Drowning in Dampwater
"How did a guy like me end up in a place like this?" I ask myself. Shop front lights either side of me are bright, shining in my face like a crooked cop using a lamp in an interrogation. Well I'm not about to talk. Not to H&M, not to The Disney Store, not to anyone but my own damned demons. And to Jill; my greatest demon, and the saviour of my soul.
I take a sip from my coffee. It's cheap café bought stuff, all bitterness and flat flavours. I can tell the barista scorched the beans and overdid it on the milk, but it's all I have so I drink it regardless. Despite the time I’ve waited it's still hot, too hot to drink, and it tries to burn my tongue. Years of experience have given me an instinct there and I swirl it away, blasting the heat against my teeth and cheeks. The boys in white don't fail me, but it was close. Too close. I close my eyes, suck the coffee down with a side-helping of regret and anger at myself, and thank whatever gods there are that they weren't spitting on me just then. But they’ve already spat on me enough, because here I stand in the seedy underbelly of Dampwater shopping centre.
It should never have been built. A sprawling blight on the landscape, it spoils acres of open land and chokes the rest of the city with its slow flowing traffic. Dampwater can only have been the result of a shady backhander from the shopping centre industry, an executive in a darkened room buying off the council. The elected representatives looked the other way while a cathedral of exploitation was being built in their back garden and lined their pockets with the wages of human misery. No city needs that many shoe shops, but that many shoe shops we have.
A woman walks past me with a baby in her pram. She’s short, and looks weighed down by more than just her shopping. I can’t tell what’s bigger; the bags hanging from her elbows or the ones under her eyes. I look away before she can make eye contact and bag me too.
“Poor kid.” I mutter to myself. “This is no way to spend a childhood. Surrounded by vultures, thieves and false smiles. It’s the devil’s crèche and the toys are human lives.”
“Oh will you stop being melodramatic James?”
Jill’s voice pulls me back into the moment like always. It’s a lifeline of glowing gold that shines through the darkness and holds me up above the surface, to stop me drowning in Dampwater.
“Sorry sweets.” I say. Her face is all business and determination, a freight train’s locomotive pushing through whatever roadblocks the world tries to throw her way. I’m just grateful to be hanging on for the ride, and hoping there’s no conductors. My own ticket must have expired long ago.
“You’ve known all week that I needed to come here, and you didn’t even have to come along. You said you wanted to. I still need to get myself some more work cardigans, but you can wait here with your drink if you like.” She says, laying down the law and leaving me feeling like I should thank her for it. The lifeline holds me up. “It won’t take long.”
“Yeah, I know.” I tell her. I can still taste the coffee, but even that’s not bitter when she’s on my mind. “I’ll come with you though.”
Dampwater is a dangerous place. I feel better when I’m with her.
“Alright, cool. We won’t be long.” She repeats, but this time with a smile made from polished pearls and pure sunlight. It makes my heart jump every time I see it, and I still can’t believe that a girl like her would have enough pity in her to stick with a guy like me. Another gulp of my coffee goes down and the bitterness is back. I start to question whether or not the serving staff put the sugar in that I asked for. I start to question whether or not I deserve it. Looking up at me from the serving tray are two packets of white caster. Another Dampwater tragedy.
After I see off the punishment beverage Jill leads the way, her orange jumper shining like a beacon and guiding me through. She’s an angel fish among bottom feeders, standing out by her glory, both to schmucks like me and to the predators swarming around us both.
My gaze darts instinctively left and right, sizing up the hidden agendas of everyone around me. The young mother to my right might have a hidden knife. A group of teens loitering by the bins could be plotting a ram-raid of the sweet shop. The loose child ahead is probably a human trafficker. I pull my collar close up around my ears, but it's the middle of summer so it gets hot quickly. It's also a short, sewn-down collar, so I'm holding the whole shirt up around my head like a tortoise hiding from the eagles or bears or whatever it is the actually hunts tortoises. Charles Darwin mostly if the press is to be believed, but they're crooked like all the rest.
Asinine Fabrications looms ahead of me, lit up like a Christmas tree in a forest fire with reflections glaring from the floor to ceiling windows. It tries to outshine everything else in Dampwater with its neon banners and sale posters making promises its tills wouldn't cash. They’re lures for any poor suckers in search of clothes for their backs, shouting of “up to 50% off all summer wear” with no intention of making good on it. At best Jill would be looking at 5% discounts on a single sock, before VAT. But we're all enslaved by them and they know it. It's a great con and we're left footing the bill.
Jill glides through the alarm sensors at the store entrance like they're a welcoming committee, and the rails of dresses are her adoring fans. I can hear them clapping as hangers are moved along, other customers searching through warm fabric bodies for something valuable. They're right to applaud her.
"Can you keep an eye out for black, navy, burgundy or possibly maroon cardigans?" Jill asks me.
“Will do.” I reply in a solemn oath to assist her in any way I can. If that’s what’s necessary to liberate us from Dampwater then I’ll find a hundred cardigans of any colour she pleases. Even if I can’t tell the difference between maroon and burgundy, I’ll try. “Any ideas of where to start looking?”
Jill nods her head in the direction she’s already moving, deeper into Asinine Fabrications. She acts like she’s invincible, like nothing could happen to her in this pit of despair and stylish clothing, and I admire that confidence, but I can’t share it. Not with so many banners of deception and potential hiding places. As we move among the racks and rails of dresses I check left and right for any lurking cardigans so that I might get us out of here sooner, but the only intruders I find are opportunistic scarves and woolly tops.
From the corner of my eye I glimpse gold buttons reflecting yellow store lights in my direction. The only thing in Dampwater more crooked than the floor is the security team, and I'm fresh out of bribes; blew it all on that disappointing coffee. Sticking close to the halter necks and deep V's on the local racks I try to maintain a low profile. I slink along, staying below the ‘V’ line until my thighs burn, not daring to look up in case I make eye contact and following Jill diligently. I try to give them no reason to look my way, but I fail. I see a hand pointing towards me from the same direction as the button reflection.
One hand in my pocket feels for my mobile phone, not much of a defensive option but it's all I've got. Security might beat me down, but if I can catch the whole thing on film then it'll be worth it: the video will go viral and they’ll be forced to take action. The rotten core will still remain, but it’ll be one corrupt officer fewer on the team for a while.
Hangers rattle, and there’s a footstep followed by a muttered order; they're coming for me. Well, I might just be another victim of Dampwater, living in the shadow cast by Jill in all her radiant glory, but I won't go down without a fight. I've done nothing wrong, not to them anyway, and the world will know it. I spin around to face my assailant and see standing in front of me a monster of eight feet in height. His skin is whiter than the blanched bones of the skeletons in Dampwater's closet and twice as unsettling, looming over me with a pointing arm still outstretched. I look into the face of my attacker and see nothing there. No eyes to watch me, no nose to smell the corruption, no mouth to speak lies or tell tales. It’s only a mannequin dressed in a navy blue nautical themed jumper, complete with columns of gold buttons like a guard's uniform.
"You're a damned fool James." I tell myself as my heart keeps pounding. "Jumping at shadows and statues."
"What's that honey?" Jill asks, distracted by the dresses around her.
"Spooked by one of these models." I tell her immediately. There's no hiding the truth from Jill and I refuse even to try.
“You really need to give those detective films a break for a bit, James.” She tells me. “They’re getting to you.”
Yeah, they’re getting to me alright. They’re getting into the core of my being like a maggot in an apple, but I’m already rotten and they’ll find no meal in me. I raise my hand to my mouth to take a drag of a roll-up cigarette, but I don’t smoke and there’s nothing between my fingers. Yet again, I poke myself in the lip.
“Maybe.” I reply, rubbing gently at where I’ve just prodded myself. “But better they get to me than the corrupt underbelly of this town does.”
Subtly the landscape has been changing as we move through the store. Short summery dresses with billowing skirts have given way to harsher, straight cut models in black and navy. They hang in ordered rows like criminals of old from the gallows. It's a message from Asinine Fabrications to all of us: watch your step, because you could be next to swing from a size 12 hanger by your size 16 neck.
But whatever the cut and colour, and no matter the cost, these dresses are no cardigans. Like a bin-bag in December, Jill’s shoulders would be out in the cold if she bought one of these. I tear my gaze away and force it ahead. I’ve got to keep my eyes on the prize, and standing around examining off-the-shoulder numbers won’t help anyone.
We emerge from the dress ghetto and find ourselves on the main thoroughfare. It’s more crowded here than it was in the inter-rack alleyways, with other trapped souls rushing up and down in the hope that a new pair of flared chinos might deliver them from their squalor.
I look left and right to search for our target, and also to make sure that I don’t step out in front of a speeding shopper with a juggernaut trolley in their grasp. I’ve seen too many good people cut down like that in the course of duty. My vision scans across the store. To my left are shoes, socks, and other underfoot enterprises; a usual haunt for Jill, but not today’s destination. The socks are soon overtaken by underwear, which in turn yield territory to tops and blouses. We’re getting close now, and blouses can always be manipulated into squealing about their masters: the cardigans.
Without giving too much away I try to make eye contact with any of the shirts, blouses and tops, but no-one bites. A polo shirt turns away. A fluffy-shouldered casual top coughs nervously, or maybe a shopper behind it does, but neither one helps me. A vest-top hides behind a string of blue and white pinstriped shirts. But a thin, burgundy blouse fails to avoid my eyes. I make direct eye contact with the collar buttons, stare into its soul, and dare it to try hiding the truth from me. Like a newspaper in a hurricane it immediately folds, creasing to the core. Wordlessly it points a sleeve to the right. Behind a pillar I can just see black fabric emerging and forming a shoulder. The cardigans.
“Jill! There!” I say in an excited whisper. We can’t afford to tip the cardigans off now, not when we’re so close. I point to the pillar to show Jill the way.
“Why are you whispering?” she asks, but her curiosity regarding my vocal volume is swept aside by her interest in the hunted garments and she follows my directions. “Ah good! Thanks.”
Jill sets off again, on a direct vector for her mark. She’s fearless and always takes the head-on approach. Admirable but dangerous; that’s her all over. Following close behind her I walk past the blouse that ratted out the cardigans. We don’t say a word.
Beyond the pillar I find Jill in the world she’s been looking for ever since entering this house of loose threads and low moral fibre. There must be over three racks of cardigans here, in colours ranging from black, to deep navy, back to black for a while, and ending in burgundy. Choices of button style, sleeve length, shoulder shape and more threaten to overwhelm my senses, but Jill sifts through them like a pro. In mere seconds she assesses each type, nodding subtly or dropping them for the next contestant. I count my blessings that she doesn’t discard me so easily.
“I like this one.” Jill says, holding up a royal blue, elasticated-cuffed, puffy-shouldered example.
“It’s nice.” I tell her. Truth is, anything would look good if she wore it. It wasn’t that all clothes suited her, it was more that she suited all clothes. Even washed out, baggy, torn ones like me. “What do you think of the grey one?” I ask, trying to get more involved. Besides, silent lurking might make the nearby jackets suspicious of my intentions.
“No.” Jill replies without hesitation. “It’d make me look like a pupil child from an underfunded 1970’s school. One from a bad drama about poverty with a cumbersome message about smoking being bad.” She explains, pulling no punches. Nearby, I see another shopper look at the grey cardigan she has picked up and put it back on the rack with a half-scowl at Jill.
More furious shifting and clacking of hangers follows as Jill resumes her search. I join in on another rack, going through the motions without any clear understanding of what I’m doing like a child imitating its parents. I think back to the young mother pushing her baby around Dampwater and wonder if she realises what she’s teaching it. Letting a child think that shopping centres are acceptable places to be… it’s just not right. It’s not my place to judge, I remind myself, and I’m sure she has her own reasons. Still, it plays on my mind.
“Do you prefer the stripes or the sea anemones?” Jill asks. I look up to see her brandishing twin garments at me. One has broad black and white vertical stripes, and the other is solid black with dozens of pink and green sea anemones arrayed at seemingly random angles. As I inspect more closely I see that the anemone tentacles are in fact tassels hanging from the cardigan. It’s a fine piece for sure.
“The stripes are more traditional for the workplace, but there’s something about those anemones that I can’t take my eyes away from. I think that actiniae-based fashion is the new black.” I say, doing my best to draw on fashion and sea-life knowledge to provide a measured response.
Jill looks at me with a smirk. It’s close enough to a smile for me to feel satisfied.
“You know what? I was taking the mick but I kind of agree. Casual Friday can always do with a multimedia oceanic animal theme to spruce it up.” Her expression grows into a full-blown smile and it warms my cold heart, making me grin too. A little patch of dry land in the flooded abyss of Dampwater. “I’ll keep it with me and decide in a bit.”
Both cardigans join the royal blue across Jill’s arm and she dives back in. Another shopper steps alongside Jill and starts to browse the same items for anything to keep herself warm. Like a fish at the wrong depth, this new shopper is out of her league when standing next to Jill. Her sifting is poor, her choices tasteless, and her skin like burlap next to Jill’s silk. Unmistakably it’s what I’ve come to know as the Dampwater rot.
Whether snapped out of her search by the smell of the rotten woman or something else inside her head, Jill looks up at me.
”Would you hold these for me, please?" she asks, as if I would ever say no. As if I ever could I say no. I don't even hesitate. My arms stretch out almost by reflex, as if she could command them directly.
"Of course." I say, trying to keep up with the involuntary actions of my body. A warm stack of cardigans is hung over my right forearm as if it’s the back of a chair, but Jill keeps one back. It’s a velvet cardi, dark as night and twice as long, with shoulder pads like a pair of hot air balloons and lapels that just don’t know where to be. I can barely make out what anything is supposed to be but Jill sets about extracting the complicated garment from its hanger.
As she swings it around herself the cardigan wafts Jill’s scent towards me, a combination of antiperspirant, tea, and shampoo which I know as happiness. It’s strange to have a reminder of something so joyful in a place like Dampwater, and it pulls my attention further in towards her.
Both of Jill’s arms slip into place as if that’s where those sleeves were always meant to be. She completes the purpose of every garment she wears, granting wishes like a new genie with something to prove and no limit to her power. Where the cardigan on the hanger had seemed like a collection of abstract shapes slung together for reasons that no-one could dare to comprehend, on Jill it suddenly makes sense. Everything falls into place like the Christmas special of a bad sitcom; the shoulder pads go from ludicrous to eye-catching, the lapels seem natural when running horizontally across her stomach, and the length makes it into an elegant gown instead of a deflated marquee.
“How does it look?” she asks, as if she could look anything but perfect. “Is it a bit much for the office?”
“You look like a winning lottery ticket to a destitute family.” I tell her. I know that most people don’t like allusions to poverty when it comes to descriptions of appearance, but Jill is most certainly not most people.
“That’s sweet. Sort of. Thanks. But really, is it overdoing it?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Awesome. I’ll have it then.”
“Should I put these back for you?” I ask, raising my highly insulated arm for her inspection.
“No, I think I’ll get them too. At least then I’ll have options for outfits.”
Always has a plan, Jill. The wool is so far away from being over her eyes that I question whether or not she’s ever seen a sheep. I glance around me at the other shoppers and rescind the query.
Once more with confidence Jill leads the way towards what Asinine Fabrications call checkout counter, but we all know to be a checkpoint. They make people queue up to have their goods inspected and then wait for a bribe before letting them leave the store. It’s sick and it’s wrong, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We have to play the game, and it is, at the very least the way to leave.
I can see the queue already, twisting like a poisoned serpent trying to find a dark place to rest and heal. So many dowdy people stand silently and grey-faced staring at one another’s backs that I wonder if they even remember what the outside world is like. The prospect of joining them makes my stomach turn every time, but it’s something we have to do. Once we make it through we’ll be free from the clutches of this nightmare. We could go home, stop worrying about the security forces, stay close to one another, and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s all I want in the world.
"Ooh, that's a nice skirt." Jill says, veering off course suddenly. The checkout counter and its promise of escape is so close, but now it becomes a distant fantasy once again. I kick myself for allowing my hopes to rise so high. Easy escapes aren't for the likes of me. My lot is to follow her to the ends of the Earth, and there’s not a whole lot closer to the end of the Earth than Dampwater.
I can barely see the skirts from where we are. They’re on the wrong side of the tracks without a doubt. Everything about leg-wear town shady, from the coded sizes they use to throw outsiders off the scent, to segregation by leg length. God help a size 10 S leg that wanders into size 14 L leg territory. With every turf war the suffering perpetuates itself in an unbreakable cycle. The wheel keeps turning, but we're all just trying to get off the ride.
Bold as brass Jill strides through, ignoring leers from black work slacks and corduroy on either side. I step closer and keep pace behind her, watching for any funny business from the flares. Nothing can be trusted around here, no matter how fun it pretends to be. You can't even let yourself be fooled by an innocent button fly; they're pack hunters, vicious and sneaky, and they'll pounce at the first sign of weakness.
One rack ahead and to the left there's a display of blue jeans with an enormous embroidered whale running up the thigh, twisting around the seat, and finishing on the other leg. It’s a tar-pit trap for attention, luring the unwitting over with the promise of bright colours and generous fits, and then striking them down for loose change. It’s barbaric, but that’s Dampwater all over. Jill navigates through the pitfalls like a seasoned explorer, her focus held singularly on the skirted prize she seeks.
We reach our destination among the open-bottomed legwear and before I know it both my arms and Jill's are covered in an array of subtly different skirts. Two of them are the same pattern cut into different shapes. Three skirts of the same shape are present in an array of sizes. I lose track of what I’m looking at quickly. Hell, some of them might even be shorts for all I know. The only certainty is that Jill’s preparing for something big. I feel it coming and get the urge to run, like a horse bolting from the storm that rolls over the horizon. The long wait is ahead of me.
"I think that'll do." She says with her voice like a golden harp. "Do you see the fitting room?" she asks, but she's already looking around herself. I'm about to point it out when she adds "ah, there. I won't be long. Can you hold the cardigans and let me have the skirts?"
We perform the complex choreography necessary for the clothing exchange ritual and as I stand back I can fully appreciate the sheer volume of fabric in Jill's possession. I worry that she's bitten off more than she can chew, but there's no tailoring Heimlich manoeuvre to make her spit some of these skirts back out.
“Are you really sure you need to try all of these on?” I ask. Despite myself, I’m worried about her. Trying on one or two is a risk, but an acceptable one. The number she’s trying on though? That makes a daylight charge over the minefield look like a warm bath at teatime.
“Oh don’t be like that.” Jill tells me. “Look, there’s even a seat here for you.”
I follow her eyeline and see it. It’s like all the others, the prison that holds me without bars or locks but with cushions and emotional blackmail. It’s an incarceration of obligation. The token seat.
Sometimes it’s a normal chair, and others a deep, aged sofa. Sometimes it’s a thin layer of fabric wrapped over an old display shelf to punish the buttocks of any who dare to sit there. But it’s always there, tucked away near to the fitting rooms. This time it’s a broad, flat bench topped with lavender foam. It’s nestled between a pair of mannequins, one crossing its arms and wearing a tartan skirt with a pastel yellow shirt, and the other crouching in jean shorts and sniffing the floor. Jill has consigned me to a stretch in the holding chair.
“Of course. I’ll be here.” I say, taking slow steps towards the purple prison. It’s like walking along death row. Every one of the manifold skirts in her possession drifts through my mind’s eye in turn, adding another eternity to my period of penance. I look down at the cardigans in my arms and count myself lucky; if she’d been trying those on too then there would have been enough outfit combinations to keep me here forever.
No sooner am I on the seat than Jill is entering the fitting room area. One of the Asinine Fabrications lackeys, a middle-aged woman with limp hair and a posture to match, hands her a token with a number on it. I shake my head that they think such anti-theft measures are either necessary or effective.
Jill, her potential acquisitions and her token disappear deeper into the fitting rooms and out of my sight, taking with them my focus. No longer am I escorting an angel through the circles of hell; I’m simply lingering in my own private limbo, where time stands still and hope decays quickly. Even the threatening gangs of skirts and trousers lined up in their racks seem to lose their dangerous edge. They know a lost cause when they see one, and there’s no sport in it if the spirit is already broken.
I look around myself for want of anything else to do. The crouching mannequin is looking away from me with a polo-neck collar turned up to further hide its view from mine. Beyond it is a ceiling-high set of shelves supporting a collection of homeware goods; cushions, candles, cushion covers, candle covers, fire extinguishers, and more. One by one I pass my gaze over them, and one by one I declare them to be of no interest to me.
The homeware goods lose my attention, leaving it to wander away and fall upon the dressing gowns directly opposite me. Where the other garments are partisans, segregating themselves by style, fabric and colour, the dressing gowns are a whole melting pot of misfits. Coloured stripes on black towel-like material hang side-by-side with silver satin and plain white cotton. The breathability of a light summer gown can team up with the coverage of a long, winter article, all the while supported by the absorbency of a towel-gown. It’s what makes them so strong and so dangerous. Everyone knows, even the other garments, that the dressing gowns will eventually take over all of Asinine Fabrications unless the others can learn to get along like they do. It’ll be a slow process though; with their great acceptance comes the expectation of unerring loyalty to the gowns. If any of them betray their new brotherhood for the sake of fabric or pattern then they’re never seen again.
I don’t want to stare too long at the fierce alliance of dressing gowns, and so tilt my head across to my left, where the skirted mannequin still folds its arms distrustfully. I’d try to tell it that I’m not lurking with intent nor trying to rat anyone out, just waiting for Jill to finish up in the fitting room, but there’s no chance it’d listen to me. Outsiders are never welcome, and even less frequently trusted, so my words are worthless here. I glance about to look for the clothes the mannequin is modelling but see them nowhere nearby. In fact, I don’t see any of the clothes the crouching mannequin is wearing either. I spend the next minute looking carefully around myself in a wide arc, searching in futility for any sign of the garments on the two seating guardians, and when nothing is revealed to me I sink back into the seat. It’s clear that either the store assistants don’t know how advertising is supposed to work, or these mannequins were never here for advertising at all.
I ponder for a while. My senses are normally firing on all cylinders to detect a trap but it took me until now to notice this mannequin anomaly. It’s sloppy and could have cost me my life, but now that I’ve been here for this long I can’t help but feel that if they really are part of a trap, it’s not one set for me. That’s the curse of the seat; even danger fades away to preserve the deep, suffocating boredom.
With half an eye on the left mannequin, just in case it wants to chance its luck, I look towards the fitting room entrance. Jill is still nowhere to be seen, but the dowdy assistant has returned to her station. She looks down at her feet, and must be lost in thought. Part of me wonders if I should make conversation with her and rescue us both from our tedious purgatory, but the shadowy beast of doubt swallows those intentions whole. It reminds me that she would think I’m a creep or a mole. Genuine conversation and friendship don’t exist in Dampwater, only opportunism and manipulation. One look at me moving from my bench prison towards her would mean fear and danger for both of us. So I settle to stare for a while longer.
A curtain behind the assistant wobbles momentarily and I wonder if Jill is leaving, but then it returns to stillness. It was a flicker of hope as much as a flicker of motion, and both dissipate in the same way. Suddenly the assistant’s eyes snap up and make half-a-second’s contact with mine more before I can look away. There I was, staring towards the ladies fitting room from a position between thuggish mannequins, and she saw me. My heart rate rises as I fear the impending arrival of store security guards; after all, the assistant probably suspects that I’m some kind of deviant trying to catch a glimpse of someone changing. Keeping my head down, I scan the shining silver surfaces of exposed clothes racks for any sign of reflected security guards but the images are too poor. All I can do is listen out and react quickly when I need to.
Minutes pass with my heart beating out a rhythm like a war-drummer marching into machine-gun fire, but no summoned guards come to take me away. It seems that I’m in no immediate danger, but Jill is still out of sight, unable to release me from the unending wait. I look up and see that the assistant is no longer in place by the door. Has she taken Jill prisoner for my crimes, I wonder. It would make less of a scene than setting the brutes on me, and they could be half way out of the store before I noticed anything. I draw a mental picture of the store in my mind, mapping out the points of egress and shortest routes from one to the other. If it comes down to a chase, I’ll be ready. I won’t let Jill down.
The store assistant reappears in the doorway and my legs tense, ready to leap up at the first sign of trouble. I run an appraising eye up and down her, but there’s no sign of a struggle. Even if she’d been caught unawares, Jill would be quick enough to plant a scratch across her assailant’s face that can’t be covered up by a change of clothes. She’s smart, too smart for these Dampwater goons, and probably too smart for the likes of me. I don’t understand how she hasn’t realised it yet, but I can’t bring myself to point it out. When an angel swoops down to pick up a slug from the mud, the slug doesn’t ask to be dropped again.
Satisfied that Jill is in no immediate danger, I look away from the fitting rooms. There’s nothing new to hold my attention in the surrounding vicinity, but I examine it closely to make damn sure. The candles are still ugly, the dressing gowns still tribal, and the mannequin still sniffing the floor. Everything is as it was and as it always will be. To change would be to offer something to occupy the mind, and that is strictly against the purpose of the seat.
I take my phone from my pocket in desperation. Maybe there’ll be a message I was putting-off replying to, or something interesting to browse online. I swipe left and right to unlock, my fingers dancing in a practiced rhythm above the warm glass, and wait for the home page to fade in from blackness. It hides from me like an informant sticking to the shadows, never knowing if the next person it meets is buying information or reaping revenge for betrayal. Each element loads individually, dragging out my wait under the guise of limited processing power or battery life. When it finally appears the bright blue background speaks of an optimism which has long since ceased to exist. The time pops up for no reason other than to track the length of my torture. An internet browser icon winks into futile existence, rendered powerless by the ‘Network Unavailable’ message proudly emblazoned across the top of the screen. There will be no contact with the outside world while the seat holds me in its inadequately padded embrace, and I will linger here under a blanket of cardigans that will wait forever with me to be purchased.
For longer than I would care to admit I stare into the network status bar, willing it to suddenly find something. Like a fisherman in the boundless ocean waiting for a bite on the line I sit with nothing to show but hope and weary bones. Asinine Fabrications have probably installed a Faraday cage around their store to block network signals and keep their secrets safe. Once you enter you’re stuck, dependent on them for contact with the outside world and presented with nothing but their ‘truth’ on the latest summer fashions and what constitutes a reasonable price for half a square metre of cotton. Disgusted, I return the phone to my pocket.
“James?” a voice rings out. Like a drop of water on the lips of a man lost to wander the desert it infuses me with a new hope and soaks immediately into my body. Jill is out of the fitting room. My sentence is spent. I look up to see her, and for the first time in my life there’s disappointment coupled with the raw joy of her presence.
“Do you think this looks OK? I’m worried it might be a bit poufy around the thigh. Not convinced the cut is right for me.” She asks. Jill is standing there like a beam of light in a dark crypt, dressed in one of the many skirts she hunted from the racks. She’s out of the fitting room but has brought no deliverance with her, only the promise of another stint in seat-hell.
Despite her handing me another lifetime punishment, her question plays on my mind. It’s a confusing one to ask me, because there’s no way she could look anything but sublime. The skirt could be a collection of old boots from the sea and she’d still upstage any bride on her wedding day.
“You look beautiful.” I say. It’s insufficient, like describing the sun as ‘not-dark’ but I’m no poet. I can’t construct the words to adequately describe her, but then again I don’t think anyone could.
“That’s very sweet, James, but the skirt?” she presses.
“It doesn’t look poufy to me. I like it.” I say. Truth is, I wouldn’t know poufy skirts if they hit me in the face and demanded my wallet.
“Hm. OK. I’ll take another look in the mirror.” She says, and just like that I’m left on my own again. The brief respite of her presence reminds me of everything of which the seat deprives me. It’s three seconds of a grand symphony before the composer is plunged into deafness. A deep sigh escapes me as I settle back in.
Another few minutes pass. No network connection has been found, no new customers have drifted past, and the store assistant is still nowhere to be seen. I find my eyes resting on the candles again, and I start to picture where they might go in the home. There’s a squat gold one which would be able to balance on the kitchen windowsill, but it would get in the way of the blinds. Its skinny blue compatriot might be able to rest on the coffee table, possibly with the small green ones, but I’d always be worried about knocking them onto the rug with a magazine or mug.
I slap myself on the cheek. What am I thinking? Actually picturing those abominations in my home is tantamount to madness. Like the Colosseum of Rome I’d lost my marbles, but no historical protection orders will be placed on me. I’ll be left to rot in Asinine Fabrications surrounded by ugly candles, mismatched cushions and a hundred forgotten cardigans unless I snap myself out of it.
The mannequins don’t look at me. They focus on their own agendas and for that I’m grateful. I don’t expect help in Dampwater, and if the very least I get is left well alone then I’ll be a happy man.
My gaze rotates from dressing gowns to fitting rooms to floor in a never-ending loop. I keep it well away from the candles to avoid falling back into that madness, but it’s only a matter of time before I start considering a new dressing gown. Give me the coals, or the rack. Give me thumbscrews. Blindfold me, beat me, hog-tie my arms to my legs and leave me in a gutter to die, but get me out of this prison, I plead to no-one. There’s no-one in Dampwater to hear a prayer or enact mercy.
The phone comes out again, and goes away just as quickly without any progress on signal strength. I shuffle my feet and stretch my legs but still I’m uncomfortable. My bottom is going numb but I can’t make myself stand up. Oh Jill, what are you doing to me? I’ve waited here for years. I start to wonder if she’s slipped and hit her head in the changing room; it’s the only explanation I can think of for why she’s not come out yet. With arms as full as hers had been she could have stocked her very own clothing store, but even so she’d had enough time to try every garment on twice over by now.
My weary eyes drift over to the fitting rooms and I see a bare foot past the bottom of a curtain. Is it Jill’s? I ask myself the question but don’t know the answer for sure. I know that she has feet, two of them to be precise, but couldn’t say whether the foot I see before me is one of hers. I desperately want it to be, so that I can feel any kind of connection to her and monitor some kind of progress. I just need to wait until a shoe appears on it, and then I’ll know for sure.
The foot shifts left and right as if the body above was trying to manoeuvre clothing on or off, or adjust how it was sitting. As it turns I get glimpses of the nail varnish and the shape of the ankle, and I can’t see anything to rule out that it’s Jill. Was she wearing socks? I should be able to remember. It’s my job to notice the details and keep us safe in this hellscape but I have no idea at all. Whether the eternity in limbo has stripped the memories from my mind or if I just didn’t pay enough attention to begin with I don’t know, but the lack of a sock on the foot I can see tells me nothing.
Just as suddenly as it appeared the foot is gone. If it was supposed to be a sign then I missed it and, like a sock left in the washing machine overnight, I was in the completely in the dark and dreaming of fabric softener. I watch the curtain for a while longer but soon bail out again and stare at the ground. If I can’t even recognise whether or not it’s Jill I saw then there’s no hope for me. I’ll be lost under the waves of Dampwater like so many before me. My head falls into my hands. I’ll never be free. This prison will hold me forever. I’d wait for Jill until the end of time, and it’s looking like I’ll have to.
“Oh dear!” laughs an angelic voice. “Is it that bad?”
My head is heavy and I struggle to lift it. Everything has given up. Slowly the memory of that voice filters back into my mind; it’s Jill. With a Herculean effort I raise my eyes to meet hers, and relief flows over me like water extinguishing a flame. She’s dressed in her own clothes, not asking me for an opinion on a skirt. She’s smiling at me. She’s finally done.
“If it’s not that bad” I say “then it’s pretty damned close.”
“I was only in there for ten minutes! I got seven skirts tried on in that time; I thought it was pretty good progress.” She tells me. Her smile starts to wash away the agony of my wait.
“Ten minutes? I guess sometimes ten minutes can feel like an awful lot longer.”
Jill pats me on the shoulder in mock sympathy.
“The underbelly of Dampwater won’t get you today. We’ll get out of this place together.” She says with a smirk. “You’ve still got the goods? My contact is over there at the till. Once we’ve made the exchange we can get straight out of here.”
I look up and can’t help smiling.
“Got ‘em right here. If we keep our heads down then we might just make it out in one piece.”
Moving together we navigate through the trousers once more, but this time they can see that we’re no easy target, and they don’t even try anything. Before I know it we’ve met Jill’s contact at the till and handed over the money. We accept the offer of a bag; if no-one can see what we’ve got, then no-one can ask any questions. I’m pleased to see that the anemone cardigan is inside.
True to her word, as she always is, Jill leads us away from Asinine Fabrications, and towards the car-park entrance of Dampwater.
I spare a look behind myself at the dingy, grey ghetto we’re leaving behind. It’s a struggle to say that we came out on top. In Dampwater there are no happy endings; all you can hope for is an ending where you get to walk away. We’ve made it out this time, but there’ll always be another visit and another march through they grey purgatory. The corruption will always be here. I’m just grateful that I’ve got an angel like Jill to walk me through it.
I take a sip from my coffee. It's cheap café bought stuff, all bitterness and flat flavours. I can tell the barista scorched the beans and overdid it on the milk, but it's all I have so I drink it regardless. Despite the time I’ve waited it's still hot, too hot to drink, and it tries to burn my tongue. Years of experience have given me an instinct there and I swirl it away, blasting the heat against my teeth and cheeks. The boys in white don't fail me, but it was close. Too close. I close my eyes, suck the coffee down with a side-helping of regret and anger at myself, and thank whatever gods there are that they weren't spitting on me just then. But they’ve already spat on me enough, because here I stand in the seedy underbelly of Dampwater shopping centre.
It should never have been built. A sprawling blight on the landscape, it spoils acres of open land and chokes the rest of the city with its slow flowing traffic. Dampwater can only have been the result of a shady backhander from the shopping centre industry, an executive in a darkened room buying off the council. The elected representatives looked the other way while a cathedral of exploitation was being built in their back garden and lined their pockets with the wages of human misery. No city needs that many shoe shops, but that many shoe shops we have.
A woman walks past me with a baby in her pram. She’s short, and looks weighed down by more than just her shopping. I can’t tell what’s bigger; the bags hanging from her elbows or the ones under her eyes. I look away before she can make eye contact and bag me too.
“Poor kid.” I mutter to myself. “This is no way to spend a childhood. Surrounded by vultures, thieves and false smiles. It’s the devil’s crèche and the toys are human lives.”
“Oh will you stop being melodramatic James?”
Jill’s voice pulls me back into the moment like always. It’s a lifeline of glowing gold that shines through the darkness and holds me up above the surface, to stop me drowning in Dampwater.
“Sorry sweets.” I say. Her face is all business and determination, a freight train’s locomotive pushing through whatever roadblocks the world tries to throw her way. I’m just grateful to be hanging on for the ride, and hoping there’s no conductors. My own ticket must have expired long ago.
“You’ve known all week that I needed to come here, and you didn’t even have to come along. You said you wanted to. I still need to get myself some more work cardigans, but you can wait here with your drink if you like.” She says, laying down the law and leaving me feeling like I should thank her for it. The lifeline holds me up. “It won’t take long.”
“Yeah, I know.” I tell her. I can still taste the coffee, but even that’s not bitter when she’s on my mind. “I’ll come with you though.”
Dampwater is a dangerous place. I feel better when I’m with her.
“Alright, cool. We won’t be long.” She repeats, but this time with a smile made from polished pearls and pure sunlight. It makes my heart jump every time I see it, and I still can’t believe that a girl like her would have enough pity in her to stick with a guy like me. Another gulp of my coffee goes down and the bitterness is back. I start to question whether or not the serving staff put the sugar in that I asked for. I start to question whether or not I deserve it. Looking up at me from the serving tray are two packets of white caster. Another Dampwater tragedy.
After I see off the punishment beverage Jill leads the way, her orange jumper shining like a beacon and guiding me through. She’s an angel fish among bottom feeders, standing out by her glory, both to schmucks like me and to the predators swarming around us both.
My gaze darts instinctively left and right, sizing up the hidden agendas of everyone around me. The young mother to my right might have a hidden knife. A group of teens loitering by the bins could be plotting a ram-raid of the sweet shop. The loose child ahead is probably a human trafficker. I pull my collar close up around my ears, but it's the middle of summer so it gets hot quickly. It's also a short, sewn-down collar, so I'm holding the whole shirt up around my head like a tortoise hiding from the eagles or bears or whatever it is the actually hunts tortoises. Charles Darwin mostly if the press is to be believed, but they're crooked like all the rest.
Asinine Fabrications looms ahead of me, lit up like a Christmas tree in a forest fire with reflections glaring from the floor to ceiling windows. It tries to outshine everything else in Dampwater with its neon banners and sale posters making promises its tills wouldn't cash. They’re lures for any poor suckers in search of clothes for their backs, shouting of “up to 50% off all summer wear” with no intention of making good on it. At best Jill would be looking at 5% discounts on a single sock, before VAT. But we're all enslaved by them and they know it. It's a great con and we're left footing the bill.
Jill glides through the alarm sensors at the store entrance like they're a welcoming committee, and the rails of dresses are her adoring fans. I can hear them clapping as hangers are moved along, other customers searching through warm fabric bodies for something valuable. They're right to applaud her.
"Can you keep an eye out for black, navy, burgundy or possibly maroon cardigans?" Jill asks me.
“Will do.” I reply in a solemn oath to assist her in any way I can. If that’s what’s necessary to liberate us from Dampwater then I’ll find a hundred cardigans of any colour she pleases. Even if I can’t tell the difference between maroon and burgundy, I’ll try. “Any ideas of where to start looking?”
Jill nods her head in the direction she’s already moving, deeper into Asinine Fabrications. She acts like she’s invincible, like nothing could happen to her in this pit of despair and stylish clothing, and I admire that confidence, but I can’t share it. Not with so many banners of deception and potential hiding places. As we move among the racks and rails of dresses I check left and right for any lurking cardigans so that I might get us out of here sooner, but the only intruders I find are opportunistic scarves and woolly tops.
From the corner of my eye I glimpse gold buttons reflecting yellow store lights in my direction. The only thing in Dampwater more crooked than the floor is the security team, and I'm fresh out of bribes; blew it all on that disappointing coffee. Sticking close to the halter necks and deep V's on the local racks I try to maintain a low profile. I slink along, staying below the ‘V’ line until my thighs burn, not daring to look up in case I make eye contact and following Jill diligently. I try to give them no reason to look my way, but I fail. I see a hand pointing towards me from the same direction as the button reflection.
One hand in my pocket feels for my mobile phone, not much of a defensive option but it's all I've got. Security might beat me down, but if I can catch the whole thing on film then it'll be worth it: the video will go viral and they’ll be forced to take action. The rotten core will still remain, but it’ll be one corrupt officer fewer on the team for a while.
Hangers rattle, and there’s a footstep followed by a muttered order; they're coming for me. Well, I might just be another victim of Dampwater, living in the shadow cast by Jill in all her radiant glory, but I won't go down without a fight. I've done nothing wrong, not to them anyway, and the world will know it. I spin around to face my assailant and see standing in front of me a monster of eight feet in height. His skin is whiter than the blanched bones of the skeletons in Dampwater's closet and twice as unsettling, looming over me with a pointing arm still outstretched. I look into the face of my attacker and see nothing there. No eyes to watch me, no nose to smell the corruption, no mouth to speak lies or tell tales. It’s only a mannequin dressed in a navy blue nautical themed jumper, complete with columns of gold buttons like a guard's uniform.
"You're a damned fool James." I tell myself as my heart keeps pounding. "Jumping at shadows and statues."
"What's that honey?" Jill asks, distracted by the dresses around her.
"Spooked by one of these models." I tell her immediately. There's no hiding the truth from Jill and I refuse even to try.
“You really need to give those detective films a break for a bit, James.” She tells me. “They’re getting to you.”
Yeah, they’re getting to me alright. They’re getting into the core of my being like a maggot in an apple, but I’m already rotten and they’ll find no meal in me. I raise my hand to my mouth to take a drag of a roll-up cigarette, but I don’t smoke and there’s nothing between my fingers. Yet again, I poke myself in the lip.
“Maybe.” I reply, rubbing gently at where I’ve just prodded myself. “But better they get to me than the corrupt underbelly of this town does.”
Subtly the landscape has been changing as we move through the store. Short summery dresses with billowing skirts have given way to harsher, straight cut models in black and navy. They hang in ordered rows like criminals of old from the gallows. It's a message from Asinine Fabrications to all of us: watch your step, because you could be next to swing from a size 12 hanger by your size 16 neck.
But whatever the cut and colour, and no matter the cost, these dresses are no cardigans. Like a bin-bag in December, Jill’s shoulders would be out in the cold if she bought one of these. I tear my gaze away and force it ahead. I’ve got to keep my eyes on the prize, and standing around examining off-the-shoulder numbers won’t help anyone.
We emerge from the dress ghetto and find ourselves on the main thoroughfare. It’s more crowded here than it was in the inter-rack alleyways, with other trapped souls rushing up and down in the hope that a new pair of flared chinos might deliver them from their squalor.
I look left and right to search for our target, and also to make sure that I don’t step out in front of a speeding shopper with a juggernaut trolley in their grasp. I’ve seen too many good people cut down like that in the course of duty. My vision scans across the store. To my left are shoes, socks, and other underfoot enterprises; a usual haunt for Jill, but not today’s destination. The socks are soon overtaken by underwear, which in turn yield territory to tops and blouses. We’re getting close now, and blouses can always be manipulated into squealing about their masters: the cardigans.
Without giving too much away I try to make eye contact with any of the shirts, blouses and tops, but no-one bites. A polo shirt turns away. A fluffy-shouldered casual top coughs nervously, or maybe a shopper behind it does, but neither one helps me. A vest-top hides behind a string of blue and white pinstriped shirts. But a thin, burgundy blouse fails to avoid my eyes. I make direct eye contact with the collar buttons, stare into its soul, and dare it to try hiding the truth from me. Like a newspaper in a hurricane it immediately folds, creasing to the core. Wordlessly it points a sleeve to the right. Behind a pillar I can just see black fabric emerging and forming a shoulder. The cardigans.
“Jill! There!” I say in an excited whisper. We can’t afford to tip the cardigans off now, not when we’re so close. I point to the pillar to show Jill the way.
“Why are you whispering?” she asks, but her curiosity regarding my vocal volume is swept aside by her interest in the hunted garments and she follows my directions. “Ah good! Thanks.”
Jill sets off again, on a direct vector for her mark. She’s fearless and always takes the head-on approach. Admirable but dangerous; that’s her all over. Following close behind her I walk past the blouse that ratted out the cardigans. We don’t say a word.
Beyond the pillar I find Jill in the world she’s been looking for ever since entering this house of loose threads and low moral fibre. There must be over three racks of cardigans here, in colours ranging from black, to deep navy, back to black for a while, and ending in burgundy. Choices of button style, sleeve length, shoulder shape and more threaten to overwhelm my senses, but Jill sifts through them like a pro. In mere seconds she assesses each type, nodding subtly or dropping them for the next contestant. I count my blessings that she doesn’t discard me so easily.
“I like this one.” Jill says, holding up a royal blue, elasticated-cuffed, puffy-shouldered example.
“It’s nice.” I tell her. Truth is, anything would look good if she wore it. It wasn’t that all clothes suited her, it was more that she suited all clothes. Even washed out, baggy, torn ones like me. “What do you think of the grey one?” I ask, trying to get more involved. Besides, silent lurking might make the nearby jackets suspicious of my intentions.
“No.” Jill replies without hesitation. “It’d make me look like a pupil child from an underfunded 1970’s school. One from a bad drama about poverty with a cumbersome message about smoking being bad.” She explains, pulling no punches. Nearby, I see another shopper look at the grey cardigan she has picked up and put it back on the rack with a half-scowl at Jill.
More furious shifting and clacking of hangers follows as Jill resumes her search. I join in on another rack, going through the motions without any clear understanding of what I’m doing like a child imitating its parents. I think back to the young mother pushing her baby around Dampwater and wonder if she realises what she’s teaching it. Letting a child think that shopping centres are acceptable places to be… it’s just not right. It’s not my place to judge, I remind myself, and I’m sure she has her own reasons. Still, it plays on my mind.
“Do you prefer the stripes or the sea anemones?” Jill asks. I look up to see her brandishing twin garments at me. One has broad black and white vertical stripes, and the other is solid black with dozens of pink and green sea anemones arrayed at seemingly random angles. As I inspect more closely I see that the anemone tentacles are in fact tassels hanging from the cardigan. It’s a fine piece for sure.
“The stripes are more traditional for the workplace, but there’s something about those anemones that I can’t take my eyes away from. I think that actiniae-based fashion is the new black.” I say, doing my best to draw on fashion and sea-life knowledge to provide a measured response.
Jill looks at me with a smirk. It’s close enough to a smile for me to feel satisfied.
“You know what? I was taking the mick but I kind of agree. Casual Friday can always do with a multimedia oceanic animal theme to spruce it up.” Her expression grows into a full-blown smile and it warms my cold heart, making me grin too. A little patch of dry land in the flooded abyss of Dampwater. “I’ll keep it with me and decide in a bit.”
Both cardigans join the royal blue across Jill’s arm and she dives back in. Another shopper steps alongside Jill and starts to browse the same items for anything to keep herself warm. Like a fish at the wrong depth, this new shopper is out of her league when standing next to Jill. Her sifting is poor, her choices tasteless, and her skin like burlap next to Jill’s silk. Unmistakably it’s what I’ve come to know as the Dampwater rot.
Whether snapped out of her search by the smell of the rotten woman or something else inside her head, Jill looks up at me.
”Would you hold these for me, please?" she asks, as if I would ever say no. As if I ever could I say no. I don't even hesitate. My arms stretch out almost by reflex, as if she could command them directly.
"Of course." I say, trying to keep up with the involuntary actions of my body. A warm stack of cardigans is hung over my right forearm as if it’s the back of a chair, but Jill keeps one back. It’s a velvet cardi, dark as night and twice as long, with shoulder pads like a pair of hot air balloons and lapels that just don’t know where to be. I can barely make out what anything is supposed to be but Jill sets about extracting the complicated garment from its hanger.
As she swings it around herself the cardigan wafts Jill’s scent towards me, a combination of antiperspirant, tea, and shampoo which I know as happiness. It’s strange to have a reminder of something so joyful in a place like Dampwater, and it pulls my attention further in towards her.
Both of Jill’s arms slip into place as if that’s where those sleeves were always meant to be. She completes the purpose of every garment she wears, granting wishes like a new genie with something to prove and no limit to her power. Where the cardigan on the hanger had seemed like a collection of abstract shapes slung together for reasons that no-one could dare to comprehend, on Jill it suddenly makes sense. Everything falls into place like the Christmas special of a bad sitcom; the shoulder pads go from ludicrous to eye-catching, the lapels seem natural when running horizontally across her stomach, and the length makes it into an elegant gown instead of a deflated marquee.
“How does it look?” she asks, as if she could look anything but perfect. “Is it a bit much for the office?”
“You look like a winning lottery ticket to a destitute family.” I tell her. I know that most people don’t like allusions to poverty when it comes to descriptions of appearance, but Jill is most certainly not most people.
“That’s sweet. Sort of. Thanks. But really, is it overdoing it?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Awesome. I’ll have it then.”
“Should I put these back for you?” I ask, raising my highly insulated arm for her inspection.
“No, I think I’ll get them too. At least then I’ll have options for outfits.”
Always has a plan, Jill. The wool is so far away from being over her eyes that I question whether or not she’s ever seen a sheep. I glance around me at the other shoppers and rescind the query.
Once more with confidence Jill leads the way towards what Asinine Fabrications call checkout counter, but we all know to be a checkpoint. They make people queue up to have their goods inspected and then wait for a bribe before letting them leave the store. It’s sick and it’s wrong, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We have to play the game, and it is, at the very least the way to leave.
I can see the queue already, twisting like a poisoned serpent trying to find a dark place to rest and heal. So many dowdy people stand silently and grey-faced staring at one another’s backs that I wonder if they even remember what the outside world is like. The prospect of joining them makes my stomach turn every time, but it’s something we have to do. Once we make it through we’ll be free from the clutches of this nightmare. We could go home, stop worrying about the security forces, stay close to one another, and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s all I want in the world.
"Ooh, that's a nice skirt." Jill says, veering off course suddenly. The checkout counter and its promise of escape is so close, but now it becomes a distant fantasy once again. I kick myself for allowing my hopes to rise so high. Easy escapes aren't for the likes of me. My lot is to follow her to the ends of the Earth, and there’s not a whole lot closer to the end of the Earth than Dampwater.
I can barely see the skirts from where we are. They’re on the wrong side of the tracks without a doubt. Everything about leg-wear town shady, from the coded sizes they use to throw outsiders off the scent, to segregation by leg length. God help a size 10 S leg that wanders into size 14 L leg territory. With every turf war the suffering perpetuates itself in an unbreakable cycle. The wheel keeps turning, but we're all just trying to get off the ride.
Bold as brass Jill strides through, ignoring leers from black work slacks and corduroy on either side. I step closer and keep pace behind her, watching for any funny business from the flares. Nothing can be trusted around here, no matter how fun it pretends to be. You can't even let yourself be fooled by an innocent button fly; they're pack hunters, vicious and sneaky, and they'll pounce at the first sign of weakness.
One rack ahead and to the left there's a display of blue jeans with an enormous embroidered whale running up the thigh, twisting around the seat, and finishing on the other leg. It’s a tar-pit trap for attention, luring the unwitting over with the promise of bright colours and generous fits, and then striking them down for loose change. It’s barbaric, but that’s Dampwater all over. Jill navigates through the pitfalls like a seasoned explorer, her focus held singularly on the skirted prize she seeks.
We reach our destination among the open-bottomed legwear and before I know it both my arms and Jill's are covered in an array of subtly different skirts. Two of them are the same pattern cut into different shapes. Three skirts of the same shape are present in an array of sizes. I lose track of what I’m looking at quickly. Hell, some of them might even be shorts for all I know. The only certainty is that Jill’s preparing for something big. I feel it coming and get the urge to run, like a horse bolting from the storm that rolls over the horizon. The long wait is ahead of me.
"I think that'll do." She says with her voice like a golden harp. "Do you see the fitting room?" she asks, but she's already looking around herself. I'm about to point it out when she adds "ah, there. I won't be long. Can you hold the cardigans and let me have the skirts?"
We perform the complex choreography necessary for the clothing exchange ritual and as I stand back I can fully appreciate the sheer volume of fabric in Jill's possession. I worry that she's bitten off more than she can chew, but there's no tailoring Heimlich manoeuvre to make her spit some of these skirts back out.
“Are you really sure you need to try all of these on?” I ask. Despite myself, I’m worried about her. Trying on one or two is a risk, but an acceptable one. The number she’s trying on though? That makes a daylight charge over the minefield look like a warm bath at teatime.
“Oh don’t be like that.” Jill tells me. “Look, there’s even a seat here for you.”
I follow her eyeline and see it. It’s like all the others, the prison that holds me without bars or locks but with cushions and emotional blackmail. It’s an incarceration of obligation. The token seat.
Sometimes it’s a normal chair, and others a deep, aged sofa. Sometimes it’s a thin layer of fabric wrapped over an old display shelf to punish the buttocks of any who dare to sit there. But it’s always there, tucked away near to the fitting rooms. This time it’s a broad, flat bench topped with lavender foam. It’s nestled between a pair of mannequins, one crossing its arms and wearing a tartan skirt with a pastel yellow shirt, and the other crouching in jean shorts and sniffing the floor. Jill has consigned me to a stretch in the holding chair.
“Of course. I’ll be here.” I say, taking slow steps towards the purple prison. It’s like walking along death row. Every one of the manifold skirts in her possession drifts through my mind’s eye in turn, adding another eternity to my period of penance. I look down at the cardigans in my arms and count myself lucky; if she’d been trying those on too then there would have been enough outfit combinations to keep me here forever.
No sooner am I on the seat than Jill is entering the fitting room area. One of the Asinine Fabrications lackeys, a middle-aged woman with limp hair and a posture to match, hands her a token with a number on it. I shake my head that they think such anti-theft measures are either necessary or effective.
Jill, her potential acquisitions and her token disappear deeper into the fitting rooms and out of my sight, taking with them my focus. No longer am I escorting an angel through the circles of hell; I’m simply lingering in my own private limbo, where time stands still and hope decays quickly. Even the threatening gangs of skirts and trousers lined up in their racks seem to lose their dangerous edge. They know a lost cause when they see one, and there’s no sport in it if the spirit is already broken.
I look around myself for want of anything else to do. The crouching mannequin is looking away from me with a polo-neck collar turned up to further hide its view from mine. Beyond it is a ceiling-high set of shelves supporting a collection of homeware goods; cushions, candles, cushion covers, candle covers, fire extinguishers, and more. One by one I pass my gaze over them, and one by one I declare them to be of no interest to me.
The homeware goods lose my attention, leaving it to wander away and fall upon the dressing gowns directly opposite me. Where the other garments are partisans, segregating themselves by style, fabric and colour, the dressing gowns are a whole melting pot of misfits. Coloured stripes on black towel-like material hang side-by-side with silver satin and plain white cotton. The breathability of a light summer gown can team up with the coverage of a long, winter article, all the while supported by the absorbency of a towel-gown. It’s what makes them so strong and so dangerous. Everyone knows, even the other garments, that the dressing gowns will eventually take over all of Asinine Fabrications unless the others can learn to get along like they do. It’ll be a slow process though; with their great acceptance comes the expectation of unerring loyalty to the gowns. If any of them betray their new brotherhood for the sake of fabric or pattern then they’re never seen again.
I don’t want to stare too long at the fierce alliance of dressing gowns, and so tilt my head across to my left, where the skirted mannequin still folds its arms distrustfully. I’d try to tell it that I’m not lurking with intent nor trying to rat anyone out, just waiting for Jill to finish up in the fitting room, but there’s no chance it’d listen to me. Outsiders are never welcome, and even less frequently trusted, so my words are worthless here. I glance about to look for the clothes the mannequin is modelling but see them nowhere nearby. In fact, I don’t see any of the clothes the crouching mannequin is wearing either. I spend the next minute looking carefully around myself in a wide arc, searching in futility for any sign of the garments on the two seating guardians, and when nothing is revealed to me I sink back into the seat. It’s clear that either the store assistants don’t know how advertising is supposed to work, or these mannequins were never here for advertising at all.
I ponder for a while. My senses are normally firing on all cylinders to detect a trap but it took me until now to notice this mannequin anomaly. It’s sloppy and could have cost me my life, but now that I’ve been here for this long I can’t help but feel that if they really are part of a trap, it’s not one set for me. That’s the curse of the seat; even danger fades away to preserve the deep, suffocating boredom.
With half an eye on the left mannequin, just in case it wants to chance its luck, I look towards the fitting room entrance. Jill is still nowhere to be seen, but the dowdy assistant has returned to her station. She looks down at her feet, and must be lost in thought. Part of me wonders if I should make conversation with her and rescue us both from our tedious purgatory, but the shadowy beast of doubt swallows those intentions whole. It reminds me that she would think I’m a creep or a mole. Genuine conversation and friendship don’t exist in Dampwater, only opportunism and manipulation. One look at me moving from my bench prison towards her would mean fear and danger for both of us. So I settle to stare for a while longer.
A curtain behind the assistant wobbles momentarily and I wonder if Jill is leaving, but then it returns to stillness. It was a flicker of hope as much as a flicker of motion, and both dissipate in the same way. Suddenly the assistant’s eyes snap up and make half-a-second’s contact with mine more before I can look away. There I was, staring towards the ladies fitting room from a position between thuggish mannequins, and she saw me. My heart rate rises as I fear the impending arrival of store security guards; after all, the assistant probably suspects that I’m some kind of deviant trying to catch a glimpse of someone changing. Keeping my head down, I scan the shining silver surfaces of exposed clothes racks for any sign of reflected security guards but the images are too poor. All I can do is listen out and react quickly when I need to.
Minutes pass with my heart beating out a rhythm like a war-drummer marching into machine-gun fire, but no summoned guards come to take me away. It seems that I’m in no immediate danger, but Jill is still out of sight, unable to release me from the unending wait. I look up and see that the assistant is no longer in place by the door. Has she taken Jill prisoner for my crimes, I wonder. It would make less of a scene than setting the brutes on me, and they could be half way out of the store before I noticed anything. I draw a mental picture of the store in my mind, mapping out the points of egress and shortest routes from one to the other. If it comes down to a chase, I’ll be ready. I won’t let Jill down.
The store assistant reappears in the doorway and my legs tense, ready to leap up at the first sign of trouble. I run an appraising eye up and down her, but there’s no sign of a struggle. Even if she’d been caught unawares, Jill would be quick enough to plant a scratch across her assailant’s face that can’t be covered up by a change of clothes. She’s smart, too smart for these Dampwater goons, and probably too smart for the likes of me. I don’t understand how she hasn’t realised it yet, but I can’t bring myself to point it out. When an angel swoops down to pick up a slug from the mud, the slug doesn’t ask to be dropped again.
Satisfied that Jill is in no immediate danger, I look away from the fitting rooms. There’s nothing new to hold my attention in the surrounding vicinity, but I examine it closely to make damn sure. The candles are still ugly, the dressing gowns still tribal, and the mannequin still sniffing the floor. Everything is as it was and as it always will be. To change would be to offer something to occupy the mind, and that is strictly against the purpose of the seat.
I take my phone from my pocket in desperation. Maybe there’ll be a message I was putting-off replying to, or something interesting to browse online. I swipe left and right to unlock, my fingers dancing in a practiced rhythm above the warm glass, and wait for the home page to fade in from blackness. It hides from me like an informant sticking to the shadows, never knowing if the next person it meets is buying information or reaping revenge for betrayal. Each element loads individually, dragging out my wait under the guise of limited processing power or battery life. When it finally appears the bright blue background speaks of an optimism which has long since ceased to exist. The time pops up for no reason other than to track the length of my torture. An internet browser icon winks into futile existence, rendered powerless by the ‘Network Unavailable’ message proudly emblazoned across the top of the screen. There will be no contact with the outside world while the seat holds me in its inadequately padded embrace, and I will linger here under a blanket of cardigans that will wait forever with me to be purchased.
For longer than I would care to admit I stare into the network status bar, willing it to suddenly find something. Like a fisherman in the boundless ocean waiting for a bite on the line I sit with nothing to show but hope and weary bones. Asinine Fabrications have probably installed a Faraday cage around their store to block network signals and keep their secrets safe. Once you enter you’re stuck, dependent on them for contact with the outside world and presented with nothing but their ‘truth’ on the latest summer fashions and what constitutes a reasonable price for half a square metre of cotton. Disgusted, I return the phone to my pocket.
“James?” a voice rings out. Like a drop of water on the lips of a man lost to wander the desert it infuses me with a new hope and soaks immediately into my body. Jill is out of the fitting room. My sentence is spent. I look up to see her, and for the first time in my life there’s disappointment coupled with the raw joy of her presence.
“Do you think this looks OK? I’m worried it might be a bit poufy around the thigh. Not convinced the cut is right for me.” She asks. Jill is standing there like a beam of light in a dark crypt, dressed in one of the many skirts she hunted from the racks. She’s out of the fitting room but has brought no deliverance with her, only the promise of another stint in seat-hell.
Despite her handing me another lifetime punishment, her question plays on my mind. It’s a confusing one to ask me, because there’s no way she could look anything but sublime. The skirt could be a collection of old boots from the sea and she’d still upstage any bride on her wedding day.
“You look beautiful.” I say. It’s insufficient, like describing the sun as ‘not-dark’ but I’m no poet. I can’t construct the words to adequately describe her, but then again I don’t think anyone could.
“That’s very sweet, James, but the skirt?” she presses.
“It doesn’t look poufy to me. I like it.” I say. Truth is, I wouldn’t know poufy skirts if they hit me in the face and demanded my wallet.
“Hm. OK. I’ll take another look in the mirror.” She says, and just like that I’m left on my own again. The brief respite of her presence reminds me of everything of which the seat deprives me. It’s three seconds of a grand symphony before the composer is plunged into deafness. A deep sigh escapes me as I settle back in.
Another few minutes pass. No network connection has been found, no new customers have drifted past, and the store assistant is still nowhere to be seen. I find my eyes resting on the candles again, and I start to picture where they might go in the home. There’s a squat gold one which would be able to balance on the kitchen windowsill, but it would get in the way of the blinds. Its skinny blue compatriot might be able to rest on the coffee table, possibly with the small green ones, but I’d always be worried about knocking them onto the rug with a magazine or mug.
I slap myself on the cheek. What am I thinking? Actually picturing those abominations in my home is tantamount to madness. Like the Colosseum of Rome I’d lost my marbles, but no historical protection orders will be placed on me. I’ll be left to rot in Asinine Fabrications surrounded by ugly candles, mismatched cushions and a hundred forgotten cardigans unless I snap myself out of it.
The mannequins don’t look at me. They focus on their own agendas and for that I’m grateful. I don’t expect help in Dampwater, and if the very least I get is left well alone then I’ll be a happy man.
My gaze rotates from dressing gowns to fitting rooms to floor in a never-ending loop. I keep it well away from the candles to avoid falling back into that madness, but it’s only a matter of time before I start considering a new dressing gown. Give me the coals, or the rack. Give me thumbscrews. Blindfold me, beat me, hog-tie my arms to my legs and leave me in a gutter to die, but get me out of this prison, I plead to no-one. There’s no-one in Dampwater to hear a prayer or enact mercy.
The phone comes out again, and goes away just as quickly without any progress on signal strength. I shuffle my feet and stretch my legs but still I’m uncomfortable. My bottom is going numb but I can’t make myself stand up. Oh Jill, what are you doing to me? I’ve waited here for years. I start to wonder if she’s slipped and hit her head in the changing room; it’s the only explanation I can think of for why she’s not come out yet. With arms as full as hers had been she could have stocked her very own clothing store, but even so she’d had enough time to try every garment on twice over by now.
My weary eyes drift over to the fitting rooms and I see a bare foot past the bottom of a curtain. Is it Jill’s? I ask myself the question but don’t know the answer for sure. I know that she has feet, two of them to be precise, but couldn’t say whether the foot I see before me is one of hers. I desperately want it to be, so that I can feel any kind of connection to her and monitor some kind of progress. I just need to wait until a shoe appears on it, and then I’ll know for sure.
The foot shifts left and right as if the body above was trying to manoeuvre clothing on or off, or adjust how it was sitting. As it turns I get glimpses of the nail varnish and the shape of the ankle, and I can’t see anything to rule out that it’s Jill. Was she wearing socks? I should be able to remember. It’s my job to notice the details and keep us safe in this hellscape but I have no idea at all. Whether the eternity in limbo has stripped the memories from my mind or if I just didn’t pay enough attention to begin with I don’t know, but the lack of a sock on the foot I can see tells me nothing.
Just as suddenly as it appeared the foot is gone. If it was supposed to be a sign then I missed it and, like a sock left in the washing machine overnight, I was in the completely in the dark and dreaming of fabric softener. I watch the curtain for a while longer but soon bail out again and stare at the ground. If I can’t even recognise whether or not it’s Jill I saw then there’s no hope for me. I’ll be lost under the waves of Dampwater like so many before me. My head falls into my hands. I’ll never be free. This prison will hold me forever. I’d wait for Jill until the end of time, and it’s looking like I’ll have to.
“Oh dear!” laughs an angelic voice. “Is it that bad?”
My head is heavy and I struggle to lift it. Everything has given up. Slowly the memory of that voice filters back into my mind; it’s Jill. With a Herculean effort I raise my eyes to meet hers, and relief flows over me like water extinguishing a flame. She’s dressed in her own clothes, not asking me for an opinion on a skirt. She’s smiling at me. She’s finally done.
“If it’s not that bad” I say “then it’s pretty damned close.”
“I was only in there for ten minutes! I got seven skirts tried on in that time; I thought it was pretty good progress.” She tells me. Her smile starts to wash away the agony of my wait.
“Ten minutes? I guess sometimes ten minutes can feel like an awful lot longer.”
Jill pats me on the shoulder in mock sympathy.
“The underbelly of Dampwater won’t get you today. We’ll get out of this place together.” She says with a smirk. “You’ve still got the goods? My contact is over there at the till. Once we’ve made the exchange we can get straight out of here.”
I look up and can’t help smiling.
“Got ‘em right here. If we keep our heads down then we might just make it out in one piece.”
Moving together we navigate through the trousers once more, but this time they can see that we’re no easy target, and they don’t even try anything. Before I know it we’ve met Jill’s contact at the till and handed over the money. We accept the offer of a bag; if no-one can see what we’ve got, then no-one can ask any questions. I’m pleased to see that the anemone cardigan is inside.
True to her word, as she always is, Jill leads us away from Asinine Fabrications, and towards the car-park entrance of Dampwater.
I spare a look behind myself at the dingy, grey ghetto we’re leaving behind. It’s a struggle to say that we came out on top. In Dampwater there are no happy endings; all you can hope for is an ending where you get to walk away. We’ve made it out this time, but there’ll always be another visit and another march through they grey purgatory. The corruption will always be here. I’m just grateful that I’ve got an angel like Jill to walk me through it.