Nothing On Earth Read Free

moments, towards the end, when Helen wasn’t entirely certain herself.
    â€˜Which of you is Helen?’
    A man with a beard and check shirt asked that. He was leaning on the frame of an open door, the one from the hallway into their kitchen, when he asked it. Nobody said anything. He smiled and said, ‘Knock, knock,’ then just stepped in, like a giant from a fairy story, to where they sat eating a cooked chicken with bare hands at the plastic picnic table she had bought to tide them over.
    This was one of those moments when she scarcely recognized her name and sat as motionless as the others. She could hear them, either side of her, giggling slightly. They always shared, she knew, a running joke about her being as vague as fog. Now here she was, so miles away that everyone was gazing at her.
    â€˜I am,’ she said, and stood, and put her hand forward for shaking.
    This, you could say, is where it really began. The last week of April, a man in a check shirt pretending to be a door, and Helen stirred from heaven knows where to stand and stretch her hand forward the way people are expected to with strangers.
    â€˜Flood.’
    Flood’s hand felt huge and covered in cracks, like a cement shovel left standing weeks in sun. He had been hoping that Helen was her sister. Martina? Martina sounds about right. Flood had been hoping that Helen was Martina, from the way he was smiling down at Martina, the way men always did, and the way his face fell fractionally when Helen stood. There were, she noticed, little saucers of sweat in the armpits of his shirt. That’s the other thing. It happened over the course of one blistering summer. The road up through the close was pure dust.
    â€˜We spoke on the phone.’
    â€˜We did indeed.’ Flood smiled when he said that. She had called long distance twice early in the year: once to ask initially if he would consider a rent-to-buy, and once to arrange for keys. She had called from a payphone next to the laundry room in the basement of their old apartment block, with prepaid minutes. Flood’s smile must have meant he didn’t need reminding that they had spoken. ‘That’s why I asked for you.’
    â€˜We were wondering when we’d see you.’
    â€˜I meant to drop by sooner.’ Every time he spoke, it appeared something else had caught Flood’s attention. ‘When did you get here?’
    â€˜Few days ago.’
    â€˜That’s right.’ Flood turned to acknowledge the others’ presence. ‘Marcus said he saw a big blue truck pull up.’
    â€˜Marcus?’
    â€˜Sister’s youngest. I have him on night security for the time being.’
    The girl’s father wiped chicken grease from his hands and stood looking up at Flood and said something like, ‘Paul.’
    â€˜Good man, Paul.’ Flood started towards the front of the house. ‘There’s a couple of bits and bobs.’
    The three of them walked the close: Helen and Paul and Flood. Paul looked like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. He kept squinting at the unblemished blue above them and nodding vacantly at whatever Flood and Helen were saying.
    â€˜Have you made yourselves known to Harry and Sheila?’
    â€˜In number three?’
    â€˜The very one.’ Flood shaded his eyes and peered downhill towards the only other house occupied. The rest were bare breeze block, black cavities where there should have been doubleglazing. A handful didn’t even have slates on the roof. ‘Smashing folks altogether.’
    Coming back was her idea. Paul, she knew, would make that clear to Flood. There were several moments, during Flood’s tour of the close, when Flood said something and Paul rubbed the underside of his nose as if he were trying to stifle a smirk. They walked; Paul drifted several paces behind and she slowed her own pace to let him catch up. They stopped to inspect something, and Paul came to a