Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

More documents

Recommendations

Info

Parting Gift by Carolyn Skelton He opened the door to her, not even bothering to hide his irritation. Hadn’t he told her only last month that it was all over? All over before it had really started, she’d said, ripping her paper handkerchief into shreds. For days after he’d found tiny bits of mangled tissue paper behind the furniture in the living room. Like a paper trail from the heart which led nowhere. ‘Ray! How’s things?’ she asked, a smile stretched taut across her face. She hitched her tote bag higher up on her shoulder. It was then he noticed the leather gloves. They looked incongruous with her light sweater and jeans. He ignored the thought that she might be covering up some sort of self-mutilation. In any case, it would be more like her to flaunt the results of a half-baked suicide attempt, knowing it would press all his guilt buttons. ‘Hey, Carrie.’ ‘I was just passing and . . .’ she continued. ‘I’m packing.’ ‘For Pakistan?’ ‘Uh-huh. I’ve loads to do. The flight leaves tonight.’ ‘I’m not stopping. Just wanted to give you this.’ She bent her head over her bag, auburn curls flashing in the sunlight. He remembered the softness of her hair as it brushed against his thighs, and shook his head to dislodge the memory. It wouldn’t do to get too sentimental. Not now. She pulled out a small gold box and handed it to him. ‘Don’t open it yet. Keep it for the twentieth.’ ‘I’m not sure . . .’ ‘See it as a parting gift. A way of saying “thanks”.’ ‘For what?’ ‘Helping me to realise that you and I would never have made it.’ ‘Oh.’ He felt deflated now. ‘Do you want to come in or something?’ ‘Another time maybe.’ Pure Research 8 postgraduate fiction ‘Perhaps. I’ll be away for a month at least.’ ‘Just promise me you’ll keep it for the twentieth. You might need it out there in all that heat.’ Outside, ominous cobwebs of tree, branches waving at the window pane, A sea of freeze-dried paralyzed limbs inside. I hear words like dripping blood and a thunder in my right ear: Warm, delicate, sinewy, scaly, oozing with the viscosity of mud, Murderous, fleeting, shady. Here talks a scientist in the bud, blossoms of grey crystalline cells, Alongside chrysanthemum and blue bells. This Bourne building is a prison for my carcass, bound in flowers, a garrison for plaster and tape people, the waste bubbling up, when Enrique, with great haste, belches words about dominant negative mutants. Unfortunate, to be all crammed in this office, like ants: Robert is indifferent, honest; Claudia, with laser beams and paper moons, idly staring at the ceiling; Christine reaches with intensity, dedication, reaches for science’s secret; Prajwal perches on the sofa, stifling a yawn; Enrique, flamboyant and patronizing, throws jargon at people; And all the while I smile arrogantly at the trees outside. Paul, diligent, calm, argues his point with care, while Wang, vampire-like, stands in awe of his master. Virginia sits in front of them, indulgent and benign, betraying a sense of superiority. undergraduate poetry Michael, being English, fumbles with hands and floppy hair, while Laci, smiling like a Japanese fox, curls in his seat, ready to fire yet another question. Emanuele Libertini Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
He looked down at the box in his hands as if he’d only just noticed it. ‘Sure. I’ll send you a postcard.’ ‘Great.’ She bent forward as if to give him a kiss and he instinctively moved his head away. Her lips landed on his ear and he pulled back. She turned away quickly and headed up the path, only pausing at the gate to take off her gloves and stuff them into her bag. He watched her go and felt nothing but relief. Several times that afternoon he was tempted to open the box. His thirty-eighth meant nothing to him: birthdays never had been celebrated much in his family. But he remembered that look on her face when he’d dodged her kiss. It had reminded him of his mother’s that time he’d told her he wanted to live with his father. All hurt and defiance. An expression designed to make you feel bad. In the end he just threw her present into the suitcase. He was running late as usual and he’d planned to do some duty free shopping before his flight. Of course the ubiquitous malt was out, but the research team always appreciated a tin of shortbread or a mouse mat of the Cuillins. Something they couldn’t get in Karachi. The airport was crowded with families. He’d forgotten it was spring half term. That was the thing about not having children: you had no idea of the school calendar and were always surprised when they suddenly appeared everywhere. The queues for Malaga and Tenerife snaked out across the concourse. He dodged the track-suited families with their bulging bags, smug in the knowledge that he was travelling light. His small suitcase on wheels jerked and whined behind him like a recalcitrant dog as he headed over to the Pakistani Air desk. ‘Window or aisle?’ asked the check-in clerk, giving him one of her professional smiles. 9 postgraduate fiction ‘Window.’ He wouldn’t see anything at night, but he hated being disturbed when others wanted to get out of their seats. He hoped the flight would be smooth – not like the last time when they’d run into turbulence somewhere over the Middle East. A couple of security guards, machine guns strapped to their chests, glanced at him. Travelling nowadays was like being in a war zone. Particularly when flying to what were now casually referred to as ‘volatile regions.’ He picked up his passport and boarding card and headed towards departures. No doubt there would be the usual nonsense of queuing for ages only to eventually be manhandled by some bored guy with an electronic baton. Thank God he only made the trip once a year. He pitied those exhausted looking executives who seem to spend their lives shuttling from one time zone to another, permanently bloated from airline food and cheap whisky. ‘Dr Noble?’ He turned to see one of the security guards at his elbow. ‘Yes?’ ‘Would you come this way, please.’ ‘Of course.’ Stay calm. Stay calm and polite. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ ‘Please just follow me.’ He allowed himself to be steered into a small windowless room. A bench ran along one wall. In the middle was a table where his suitcase lay gaping open like a wound, its disembowelled contents spilling out. His breathing came faster. Something wasn’t quite right with this scenario. He was Raymond Noble PhD, heading off to work on the diseased phytoplankton in the Bay of Karachi. He was the Pakistani research station’s great white hope, bringing new observation techniques to the underfunded fisheries lab. ‘What’s going on here? What are you doing with my case?’ A pair of handcuffs slid around his wrists. The cold metal made him wince. His bowels slackened. It was then he saw it. The little gold box, slashed and broken. The red silk cravat poking out of the tissue paper like a malicious tongue. But beside that something far worse. The false bottom smashed and ripped to reveal a dark, oblong object wrapped in cellophane. Something which looked like an overlarge laboratory faecal specimen. Carrie’s parting gift. Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008 Parting Gift Carolyn Skelton
Page 1 and 2: Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008 1
Page 3 and 4: World Gone Wrong Ben Hart 1. Trying
Page 5 and 6: Glasses were cleaned, filled and cl
Page 7: ‘Gotta be done!’ ‘Got to!’
Page 11 and 12: that visited upon us. For they like
Page 13 and 14: together though his thumb was free.
Page 15 and 16: presence of an extra person would h
Page 17 and 18: force gathered behind him to propel
Page 19 and 20: clattering whirr of wings startled
Page 21 and 22: Canal by Kate Simants He wasn’t a
Page 23 and 24: The teacher wrapped his fingers aro
Page 25 and 26: Pierre giggled as his mother’s ey
Page 27 and 28: This was as close to an orgasm as s
Page 29 and 30: eyes flicking between the camera an
Page 31 and 32: and sighed as if in prayer, then he
Page 33 and 34: paying patrons were sought and acqu
Page 35 and 36: Paradise, etc. by Ali Sheikholeslam
Page 37 and 38: lood in your way. Let me not rot in
Page 39 and 40: hand in which he held the fork, let
Page 41 and 42: his open window. I stretched to wat
Page 43 and 44: A lesson learned By Laura Brown One
Page 45 and 46: I could see Emma eyeing her suspici
Page 47 and 48: Rochester. It seems he does have a
Page 49 and 50: the way the boy behaves is to call
Page 51 and 52: eyes wide open. I don’t know what
Page 53 and 54: Piano Maria Papacosta Lily When I g
Page 55 and 56: “I'm sorry, I know it’s none of
Page 57 and 58: a new place. All three girls had ma
Page 59 and 60:
month ago. Sandra looked at him aga
Page 61 and 62:
61 postgraduates Metropolitan Lines
show all

Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

Create successful ePaper yourself

Delete template?

Save as template?