Hot Stew by Fiona Mozley (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

just the natural aging process. He cradles a paper cup containing hot tea. A cycle courier popped up from behind him earlier and handed it to him with a smile and a couple of words of greeting, and he then got back onto his fixed-gear bike and rode away, gliding as smoothly as a swan in flight, along the paths that intersect Soho Square, out through the open iron gate, towards Oxford Street and out of sight.

Richard holds the cup of tea close to his chest and declines his head so the steam rises and condenses onto his face. He breathes it in like a summer’s day, and feels the heat warm the inside of his nose and then all the way to the back of his throat. He takes a sip too soon. The boiled liquid burns the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t care. He will take the burn with him throughout the cold night. He will feel it, numb like a stubbed toe, and taste it, bitter and sweet like cold iron, and be reminded of that cup of tea. It is proof.

The interaction with the cycle courier has also left a mark, like a warm thumbprint in cold clay. An act of kindness, a smile, a nod, some eye contact, the recognition of Richard as a fellow human being.

Richard hears the screaming but is reluctant to give up his bench and walk towards it. Something tells him it will be trouble. Whenever in his life he has heard a man shout and a woman scream, it has meant something bad is happening. It’s not that Richard doesn’t care; he just has so little of himself left to give.

Then the rumbling begins. He hears the building collapse—an all-too-familiar sound—but he hears no bomb. Though surely there was a bomb. There must have been a bomb.

This time, he does go. An explosion requires military experience. He has not forgotten.

The gates of the square have been locked, but he scales them easily, and runs to the beginning of the cloud of brown dust, which hangs in the air, illuminated by the streetlights, eerily suspended, as if entirely free from the constraints of time and gravity. He cannot look past it, through it, to see what has actually happened. People are emerging, coughing, spluttering. The first person is a woman in her underwear: a black, lacy bra and knicker set. Her face and hair are covered in a thick layer of the dust, making her look like a petrified Pompeiian. Her hands are bound in front of her in handcuffs. She is running barefoot down the street, and she keeps looking over her shoulder, as if worried she is being followed. Then there is a man. He is entirely naked, and also covered in the dust. Richard thinks he recognizes him from somewhere—maybe from the telly. Then there are other people: most fully clothed, some of them look like the usual drunk party people you would see spilling from clubs at this time of night. They are wearing expensive suits and dresses, now ruined. Many of the women are struggling to run in high heels. Some take them off. Some of them fall over, then pick themselves up and keep running.

Richard tries to flag someone down to find out what is going on. He spots a woman who is fully naked, her hands also bound. She is running at full pelt towards him.

“Are you okay?” he shouts in her direction. He doesn’t expect her to stop. She seems totally unfazed by her nakedness.

To his surprise, she does stop and speaks to him. He asks her what has happened.

“Earthquake, or something. I’ve no idea. Some massive hole just appeared in the ground, and the building went right in. I just ran. I don’t think there was any of us lot still in there, but maybe some police. Fuck knows.” Then she runs off.

Richard continues. The dust is beginning to settle. As he closes in on the scene, he sees police standing around. Nobody seems to be doing anything at all helpful. Everyone and everything is covered in the dust. The old brothel is in ruins. It was one of the old Soho buildings that was always a bit crooked. Now Richard can see doors, and bedposts, and timber beams poking up out of the wreckage. Beyond the wreckage, there is a gaping hole.

Then he sees her, walking up through the dust, illuminated from behind. He recognizes her instantly although is startled by the sight. Her face has been on posters across the capital and she has been at the center of his thoughts too. He never really spoke to her much, never really knew her, never really knew if she was in any sense knowable. The face he saw on the posters—fresh, happy, identifiable—was different from the face he knew in real life—gaunt, frail, invisible. The face he sees now, just there emerging from the dust, is similar to the idealized version from the publicity campaign. She looks renewed. Her skin is bright and shining. Her hair has been washed and brushed, she is standing straight and tall, as if she has grown into her own representation.

Spring

Spectral Dust

Lorenzo stands on his tiptoes. There is a gap in the hoardings above his eye level and if he straightens his back and raises himself up onto the balls of his feet, he can see through to the crater. He catches sight of some ancient-looking timbers sticking up from the churned ground like the ribs of a beached whale, black now from years of smog, and a small yellow digger propped up on its chains at the edge of the recess, the teeth of its bucket set into the soil. The air still feels thick with dust, three months later. Lorenzo doesn’t know if it’s really there, or if it’s just that he can feel it because of all the stories he’s heard. Apparently, the fug