Poppet

Groundhog Day

FLEA WAKES FULLY dressed on the sofa at six a.m. Her head is throbbing, her mouth is dry. The curtains are open, outside is still dark and freezing, a crystalline hush – winter on its way. She rolls on to her side, a cushion under her face, stares at the silent television. Maybe it’s Groundhog Day, because on screen is Jacqui Kitson again. Different sofa, different dress, different interviewer. The expression, though, that’s the same. Flea doesn’t turn up the volume. She doesn’t need to. She knows what Jacqui will be saying.

She looks at her watch. There’s no going back to sleep – she’s got to commit to the day.

She falls out of bed and drags on her jogging gear and makes her morning run in the dark, using her head torch and her memory to guide her. It’s frosty, the trees poke their thin fingers through the sheet of white. She sees no one – no car passes, not a single light shows in the few houses she passes on the six-mile loop. The whole city of Bath is down the slope half a mile to her right – but it is silent. The only way you’d know it was there is the orange miasma in the mist.

Back at home she showers, washes her hair, gets into uniform, thermals underneath – ready for another day of searching. She snaps on the long johns and as she does feels something loose about her stomach – as if the muscles are going to split and spill. She stands for a moment in the bathroom, her hands pressed on her belly – wondering about that sensation.

Her eyes lift to the corridor, to all the boxes lined up there. They are so neat, so contained, organized and closed. It’s taken for ever to pack it all away. Fuck, fuck and fuck.

She drags on her fleece, kicks on her boots and goes into the bathroom to clean her teeth. As she brushes, she keeps one hand pressed on the mirror, her eyes down on the porcelain and plug. There’s no need to see her reflection. Absolutely no need.