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  A guard acting as referee blew the whistle, but it was too late. Harris grabbed a yellow-handled screwdriver from her pocket, stabbing into Nesrine’s throat in one quick motion. The din rose. Nesrine fell to the ground, hands on her throat as blood spurted. Her legs jerked. Homer’s head shot out of the hole. Harris was dragged away by the guard, her pockmarked face beet red, her buzz cut defiant in the air. The court erupted. The other prisoners dashed into the centre. The two teams fought, turning on each other, ready to leap off the court and take a different warpath through the trembling goal net.

  Nesrine bled into the crack of joy redemption had offered, then cruelly snatched away. There would be no postcard to Eros that month. Having escaped, bearing a puncture wound in its head, the thing from Nesrine’s throat stumbled in the light of the grey world, winded, in search of another moist home.

  Five days later, just past 10pm, the statue of Eros hopped off the top step at Piccadilly, clutching Nesrine’s final postcard. His head fell, the pain in his chest was so intense he thought it would split him in two. He felt sad and powerless. He knew there would be no more postcards to intercept from the bright angles of the morning. His footsteps were heavy on his way down as Piccadilly Circus buzzed around him. Huge, brightly lit billboards blinded from all directions beaming Sanyo! TDK! Coca-Cola! The concrete steps usually heaving with bodies were fairly empty except for a homeless man curled up in the middle of the bottom one.

  Morning arrived and cradled Eros sitting on a park bench cold against his back his hands, turning over Nesrine’s postcard. Anger rose inside him, pulled the corners of his mouth down. His limbs had a stiffness he needed to walk off.

  A plan took shape in the white curls of the clouds. He decided to head to Leicester Square where the statue of Charlie Chaplin awaited him. Charlie on his stone plinth was splendid in his signature tramp ensemble, right hand wielding a cane.

  Eros hopped onto the plinth, placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder and settled his cold lips on Charlie’s ear, whispering, “I need your help, I’ve lost someone. The half of my heart I have left can’t bear the pain, unless I do something. I need you to keep my spirits up.” His voice cracked.

  Charlie’s lids flickered; he wiggled his fingers, made an “Ahhh” noise as he spotted a lone man in a blue windbreaker barking into a phone.

  Eros grabbed Charlie, holding up the postcard. “This is what I have of her.”

  Charlie read the postcard, a wistful expression on his face. “I can see her. I can feel her spirit. Can I tear a bit of this off?” he asked, ignoring the increasing noise of the city coming to life.

  “Why?” Eros asked. “you didn’t know her.”

  “But you’ve shown me a piece of her so I want it too.”

  Eros nodded. Charlie ripped the left corner off and slipped the piece into his pocket. Eros took the postcard back. “That’s the prison address.” He pointed at Nesrine’s scribble in the right corner. They both stared at the postcard as if it would transform into a blind, winged thing.

  Charlie took his hat off, scratched his head. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I have to get something that belongs to me now.”

  “Who should come with us?”

  “Let’s ask Nahla. Nesrine mentioned her in an old postcard. She never got to see her.”

  They jumped off the plinth. The grass surrounding them went bald. The pigeons shedding their grey for the pavements began to peck at each other frenetically.

  Eros and Charlie travelled on to Stockwell Memorial Gardens where the statue of a black woman stood. Nahla The Bronze Woman. Ten feet tall and holding her baby boy high above her head. Her gift to him was flight. On the ground, there would be ways and means to deny him this. She told them she’d already traced the shapes of Nesrine’s lost dreams. She too tore a piece from the postcard, slipping it beneath her tongue.

  Next, they stopped by the Vomiting Fountain Sculpture. His white lips and hands trembled to life as he was handed the final piece of the postcard. His dark, misshapen body was rough to touch. He heaved then; yellow bile from his throat coated the pavement. On they went, the Vomiting Sculpture catching all the ailments Nesrine was yet to have experienced, a revolving door of sickness; the flu she would have gotten in the early part of the year aged twenty-seven, the thrush that would have had her rubbing small blobs of Canestine cream on the brown-pink folds of her vagina, tonsillitis. The sharp stomach cramps she’d have gotten from food poisoning, the vomit from her stomach as a result. The Vomiting Statue inherited these illnesses that would become poisonous black mushrooms with bulbous heads.

  The statues continued as a group. They marched on, creating a flurry that swept over the city. People pointed, fascinated. Some brought out their mobile phones to take pictures or film them. Others touched their faces and bodies gently, as though they were made of porcelain. Staring as if the earth they knew had tricked them, as if anything or anyone could take on a different corporality and come to life.

  Over the next five hours, they made their way towards Woodowns Women’s Prison on the outskirts of Chelmsford. They trekked across motorways, bridges, through underpasses and along bike trails. Now and again, they stopped for breaks; drinking from brooks or park ponds, watching their reflections’ mouths glimmering in the water.

  The statues arrived at Woodowns at 10pm. The prison sat on a lengthy, remote stretch of road. A few rusted lampposts along the grey tarmac looked like pitiful light bearers from a bleak dystopian future.

  The statues fished out coins they’d borrowed from a supermarket coin machine. They placed them in their mouths, swallowing heads or tails as they edged closer to the prison, a large brown bricked building. There were no barbed wire fences surrounding it or huge gates as one might have expected. Instead, there was a circular parking area for visitors and a big green sign bearing arrows and directions to the various blocks. A white water fountain sat just outside the closed reception area. They took turns drinking from it, watering the coins inside catching fragments of light from the day. At the top of the road was an old, abandoned post office building, boarded up and decorated with patches of graffiti. Several minutes from the prison, a bowling alley closed for a few months for refurbishment had a neon sign that read Welcome to Walley’s! and a winking, red-headed woman shaped like Jessica Rabbit leaning against the exclamation mark.

  The statues continued, the particles of a tiny planet assembling inside them. Several steps behind the fountain lay an underground tunnel leading inside the prison, hidden by a heavy, circular metal lid and copper bars that bore the imprint of frustrated hands that had had to turn back. Eros pulled the lid off and the Vomiting Statue prized the six bars open slowly, one by one. They entered the tunnel, assisting each other as a cold shaft of air welcomed them. It was dark, dank and bore the smell of rot and the echoes of things lost. The Vomiting Statue threw up, then pulled from the sick a red ruby stone that shone brightly to guide them. On their left were some wires covered in blood. Crisp packets floated on the thin layer of dirty water on the ground, rats scurried into the silvery insides to eat reflections of themselves. The footsteps of the many plucky prisoners who had attempted escape, running to meet their doom, had long faded. Holding those bars angrily, they’d cried as the injuries in their blood became small creatures leaping through the bars’ gaps, into the world out there beyond them.

  The statues heard these echoes as they made way, knocking torches with batteries that had failed to fuel the last legs of escape, scooping floating matchsticks missing fires consumed by the cruelty of fate. Eros began to whistle Tracy Chapman’s “Talkin’ Bout A Revolution”, one of Nesrine’s favourite songs. The other statues joined in. It travelled through the air, into the ears of prisoners in Block B, who slowly uncurled their bodies from their bunks, listening intensely. The statues left the tunnel through its exit on the exercise court of Block B; drab, grey and boasting two netball goalposts at either end with nets that trembled, having caught the many daily
conversations that slipped into cracks.

  A cardboard sign reading No Banned Items allowed blew onto the court. Charlie Chaplin took over holding the ruby, signaling the others, placing a finger over his lips. He spotted the thing from Nesrine’s throat raising its small, slimy arms towards them. Charlie took his hat off, scooped it up. Phlegm-coloured and sickly-looking, it pointed at the building by the side of the court.

  They followed the building round, till they found themselves at the entrance of the smoking area by the guards’ hub which had been left open. Inside, a small cluster of guards sat before CCTV screens, watching them intermittently, batons on the table, blue shirt collars undone, keys hanging from slack belt holders. Relaxed in their glass cubicle, the guards had not spotted the statues’ slow infiltration. There was no camera on the court and therefore no feed to pick them up for two to three minutes, allowing a good window of time to make their approach. The CCTV footage flickered as though being interrupted. Two guards snoozing at one corner table were left unaware. The other two keeping watch were eating doughnuts and drinking watered down cups of coffee.

  Eros and Charlie Chaplin leapt through the glass into the cubicle. Bits of glass showered the thing from Nesrine’s throat, like diamonds shimmering over a small mutant. The guards jerked in their seats, shocked. Two guards spat out mouthfuls of doughnut, scraping their chairs back quickly, spilling coffee on their uniforms. The others had woken abruptly, drool drying on the corners of their mouths and yelled, “What is this? Stand back! You’re looking at serious charges for this.”

  The CCTV screens flickered again, playing footage of prisoners from the cameras’ blind spots; scratching their faces in the showers, deliberately burning their hands in huge pots of tasteless soup they’d stirred till the ache in their shoulders began to travel to other parts of their bodies, crying over pictures of loved ones that had changed somehow over time. The statues ushered the guards into an empty cell, locking them in, swiping their keys.

  The prisoners of Block B started to whistle loudly, knocking their bars insistently using shoes, books, stolen cutlery, pipe bars, their limbs poised in excitement at what was to come. The thing from Nesrine’s throat led Eros and the other statues to Nesrine’s now empty cell. It sat on her dented bed, leaving a yellow stain. Eros raised the mattress till the thing was perched at an angle, lifted Nesrine’s blue diary from beneath, held it tightly. They left Nesrine’s cell, opened other cell gates. Female prisoners flooded out, bedtime wear rumpled, waving their items like flags.

  “This is crazy!” one prisoner yelled. “Who are they?”

  “It’s Eros, Nesrine did this! Another answered. Nesrine made this happen.”

  The prisoners stared at the statues in wonder, then started to chant, “Nesrine, Nesrine, Nesrine!”

  They charged at the statues. The thing from Nesrine’s throat ran amongst them, growing stronger from their energy. A heady shot to the puncture wound in its head. Its limp wrist pulled the echoes of Nesrine’s laughter and the tip of a screwdriver scraping a thorny bottom. Eros ushered everybody back onto the court, through the tunnel and out onto the street. He raised Nesrine’s diary in the air which spawned a fresh burst of chanting her name from the prisoners. They jostled amongst each other, excitement building, their chatter rising. The statues led them to the bowling alley; they broke in through a back window. They flicked the lights on, filling the building with brightness.

  Prisoner 1046, Sunny Whittaker, in for GBH switched the CD player on. Prisoner 2017, Delilah Armstrong, in for armed robbery took a group to the lanes where they separated into teams bowling with glee, sliding their bodies down on the floor, throwing the balls with abandon. Prisoner 2246, Arlena Mattieu, in for murder led another group to the games room. They took turns leaping on the trampolines, stretching their hands out to smaller versions of themselves running through the lights, holding bits of debris from the lost scenes in their lives. Another group surrounded the snooker table, shooting coloured balls into the mouths of ghosts.

  At the lanes, the prisoners waiting to bowl exchanged their favourite memories of Nesrine; like the time she organised a sports day of ridiculous activities after spending weeks convincing the governor to let her do it, or the year she arranged a secret Valentine’s evening where the prisoners could be each other’s dates and exchange cards and gifts they’d made, or even the annoying way she always had to beat everybody during their exercise hour on the court in the mornings, covering it so quickly, as if something she’d built the night before was chasing her, high on some unidentifiable fuel. They celebrated her. They broke the vending machines, staining their tongues with Skittles and warm chocolate.

  The statues started to whistle again. The music changed. The Ronnettes’ “Walking in The Rain” blared from the speakers. Everywhere, the prisoners danced; in the bowling lanes, at the slot machines, on snooker tables, by the shoe lockers, at the trampolines, by the fake lottery machines where the balls looked like black eyes. By now, the ruby stone had been passed to Nahla the bronze woman statue; it sat gleaming between her breasts.

  In the early hours, Eros and the statues led the prisoners into the streets, down dawn’s memory of the night before.

  Having fallen in love with Nesrine the moment her heart broke, Eros held onto her diary as though salvation lay within it. Bits of corroded flesh gathered within the void in his chest. He read the pages in sly concrete gaps longing, wanting, crying, while the thing from her throat now powerful, uglier, spilled bits of another earth all over the city.

  Anonymous Jones

  Published in the letters section of the defender website, 04/05/2007

  Dear all,

  This is why I hate endings. Sometimes you don’t get to choose how the story goes. I was fired from my job two years ago. Soon after it happened, my then-boyfriend ended our relationship with a single sentence: “I’m not sure I want to be with you anymore.” I honestly couldn’t think what put him off. Was it because I often pretended my life was like a badly dubbed kung-fu movie? Or that I once admitted to responding to an advert in the paper for female wrestlers when I was low on cash? Or that I still had my invisible friend from age five as a twenty-four-year-old? It seemed short-sighted and a shame to throw the friendship away.

  I shared my innermost thoughts and secrets with this man. I told him about the school camping trip when a classmate accidentally set my hair on fire playing with matches (luckily our teacher had a bottle of water in her bag), that I was once hospitalized for three days after winning an extreme chilli eating competition, and that the words levitation and abracadabra make me happy because they’re loaded with possibilities.

  We broke up the day I got fired. For that extra cruelty, for his incredible knack of bad timing, I dreamt about holding his head up to the windows of restaurants filled with unsuspecting couples warning, ‘’Don’t believe a word out of each other’s mouths. Your good intentions mean nothing!” It wasn’t only the way the relationship ended that made me angry, but also the point at which it happened in my life. I worried that my Alsatian dog By Golly Wow would be the only good thing left in my world. He’s a funny dog, he loves listening to The Stylistics which is why I named him after their song and he howls whenever fireworks go off on New Year’s Eve. He curls under my feet while I watch TV and keeps me company during restless, late night walks.

  The job I was booted from was charity fundraising. Funny I got fired from a job I had only taken as a last resort. Bizarrely, people treat you like scum when you’re a street fundraiser and marginally less so when you do door-to-door work. I’d been doing residential sign-ups. It was really hard work, we had to deal with cold conditions, unpredictable weather, being on your feet for five to six hours at a time and the constant reality of turning up to work to find half of the team had been fired or quit. After a slow start, I improved rapidly, hitting and surpassing daily targets. I had more doors slammed in my face than I ever imagined. My favourite rejection came from a cranky guy in his late
thirties: “Is this another thing for kids in Africa? I’m sick of being made to feel guilty about that with the constant bombardment of adverts showing these kids with flies around their mouths! I don’t give a shit about that right now. My wife just left me. Someone should donate to my charity. How about that? Mike Edwards: I need some help. Now get lost.”

  Three weeks into the gig we were on a road in Earlsfield, the team spread out; my supervisor Jaruk a couple of doors down from me. I was chatting to this woman who must have been five or six months pregnant. I wasn’t sure if she was taking the bait since she had steel in her eyes. Usually, you can tell within the first two minutes of a pitch whether someone will sign up for a monthly donation but I couldn’t gauge her. She invited me in. She seemed fairly well-off; she wore a striped Monsoon maternity dress, the floors of the house were wooden and the ceilings high. The living room was large and tastefully decorated with a fireplace and some expensive-looking china in a cabinet. A painting hung on the wall of a really old white man with an elaborate moustache dressed in a suit, who looked as if he could keel over any minute.

  I was giving her my winning spiel but throughout I was actually dying to go to the toilet. After six minutes of persuasion, I couldn’t hold it anymore, so I asked to go and left my stuff against the sofa. Three minutes later, I came out only to discover her casually riffling through my things, my wallet in hand.