Futuredebt - 3 - Wide, wide borders
I’m releasing a novel called Futuredebt across 2024, letting it go one chapter at a time. The first chapters are available for free, but you’ll need to join my Patreon to read later chapters.
Click here to go back and read from chapter one.
How long do you stay when you know it isn't going to last? The future has told Kerry the man she loves today will not be the one she marries in the future. Now she has to decide what she does with that knowledge. Meanwhile, at the other end of society, Fi finds herself struggling with a world that seems to be working against her, pushing her into the heart of a revolution plotting to bring the system crashing to its knees. Futuredebt is a story of free will, self-determination and how small acts of kindness can be a catalyst for change.
Wide, wide borders
That evening, deep neon lines will score themselves into the twilight as they make their way through the maze of bars and urban bistros reclaimed from the old steelworks on the East Bridge side of the city. A gaggle of blue legged girls and their overeager chaperones cross the road ahead of them and the taxi has to slow to let them past. John’s eyes will linger a little too long on the girl in red heels.
How was work, she asks.
He clears his throat, fixing his attention firmly inside the taxi. Worked through a backlog of accounts in the afternoon, he says. We’ve got to wait for Ranulf Plastics to send across the valuation of their stock inventory before we can confirm the preliminary valuations. Not a lot we can do to hurry it up.
She will nod. He will suck at his lip. You sure you’re up for this, he asks.
Of course, she says.
Just after this morning…
Oh God, no, I’m fine. Honestly.
OK, he says. I imagine going out after that must feel like a bit of an anti-climax in comparison.
She is not impressed by his choice of phrase. I’m not sure I’d call it an anti-climax, she says.
No, he says, stumbling like the gazelle before the lion. No, I just mean, you know, the drama of it. It must be a bit of a come down.
She doesn’t answer him.
Let us imagine the city outside the taxi. Let us imagine it slick behind a drizzle of rain. Paths will mirror the light from shop windows and glittering refuse sacks will spill a coruscation of tin cans and plastic food containers into the gutter. It’s busy. The entire city is out tonight. The customer service economy had croaked its way through the pandemic, battle worn and weary and, if not for the FDF, the country would have been stuck with a decade of Netflix and takeaway. Haunted by the memory, the good citizens brave the weather to pack themselves into cavorting houses, brush themselves up against foreign bodies, selfie with strangers, posting it on every feed all at once because the unexamined life is not worth living.
The Forge is a gastro pub reclaimed from a row of social housing at the edge of the old industrial district, sitting between two vast corrugated structures of mouldering steel whose purpose has long since been forgotten. It is as good a place as any for this part of the story to take place. The taxi pulls up and Kerry levers herself out and totters to the shelter of the doorway, her grey jacket pulled up over her head, leaving John to pay the fare and extricate the small pile of presents from the back seat. What about her sunrise coat? Will she ever get that back? Would they send it or would she have to go and ask? Would they wash the bloodstains from it first? She shivers with the thought of having to do it herself. Her phone buzzes while she waits for him: a message from her sister asking for last minute supplies.
They’re out of limes, she tells him. The entire pub, apparently. Dinah wants us to pick some up on the way in.
You think there’s a corner shop?
We're already here, she says. Let's just go in. You’ve got… You’ve got four presents.
Right.
We came with five, she hisses. She steps into the road, waving furiously, but the taxi turns into a side road and disappears. The rain soaks her again. Her hair is already ruined by the humidity.
Sorry, grimaces John, holding the door for her. God, look at that camera, he says, pointing above the door. The thing is a mash of wires, smashed beyond repair. Looks like someone had a good time doing that, he says.
Dinah has hired out the top floor and they have to walk through the crowded restaurant to get to the steps that lead upstairs. Couples sit at tables, groups of women cluster around the DJ booth, occasionally shuffling a foot or swaying a shoulder to the music, desperate to make the most of a night off without the kids. Kerry searches the app for a number to call the taxi company. John touches her arm.
Do you really want to do that as we go in?
I do, she says then, correcting herself: No. You know what? Forget it. I’ll deal with it later.
The upstairs room isn’t the private space they expected it to be. Several siloed groups hover at the edges, unconnected to Dinah’s celebration. Dinah herself is leaning against the bar to take the weight off her heels.
You’re late, she says. I’m getting drinks. You want something?
It’s OK, says John. We’ll get this one.
She snaps her fingers in celebration. The best present is a wet one, she says. John resists cringing admirably. It’s a sambuca thing, she continues. Italian Tourist or something like that. A jug of it. Get four glasses.
Kerry will apologise for arriving late and Dinah will brush her off affectionately. Oh don’t be boring, she will say. I hadn’t even noticed. She takes hold of the tray the barman slides across the counter, sloshing the drinks as she lifts it to her chest. John reaches out to steady the thing, grabbing at its edge but Dinah tuts and moves the tray away from him.
No help needed, she tuts. Quite capable, thank you very much. Kerry my love, come come. Table’s this way.
I’ll be a minute, says Kerry. John touches her arm and nods for her to follow.
I’ve got this, he says. You go talk with Dinah.
It’s OK, she says as Dinah wafts her way through the crowd. I’ll stay with you.
John orders the drinks.
I really think you should tell her, he says. Talk to her tonight.
It’s her party, she says. I’m not going to talk to her now.
She won’t mind. She’s your sister. And she’ll be a good person to talk to.
She gets enough of other people’s problems at work.
She’s a therapist, he says. That’s her job. Come on, she’s your sister.
She groans and leans into him. I will, she promises. But not tonight, OK?
John hums his discontent and takes a sip from his pint.
I don’t want you to tell her what happened at the bank, she says.
OK.
I mean it. I want to talk to her first.
I said OK.
He plays with the rim of his glass and says, I just think you could have spoken to her this afternoon.
I was busy, she huffs and it takes a moment for him to break the sheet ice that has formed in the air between them.
OK, he shrugs and takes another sip but something is bothering her.
You don’t think I was busy, she says.
I didn’t say that.
But you thought it.
You’re changing the subject, he says.
I was working, she says. Art is real work.
I know, he says, his words measured and deliberate. I just mean that… I think it’s good what you are doing and I want you to do it.
She lets it drop and picks at the barmat along the top of the bar. Mixed beer sloshes in its gutters and she has to dry her hands on a napkin. John puts down his drink.
Look, I just think you need to believe in yourself, he says. That’s why we got the studio.
There it is, she says, dropping the napkin on the bar.
What?
The studio.
No, that’s -
I can drop the studio, she cuts him off. I can set up the spare bedroom.
Oh for fuck’s sake, Kerry, please. We’ve spoken about this. We’re not doing that. It doesn’t work. You need that space.
I don’t need it. Not like you need the office.
You do. You know you do. Oh my God, why are we even talking about this again?
The barman mixing Kerry’s drink finds new purpose in the crushing of sugar and mint leaves.
Look, says John, quieter. This isn’t about the studio. This is about talking to Dinah. And she is right here now. So talk to her.
Let’s not do this, she says.
I just think -
- No.
Her drink arrives and John sets about paying while she stabs at the ice with the straw. Her sister is at the booth in the corner, pouring drinks into frosted glasses while her friends effervesce with stimulating and original conversation. She isn’t sure she has the energy to match their enthusiasm. She looks around the bar as if searching for an excuse to leave.
And then she sees you. The same high heels and green dress, staring back from across the room. The world leeches colour. Her heart stumbles in its beat. And you grow ever brighter.
John nudges her arm. You OK?
The woman she has seen will not be you. She will be blonde where you were brown, her arms swollen where yours were trim, and she will be laughing, leaning on the arm of a man too good for her, showing him the wide, wide borders of her personality. She will have her feet on the ground.
But the dress will be the same.
John speaks again: Kerry?
She closes her eyes and allows the sound of the room to settle back into a form more closely resembling reality. Yeah, she says, laying a reassuring hand on his arm. I’m fine.