his hand in my hair.“You’re so dramatic.”I put my leg over his. “And you are the Duvet Thief. It’s what

you are in your very core and you know it.” I kissed him again.“And you know that I know it.”

And he kissed me back, and climbed on top of me, practicallyripping my T-shirt off.

I was surprised when the phone woke me the next morning, and itwas Nathan telling me I had the job.

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