Goodlord by Ella Frears

Author:Ella Frears
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rough Trade Books

I know – me neither – it’s not like there’s no other

explanation – but –

that wave,

that force,

that mass –

was charged with human feeling

really,

awful – abject – anguished

and none of it was anything

I recognised as mine.

You must think that I’m mad –

but I had felt the edge of this or something

like it once before, Ava.

When I was small – eleven, twelve perhaps and

my parents went away for a few days,

they dropped me at the house of a family friend,

who had a teenage son I’d never met.

He was at his dad’s that week

so I was given his room, his bed,

to sleep in for those nights,

the house was quite chaotic – stacks of

things – magazines, boxes, bits and bobs – all over the

place,

and Ava,

as I climbed into the bed an

overwhelming scent

hit me –

no,

not just a scent,

an atmosphere,

she hadn’t washed the sheets.

Now I’m not normally that squeamish, but really, Ava –

it was bad.

An all-consuming sadness

saturated every item in that space –

even the walls,

the carpet, ceiling,

covered in the stuff –

and the horror of the sheets –

the mattress, pillows, duvet,

too much, Ava,

too heavy

it overwhelmed my senses

and immediately

I hated him,

I did!

This unknown boy

who wallowed, brooded, sobbed and raged in that

soft nest –

his body that had left its trace,

its shape there in the bed.

I lay down at the edge of his long indent, utterly

repulsed.

I felt that I was being marked by every fear, every

single dark, disgusting thought this boy had

ever had –

I didn’t understand,

nor did I want to, Ava.

If this was boys – if this was

growing up – no thank you!

I balled my jumper up and pressed it to my face

and tried to smell myself instead and cried.

For me. For him. For the room

which was pitlike, cavelike.

Desperate and damp.

You think I’m exaggerating,

Ava, well I’m not –

within a year, that boy was dead.

Yes, dead.

His mother found him in his room.

I think that’s what I’d felt – resignation or

resolve. Pure unhappiness.

Anyway,

the big black wave filled the room

and held me down, and shuddered over me for – I don’t

know how long – minutes? – hours? –

but that was it –

I’d had enough.

I had to get the fuck out of the countryside.

At dawn I crept up to the museum

through the trees.

My double was waiting there for me – serene,

amid the ‘pub’ men and their looping chatter, looping

song.

I carried her back

into the studio,

positioned her at the desk with one arm raised

as though waving to somebody across the river.

I lit the stove. Stoked it right up.

The glass got steamy.

OK. I said. And gathered my things

and walked away –

glanced back –

she waved.

I heard the alarm begin to sound.

It’s you or me, I said.

I called the owner of the B&B and told her I was leaving,

took the next train home.

So long! Good riddance Boatswain’s Clench!

And hello – what – Ava?

But here’s the crazy thing –

I waited for the telling-off, the blacklisting

by The Trust for vanishing,

it never came.

He didn’t email me again until my time was up.

A brief message just saying that he hoped it had

been good – productive – and how wonderful it was to

see how dedicated I’d become that final fortnight.

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