Author’s Note: Ask any writer and they will show you the scrap heap residing in their notebooks and USB sticks: the half-written novels, the abandoned poems, the forgotten sentences. Just as a woodsman will keep old chairs to mine for gold, a writer keeps their dead-ends in hopes that they birth a new, sparkling baby.
Project Apple was a short story / potential novella I was working on many months ago. I eventually came to a halt and the story went on ice. I still really like elements of it, such as the opening few lines, but I can’t see a way through. I am working on different projects for the meantime, but I am open to returning to it at some point.
If I was able to go back, my childhood bedroom would likely be filled with carcasses: those mini stories I had ran through and discarded. There are old school books with writing assignments in them. In Year 3, we were all told we had to write a fictional story about a spider in a rainforest. My imagination ran wild and I was so excited to create this imaginary story.
We must wonder what happens to all these stragglers and strays pulled from the mine and immortalised in a ZIP file or leather notebook. Is there a purgatory for abandoned ideas?
They find her with maggots crawling out of the fresh holes they had made. They say she must have been there for a week, but the hot weather sped up the fire of decomposition. Nobody knows her name or where she came from, but the furniture store will never open again, that’s for sure. When I was younger, I stuffed a slimy lollipop down one of the cushions. Before we could leave, one of the workers found it and made mom pay a hefty fine. She sent me to bed without supper for two weeks. I lost over a stone in weight and social services came to take me away. She had to prove she could look after me before I was returned.
Now I live across the road from the store. Through my window I see the royal blue of crime scene tape decorating the entrance. Two officers are eating sandwiches in their patrol car. I wonder what they’re eating. Egg and Cress? Tuna Mayo? A forensic tent sways on its pitch. Edging closer to the window, my breath creates a film, thus obscuring my view. What if they see me? With my sleeve I swipe the window, accidentally making a noise. Nobody moves a muscle. The officers are still eating and the tape bats against the glass like a confused bird.
In the evening, I cannot stomach the oven-baked garlic bulb. I squeeze the pulp from its cocoon and gag over the sink. It ferments on a china plate, emanating a bush-stink. The flat is a waste land, but the flashing lights still cast shadows on my wall. They’ll be over there for days—possibly weeks. We’ll be unlikely neighbours. I should open the window, but I can’t let them see me. Things are never so quiet in Arnold Lane.
* * *
In the morning, I pass the tent, the tape, and the ocean of bulletproof vests on my way to the library. I know the uneaten bulb must be suffocating the flat, and I’ll probably have the landlord on my case, but he doesn’t understand what I know. My umbrella is up even though it’s not raining. The fishmonger gives me his two finger salute like the judge of a talent show. The library is three tram stops away. I’ve been working there since I was sixteen. They hired me after noticing how often I spent there—I couldn’t say yes fast enough.
Everyone can’t stop talking about the woman in the furniture store. I have no time for gossip. We don’t know a single thing, but we talk as if we do. The coroner will examine her today. What if the maggots fall off the table? What if she comes apart? Opening time is usually underwhelming, so I take myself off to the room of rare books. Seeing them each morning is like meeting old friends. My coworkers hate that I don’t involve myself in their lives; they despise my distance. Coming in this morning forced a dozen knives in my back.
I set about fixing the shelves, and a colleague comes over to me. Don’t ask me.
“Apple…I know you live near the—”
“I know as much as you do.”
She turns to walk away, but not before ‘accidentally’ spilling my mug of coffee. I feel that foreboding burn in my eyes. I’m not supposed to lock myself in, but I refuse to cross enemy lines. Through the glass, I notice a customer at the front desk. They flail their arms and point towards me. You rarely see such scorn on a person’s face, though it is more common these days. We are busy drowning in our boats, leaving little time to rise the tide.
Forced to go over and help, I understand the customer was turned away from my section on a previous visit. My colleague passes the baton to me when she asks (insists), “Apple, this is your department, is it not?” I try to explain that the rare books section remains only for paying members, but the customer slams his hand down on the desk. Our security team has him swiftly removed and I can breathe again; my gills ripple like freshly fallen rain.
At lunch I swing by the newsagents and pick up a paper. Flipping to page 16, I see a blown-up picture of a woman I recognise.
Police have identified the body found in Flanders’ Furnishings as sixty-three year old Kelly Quinn.
The music of the street reverberates. My heart is an army climbing a mountain. My arms feel like tree roots. I have to go home. I need to go home.
* * *
It’s hard to sleep in the fug of a garlic bulb. My phone is its own symphony.
—Apple, you can’t do this.
—I had to find a replacement.
—We need to talk.
The ocean of bulletproof vests swim like fish. They’ll be knocking on the door soon. I don’t know what to tell them. I didn’t see a thing. When I sleep, I smatter whisky across my gums and stick plugs in my ears. If there is a fire, I will lose myself to ash. I don’t want to talk about Kelly Quinn. She is the reason I moved here in the first place. I managed to build my shell and she is going to chisel away at it.
The buzzer goes. I let them in and offer refreshments. I despise uncomfortable silence. The curtains are closed and the candles have been lit.
“So, how can I help?”
They observe as I bounce my knee up and down. Officer B writes something in his notepad while Officer A sighs.
“…I’m afraid I have some bad news. The body we found across the road has been identified as your mother, Kelly Quinn.”
That familiar wave of sickness comes over me. I rub the sweat from my forehead.
“I realise this may come as a shock, but we do need to ask you some questions.”
My hands begin to shake. I try to stop myself from vomiting. Officer B hands me a glass of water. My blood feels cold.
“What—what do you want to know?”
“When was the last time you saw Miss. Quinn?”
I grip the glass.
“…I haven’t seen her for five years.”
Officer A looks over to the sink. They can smell it.
“…I’m sorry about the smell. I’m bad at cooking,” I stutter.
“Apple, I understand this is hard, but we need you to cooperate with our investigation”
I knock the glass of water over. It spills onto Officer A’s lap.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me just…”
I grab a cloth and hand it to him. He snatches it from me. Officer B repositions himself.
“Apple, why won’t you talk to us?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I haven’t spoken to Kelly in years.”
“If you don’t answer our questions, I will have no choice but to arrest you.”
“You can’t do that. I know my rights.”
The officers stand up.
“Perhaps today isn’t a good time, but we will be back. And I’m sure you want to find out what happened to your mother, don’t you…”
I watch them from the window, which has steamed up because of the candles. Everything smells of spiced apples. I find grief far more palatable under the cloak of comfort. I scratch my scalp violently, biting my lip like a dog with a bone. The rivets of rain glide across my window. The tape at Flanders’ is moth-bitten now. A border loses its shine when the initial buzz passes, when everyone has gotten bored and moves on to the next bloody corpse.
I’m sure everyone at work has found out by now. I can’t go back to work. They are bees who pounce for a lick of honey. I have enough money for the rest of the week, so that should see me through until I decide what to do.
Courtenay's Corner 