As a kid, you used to love cycling along the beach. The frothy sea chopped and slapped. If the tide was out, you’d cycle across the sand, free-wheeling. With a wild wind blowing and your legs whirling, there was nothing to stop you falling off the edge of the horizon.
One day, you turned onto the sand and nearly fell off your bike. Are they a mirage? You couldn’t take your eyes off them – elephants on the beach, six of them trunk to tail, whooshing geysers. A man scrubbed them with a big brush. One trumpeted; you could tell they liked it. They paddled and swung their legs and tails, squirting and splashing, having fun. Their heaviness was lifted, like big, grey balloons set free. You hung around until the man marched them back in line. You shook your head, smiling. Thinking of them made you happy.
You wanted to see the elephants again, so went to Blackpool circus under the Tower, where they lived. They were kept in the dark, cooped up in small cages. Their dead eyes spoke of misery. They cowered, nudging the comfort of cold bars. You prayed the elephants could shut their eyes and remember, remember that day on the beach – the day when they were free.
Peering out your grimy window, you think about the elephants a lot. Everything in the city is grey, the sky and streets a pencil-scribbled mess. Winter is lasting forever, you long for sunshine, warmth and colour – you need something to look forward to. A clock ticks, you try to get back to your revision but the words bump and jump on the page. You pull your cardigan tight around your shoulders. The city damp gnaws your bones. You put your head on the desk and close your eyes. You let yourself drift.
You jumpstart awake with clanging bins being emptied outside. A fly slowly climbs up the grubby windowpane. You roll up a practice exam paper and splat it. The yellow goo stains the window, hanging snottily. You watch it drop. Flies are the most dangerous animals in the world, you know that. They carry germs, millions of germs. Poisons are floating in the air, up your nasal passages, down your throat, in your lungs, through your bloodstream. You can feel it happening, you’re buzzing.
Your head pings a kaleidoscope of colours, miles of winking rainbows. It helps you see what’s happening with the germs. They’re a flickering wildfire running over brushwood that you can’t see. No one can, but it’s burning, catching the air, spreading, getting ready to kill.
You jump up out of your room, and slam the door to contain them. You need to act fast, to clean that room, disinfect and bleach it. You have to do it now. You grab your flatmate’s coat and run out in slippers. You can’t risk infection going back in that room. You hurry downstairs, wondering whether you’ll be able to buy one of those masks they wear in epidemics. Would they be in a chemist or supermarket? You fall into a drizzling evening, shoving past people. All the time germs will be multiplying. You don’t look at faces, there are too many eyes.
In the shops, the aisles are full of steamy people. Arms touch, you flinch away – you could infect them all. Someone holds your arm, you shake them off.
‘Hey, slow down, it’s me – Suzie.’ A girl on your course stares. ‘Are you okay?’
You pull away. ‘Sorry, I’m in a hurry.’
Suzie runs alongside. ‘Wait up, you look terrible.’
You push her. ‘Piss off.’
You skid past perfume, hair products and cosmetics. You run to the nearest till, interrupting, ‘Where’s the bleach?’
A woman in the queue tuts loudly. The girl points you to the left aisle. You screech up and find the bleach at last. You grasp three bottles; you’ll blast the place, annihilate the proliferation. There’s a long queue at the till. You twitch, waiting. You fumble in your flatmate’s coat pockets, not sure if there’s any money. There’s no time to waste. The spores will be multiplying, the room a death trap. You need to get back to stop the spread. You shift from one foot to another. An old woman at the front of the queue is trying to pay in change. She drops her coins. You can’t wait any longer. You run. Someone shouts. You weave, hugging the bleach close, jogging fast.
You get in, throw the coat off, hold your breath. You go full frontal assault, bleaching all hard surfaces in your room. You squirt neat bleach on the window, watch it cut a trail through the infected minefield. You run out to breathe – deep breaths then run back in. You do this again and again, risking your life for others. Your hands burn and blister, you don’t care. You only stop when you run out of bleach. You can’t rest, body twitching. They might be still lurking, the killers.
Your flatmate, Dee, rolls home, drunk as usual. ‘Christ, it smells like a chemical fall-out in here. What the hell happened?’
‘I had to disinfect everywhere; we were covered in germs. It was disgusting. They were everywhere, flies, multiplying. God knows if we’ll get through this.’
‘Where are the flies now then?’
You tell her, ‘I think I’ve got it under control. It spurted out, but–’
Dee interrupts. ‘It? There was one fly?’
‘One fly, millions of germs, literally millions.’
‘Oh Christ, you really are nuts.’
Dee goes into her room, where Den, her spotty boyfriend, is hovering. He taps the side of his head. ‘Eggshell, could crack any minute.’ He smirks and slams the door.
You go to your room and shiver, hands red raw. You lie under the covers, and hear other flies but never see them. They are increasingly conniving, perhaps a new species. You need to be vigilant.
In the morning, about 4.30am, you get up. You go for a jog. You feel so alive. Today is a God-given day. You know you’re chosen for something special. When you get back, you’re starving. You eat nearly a whole packet of muesli. When the milk runs out, you have it dry, handful after handful. You look at your books; you know it all. The formulae and calculi, they’re in your head. You have theories, new theories not even dreamed of. You go out to see if there’s anywhere open to buy milk, you’re still hungry.
You jog again, a mean, lean running machine, running with the grace and beauty of an athlete through alleys and moonlit streets. A young lad staggers towards you, he’s drunk. You think he’s cute, and there’s no one else around. You run up to him. ‘Hi,’ you say, licking your lips. The dark streets are deserted. ‘Let’s do it, here and now.’ You’re horny as hell. You stick your tits out. ‘I said hi.’
‘Huh? Do I know you?’ He burps.
‘No, but you could.’ You pout, run your hand down the front of his shirt. It’s damp. You like that – hot and sticky. You run your hand further down, rub his crotch.
He jumps back. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’
‘Come on, big boy’ – pulling his hand onto your breast – ‘come on, let’s fuck.’
‘I can’t, I’m too sick.’ He leans against the wall to stop falling over. He smells of beer and puke, you don’t care. You’re desperate for some dick; you want shafting hard. You put your lips to his, open your mouth.
‘I can’t.’ He pushes away, staggering. You want to hit him, want to screw him. You hear him throw up.
You leave and run again. You come to someone huddled in a doorway, he smells bad. His voice rasps and his fingers are brown with fags. He’s rough, he thinks you’re a dream and might pop and disappear. He shags you like dogs in the streets do; sixty seconds flat. After, you wonder what his name is.
Nowhere is open. There’s a bottle of milk on a doorstep, you grab it and run home. The sky is blood red. It’s a good sign for you.
Back at the flat, you gobble more muesli. You write a poem, then another, then another. Your mind is electric, alive. You begin to get theories down on paper, they’re vitally important. You don’t have time to go for your exams, there’s too much to do. You have papers all over your room, and paintings. You’re expressing theories in visual terms – they are masterpieces. You don’t have time to sleep.
Interfering Suzie calls in the middle of your major discovery. ‘I’ve been so worried about you,’ she says.
‘Why?’ You try to keep the formulae in your head. You mustn’t let them slip away.
‘Can I come in?’
‘No, I’m busy, I’m very busy.’
‘Aren’t you going to come in for your exam?’
‘I’m too busy.’ You try to shut the door.
‘What are you working on?’ asks Suzie, her foot in the door.
‘Electricity.’
‘Show me.’
You’re bursting to tell someone, someone who’ll recognise your brilliance. Suzie’s not stupid; she’s been getting firsts throughout the course. You show her how you can generate electricity yourself in your own body. You make palm sparks, showing Suzie how it shoots. You can tell Suzie is impressed. She’s dumbstruck and nods, staring. Suzie backs away, amazed. She leaves in awe. She understands now why you can’t waste time on exams or anything.
When they come, you know they want to steal your ideas. You realise you should never have let anyone know until your work was finished. You grind your teeth. You’ve been foolish.
They flick a switch and fill you with their electricity to get rid of yours.
You learn to patch a memory with notions, to juggle hours and listen to ghosts. To be another face and forget what day your birthday is. Your stick bones stab the bed, limbs stripped bald and bare. You stumble over the white, cold tiles with muffled words. You wonder if you’ll ever feel warm again.
You spend hours making small, wicker stools. You weave, worry, pick and pluck blue threads into twisted plaits.
In time, you remember the difference between day and night. You learn to watch the sky and follow birds. You notice white flowers nudging aside the dark, each day reaching for light. Your tears surprise you as drops of hope.
You yearn for the sea and air, for the wide horizon and bluest, blue sky. You’re hungry for wind and rain. No windows or doors, no metal bars.
After a million cups of tasteless tea, you’re allowed to leave.
You walk along the beach and pick up a pearly shell; it looks like an angel’s ear fallen out of the pink spring sky. You wonder how old it is, holding nothing inside but a few grains of sand. You listen to the whispering sea while the waves lick your toes. You shut your eyes and throw your head back, remembering that darkest winter. In hospital, you told one of the doctors about the elephants on the beach. You knew he didn’t believe you; he nodded and said, ‘Hmmm’ – like they all did. You jump waves and taste salt on your lips. You enjoy the clean, soft sand blowing against your bare legs in little bites. You take big gulps of fresh air and smile, remembering how much the elephants loved splashing and frolicking in the morning sun. You remember how good it is to be free.