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KlappentextMoving from 1930s Camden to a Royal Wedding 'riot', via football fights, office steeplechases and awkward dates in art galleries, London Lies is a bizarre, funny, moving and sometimes unnerving glimpse into the secret life of the city we all love and know. Featuring nineteen writers and twenty-three stories showcased at award-winning monthly live literature event, London's Liars' League.

Joan Taylor-Rowan is a former teacher of Art and Textiles, and world traveller. She is the author of The Birdskin Shoes, a tale of circuses and earthquakes in Mexico. She has had several stories read on Radio 4 and performed at Short Fuse, Storytales, Liars' League and Tales of the Decongested. She has also written the book and lyrics for a musical based on her own short story, Kandy Kottage. Joan now rund a writing group in Hastings.

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Weitere ISBN/GTIN9781909208049

ProduktartE-Book

EinbandartE-Book

FormatEPUB

Format Hinweis0 - No protection

FormatE101

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Arachne Press

Erscheinungsjahr2012

Erscheinungsdatum25.08.2012

Seiten160 Seiten

SpracheEnglisch

Dateigrösse1474 Kbytes

Artikel-Nr.2857883

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Genre9201

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Leseprobe

The Suitcase

Rosalind Stopps

It is everybody´s duty to be on the alert for terrorists and snipers in London these days, but as a senior assistant in a shoe shop in a large precinct, I am obviously used to living on the front line. Things are not necessarily what they seem, that´s the important thing to remember. You have to look behind the obvious for the extra something that might be lurking there, rather like when you meet someone´s boyfriend or husband.

This is Kevin,´ they might say, as if they are letting you in on one of life´s great secrets. You look up, expecting to see a handsome man or a kindly man, or better still, a mixture of the two, like David Attenborough, but instead, Kevin is standing there in an ill-fitting coat, looking like a man who sells lawn mowers in December. This hasn´t happened to me often, but one thing you may notice about me is that I have a great imagination. I am a woman who knows that when the scary side of life comes along, it will lurk behind something else, something with a smile and a bag of sweets to offer to small children.

I am good at anticipating lone gunmen. I can put myself right inside their heads, and imagine what could make them behave like that. They might have lost their job, for example, through no fault of their own. Someone might have spiked their drink at the office party, and taken photos of them with their trousers round their ankles, or spread vicious rumours about them, saying that they were too fat to have children, or had a gun at home when they didn´t, and that could have made them mad or sad enough to go and get one.

I felt like that at school, when everyone thought that I had stolen Carol Eliot´s rubber. It was shaped like a tortoise, and I admired it, I never denied that. I didn´t steal it though, I swear I didn´t, but I did steal some other people´s rubbers after that, just to show them what it was like. I cut most of them into pieces with a razor blade so I know a bit about regret, as well. I think I would make a good mother, full of insights and wisdom.

When I got on the underground train that morning at the Elephant and Castle, it was obviously me who noticed it first. Maureen was one step behind me, dithering with her Oyster card and calculating her fertile period, and she didn´t even notice anything unusual.

Unusual?´ I said, That is a rather mild way of putting it.´ I can be a bit sarcastic, and I know that it is not the most polite thing to be, but a large unattended suitcase by the door of an underground train is a lot more than unusual.

It´s probably someone who forgot, and got off without it,´ Maureen said, which has to rank as one of the most stupid things I have ever heard her say. And believe me, there have been a few. Recently, she told me that the reason she and Kevin haven´t been able to get pregnant yet is because their bedroom faces south, and that can have a bad effect on the whole life force thing. Last month, it was because a pigeon had landed on her windowsill two mornings in a row.

Why would anyone leave a suitcase of that size?´ I asked. I have always been logical as well as imaginative, and I don´t take anything at face value. I´m not the kind of person who would allow a complete stranger to use the shop´s toilet, for example, even if they appeared to be in quite urgent need.

What I was thinking, which had obviously not struck Maureen, was that a lone crazed gunman could have left his gun in the case all ready to go on a killing spree, and sat in another carriage. I have always believed that a bit of preparation is necessary for most things - warming the teapot before putting the bags in, wearing loose boxers to let the sperm breathe, or buying a jacket with enough pockets to store the ammunition for a mass murder.

I looked at the suitcase more closely, not going too near just in case it was a bomb that had changed hands for vast amounts of money in the criminal world. Or a landmine, that someone might want to plant in a garden for revenge or even spite; there is no accounting for the lengths some people will go to. Last week I read a story in the newspaper about a man who threw acid on a small dog because his ex-wife had got to keep it. The dog had to be put down.

I stood back near the door as the train hurtled through the tunnel to Borough station, and leaned as far forward with my upper body as I could without falling. It looked like an ordinary suitcase. It had a dial at the top, the kind where you click it round to the right numbers and the case opens.

We´ll have to stop the train and call the police,´ I said, they were very specific about that on the anti-terrorism leaflet that came to all the shops last year.´

Maureen didn´t look happy.

Don´t worry,´ I said and it was nice to be able to say something so helpful. I´ll deal with it. I watched a programme about the bomb squad, and I think that the main thing is not to jolt it.´

Maureen looked so relieved that I stood up a bit taller. This must be what heads of families feel like, I thought, men and women with children, who bring home the food, fix the taps and unblock the drains. It must be like being on the first float in a bank holiday parade, with everyone clapping and shouting and babies waving small flags.

The carriage was empty apart from us, and I thought how lucky it was that Maureen and I are always so early. We have been the first retail assistants to arrive on the premises for 52 days out of the last 70, and we keep it written down in a little book in the staff room, in case anyone says that we are late. I suppose that will all change if Maureen does get pregnant.

I had some little socks in my pocket, the kind we use if someone comes in to the shop to try on shoes with bare feet. It´s obviously not appropriate, putting sweaty feet into brand new shoes that somebody else might end up spending quite a lot of money on, but you would be surprised at how many people try to do it, even people with noticeably poor foot hygiene. I thought about fingerprints and ignored the slight smell. Of course, they didn´t have fingers so it was like wearing mittens, but I really didn´t have much choice. I circled the suitcase to see where I could get the best grip, while Maureen hovered in the aisle stepping from foot to foot in her silver shoes as if it was a new dance that she had invented.

Go to the back of the carriage,´ I said, in case anything goes wrong.´ I liked the feeling of being in charge for once. We´re supposed to be more or less equal in the shop, both paid the same, but she tends to boss me about a bit. I think it´s because she is married. I´ve noticed that about married people, there´s a kind of smugness about having a special person who thinks you are great that carries over into areas of your life where really, you are no better than anyone else. Maybe it is the promise of regular sex.

I decided not to touch the handle on the grounds that if I was going to booby trap a suitcase, I would make very sure that the handle was the trigger. Most people wouldn´t think of this, but I am not most people, so I kind of encircled the case in my arms like a sleepy child, and picked it up. It wasn´t heavy, and that was a surprise.

It was very important not to jolt the case at all. I stood up really gradually, moving my hands just a tiny bit to get a better grip, and cursing the slipperiness of the socks covering my fingers. The case felt as if it was empty except for one thing, and whatever that was shifted about a bit if I wasn´t very careful. No-one looked at me as I left the tunnel, Maureen following at a safe distance like a private detective on the trail of a cheating spouse. I balanced on the escalator and walked on tiptoes through London Bridge Station, locked in a sweaty embrace with the suitcase.

The bag seemed to shake a little by the pasty stand, or it might have been my hands slipping, and I almost dropped it in surprise. I felt proud that I managed not to. I thought that there might be a busload of pensioners just outside, or a party of tiny children in wheelchairs, and if the case was loaded with explosives they could be hurt. The only hope was to hang on, do one good thing regardless of my personal safety and hope that someone somewhere noticed. Maybe the man who worked in the shoe-mending kiosk would finally notice me, and although I would be sad to have been blown to pieces, the thought of him and others crying at the tragedy made it all seem a little more worthwhile. Who knows, maybe there would be a picture of me over the front of the station when they rebuilt it, or a small plaque in my memory. People would call their children Barbara´ in the hope that they would one day be as daring, and as brave, and Maureen might see me in a different light.

I wanted to take the bag to the river, but I wasn´t at all sure which direction it was in. I am not the kind of person who asks for directions, even in an extreme situation, so we danced out of the front, the suitcase and I, past the black cabs and looking for signs of water. Not a sail or a mast in sight, and wherever the bridge had gone to it certainly wasn´t here. I am resourceful though, and I spotted a large skip, taller than me and over by the building works in the corner. There was a big chute going in to it like a children´s slide in an adventure playground, still quiet as if the...

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Autor

Joan Taylor-Rowan is a teacher of Art and Textiles, and world traveller. She is the author of The Birdskin Shoes, a tale of circuses and earthquakes in Mexico. She has had several stories read on Radio 4 and performed at Short Fuse, Storytales, Liars' League and Tales of the Decongested. She has also written the book and lyrics for a musical based on her own short story, Kandy Kottage.Rosalind Stopps lives and works in South East London, which provides endless inspiration. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University and is currently working on her third novel.Rosalind's story for London Lies, The Suitcase was originally read at Liars' League in April 2009 as part of the Bridge & Tunnel evening.She has two stories in Stations: How to Grow Old in Brockley is set in Brockley and pays homage to that classic tale of Love and Trains: Brief Encounter.Recipes for a Successful Working Life is set at Norwood Junction and is a tale of work-place bullying and pizza ovens.and two stories in Lovers' Lies, How to Survive the Olympics with a Broken Heart, and Monsieur Fromage.

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