2am: Margaret fumbles for her varifocals and peers down into the cul-de-sac. “I’ll get his number plate. There’s a child in that car. Ray!” But Ray is asleep or pretending to be. Margaret, louder: “Drugs for Mark, I suppose. Keeping decent people awake, all hours. Used to have a fiancée, I don’t know what happened to her.”
Mark’s WhatsApp chimes and he slopes downstairs, past a spilling heap of unopened post. Since Claire left, the house has stopped being clean. Work still phones him occasionally, or people from work call round – he’s removed the doorbell’s batteries. Cancelled his gym membership. “Thanks, mate” – He takes the package from Manish, who says how are you, mate? It’s nice to be asked, Mark thinks, even by a delivery guy.
Socialize with the clients, they’ve told Manish, be friendly, you’re the face of the organization. Is there anything else they need? So he lingers after handing over the package. Car left unlocked, engine running. Headlights dazzle as he runs back. Terror seizes him: is Makali still there? Yes, thank God.
Makali looks out at blocks of flats and tall houses. Dark sky above a garage. One time maybe a year ago she woke in the night to find Mum sitting on the side of her bed. “The moon is mother of the universe,” Mum told her, “and you are under her protection. Whenever you see the moon, know she’s looking out for you, because I asked her to. We have an arrangement, OK?” Then she went into hospital and never came home again. Is that the moon’s reflection in a high window? No, it’s an old white woman staring down at her.
Image by Gary Fultz on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Margaret, Mark, Manish and Makali - October 7, 2025
This is beautifully well done.
I loved this, Frances. I was checking here as I have a story about to be published and then saw your name! Nice to know I’m in such wonderful company!