Excerpt: Where The Shadows End by Louisa Bello

Boat Woman’s calling me to her, across the rooftops, round the chimneys and pigeons, the aerials, the scaff olding. She’s calling me in that chirpy South London-Vietnamese drawl she copies from the girls who make her nails look like punk eagle talons down at the Market. She knows her attempts at this, especially when I’ve not been sleeping well, make me laugh, make me happy.

Gorra keep laughing love, if you don’t laugh,

you’ll cry, and if you cry, you’ll snort,

and snorting old men ain’t attractive

She always says this to me. She’s funny, in her own bitchy way. But I have been sleeping well, proper zees fi lling up the place. So she must be worried about me. But she doesn’t have to be, because our future is rosy. I’ve been free of P for so long now, although I can’t bring myself to say his name in full in case this changes. It’s been that way ever since I…I…well, we all know what I did and that one day he will make me pay. But not today. In fact, I’ve decided that today is The Day.

Mince pies wide open, drink in the glorious morning rays, shake my head, wipe the gritty sleep from the corners. I love to roll them and flick them into the invisible. To watch them never come back. How long have I been standing here at the window, scratching my arse, and yawning the good sleep from my system, enjoying watching my street waking up and going about their daily business. Who said men couldn’t multitask, Mother dearest?

Boat Woman asked me to visit her at lunchtime. I asked her to wait until the evening, but she said she has something important to say and it has to be now. She says, when Jah says it’s time, it’s time. The tingling in my belly feels like a gnat infestation eating away at me from the inside out, and I ain’t never been one of them soppy blokes. Must be nerves. Or hunger. But she’s got this voice that electrifies the pylons and powers the cranes of the city, it swirls round and round the Arndale twenty-five storey high rises, bounces off those newly cladded, post-Grenfell facades. It echoes life into my ears, my heart. She Gives Me Life.

What to wear? Ramones t-shirt today, me thinks. I had a period of reading Philosophy books once upon a time and read that someone once said something about young clothes not suiting an old man, unless he is a new man. Well today, despite being on this planet for fourscore and a half – not showing off but that’s Shakespeare – I feel brand new. I pull it on; just about covers my belly. Pukka breakfast day, I reckon, after I pop the question. Maybe she’ll come with me. I want to show her off to the world. I don’t care if they don’t get her, don’t understand her. She understands me, and I deserve her. My girlfriend, my love. And, by the end of the day, hopefully my fiancé. If I’m lucky.

Before I leave the bedroom, ear out, and wait…wait…check the hallway. Nope. Nothing. Silence. Sigh. Smile. It’s The Day, alright.

Make hay while the sun shines,

SamSam Yes Rosa, I intend to. Thanks for always supporting me

I’ll always be with you, SamSam Door shut.

Locked. On we go. My road, Tamarind Street, circles the park. I know every broken gutter, every dip in the pavement, every crack. Used to be full of two-up, two-down council houses, until the nineties crept up and they were snatched out of the hands of council folk who couldn’t afford to buy them, even at Maggie’s discounted prices. The yuppies got their greasy hands on them, split them into ten bedsit dwellings and packed them full of desperate people chancing their luck on these shores for a copper coin. My nan was savvy enough to buy our drum with the help of grandad’s war pension. She died on me when I was a baby. Literally. Mother said she keeled over while changing my nappy during the night. She used to remind me over and over and over how Nan had robbed me of my senses in the process.

Nan’s parting gift to a disappointing daughter was not taking her life-destroying baby with her. Mother had moved back in here, number fifty two, shamefully up the duff with me, and had never been able to afford to leave. When Nan died, the house became Mother’s and fucked with her benefits. She used to say, when I was young, that it would be the making of us if we did it up and sold it off. We never did. Could never afford to. It’s mine now. It might be falling down around me ears but at least I’m not stuck up on the twenty-fifth floor of the Arndale flats arguing with the wind. Ground floor flat complete with Victorian plumbing, crumbling plaster and flaking paint. Ceilings that need a ladder I ain’t got, to change the furry bulbs.

These days, I live in my bedroom mostly, and the kitchen where there is just enough light to breathe. Boat Woman’s always threatening to come round, help me empty out the rooms, decorate. Burn incense. Sage in the corners. But Boat Woman doesn’t understand there are no secrets to uncover, no skeletons to release. Maybe now’s the time to show her that there’s nothing to set free. It’s just me. And Mother. As it always has been. I’m happy now. I’m Samuel. The Scar Ripper, the Life Ruiner: The Shame Bringer, Carrier. Yep, that’s me.