a sky of slate

Outside rain clods the sky heavy and dirty. Maise and Brendan come in.

"Only in fucking england eh?" says Julie. She tugs at a packet of Embassy. Mark watches the way she tugs the lid and he watches the way her fingers look as they tear the cardboard. He watches, and because he does not like it, he watches some more.

(The last case he worked on involved a young student getting beaten with a bar in a squash court. Mark remembers the stains on the wall, abstracts of meaning and he remembers that the murderer had used the end of the bar to gouge the students eyeballs out. He remembers how she looked, with the squash balls in her eyes. He remembers how the fingers of his boss twitched as he spoke and Mark remembers thinking how he knew he was going to have to be the one who kept calm, who kept things clear and saw things truly, and he remembers how he failed. And because he doesn't like what he remembers, he remembers some more knowing only that when he gets home and gets Maise asleep, so she has made it safe through the day, it will be alright)

"It was fucking hot this morning"

"Only in Manchester" says Mark "There's a drought down south apparently.l It was on the radio"

"Fuckers should plant wheat here. They should tear down this estate, plant their fucking wheat here and we could go and live in fucking sussex. Win win"

"But you hate the south"

Jenny sighs, like he has said something else, like he has said something else entirely

"Yeah, well"

She lights her cig and Mark forces himself to take a glug of the hot green tea. Its worse every time.

"mmm" he says

"You're a terrible liar" and Jenny smiles, and this time it's like he's said something else entirely too, but something good. She smiles

"Hows it going sis"

"Well, you know. Credit card debt, alzheihmers, unemployment and pm fucking t"

"Could be worse"

"yeah i could be a man" His sister tries on trends like a teenager tries on clothes; rapidly and with a sense that, no matter how hard they try, they'll still look ridiculous. She has always been a lesbian, an activist, a student and an artist. But whatever she has claimed to believe in, to Mark, she's always been his big sister, essentially the same except for the shit hair cuts.

Recently, though, she's been depressed and Mark is worried by this. He's worried by how worried he is.

They go through. Normally he would make some sarcastic remark about her doing tai chi or whatever the fuck it was while listening to the pan pipes of tibet or whatever the fuck it was. Instead, as she sits on the bean bag he sits on the hard kitchen chair and they listen to the music. The chiming stops. The next disk comes on, it is the sound of rain

"Oooh, switch this off, it always makes me want to go for a piss" says Jackie.

"So" she says after wards "Three months to the day eh"

Mark doesn't say anything. He knows all about grief and he knows all about silence too. He knows about bodys and their rate of decompostion, which is why he had his wife cremated.

He looks at the bright walls of the kitchen. He and Maise scattered Lilly's ashes on Derwent water, though Masie didn't really know what she was doing. He remembers the way there was a sudden change in the wind direction as the ashes were being released and the ashes blew over them both. He remembers the face Maisie made when she tasted them and hopes that she'll grow up into the sort of girl who'll he'll be able to tell this story too.


He notices the way he is holding the handle of his cup and, after a few seconds and two deep breaths, he manages to relax

"yes" he says. Neither of them are speaking but the room is not quiet. Its only a cheap house and the walls are thin. They can hear the noises their children are making as they play on the stairs. Though they cannot see then, therefore, they still know their children are there, are present.

Unlike Lilly.

Outside the sky darkens, its a sea of slate coloured heavy clouds.

"How's work" asks Jenny. She's shy asking about his work, Mark wonders whether it is that she hasn't got anything to say or else that what she has to say is so vast she dare not say it

They talk about his work until it is time to go