my legs all fizzy

if they knew the seat was wet they’d send the birds away. And then I’ll never find him

and

4 February 1997

Afsana

The air stings. I pull my scarf up over my mouth. The sky is blue, but winter blue. Sharp and mean. Not a single cloud. I lock the door and walk away from the flat, along the gravel by the hundred-year-old houses. The bay windows, and special parking permits, sitting right at the top of the hill so they can look down on everyone else. I follow their gaze. Down to the river, the green bowl of the park, the bandstand and the gatehouse and the Japanese garden. Dog walkers and people training for charity fun-runs and the man on the bench with his head in his hands like he’s just heard some terrible news.

Ewan has a lot time for the Victorians. They had vision, a sense of the future. They planted the avenue of trees by the river knowing full well they wouldn’t live to see it mature. ‘There’s something impressive about that isn’t there?’ he said once, ‘leaving a legacy for the next generation, building something that’ll last for hundreds of years after you’re gone.’ We were in the flat one Saturday, taking a break from revision. Drinking coffee. I nodded. I was thinking about Baba, and the surah about rewards after death. So many ways to cement your place in paradise. Building a mosque, planting a date palm, leaving behind a righteous child who’ll pray for you after you’ve gone.

‘Come with me,’ he said. He seemed excited, eager like he got sometimes when he was talking about something he loved. I followed him across the room and he opened the door to the bedroom. I hesitated. I didn’t want him to know what I was thinking. So I went in. Everything was too neat. Just an alarm clock on the bedside table. The wardrobe and drawers shut flush. The beige carpet newly hoovered. Like a hotel, or at least like I imagined a hotel to be. He stood by the window and pulled the blinds up. No dust on the sill. The light coming in, shining on the white walls.

‘Look,’ he said. And I did. I stood right next to him so our arms were almost touching. This same view, just cut up a bit by the window frames, blocked by the roofs of all the posher houses. The trees were green that day. There were tulips in the borders and the river wasn’t quite as high.

‘Designed to last,’ he said and I thought about Baba talking to his friends about the British. The English Viscount who carved up their country by drawing a pencil line on an out-of-date map. Ewan looked at me, grinning. He said, ‘so what do you think of my back garden?’