Pye died on a bed. A bed bearing a moss green duvet cover. A bed bearing a moss green duvet colour, splintered and split with fissures. Degraded over time. Pye died on a bed, a bed bearing a moss green duvet cover and an eighteen year old girl. No, not eighteen. Twenty now. Is that right?
Pye died because she had no-one but Nye. And where was Nye? Pye died because she pumped crack in to her veins. Pump, pump, pump and one day she busted open. At the seams. Seams splintered. Like the moss green duvet cover. And her head – big for her body – lolled over. And her eyes – big for her head – burst out and watched like a phantom. Watched, waited, for someone to come and see what a mess she had made.
Pye died because it was the destiny of such people. No. That is not right either. There are destinies and there are likelihoods. Pye died because it was the likelihood of such people. Pye died because someone, somewhere made a mistake. And another, and another. And she could not live it down.
Pye lived with a fella, insofar as anyone lives with anyone. They did not live in a house together with a kitchen and some matching, some not, cups and saucers. But they lived near each other, from interior to interior. Emptied out houses with exposed bricks and energy wires jerking out from corners and spluttering currents. The fella bought other fellas to Pye, shared her about. Then a fella, several hundreds later, found her dead. Sleeping. Ran out into the rain and made a call at a phone box, at the far end of the waste paper and bile littered, jitterbug street.
By the time the police came, the first fella, Pye’s great love, had heard and made scant of himself. Went away on a train.
Pye and Nye had been girls together, aged minute by minute along the same, same track. What was being girls together like? Who can remember? In full. Did Mummy cradle and coo? One Daddy, Two. Three, four? The fourth? put his fingers in the very wrong places. Mummy put them down, put them down. Stop That Now. Naughty Daddy made Pye cry.
Pye kept crying and crying and Mummy said, Stop That Now. You’re both as bad as each other. And Pye ran away, crying.
Pye and Nye were soul mates who did not know each other. Pye and Nye moved on out. Two like for like frames stuck like tack on different points of the curve. Spinning, spinning. You’ll spin around soon. They both thought, they neither said. Where is that phone box?
Mummy had fallen down dead, down dead, they that, they knew. And that was that. You only know someone as much as you know what they know, and the rest is chiaroscuro. Pye died and took it all with her. Furrowed back into the gut of the earth. The day that Pye danced on a wall and fell, split her knee, and Nye coursed over and cuddled her. Hush hush. The day they held each other’s sweaty, small hands and ran down a steep country lane. Don’t fall, don’t run arm first into an oncoming car. The day they fought like weathered cocks and Nye pecked at Pye’s nose, and left her with an indelible little mark. Now rotting.
Yes Pye died on a bed, on a moss green duvet cover, splintered and split with fissures, and was found by the Authorities. Who swabbed and washed her and placed her in a box and put her in the earth where her and her indelible little mark slept long. And cold. Pye and Nye were no longer. And Nye meaning to find her. And Nye getting close, in the scheme of things. But not close enough.
An except from my in process novel what they call silence