Somewhere Warm to Sleep (Margaret #2)

1

Home is the first grave.
- Fatimah Asghar

—

Frances Millwood (nee White) passed away [...] in her home of natural causes on the 7th of January, 1984, at the age of fifty-two. She is survived by her ex-husband, Albert, who resides in New York with his family, and her [...], [...] and [...]. Flowers can be left at 17 Green Street, [...], England.

—

When Arthur wakes, he's alone.

The last fragments of a dream still linger in the air, surreal and disjointed: Night in the city, neon reflected in puddles on the pavement. A girl with empty river-dark eyes stains the cement crimson. He might know her, he might not— but soon enough the memory's gone, and he's thrown back into his body, his long limbs tangled in the sheets, the unmistakable taste of blood in his mouth.

Arthur glances at his wall clock with bleary, half-open eyes. 6.30– the sun won't rise for another two or three hours. Rain pounds against the duct-taped window, the streetlamps casting yellow pools of light on the glass. Why is he up?

In response, the PA system crackles to life, repeating: "A. Millwood, Room 205. You've got a call."

Right. A call. There's no time to think about the who and why. He springs out of bed, throws a jumper on over his pyjamas, and hurries out of his room and down the creaky stairs, almost colliding into a drunken huddle of partiers on the way. The hall is absolutely deserted. The only person there is Ms Polly, a tiny old Glaswegian lady who fixes him with a disapproving glare as he approaches the phone desk, still adorned with Christmas decorations. She sighs, longsuffering, as she hands the receiver over.

Arthur leans against the peeling wall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Hullo. Arthur here. Who's this?"

"Your baby sis." The voice on the other end is high-pitched, tinged with an East London accent, and resolutely unfamiliar.

"Did you wake me up at six in the morning to prank-call me?" Bloody seventh-years. Irritating little things– he'd know, he used to be one of them. He'd find it funnier if he hadn't had a grand total of two hours of sleep last night. "What's the punchline here?"

"I'm not– I don't–" The voice splutters. "You don't remember me?" He's got to give it to her, she really does sound heartbroken. It makes him soften a bit.

Arthur scratches the back of his neck. "As far as I know, I'm an only child. Unless my father has yet another family he didn't tell me about–" He winces a little, surprised at what he's saying. He doesn't like to speak of his parents to anyone, let alone strange teenagers who've somehow found his number. What is he doing?

The voice turns steelier, speaking quicker. "He didn't have anyone else. Just me and you and Mum and Pa in that house on Green Street."

His blood runs cold. "That isn't my home," he lies, trying to not let the tremor in his voice give him away. How did she find that? There must be so many Green Streets in England– and yet– and yet–

"Then what is?"

Arthur slams the receiver down, hands shaking. Ms Polly looks up from her magazine, taken aback at the uncharacteristic display of aggression, but he doesn't say a word to her. He only turns away.

Back in his dorm room, he's lying on his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He knows he's always been an only child. He knows he grew up alone in that sullen house on Green Street. So why does it feel so wrong? For a moment he's seized with the irrational conviction that if he unburnt his childhood pictures and unwiped the videotapes, peals of high-pitched laughter would accompany his voice, his shoulder the resting place for a shadow made flesh.