Chapter Text
Damn this city. All noise, no rules.
They’ve been building the tram line to his area since forever. Taxis refuse to find detours around the roads being repaired and changed every day. The diet of claustrophobic public transport completely finished him off within a week. It stops only when and where requested, so the route schedule is but a recommendation. Not that Branden has anywhere to hurry...
But it’s no reason to get discouraged. The trees on the coast have mostly turned yellow. There’s this cold crisp morning freshness in the air, and the wind is only slightly blowing Branden off the sidewalk — a cig would be great right now... There is a box of biscuits in the bag. He might get to snatch Melicent for a quick breakfast if she has a few spare minutes by the time he crawls to the Old Town. She must be distributing flowers from the wholesale or working on orders for the next few days.
The last thing he expects is to see her at the top of a stepladder, half-buried in falling flowers.
A storm cloud of crimson roses that used to line the storefront above the windows and the door, is crashing to the ground piece by piece in a pile of petals and metal spikes. It leaves tattered wire in its place, which Melicent, her head up, is cutting with something in her hand.
Wary of spooking her and causing a fall, he shuffles his feet as he nears. “Hey, how are you getting on?”
Melicent glances down. “Watch out.”
She’s wearing her usual stuff. Something layered yet slimming, simple — she looks like a burnt match in her straight long coat. Now that the thermometer has dropped below ten degrees, her day-to-day outfits only differ in shades: black turtlenecks change to brown, green or violet — but rarely in style. Today’s only difference are the boots under the wide trousers in place of flats and rough work gloves on her hands.
“I cannot do biscuits right now,” she drops.
It appears so. The garland is still holding for its dear life to the edge, and this looks like only the beginning. Perhaps she needs help carrying this pile into the store? Or raking it up and throwing it away? Or should he better offer to take her place for a while and let her warm up and rest? This looks easy enough.
“Ah sure! How long have you been up there? I could help with—”
VRZH-RRR-DUT-DUT-DUT-DUT!!! growls the screwdriver in her hands. VZH-RRRRRRRRrrrrr-whr-whr!
“What did you say?!” rolls down to him with another chunk of red and green.
“I said I could—” I can’t, actually, flashes through his head. Of his ‘at least six weeks’ of not lifting weights (or his arm), it’s only been a half. Manically measuring the inches between the devices and himself for the tenth time today above everyone’s heads is not the best prospect either.
When will he stop feeling so shite?
“—help you with something, if necessary,” he breathes finally.
“Don’t,” she snaps in a voice that discards all potential urging. So be it. She saved his pride, albeit in this way. She steps down the ladder, holding onto the wall. “Bring my coffee.”
That’s the routine they’ve established over the last few days: she chugs at least two cups of Americano a day and, at least for that reason, keeps Branden nearby.
He tries not to spend too much time there, he couldn’t anyway. The people of Edinburgh need flowers. Besides, out-of-the-blue surgeries are no excuse for design commissions, paperwork and Content, the equally fun and embarrassing videos — of not only his work, but of his face too — which must be made to stay on the for-you pages of people he doesn’t even know.
As caustic as Melicent is, he’d rather talk to her all day long than look at his mug on the screen for another minute.
So once again he crosses the road, exchanges greetings with Robin, who’s just preparing his station for a new work day, and gets three paper cups. Skirting the flowers left on the sidewalk and Felicity crouched beside them, he steps inside — and immediately stumbles.
A family of pumpkins — five or six of them — is perched at the door, narrowly escaping his feet. At the far table where Felicity usually works, there are two shallow dark wicker baskets bursting with golden flowers and auburn maple leaves. On the tabletop itself is a garland of green, yellow, orange and crimson, almost the same size as what was outside. There are open boxes and garbage bags everywhere — Melicent's desk is all covered in plastic wrap.
“Don’t break what we little haven’t broken ourselves.”
“Sorry. Switching the decor for autumn?” he looks around.
“Why ask obvious questions?”
She stops being a wet blanket after the offered cup, an effect only enhanced by a box of biscuits. She hides her pleasure so well that Branden almost buys it.
He sips his own sad, sad decaf. “What else are you planning to do?”
“Other than flowers outside and inside? What else could you want, you insatiable people?”
He runs his eyes over the walls, all wood and glass. “I don’t know, something on the windows? Something spooky?”
Melicent chews the piece as carefully as her obvious haste allows. “It’s not Halloween for another three weeks.”
“That’s not long. Folks pull out Christmas baubles in November. Do you change anything at all for Halloween?”
“Last year the hung some paper bats the day before.”
“There you go! Wouldn’t it be grand if they hung some more? You won’t have to climb the ladder twice. And all this dark interior, it’s asking for something nice and creepy. Say, a…” he aims at the window overlooking the office building, “a bloodthirsty plant, if you’d rather stick with the theme, or something more classic.”
“None of us draws,” she shrugs.
“Why do you think I’m telling you all this? One of us draws.”
She hums — doesn’t seem to take him seriously. Is this truly that unthinkable of an idea? Or did he offer it too jokingly? Perhaps this needs a different approach. Some practical details.
“I’ll draw up some ideas on the pad, see how you like it,” he adds before she can rebuff. “If you do, I’ll do it with paint or markers on the inside of the glass. It’ll last until the day, and then you’ll easily scrape it off.”
“Are you actually suggesting this?”
“Of course. Your place will get all revamped, and I’ll have something to kill the time. You can come check out our shop: we’ve got a large mural on the wall that I did and my other works.”
Silence. Why, why again? There seem to be only rare moments when he manages to really get through to Melicent and say exactly the right thing — the rest of the time he is in a fog. He tried to be equal parts direct and laid-back. Where was the mistake? Or is this how she reacts to everything? Can’t she just say something?
“…Some other time.”
Whatever. Jesus Christ.
“What will you do with the yokes you took down?”
“Felicity is out picking out the garland that is still usable so that there’s as little waste as possible. Then...” she glances sideways at the floor.
In a container right next to the door, a huge skein of... something is soaking in dark water. Something that looks like a liquorice wheel for a giant and smells like forest. Melicent puts down the empty cup and bravely takes that something out, shaking it over the container to remove excess water. Now it’s clear that she’s holding a long pressed spiral of twigs and vines.
Slowly, Melicent carries it like a spare tire to her desk and lowers it onto the wrap. Just as slowly, still wearing gloves, she uncoils one loop, then another. The vine straightens out with a groan, turning from rings into uncertain curves.
“Need a hand?”
“I can handle it.”
Melicent presses down and holds on a little longer. The beast is pacified. She raises her hands.
The vine almost jumps in place and folds right back — at that same second they are both covered with drops of dirty water.
“Damn it!!!”
The spiral stands up as if nothing had happened.
“Felicity, this is all your fault!” the woman declares without looking when the door chime sings.
The colleague shoves fake flowers in a box. “No it’s not!”
“This was your idea,” Melicent hisses and yanks the branches straight again — but they’re obviously facing the same result. “So you come and do it.”
“Are we really going to just hold it until it dries?”
“Maybe something heavy on top?” Branden raises his voice.
Melicent stares at him as if he were an insect. “Yes,” she breathes. Branden pulls off the bag and plops it on top. The arch sags ever so slightly. “Something heavier. No,” she snaps he looks around. “You, hold this down. I’ll find something.”
The ladies leave — Branden is alone with the wet predator. Thorns and barbs bite into frozen palms, the stink attacks his nose. Finally, a bag of potting mix and a box of bin bags come to his rescue. They force down a total of a couple of feet of the vine.
But the part of the twigs descending from the tabletop continues to curl up in spirals.
“Move that chair over there,” Melicent orders, pointing over — and cringes as Branden drags the high stool across the floor. He does, too. But he can’t lift it, and his other hand is busy. Holding it as best he can, Branden straightens one section of stubborn vines, pushing it between the legs.
Felicity peeks over. “Will this do?” In her arms is a mega roll of chicken wire.
They move the vine, press down another section, and Branden, reunited with the bag, wipes his hands on his clothes.
Now strangled and conquered, a huge strangled boa winds throughout the shop. It's still bleeding water in places and overall doesn’t look ready to move anytime soon.
“Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow?” Felicity echoes.
Melicent squares her shoulders. “This will take longer than I anticipated,” she thunders, as if aiming to make the vine feel guilty for being insubordinate. And then she is silent — for a whole half a minute, her gaze sliding along the entire length of the monster, over the puddles of flowers. Felicity empties the container and comes back for her coffee before she yanks off her gloves and says, “What were you going to do?”
Huh?
“What was I going to do?”
“The painting. On the windows. Show me what you have there,” the lady strains in an tone as displeased as it is condescending, as if merely owing to a vile hitch in her project with the vines she now has to deal with this as well.
“Ah. Right. Let’s go then.”
Melicent grabs her cane, throws the coat over her shoulders, and flips over the sign on the door as she leaves.
***
If you think about it, there is nothing between their shops. There isn’t even a traffic light — not ten seconds and Melicent is already at the glass door, looking at an old or not so old reminder to wear masks and a small progressive rainbow flag. Another second — and she's inside.
The parlour is one long room, stretching deep and divided into two by an arch. She could already glimpse a leather sofa on the right from her desk — paired with a wheeled cart loaded with brochures, magazines and sweets, it stands in the corner with its back turned to the panoramic windows. This must be where Branden intended to imprison that poor milkweed he almost acquired when they first met.
It smells nice — something soapy, it settles in her throat. A machine hums in the distance.
Damn it. Of course, there was a catch.
That is her second thought. Her first one is not one to easily admit — that it is very clean here. Did she actually, she asks herself, expect to find this place in hideous disarray? The nature of his job requires a nearly medical orderliness. But it doesn’t fit with his appearance, his manner of talking, his disposition. Branden O’Donovan simply refuses to form into one picture.
On the other side of the door is a full-length mirror. The wall behind is a modest art gallery: drawings and photographs in discordant rows right up to the ceiling. Hares with wild empty eyes, crescent moons, fish skeletons and even black and white wisps of lavender. Framed above the desk are some funny little men, the strangeness of the poses and the outlines of which give them away as medieval illustrations.
“You might want to look at some flashes.” In her hands appears a binder. “They are of a different scale, but they’re quite good at conveying the style I go for. I usually do linework... magical, fantasy things, like prints. Though it varies, of course, folks ask for all sorts of things. I think it’ll be a good match. Something along these lines,” he scrolls to a whole page dedicated to bird and human skulls, large spiders with unnaturally sharp legs. “Something not very complicated and readable from the distance, but with an antique slant to matches the decor and lanterns. Like this one, but with a white marker or paint.”
Branden points over his shoulder and Melicent turns around.
The entire opposite wall, from the window to the arch, is occupied by the mural she has so often seen from afar. In the middle of the otherwise white wall is the logo — the same as outside, in a slightly smaller font and in two lines. Reaching from each corner to the centre are — naturally — birds. Their smooth and dark wings are spread across the entire wall, white sparkling stars lost in the feathers like in the night sky.
She wants to think, boy, he’s a one-trick pony! Instead she thinks, this is beautiful. It looked good in photographs, behind glass — it looks even better in real life up close. And to think someone carries this on themselves for the rest of their lives!
“How much do you want for your work if you take on four windowpanes?” she asks fearlessly, without taking her eyes off, and hears:
“Free, of course.”
This is more mortifying than a price outside her budget.
“Pardon?”
Branden adjusts his shades. “Did you think I’d take money from you?”
“Like any person who does work for another person.”
“If you hadn’t saved my life, I might’ve. But as it is, just take it as a friendly gesture.”
“We are not—”
“Melicent?”
She bites her tongue and glares at the wall. Even so, out of the corner of her eye she can see Robin passing under the arch.
“Are we distracting you?” Branden says.
“No. Didn't even know you were here. The client’s taking a break, so now I’m too.”
“What are you working on?”
“The elbow.”
“Oof! That explains it,” he winces, then hops back as though remembering something. “This is Melicent, I’ve told you about her. Melicent, this is Robin.”
If she keeps on standing there like she’s deaf, will they think her mad and leave her alone? Hardly. Imagined both of them falling off a high roof, she turns her head.
“Nice to meet you.”
Robin Milne has not changed a bit from his Glasgow days. Chequered flannel shirt, a beanie — his eyebrows hide behind it in amazement.
He’d better not squeak a bloody word.
The tongue wagging resumes — Branden asks if Robin has been enjoying his peace and quiet without his blaring music. Melicent wonders where that blaring music could possibly come from and notices a pair of speakers under the dome. Branden walks deeper inside and asks the lady if she is feeling better, offers food in case she’s dizzy. Even after refusal he offers again. Why people ever do this is unclear.
The room takes shape in every corner Melicent looks at. A stack of books and albums on the desk, figurines, a printer and all sorts of trinkets against the wall. A fold-out tabletop, certificates on the wall. Several shelves stacked with coloured bottles. A screen folded like a fan, an empty station, a lonely leather armchair tucked into a corner.
A couple of plants, even fake ones, would be nice here.
“You should put down the year,” she hears snippets. Robin is pointing at the parlour's name on the wall.
“And have it say ‘Est. 2022’? That’s cringe,” Branden laughs.
“Oh-oh-oh, do we know these words?”
“I sure do! I keep up with the youth. I even say ‘slay’.”
He is rummaging through the cart drawers, each choking under layers of stickers and seemingly empty of whatever it is he is searching for.
“Are you having a consultation?” Robin asks, peering at her. “Diaval, are you already working? I’m the only one working here.”
Son of a bitch.
“No, it’s a different matter. I’m helping her with something. I need those glass pens. They’re so supposed to be here since we drew on the mirror?”
“I think I put them in storage.”
“Did you? Ah, sure look it. One moment,” Branden drums, moving further and further away with every second. “If they’re not there, I’m still going to get all I need after we decide on the designs.”
And he disappears into the closest cubbyhole.
The silence is leaden. Her skin is itching. Robin is burning holes right where they need to be, in her back.
“Why are you pretending?” he pants in an angry whisper.
She responds in kind. “I apologise. It’s not nice to meet you. Better now?”
“What is this masquerade for? This accent? Are you in the witness protection program or what?”
“If I answer yes, will you be ashamed?”
“I already am.”
“You don’t look like it,” she hisses. And before he opens his mouth, “I will not be discussing this. I care not how you feel, whether you’re tormented by guilt or not. I never wished to communicate with you again or see your face again. I hate that you're here. Do with it what you will.”
She holds his gaze — expectedly more pitiful than her own embittered one. But his slobbering regret does not move her.
“They’re waiting for you,” she nods towards his work station. Robin rolls up his sleeves without a word and takes his leave.
She runs her thumb along the head of the cane, the cool varnished wood.
“I never lose anything!” Branden returns. In his fist are several markers, like those used to write on school whiteboards. He puts them in his messenger bag and pulls out a tablet. “Now I’ll try to come up with something — shouldn’t take more than an hour. We’ll keep tweaking it until you both are satisfied. Then I’ll transfer it onto the glass with makers and do a paintjob if that’s not bright enough. How do you like this plan?”
Finally they leave the shop behind. October returns them to blue shadows and the soft light of the breaking sun. Melicent tries again.
“And yet, how much will you charge me for this?”
“I said, nothing at all.”
“I won’t accept this. I should compensate both your labour and the materials spent.”
With an unsuccessfully restrained sigh, Branden looks up at the sky. Birds are flying low.
“One penny. Will one symbolic penny suit you?”
What a stubborn mule! “No.”
“Fine. Tuppence.”
“This is not funny.”
“Tuppence and you give me a ride home. With prepayment.”
Lightning-fast fear even catches Melicent herself by surprise. Tuppence and you give me a ride home, she replays, cracking the shell of the word. Could there be another one inside?
Is it a threat?
Is it a hint?
Could he, say, go crazy in the car and swerve them both into the closest house, or pole, or car? Steal her documents or belongings? Attack her once they are in a confined space?
My God. This is paranoid, even for her.
Robin completely unhinged her nerves with his existence.
Why does he need her help to go home? Can’t he just take a tram or bus, or order a taxi, like all normal people? He even has his own motorcycle!
Ah well, he’s not allowed to drive. That makes sense.
But what about the rest? Is there a health situation too? Is he immunocompromised after surgery? Then why is she an exception? Just because she still wears a mask, even after two years? Or are these all just excuses to talk her brains out for another ten minutes?
Now that looks more like the truth.
So the question is: is she up for these ten minutes?
How long she has been standing without a sound?
So, is she up for ten minutes of uninterrupted, inescapable Branden O’Donovan’s company?
“There’s road works in my area and the trams aren’t running yet,” he adds, taking off the shades. He seems to have grown a few inches taller than he was ten seconds ago — and now he’s staring, too. “And, to be honest, I don’t feel like walking forty minutes. I’d really appreciate it if you could give me a ride when I’m done. You said you wanted to pay me back — that would be the most useful way. If it’s convenient for you, of course. I see that you’re busy.”
Well, that... that clears things up a little. Judging by the sky, today is one of those days when the weather changes its mind every twenty minutes. If she does not find a way to pay him, it will gnaw at her the entire time he’s in the store. And she wants that damn mural. He looks at her — eyes, thankfully, now more white than red — and she pats the back of the disarmed beast screaming in her head.
“Where do you live?”
“Leith.”
For heaven's sake!
“You couldn’t live even further away?”
He bursts out laughing.
***
Here’s how to do your job, any job.
You start with a plan, a sketch. You sit down on the far chair in the office — doesn’t matter if it’s not your office, if it’s one filled with foam of flowers and plants, if it’s hot, and if you’re being stared at every couple of minutes. You put on your headphones and draw. For about ninety minutes, all conversations die down, work pushes away all your grievances and sensations, and you get to look around for inspiration — and might end up doing that monstera drawing you’ve been wanting to draw. The client expressed a desire to stick to the theme of the business — to create something flowery and creepy, not banal and not childish, with a certain fleur, as you conclude together, of an ancient herbalist. Melicent is a pleasure to talk to when she doesn’t look like standing next to you is a punishment.
As you first start working on a project, you need to throw out ideas at random and see what sticks. You draw that monstera, turning the pot it’s in into a huge rodent skull. Holes for eyes and nose, short fangs, grayish tints. Next you outline the thin strokes of the stems, and between them — a hanging thin, asymmetrical cobweb, torn but refined. You remember the name of the store and sketch out wild briar thickets like barbed wire, thorns like spindly fingers outstretched to drag something away. And so on. A fragile butterfly over a poisonous-looking tiger lily, withering leaves falling around the wide-open mouth of a Venus flytrap. Just in case, you add a few poisoned apples and some good old pumpkins for good measure.
You need to keep the client’s interests in mind and periodically receive feedback. Those tattoo artists who withhold a design till the very appointment when the client appears at the door, feignedly joyful and clearly afraid to give up his rib or thigh to your mysterious schemes, are stupid, and they are tormenting people for no reason. It’s best to tweak things as you go. Melicent doesn’t like pumpkins. She does like everything else, though.
You select ideas from a shortlist, think about how to combine motifs — what would work better on the front window, what could go on the side. A building is like a body — another big thing that you are trying to turn into something if not beautiful, then at least satisfactory.
Then, with all your designs cleaned up and approved, it’s time to prepare materials. You take all you can get from your place — and get caught in a wonderful icy drizzle on the way to the store for the rest. You exchange a few words with the salesman — from his tone you suspect that he wants to quit — and by noon you appear on the battlefield in all your gear: measuring tape and brushes, towels and a drop cloth, window cleaner and masking tape, primer and, of course, paints.
Now, there are many ways to place a beautiful and large picture on a store window. For example, you could just take a brush and paint freehand right on the glass, caution be damned.
Not Branden, though.
You could put your design on a huge sheet of paper, stick it to the outside of the window, trace the outline with a fun pizza cutter-like tool, and then take even funnier loose chalk and press it into the holes to create a stencil for later work.
Not Branden, though.
You could airbrush the whole thing. Branden won’t, but you could.
However, if you are a tattoo artist, and a tattoo artist who has only ever painted on glass once in his life and is trying to look more confident and resourceful than you are, there is another way.
You print your images onto transfer paper, the kind you usually slap on someone's back or thigh, and you press those sheets against the inside of the glass so that the deep purple ink transfers to the surface, and then you look at what you've done on the outside and do your best to look content. Confidence is also part of any job.
A choir of cars echoes behind him, and for the next two and a half hours a ten-feet-tall Venus flytrap is growing from under his brush.
***
Melicent knocks on the glass.
“We are closing!”
On the other side of the tinted window, Branden just peers into her face — then pulls off the headphones off and gestures her to repeat.
“We are closing!!!”
He stares at his watch and shows five fingers with a surprised arch to his eyebrow.
“No ‘five more minutes’!”
Like a ghost, the figure twitches — he dashes to the front door as though it will shut in his face. “You close at five?” falls out of his mouth. Felicity is hanging her work apron on a hook. Melicent is rummaging through her bag for car keys, skirting the garland on the floor.
“Obvious questions again. I was under the impression that you’ve studied our schedule better than we ever have. We’ve always closed at five.”
Surprise even freezes on his face until it melts into a blissful smile. “I love this country.”
“What time do you close?” Felicity says, wrapping herself in her stupid yellow puffer jacket. Laughs, “Not ‘you’ as in your country, but ‘you’ as in across the road.”
“When... we’re done with work?... About eight.”
“I’m not waiting for you until eight,” Melicent snaps. With a feigned ‘A-a-ah!’ Branden snaps his fingers in her direction. “Whatever you haven’t done today, continue tomorrow. There's still half left, correct?”
Now, five hours of work later, the front door and both front windowpanes are all done — the many toothy heads of a bloodthirsty Venus flytrap stretch across the glass. Intricate detail, sharp shadows — after the consultation (a repeated action in which Branden presents a tablet and an eloquent paragraph, and Felicity and she can only say, ‘I like this one’ or ‘This one could do without the blood, it’s corny’ until every detail is agreed upon) they decided to only use colour on the scarlet mouths, for a better effect. On the next windowpane, the mood is slightly different: there is a cobweb hanging from the upper right corner — he painted it with a thin brush, barely moving and more serious than she had ever seen him.
For one day, he and his plants were a bigger attraction for the store than their real ones. At least they attracted dogs. Every dog in town seemed to be in a conspiracy against Branden O’Donovan. They would bark and snap at the foot of his stool, while their handlers awkwardly tugged at the leash and mumble apologies and Branden glared at the beast. In the entire five hours, he only stepped into the shop once to blurt out, “Eight dogs already. Five of them staffies. All of them ugly. Is there somewhere I can clean my shoes?”
The narrow glass front door is overgrown with briar thorns. Small as it is, Melicent likes that painting the most.
A spontaneous makeover of the entire store is just the kind of news to ring and tell Aurora about. She probably should. Later.
She might have been more determined if Aurora would phone herself. At least sometimes.
But oddly enough, this is not her paramount concern at the moment. Her paramount concern at the moment is sitting down next to her in the front seat of her car. Feeling like she’s locked in a room, she places the cane back instead of to the side.
“Not to get in your business—”
“Again.”
“Not to get in your affairs again,” Branden chuckles, “but is it just yous that close so early or everyone?”
“We close an hour later than our nearest competitor, in case you were wondering.”
“But what if I’m having a date at seven? Where am I supposed to get a bouquet for my bird?”
“Set your date at four.”
“But my work usually ends at eight, how can I set a date at four?”
“You are your own boss, close at four.”
“What if I weren’t my own boss?”
“That’s your problem.”
“Oh, no hope for the little guy again!” he rues with a grin. “Oh! Was I supposed to be giving you directions?”
“Why, not at all. I’m doing a good job at heading towards the English border myself.”
His laughter fills the space, a hoarse melody. He motions which way to turn and takes off his shades. The fabric of his shirt rustles. It is buttoned all the way up, just like it always is lately, as if to block her thoughts about his scar.
“Is it okay if I roll down the window a little?” he asks; she nods curtly. The air in the open gap smells of wet stone, tiny drops brush her cheek. “Not used to not feeling the wind when driving,” he drawls thoughtfully. “I had a car a couple of years ago, but then I switched to a bike and never looked back.”
“I could never,” she blurts out.
“Why not?”
Why not? She thinks about her car — a whale on the road. A fortress on wheels.
“Very limited storage space, ridiculous sitting position, lack of sound insulation, increased risk of accidents, greater vulnerability to theft... I can go on.”
“Well, yes, but they have the manoeuvres. And speed.”
“And no roof.”
“Fair enough.”
Still her gaze lingers on his clothes, her thoughts return to the welt, turn into clenched fingers around the steering wheel. There is probably no tactful way to ask — so here goes.
“Why can’t you drive for six whole months?” she says, keeping an eye on the road.
Branden grins, “I won’t be asking you for rides all this time, don’t worry.”
Ah, but this will not do. Dodging her questions — not a chance.
“Why does recovery take so long?”
“I would love to know myself...” he drawls with unexpected causticity. “They put a defibrillator into me. Now they’re afraid it’ll detonate while I’m driving, or that I’ll lose consciousness, which is also a possibility for some reason. So now it’s public transport only for the next six months,” he shrugs. Melicent almost misses a turn. Defibrillator? It has not even occurred to her. It could not have — what does she even know about defibrillators? That they affect the contractions of the heart, not unlike the defibrillator she shoked him with herself? Shocked. That’s what this thing does. “So now... now I’m a climate activist.”
He says it so decisively and unexpectedly that it cracks her up. “Keeping public transport afloat?”
Branden nods cheerfully. “And when I ask other people to take me back and forth, I’m actually creating intentional communities, using mutual aid as a factor of evolution and... and... and single-handedly fighting Big Oil.”
“You are the backbone of our society,” Melicent grins.
“Thank you, thank you! You know, my friend — who's ironically holding on to my motorbike at the moment — he gave me his bleeding brochure about mutual aid since I was lying around at home with nothing but free time, and he said he'd check what I’ve learned, too. I'm pretty sure he killed the queen.”
“No, I think that was me.”
“What?”
“I manifested it.”
“You’re joking.”
“That day I made the mistake of thinking that even the Queen’s death would not matter to me — and what do you know, she was officially dead forty-five minutes later while the two of us were on the phone. And it did in fact not matter to me.”
Branden cackles into his fist. “I hope you don’t get caught.”
“I know how to hide well.” They are driving along the roundabout — watching them from its centre is a stone Sherlock Holmes.
“While we were on the phone? When have we ever—Ah! You were taking Aurora to Glasgow, weren’t you? How is she doing? Settled in well, has she?”
Her whale suddenly turns into a submarine, every fathom of water above which Melicent feels on her back. Bloody Branden O’Donovan and the bloody nose he pokes where it doesn't belong!
Pull yourselves together, for goodness’ sake. Like she’s the first person in the whole wide world to be asked about something she didn’t want to talk about. A normal human question. How is she doing. There is a normal human response.
“She’s fine. She visited last week. She’s fine. Busy with classes and everything. You know how it is.”
‘You know how it is’ crawls off her tongue so unsightly that even she cringes. Is there something wrong with this phrase? Is it ‘you know how it goes’? Or is it that she has absolutely no idea if he knows, or if that’s how it is? Is it perhaps that even robots with rubber skin on top of metal plates have been taught to speak with a more pronounced intonation?
“I see,” Branden says after a pause.
It’s really over now. The batteries are completely dead, and not a single adequate phrase will come out of her anymore. They just turned onto the Leith Walk — still almost half the way ahead. This is a disaster.
Perhaps if there is music, the silence won’t be so judgmental? She mechanically presses the buttons — let it play, whatever it is.
Syrupy violins and flutes pick up the wave stopped halfway. The German ice queen continues the trills interrupted last time. For the second week in a row, it’s like Groundhog Day. She keeps forgetting to change the disc.
“Is this Nico?” Branden comes to life. Another one of his obvious questions. Nico's voice is rather unmistakable. “Sounds lovely. I haven't heard this song before, is it off the first album?” She nods. “I’m more familiar with her later stuff.”
“No wonder,” she grins.
His gasp scratches the air. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That her later albums sound like dirges of a medieval madman locked in a fortress tower. And you look like you’re into just that.”
“That makes two of us!” he protests, looking from his rosary to her. “Don’t you like this?”
“I never said that,” she turns down the volume to hear him better. “I like her voice and the harmonium on The Marble Index.”
“That’s your favourite one?” he is surprised. “It’s a little too all over the place for me — the arrangement, I mean. It’s as if there is her voice and harmonium, and then there’s the rest slapped on top, like the producer was hastily forcing some kind of rhythm into those cries.”
“He was. They recorded the entire album in four days. They’d start by taping the vocals and the harmonium, and for some reason she wouldn’t do one without the other. One producer stopped mixing at eight songs out of a planned twelve because he couldn't handle any more without feeling suicidal. That producer used to be a fire eater in the circus, but that’s neither here nor there,” she says. Oh look, now she’s found her tongue again? Precisely when there is a chance to dump a carload of music facts on a person’s head! Well, it’s better than nothing. If anything, Branden looks interested. “She personally said that these melodies came from her Russian soul.”
“She’s Russian?”
“No.”
He laughs. The crunch of dry leaves, a gruff rolling sound.
“Well, I’m glad they figured it out eventually, because Desertshore is much better, if you ask me. The melody just flows, there isn’t this... claustrophobia or something. I’m tongue-tied today,” he sighs with a wry smile. His voice fading for a second reminds her of those odd moments on the phone — gone in a blink of an eye. “And her following post-punk stuff was savage too, I like it. But The Marble Index doesn’t jive with me in some places.”
“I don’t think it’s supposed to ‘jive’, or to be an easy listen. It’s... very surrealist and quite harrowing,” she drawls. It’s also immensely lonely, she thinks. But he probably knows that already. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t like this album. Or perhaps not. She cannot claim to know this man or his sensibilities. Their conversations can be counted on one hand, even if, she realizes with something akin to wonder, they have known each other for several months now. “It’s unlike anything else — no wonder people in the seventies didn’t know what to make of it. But I’m not sure it’s the music to play in the car on the way home from work.”
“It’s for when you’re trying to lull a baby with the least comforting lullaby imaginable,” he smiles. The street floats behind his face. It’s been a long time since Melicent has seen the modest charm of Leith: they’ve been driving for a full minute and haven’t seen a single boutique yet. Scottish flags look out from the windows, and colourful cars huddle outside tiny Portuguese cafes. “I once had a CD called Music for Vampires. A friend gave it to me when I was... fifteen, I want to say. Can’t imagine where he got it from. And it had one of her songs, My Funny Valentine, and I just — aaaah! — when I heard it, it just clicked. Her voice is so deliciously droning, I just had to find out more. The funny thing is, looking back, that was one of her most ‘normal’ songs.”
“Because it’s a cover.”
“Oh really?”
God, by the end of the ride he’ll come out with a degree.
“It’s a classic jazz song from the 30s.”
“Oh, well, sorry, I’m not a jazz person, I wouldn’t know. Although I should have guessed — since the song’s about love, not about Genghis Khan’s funeral or something. Do you like jazz?”
“Not particularly.”
“Me neither. I’m all about darkwave, ethereal, and other stupid words. I think the jazziest person I can stand is Diamanda Galas. Now that’s a ghoul and a vampire. I can’t even imagine how old she is; she’s looked the same for the last forty years.”
Diamanda Galas... From what nook of a mind palace did he dig her up?
“You’re really goth, aren’t you?” she smiles despite herself.
His jaw drops. “No, I just dress this way so that parents force their children to take pictures with me.”
Now it’s her turn to be surprised. “Has that actually happened?”
“More than once! A couple of months ago too! This past summer — at the Fringe, yeah? A wee yin came up to me and thought I was in a play.”
“What did you do?”
“Struck a pose, obviously! Speaking of fringe — aren’t you? Goth, I mean.”
“Non-practiticing.”
“This fringe right here is very practicing.”
“It’s less than a year old,” she waves off. And adds, thinking a bit, “I was a goth as a teenager.”
“And what happened then?”
There must be a way to put it all in one sentence... Her head is pounding. Robin. Aurora. Robin. Aurora. Stefan.
“Then it was a matter of survival.”
She needs to set herself a day or a week to sit down and learn to lie, instead of saying things like this. It will save her so much trouble! At least small doses of lies, for her own good.
Branden is quiet for a second. “Ahh, I understand,” he drawls then, softly and wistful. Does he really now? “Some people just love to make our lives difficult, right? When you're a teen baby bat they say you’re just being a whiny child, when you’re thirty say, ‘Isn't this just for rebelling teenagers? You’re still doing that?’” he drops, his voice acidic “Or is it a partner situation? I’ve heard loads of those, too, unfortunately. At first they seem quite supportive — but then the second you get married they do a bait and switch and start drilling you, and before you know it, you’re wearing and doing what everyone else is wearing and doing, and a part of you is lost,” he says sadly. She gets a lump in her throat. “Until you find it again, of course,” Branden adds over the ringing in her ears. His face twists. “I must warn you that these people often end up getting divorced, for their own good. I’m sorry but it’s true.”
Drops of red on the windshield stop the car at an intersection. She turns her head. “Do you think I’m married?”
Two bloodshot eyes stare at her for a full second.
“No...?” he says hilariously hesitantly — and bursts out laughing. Melicent is choking her own. “Already divorced! See? What did I say?” he spreads his hands. There are white traces of paint on his fingers. “Welcome back! God. Could’ve have told me before I shittalked your non-existent partner for a full minute.”
“I did not want to interrupt. You obviously had a lot to say.”
Branden sinks into the seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. He comes to his senses only to warn about a forthcoming left turn due to construction work.
“So, you’re coming back to the subculture then?” he adds. “Need any help?”
“Will you combust if you don’t help someone for an hour?” Melicent sighs, failing to find any real annoyance.
“Yes, and it’s dangerous. I’m the backbone of society, remember? So if you ever decide to go to a goth club, I’m always ready to keep company. There’s plenty of good places around, and your humble servant knows some people.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” she tries out a lie. “Do you still have that CD? The one for vampires?”
“Oh! I should, if it didn't get lost during the move. I moved into that flat about a year ago, had to throw away a lot of old junk. Yes, right here. We’re almost there. Would you like me to get that CD for you?”
“No. For goodness’ sake, it was only a question.”
“Sorry! Now turn left again, please.”
“You live in a banana flat?” she blurts out.
Where exactly this building resemble bananas is a mystery. It takes more after a colossal concrete serpent — straight ahead, eating up the horizon. A weathered gray façade, decades of rain and wind, balconies jutting out like the rough scales of an urban dragon.
“M-hm. Doesn’t look like the rest of the city, does it? But there’s a lift, even if it hates me. And it’s surprisingly cheap even for local prices.”
“I bet it’s the reputation.”
“I bet it’s the reputation that the locals maintain to keep the strangers away. There are just as many hipsters and jakeys all around the city, and I've seen them all.”
They creep closer, and now the house takes up absolutely all the space around; any closer and they won’t see the sky. Like on a large sheet of scribbled copybook, endless rulings of identical balconies, endless narrowed eyes of windows, each both blind and watching.
“The perfect place to read up anarcho-communism, if you ask me,” Melicent drawls, and Branden grins.
“With Nico playing in the background... It’s only the outside. It’s better inside. You can stop right here,” he says near the red-painted steps. A large streetlight of many faces stares down at them. In the distance, a handful of lads are kicking a ball — the building seems to be towering over them. To think how close the apartments are to each other! Everyone can see and hear everything and... She is so taken by the sheer discomfort that accompanies the mere thought that she misses Branden opening the door of her big whale. Or their ride being over. “Maybe you’ll swing by?” he says through the rolled-down window. “I just realized I haven’t eaten since breakfast, you must be starving too.”
“No thanks.”
“As you wish. Thank you for the ride.”
That’s all? That was the ten minutes? That’s ridiculous. That’s not enough.
“Same time tomorrow?”
“...Ah, right!” he smiles, floating back from one of his ‘moment’. “I think I’ll be all done tomorrow. I’ll try to find the disc, maybe we can listen to it on the way! There’s some Cocteau Twins and Dead Can Dance, that’s really more up my alley. What do you think?”
She thinks about the biscuits and which roads to take tomorrow.
“Deal.”
“Deal!”