Espresso

The house seemed as she left it when Gemma arrived back. Dark and quiet. Caroline must’ve still been in her rage-induced slumber. That made things even easier. First, head upstairs, collect her things. Then, scour the house for tools. This was never meant to be a permanent stay, and she had no interest, and no business, getting wrapped into local drama. Caroline was a tragedy. But getting involved with tragic figures is how she wound up stuck in Walsall for far, far too long.

Preparing her things proved to be a rather uncomplicated process. A couple of items of clothing, the shattered splinters of her guitar, a few compact discs, and an unopened gift from that fucking dunce Mike. Sure, fine. I’m travelling light. She zipped the case shut and slipped her arms through the straps. So, she told herself. That was that. In the morning she’d ransack the garage, garden shed, kitchen drawers, until she found what she needed. And then she’d spring herself from this nightmare, courtesy some tampering with the electrics on the exit gate.

Down the stairs she ran, and the front door was in sight. Nothing between her and freedom. Her ankle felt better-ish, with shoots of pain still breaking the surface every so often. Nothing the rest of her pain med prescription couldn’t tackle. Wait, she thought, as she ran back through her mental inventory. The bottle of pills wasn’t there. She’d given that room a proper ransack. They were gone. She patted her pockets, in case she’d perhaps taken them with her into town. Nothing. Fuck.

“Sweetie?” She shouted as she moved through the downstairs. The kitchen, the drawing room, the lounge, all the random rich people rooms. A dozen pieces of unjustifiable furniture, but no Caroline. “Hello?!” She doubled back, re-doubled back, checked every closet, under every bed, and even located onto the tools she needed for her original mission—because she needed them to break into the garden house, which turned out to be one more place that Caroline wasn’t.

Gemma awoke on the floor as the sun came up, but it wasn’t the sun that woke her. It was Alastair King.

“Jesus Christ,” she yelped.

Alastair jolted back across the threshold. “I was calling on Miss Caroline, and saw the door to the back house was open.” He looked across the room. The stereo was pulled away from the wall, a byproduct of Gemma’s descent into madness the night before. She’d spent at least an hour in a fruitless attempt to make the stereo play something, or even turn on.

“I tried,” Gemma said. “I failed.” Her breath was vile, and her mouth tasted of blood. “This thing is fucked. Shame, really. Irreplaceable.”

“Ah,” Alastair said. He extended a hand and helped Gemma off the floor. “Quite simple really, though I understand why you might not have been aware. Devices need to be authorised to draw power from the grid. The socket handshakes with the device. It’s rather sensible, in my view, a sensible solution to the energy crisis of, well,” Alastair chuckled, “whatever year that was. It’s been a rollout decades in the making. Moseley was happy to do it.”

Gemma was roiled. “Says the man who runs an english coffee house from the bloody sixteenth century.”

“Good ideas don’t go out of fashion, madam. There’s a difference between curation and wallowing in piles of old filth, unable to move forward, allowing yourself to fall out of modern society.” He closed his eyes, and his face seemed to almost convey an emotion other than arrogance. “I’m afraid that’s part of why we’re here.”

“Go on, I’m listening.” Gemma wrestled the stereo the rest of the way away from the wall. There it was: the chipped socket.

“I, well.” Alastair didn’t seem able to concentrate.

Gemma grabbed hold of the nearby lamp and unplugged it. Plastic casing was pried apart, wires stripped, chips extracted and repurposed. Sweat dripped from her forehead, profanity flew, and Alastair decided on silence as the operation unfolded, much of which remained unseen behind the stereo cabinet.

“There.” Gemma crawled out from behind the unit and pushed the power button on the stereo. With a loud click the display lit up and blinked all zeroes. Alastair stared in disbelief. She pushed the eject button and the tray dutifully popped out. “Grab that,” she barked, and pointed at a compact disc case on the floor.

With some hesitation Alastair picked it up. “What’s this?”

She snatched it from his hand, popped open the case, and flung the disc into the unit. After a few seconds, a clamour of instruments and shouting filled the room. “Christ.” She burst out laughing. “This is audio terrorism. It’s the best we could do, really. Chinny had them trapped in his house for a month just to get this. Dreadful. Surprised we weren’t all brought in on charges, they’d have stuck.”

“You worked on this?”

She nodded, and felt justified in her smugness. “I did. They’re called Killslop. I can’t recommend it. But now this works again, Caroline can listen to any of these.” She gestured around to the absolute trove of discs which lined the walls.

“I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Excuse me, Mr. King. You can just thank me, you have that option.”

“I wasn’t entirely forthcoming.” He stepped forward and pushed the stop button. The room fell silent. “Caroline’s mother, Alice. She died by suicide.”

“Christ.”

“She was so miserable here. So miserable with the world. And we were so resentful of it. You see, Alice was poisoned against her own family by nostalgia.”

“By nostalgia.” Gemma flailed her arms as she paced the room. “You think fucking nostalgia caused this poor woman to kill herself. Poisoned against her bloody family, what the fuck? What does that even fucking mean, Al?”

“As I said, and as you’ve learned, most of us here are of a certain background. And as Alice grew to loathe us, the way you loathe us, she sought refuge in…” He gestured around the room. “This. There’s no virtue in fetishising the past. No protein. It’s sweets for dinner.”

“Oi, right.” She growled. “Maybe that’s how she still felt like she belonged in this world. And yer a prick for implying it’s wrong, yeah? Maybe if you’d bloody supported her, rather than just discarding her, she’d still be here.”

“I won’t pretend to understand mental health.”

Gemma grumbled. “Ye’ve done a good job there, mate.” It had begun to gnaw at her that they hadn’t discussed Caroline being missing.

“Yes, well. Shortly after she left us, so did Arthur.”

“Al, you were calling on Caroline. She’s not here.”

“She’s inside? She’s a rather late sleeper.”

“I’m not being funny or anything, she’s gone, Al. I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.”

“Are you being…”

“I searched the entire house. To a mad degree, I will add.”

Alastair nodded. “Right.”

She gathered her tools and bundled them into a canvas bag she’d found hanging on the doorknob. “Right.”

The truce was fragile, and formed in silence. They trundled out into the frigid morning, and it was no surprise to Gemma that Alastair was unimpressive in a tense situation. He stayed a few paces behind and showed no hint of an idea, content to mutter and moan rather than offer genuine assistance.

“I believe it to be prudent for us to head to The Town Centre and organise our efforts there. With any luck, Miss Caroline has done likewise.”

Gemma scoffed. “Is that your plan, then? Just go see if she’s popped in for a coffee?” She glanced across the high street, and caught sight of Alice’s antique shop. Her smile grew.

“Search and rescue,” Alastair groaned. “You ineffable buffoon. We’ll establish a command centre and enlist help from others.”

“Please! Where are you even from, Al? Who taught you to speak like this?”

“It’s called an education. We haven’t all come up on a diet of ready salted and short-form video.”

“Christ!” Gemma pulled her arms into her hoodie. “I can’t, Al. I’m fucking knackered, I’ve not had any coffee. Don’t you work at Magenta? Can’t you just track her location?”

“I am retired, madam, from Britain’s premier artificial intelligence firm, which happened to be acquired by Magenta. And no, we cannot simply track one of our users. There are regulations.”

Gemma stared into the window of the antique shop. Her back ached as all of her tensed muscles began to relax. “Fine, please, let’s just walk to the fucking Town Centre. She’s not a bloody child, she’ll be fine.”

Gemma pushed her palms into her eyes in hope of relieving the pressure. He was a Chinese finger trap of a man. Everything in her wanted to unmake him, or at least humiliate him. He was just the next in her ignominious career of doing just that to so many like this. Scenarios played out in her mind, and they all ended in more disagreement, more arguing, more exhaustion. All with Gemma having left this place alone, on foot, with nothing but her bindle and a smashed guitar. She yawned and stared down at her ridiculous period-accurate boots. Her feet had already swollen inside them.

“Alastair, I can’t do this. Can we not do this?”

He pulled his arms tightly against himself. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m so tired. I don’t want to do…” She flailed her arms between the two of them. “This.”

“I don’t…” He gave his charcoal waistcoat a tug. He was quite a dapper man–trim, well-dressed–and she hadn’t wanted to give him credit for any of it.

“Smart fit.” She let a smile start to form. “A little surprised you don’t still wear your Eton uniform.” They’d arrived outside the coffee house, which was locked and dark. A thick fog hung over the street. Gemma imagined it all pouring inside were she to push the door open.

“The pinstripes didn’t suit me.” Alastair pressed his hand against the plate hidden inside the faux stone of the entryway, and with a subtle click the latch on the door released.

Gemma sighed and shook her head as they entered. A sudden craving for a cigarette threw her off balance. They would hit from time to time, and she’d made peace with knowing they would do so for the rest of her life. “You old enough to smoke, Al?”

“Only just. I imagine we’re around the same age.”

“Don’t suppose you have any lying around in here. Or would that turn this noble house into a den of iniquity?”

“I believe I have some tobacco and some papers, yes. We’ve got a bit of time before others start to turn up, it’s rather earlier than I realised.”

She perched at the bar and repressed her admiration as Alastair rolled two impeccable cigarettes. She let hers lie on the bar as he proceeded into operating the espresso machine, which he did with equal parts skill and grace. The sounds transported her to a time when this was her routine–the grinding of the beans, the steam letting off, the frothing of the milk. And the smell of fresh coffee sent tingles through her brain. Almost as a reflex her hand wanted to hold a phone, to scroll Apple News, to read chaotic all-caps, no-subject emails from Chinny, poetic musings from Samir, the inevitable stress and stammer from Eamon.

“One latte, madam.” There was a pleasing ceramic clink as the mug hit the plate. Alastair seemed so at home behind the bar, cloaked in the artifice of a barista. That, plus his manicured salt-and-pepper beard, would have made him a shoo-in for proprietor of an of overpriced stall in Borough Market.

“This reminds me so much of home.” She stared into the foam and whispered to nobody in particular as she took the first sip.

“Home,” Alastair said. “The colony?”

“Christ, no. The colony wasn’t home. London was home.”

“Unsurprising, I suppose. You exude a certain street-wise toughness.”

“The mean streets of Maida Vale.”

“Now that, madam, does surprise me.”

“You think so little of me. I was beautiful and sophisticated once, Al. A powerful, talentless executive.”

Alastair took a sip of his own latte. “You’re still one of those things.”

She studied him from across the bar. The coffee oiled her joints and gears. She rubbed her shoulders and stretched her neck, the usual aches of age compounded by having slept on the floor. “So.” She affected a posh accent. “Britain’s premier artificial intelligence firm.”

“In fact yes. I was one of the first employees, actually, along with Caroline’s father. My sister founded the company. I was what you might’ve called a… nepo hire.” His shoulders slumped, but he straightened soon after. “Anyroad, we used the proceeds from the sale to start this village.”

“Your sister lives here too? That’s someone I’d like to meet.”

“Yes, I would as well. She went to the States shortly after the sale, to be with her partner. None of us knew who that was. We never saw her again. That was nineteen years ago.”

Her mug clattered back into the plate. “Fuck. She just…”

“Right, I’d rather…”

“Right. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to feign empathy. I know you already think me a monster. Or at very least, responsible for some kind of atrocity in the creative arts. It was obviously never my intent.”

“Hitler was an artist. I can’t imagine you’ve ever so much as drawn a stick figure.”

“Madam, I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

“I just like the face you make when you’re uncomfortable.” She flashed a mischievous grin. “I can’t hold you responsible for… what did you call it? A changing of the guard. If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been someone else.”

“That’s gracious of you, if perhaps a bit too much so.”

“I’m giving you credit for this mad village. Inspired work. Truly unwell, the mind that concocted this notion.”

“A borrowed notion. Hardly the first planned community in Britain. The Poundbury of the Midlands.”

“But the barmy get-ups. The rules. The Victorian coffee house. That’s a bold vision.”

“Restoration, not Victorian.”

Gemma sighed. “Sure, mate.”

“But,” Alastair continued quickly, “I do appreciate the kind words. If that’s how you intended them.” He cleared his mug and began the idle tasks of a man behind a bar. He wiped the machine down, tidied up loose sachets, and packed away the milk. “May I ask you something a bit delicate?”

Gemma rolled her shoulders. Thunderous cracks emanated from them. “I’m very delicate.”

“How did you end up, how do I put this…” His hands flapped about. He seemed to regret already having done his tasks.

“Incarcerated?”

“Rather, yes.”

“Fired. From the label, when we were acquired by yourselves. I was broke, I didn’t find another job in time.”

“So you…”

“Got the envelope, indeed. You know the law. No job, we find you one.” Her eyes were cast down, even as she tried to project confidence. “I was frogmarched to Wales for a work detail at the nuclear plant.” Of course this doesn’t bother me, she told herself, in the hope that Alastair believed it too.

“I’m so sorry, Gemma. I can only imagine for someone like yourself, your job in music was quite a large part of your identity.”

Gemma tensed up, and her back was shot through with pain. “Not your fault, Al.” A lump got caught in her throat, and she gave a loud hack. “Christ, you’ve gone straight in for me.” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Er, well. Oh, my.” Alastair hemmed and hawed. “I’ve rather put my foot in it there.” He smoothed out his waistcoat again.

She once more thought of Sam, and of Eamon, and of Chinny. This place reminded her too much of the one near her old flat. And of that twinge of pride she felt as she saw the rack of compact discs for sale on the counter, and heard one of her handmade artists playing on a speaker in the corner. There’s still going to be a market for handmade, she’d said to the manager. There always will be.

“I learned I’d been fired in a cafe quite like this one,” she offered as she finished the latte. “I suppose it’s a bit thick with memories.”

“In a cafe? Were they concerned about some kind of incident at the office?”

She chuckled. “I read it on my phone.” As she thought about it, she worked into a proper laugh. “In the news.”

“That’s just standard, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.” She sniffled and closed her eyes. With a vigorous shake of her head, she regained her composure. “Shall we gather up our precocious little friend?”

“Yes,” Alastair said as he pocketed their cigarettes. “Perhaps she’s looped back round, returned home.”

“I know where she is.” Gemma smirked. “I’ve known the entire time, love. Come on.”

---

* * *

Her hand pushed the door, and this time it opened. “Thought I’d never get in here,” Gemma said to Alastair as they both entered Alice’s Trove of Curiosities.

“So Caroline had the keys after all,” Alastair muttered as they walked in. “None of us relished the thought of having a locksmith open this door. How did you know?”

“I saw the lights were on when we walked past an hour ago.”

“You’re a wicked lady, madam.”

The inside of the trove was more glorious than Gemma could’ve imagined. Past the art house pieces lay evidence of genuine, if obsessive, enchantment: meticulously sorted magazines, curated selections of young adult books, even handfuls of video game cartridges, all labeled and catalogued in salvaged boxes and crates. The walls were lined with posters and pop art, musical instruments, and shelves full of nonsensical bric-a-brac that would nary warrant a mention in the history books. It was an embarrassing and spectacular way to take up space–so many terrible novels, cheap injection-moulded toys, and ill-conceived games. It moved Gemma to tears that Caroline’s mother put effort into collecting or preserving any of this.

“It’s even worse than I remember,” Alastair said under his breath.

Gemma gave him a cold glance. “Caroline?”

“I’m here,” came the meek voice from the back of the shop. In the near-darkness they picked their way through the piles and shelves until they reached the back. Caroline sat in an ornate rocking chair which had seen far better days.

“I think you have something of mine,” Gemma said as she kneeled down.

“Yes, I have them.” Caroline poked Gemma’s finger. “You took my mother’s Ring. So I took your pills.”

Gemma inhaled sharply. “Right, okay. Yes. That’s fair.” She slid it off of her finger and placed it into Caroline’s palm. “I’m very sorry about that, love. Really, I am.”

“So you’re leaving then.”

“I’m afraid I have to, yes. I’m sorry about that as well.”

She turned to face Gemma. Her face was splotched red and streaked with tears. “Why do you have to?”

“Because… I don’t know, because I do.”

“I don’t think you have to, I think you want to. You don’t like it here. Because there’s too many rules.”

She set her bag of tools aside, and her joints cried out as she sat cross-legged beside Caroline. “There’s a fair few rules here, yes. But that’s not why I have to go. I told you, love. I have to get to Liverpool to see my friend.”

“I know. It’s just sad.”

“This is your mum’s shop, isn’t it?” Gemma eyed the Revelator she’d seen through the window, still hung on the wall. “She had great taste in guitars. Does she play?”

“Sometimes.” Caroline sniffled. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“I know she’s gone. You don’t have to speak about her like she’s still around.”

“Of course,” Alastair said as he kneeled down as well. “This is new for all of us. Your parents were good friends of mine, you know.”

“Mum didn’t like you, Mr. King.” She looked between the two of them. “You know, Gemma is a good friend of mine. I wish you wouldn’t be so rude to her.”

Gemma smirked. “Yeah, Al.”

“And you.” Caroline cast her gaze in Gemma’s direction. “Mr. King is a founder of the town. You really should show him a bit more respect.”

Alastair pursed his lips. His eyes betrayed how amused he was by Caroline’s comment.

“I can do that.” The torrent of anger Gemma expected to feel didn’t arrive. Besides, I’d rather he not have the satisfaction.

“Your friend and I have come to a rapprochement,” Alastair added. “I do think your mum would’ve rather liked Miss Thomson. They share a passion for….” He glanced around the room. “Artefacts.”

“You two fight like you and mum did, Mr. King.” Caroline looked up at Gemma, who had drifted toward the acoustic guitars on the far wall. “But you’re going to Liverpool to see your music friend.”

Gemma lowered her head. Her insides froze up. She couldn’t face the poor girl.

“I do wish I could see what it was like,” Caroline added. “But I know I can’t. I know there are rules. And I have responsibilities here. I need to reopen mum’s shop. It’s what she would want.”

Alastair tutted. “Dear, as much as we’re fond of you, and as fond of your mum and dad as we were, you’re twenty-five years old. That’s old enough to make your own decisions.”

“Are you serious,” Gemma blurted out, beside herself. “She’s twenty-five?” She cocked her head and sighed. “I wish I could say I see myself in you, little miss. But I was a bloody mess at twenty-five. I didn’t own a single bodice.” Her eyes met Alastair’s. “I don’t think I’m allowed to let you come with me, though.”

Caroline joined Gemma in staring at Alastair.

The boot of the car came as close as it could to slamming, before the mechanism intervened and pulled it the rest of the way gently. Gemma could hear the motors put in the work as the lid struggled against a full wardrobe of Caroline’s elaborate outfits. In the back seat, there had been a spare bit of space left over for Gemma’s guitar case.

“This is a mistake,” she said to Alastair. Caroline’s boundless energy had taken her back into the house for one final sweep of forgotten items. It gave Gemma a bit of space to regret the invitation.

“You’ve advocated strongly for this. I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

“She’s got a life anyone in this country would kill for. She shouldn’t give that up.”

“It’s temporary. Maybe you’ll find a bit of her mother in there, or maybe a bit of her father. Or maybe a hybrid. But I believe you’re right, she deserves the chance to find out for herself.”

Gemma leaned her forehead against the roof of the car and sighed. “So long as I can keep her alive. And maybe I’ll find her whole, actual father. Though he better pray I don’t.”

“We’d rather appreciate if you did, yes. For the second, if he could be unharmed, I wouldn’t mind.”

“No promises. But thanks for trusting me with the town’s own daughter.”

Caroline burst back into the garage in her travelling outfit, which Alastair had already warned her about. It was her usual petticoat nonsense, accented with a dramatic grey cloak, the baggy hood pulled up over her head. Across her shoulder was yet another bag stuffed to bursting with various bits, compact discs, a couple of books, and that’s just what Gemma could manage to see.

“Christ, we’ll be lucky if the car clears the ground. You’re coming back here, you know,” Gemma chastised. “You can’t live on the road with me.”

“We’ll see,” Caroline said with a twinkle.

Alastair laughed. “We most certainly will not see.”

She tucked herself into the front seat and the door pulled itself shut behind her.

“I wonder if she’s ready to go,” Gemma deadpanned.

“Here,” Alastair said. “Take these.” He held out the two cigarettes he’d rolled.

Gemma nodded. “Right. Thanks, Al. None for the kid, of course.”

“On that topic. Maybe,” he stammered. “Maybe, rather than let her come back on her own, you could bring her back yourself. There’s plenty of room for you here in Moseley. If things don’t work out in Liverpool, of course.”

She slugged him in the arm. “Maybe I will. Mr. King.”

“I’d like that. I think it would rather make sense.”

Gemma smiled. “I think I’d like it, too.”