New Writers 1,000-Word Short Story Competition 2024 – Second Place

TAKEAWAY

by Tim Fywell

Tracksuit man downstairs on the Sunday bus riding gunshot on the platform phone in his hand there’s itches he needs to scratch can’t sit still up top too much sunlight crashing in and he forgot his shades. She comes stumbling down after him laughing grey joggers on her legs hoodie pulled up over her head it feels cold she’s seventeen people ask is he her dad – no, sir, no way, he’s my fella. A new piercing aches her tongue he likes it though wrapped round his lips and scraping his tender bits so it’s worth the pain. She keeps remembering then forgetting what she must remember – you’re going home today, home to mama. She told him in bed this morning he says I’m trying to sleep fuck’s sake she says I let you sleep just saying. They sleep some more then take some stuff to get them up and out the house. She watches him walk round the flat, not theirs some mate’s who owed him a floor at least, a mattress but no sheets, his pants half down his legs he don’t care, takeaway boxes everywhere she wants to clear them up he says why bother leave it he can clean up his own shit not our problem not our shit and she loves him so agrees. But she’d like it clean. Bathroom’s a tip of towels and sticky bottles a torn curtain she showers anyway till he comes in and grabs her tits so horny man he says leave it Dean she says I need some time alone to think – need to remember – what train I got to get to get there lunchtime – Sunday lunch – she’s still half a nice girl from Surrey. Promise me Dean we get to the station by 12, it’s mum’s birthday. I got her a present. Somewhere. He pretends not to hear. You ready, Chlo? They expecting us in Camden, don’t want to miss our takeaway. Cant you go down Camden alone? Just today? Just a suggestion, she says… His eyes go ragged, fierce and steaming. You winding me up, girl? They want to see you. You know that. Right? But. But nothing. He’s softer now, the tender touch. Come with and then we’ll get you Uber to whatever sodden railway station you want. Shangri La – Ha Ha Ha! And he laughs, showing his teeth. She could go dentist back in Guilford – mum’s idea – if she stays the weekend, but he won’t want that, so just lunch. She knows him now, his tics and habits, how he likes things done. If she’s clever she can do both – go Camden with him then see her mum for Sunday lunch. There’s time in the day, loads of time for everything. All the time in the world. She must remember what time to catch that train – it’s hard when her head’s stuffed with colours bits of film and loud birdsong music played on loop bass and drumbeats like her pulse, just keep your hood up focus girl focus not forget. Meantime they’re on the bus, that’s right, that’s where, on the platform, trapeze platform, she feels high up in the big top, circus she went to as a kid what was its name with her brother she knows his name – Robbie – good – she’s not forgotten that – but now she’s flying in the air off the trapeze and dropping, shit, catch his hands, someone’s hands, there’s Dean she clings to his neck with the bluebird inked in, his hands are on his phone, Two minutes he says we’ll be there for our takeaway! He keeps you safe, remember, that’s what she knows, he told her so didn’t he. Her eyes scagged out, she sees in the window, will Mum notice? Shit she better not, her little girl, she’ll be angry but I’m coming down, down down, I’ll be down by lunchtime so all is fine. Mum won’t spot a thing. Dean lets her hold him and he holds her but not tight like he’s holding his phone. He has to close the deal. They jump off the bus still settling as the back doors slide open then like kids chase down the road and in the door of number 14, it’s open no need to knock they are expected, down the hall, rooms of filth, an armchair on its side people asleep on the floor, the man in black in the kitchen in the back. Cup of tea? he asks so polite and they laugh till it hurts eyes streaming tea yeah that’s what we come for, man, tea!!

Later. She takes a hit just as she’s coming down, a hit he gives her to smooth her out. I mustn’t forget she mumbles, the station, twelve, Dean… Yeah yeah he says. Later, not now, just relax babe, relax. Relaaax. He draws the word out long.

Sure she says, a flick of worry smoothed out, combed out by the wave that rushes over her, the slow tidal wave. She zombied on the sofa, head back, legs up across his knees, fading out. Her phone buzz buzz buzz. Dean frowns, focuses to recognise the noise, picks it out of her pocket, ever so gentle. Stares. MUM: Looking forward to seeing you darling. Let me know which train you’ll be on and we’ll come and meet you. A big X after Mum.

Dean looks down at Chloe passing out in his lap. He lifts her hand, pushes her index finger pressing back and forward left and right on the home button same as a fingerprint. The phone flares like a match. He finds Select. Edit. Delete.

She doesn’t need this old useless shit. This mum. She’s his. His now.

Going. Going. All his.

Gone.

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Tim Fywell is a BAFTA-winning TV and Film Director whose work for television includes Cracker, Happy Valley, River, and The English Game, and the feature films I Capture The Castle and Ice Princess. He has recently been writing fiction too (flash fiction and short stories), is currently working on his first novel and has been commissioned to write a theatrical film screenplay.