Decay Inevitable

She resisted going into the street in case she brought attention upon herself – and also because her transition was incomplete – so she was only tangentially aware of what was happening outside. The murmur of traffic, a skitter of shoes on the pavement. At night, through a grille in the ceiling, she saw the houses lose their shape to the darkness, squares of pale colour dotting their invisibility: people who could not sleep. An hour later, her breathing decreased to one inhalation every four minutes; as she felt the bones of her pelvis dissolve and re-knit into a broader shape, she heard a telephone ringing on one of the floors above her. An answer machine cut in and she heard giggling voices tell the woman she was becoming when they would arrive. Same time tomorrow night. She recognised the voice. The person who owned it was called... Susan... Suzanne... Susannah. Susannah.

What is my name?

It seemed that by the following morning her transition was complete. It took a few hours to emerge from torpor, by which time she felt refreshed and dangerous. The curve of her body was noticeable through her ill-fitting clothes. She felt a scar creep across her hip, watched a constellation of freckles birth themselves on the bridge of her nose. Yet as she studied her new aspect in the bathroom mirror, it became evident the change hadn’t ceased, that it went beyond this new physicality. Something was niggling her; a memory she’d never had before, one that seemed to call at her before the shock of the new. She couldn’t fully understand how this was. There was a compulsion to achieve something, to fulfil a pledge she couldn’t recall making. And other things too: the vague itch in her bones which might or might not be the calming of her marrow after such an upheaval. What did it mean? Only a tiny part of her gawped at the rushing of these events – presumably the area of her mind that groped for clues to who she was – for her name, the stock of memories she treasured were dwindling like tail-lights in mist.

Who am I? What is my name?

Enough of her remained to know she was being possessed or, more accurately, subsumed, but the thrill of the experience erased any fear.

Later, as the dark came again, she rubbed moisturisers into her skin, enjoying the sheen that it created, the softness. She inspected every bit of her body and when she was finished, she started again, until she was intimate with all of it.

She whispered, “Who am I?”

Footsteps on the path outside. She could hear Simon and Susannah and Joe? Joel? Jonathan laughing. Perhaps she should persuade them to go for a drink. Wasn’t that what usually happened when she had visitors? But no. Alcohol, and all its attendant possibilities, held no frisson for her; rather, other appetites had begun to develop, along with her psyche and the ripe shell in which she was contained.

Vacating the bathroom, she wrapped herself in a white towelling robe and went downstairs, the activity in her bones reaching a new level of intensity. Only when they piled through the door carrying suitcases and food parcels did she finally realise the nature of its energy.

They stared at her. The door swung shut.

“Dawn?” gaped Susannah.

Dawn... of course.

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied, untying the robe, watching her body spill to the floor.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: M

THEY JOINED THE motorway at Brent Cross. The traffic was heavy, but fluid, winding into the first curves like the swift channelling of water. They had arrived at Elisabeth’s parents’ house around lunchtime. Katherine, her mother, accepted them both with a curt nod; she had always resented Will for his treatment of her daughter. He was in no mood now to pick up on an argument five years old, especially as he thought he had acted correctly, ending a relationship swiftly because it had seemed to have run its course. That Cat was already sleeping in his bed at the time should not have been an issue, but Katherine had berated him for weeks afterwards, strafing him with phone calls long after Eli had accepted the outcome.

“I need to borrow your car,” Elisabeth had told her as she made them both mugs of tea in the narrow, sunlit kitchen. Katherine had handed over the keys without a peep, but gave them both icy, unblinking stares. Elisabeth was old enough now not to be told where she was going wrong. Still, with her mother unrelenting with this slow-burn look, Elisabeth told her: “I know. I know,” as they left the house.