Honey(9)

The little girl now holds her mother’s hand and steps, tightrope like, down the wall. She looks back at Yrsa.





II


Restless spirits like goat—this is what her Grandmother would say. They enjoy the bloodletting of the meat. And, when someone has died too early, it’s best to cook a curry to show your respect, the spirits may have a difficult journey. Also—if you’re worried about anything—best make it hot.

The meat has already been washed in water and vinegar; patted dry; mixed with garlic, onions, curry powder, all-purpose seasoning, salt, and pepper. Yrsa removes it from the fridge.

It’s not that Yrsa is worried, she’s just being—precautionary.

Turning up Greentea Peng, she lollops oil into the pan. Her Grandmother’s Dutch pot, because “pots were the only good thing they brought.” She scrapes off and saves the goat’s marinade before starting the process of sealing the meat. Blistering and caramelizing flavor on flesh.

Sipping cheap wine, she lets her hips and body swing through the kitchen.

Naturally, as primary witness to Richardson’s death, she was questioned. Once on the scene, and a second time at the station. Each time the officer seemed apologetic for making her relive it. She, naturally, had to act like she didn’t want to describe his end.

It’s all she wants to talk about.

Now the marinade goes into the pan; the spices spitting up around the goat. Thyme next, pimento, and a touch more oil.

Ethan is coming for dinner.

With other things on her mind she was ignoring his calls and messages (all still via Instagram). Then, yesterday, a large bouquet of roses arrived, red and brash. The gesture confused and, therefore, intrigued her. And so she’s invited him round, despite being done with him.

The heat is low and the onions soften as Cleo Sol breezes out of the speaker. Yrsa cracks open a window to let steam out of the tiny kitchen.

400 ml of water and the curry is brought to a boil.

It all just happened so fast. There wasn’t time to call anyone. I was just trying to administer CPR as quickly as possible. I hope you understand. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

How easy it is to lie with such plausibility.

The wine has warmed too quickly in the room. The atmosphere hot under the spices. She pops a Scotch bonnet out of its plastic and pierces it with the end of a knife, being careful not to slice all the way through. Its orange body sinks into the bubbling meat.

Flashing images of his death have caught her off guard these past few days. Picking up a meal deal in Sainsbury’s; mid-lecture; coffee with friends, and suddenly Richardson is writhing, spitting up in her mind. Always these images lifting an otherwise dull moment.

Three stirs and the lid goes on. A low heat, an hour to an hour and a half. You know it’s good when the fat has separated and risen to the top.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It is important for a woman to apologize as much as possible, but—the bee found its own way to the lemonade.

Her phone vibrates.


Should be with you in about an hour. Want me to pick anything up?

Ethan acting, so oddly, like a gentleman.


Bring wine.

She downs the remainder of her glass just as she hears the front door slam. Ida comes into the kitchen with her coat and scarf still on.

“Hey.” She takes the orange juice from the fridge and drinks it from the bottle. Only when she’s satisfied does she properly look at Yrsa. “What you making?”

“Curry.”

“For me?” Ida smiles.

As Ida lifts the lid Yrsa says, “I thought you were vegan now?”

“Trying to be.” Ida smells it and coughs.

“Sorry, it’s the chili.”

“Want to watch Love Island tonight?”

“I texted you, Ethan’s coming over.”

Ida groans. “Why?”

“He sent me roses.”

“Those are from him?” Ida goes to look at the flowers. They’re sitting on a coffee table in a room that’s more corridor than a sitting room. The college has, however, squeezed in a small sofa, table, and lamp. A poster from Ida’s student zine rests against the wall; she keeps saying she’ll hang it. They didn’t do well on the room ballot this year.

Ida sits as Yrsa turns down the music. They have been living with, or within proximity of each other, since first year. And, as flatmates go, Ida’s as good as they get. She doesn’t have kleptomania, nymphomania, or bad bathroom habits. She also brings to their home the ease of coolness and sophistication which, it’s assumed, all Scandinavians learn at finishing school.

Some of the petals are starting to drop.

“I thought Ethan was ghosting you.” Ida is still in her coat.

“No. I was ghosting him. You think I get ghosted?”

“I think we can all get ghosted, sweetie.”

“Well I’m bored and need something—someone—to do.”

“I don’t approve.” Ida never approves. “Just be quiet okay, I don’t want to be kept up by your sex noises.”

“I would never.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Have you heard from Nina?” Yrsa asks, casually. Ida and Nina aren’t close friends, but since Richardson’s death Nina’s gone silent on everyone. Yrsa’s had to take to asking around.