Small Holdings by Nicola Barker

smarted a little. I picked out some of the dry blood from my nostrils. That, at least, was satisfying.
    While I picked I looked down at the park. Dumbly, dutifully. I looked through the trees, the tall grass, past the roses, the flower beds, the pond. And there, sitting next to the pond, I could have sworn I saw a cat. A big tabby, licking its tail.
    Could I trust my eyes? I clambered up and started to walk, down the hill. The slope made me trot, made me jog. At the bottom of the slope I carried on jogging: through the trees, the flower beds, up to the water.
    Cog rolled on to his back and offered me his belly. I squatted down, panting. I rubbed it. As I rubbed a small sprinkle of mud and dust rose and fell. Then Cog stood up and sauntered off, his little jaunty bollocks to the rear, neat and well balanced like a sprig of cherries.
    It was then that I decided to be someone else. Seeing the cat, like that, resurrected. It was so curious. Could I be someone else? Temporarily? Could I be someone else, altogether?
    I crawled over to the edge of the pond. I saw my face in it. My face looked different. Swollen at its gills, wild-eyed. My cheeks were scratched like I’d had a tangle with a fistful of thorns.
    Who was I? Who could I be? I didn’t care. I’d be anyone. Anyone at all. I’d even forgo the thrill of being someone else so long as I was not my self. Was it possible?
    Yes. I could be. I could be un-Phil. Out-of-Phil. Un-fool-Philled. Yes.
    And the process was a simple one. To scrape out a gap in my gut like the pond. Water in the middle. Rock on the edges. Water flowing. Rock, holding in, containing, not hurting. This sublime pool inside me and a chalk-empty mind. No thought, only pure action. No doubt, only purpose. The three Ps. Park (my heart), Pond (my gut), Purpose (alone).
    Park, pond, purpose.
    Park, pond, purpose.
    Park, pond, porpoise.
    My brain rattled like a chickpea inside my skull.

THER E WAS BLOOD ON the courtyard. Was it Doug’s or was it mine? Some stains near the privet. An unsightly little brown rivulet. Only sap, I told myself, just red, not green.
    I pushed at the front door but it would not open. It had been locked from inside. I rang the bell. After a short wait, Saleem answered.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Can I come inside for a moment?’
    ‘No. I’m busy. I’m cleaning. I’ve washed the kitchen floor. I don’t want your muddy footprints all over it.’
    I didn’t baulk or shirk. I was empty-Phil. She couldn’t touch me. ‘I just saw the cat, Saleem.’
    ‘So?’
    I didn’t hesitate, not for a second, ‘I just saw the cat by the pond, large as life. You said he was dead.’
    ‘So what’s the big deal?’
    ‘We just buried him.’
    Saleem raised her eyebrows. ‘So?’
    ‘You said that the cat was dead and so we buried him.’
    She scratched her nose, ‘As I recall, I never actually said we should bury the cat. That wasn’t my idea.’
    Everything flowing. I told myself, everything flows. ‘Saleem, you said the cat was dead.’
    ‘I might’ve said that the cat was tired. I might conceivably have said that.’
    She was either very funny or she was mad. Or else she was truly evil and she wanted to hurt me. She could kill with one flash of her eye. She smelled of pepper. She was wearing a Wellington boot, a pair of old overalls, the spare leg tied up, fastened with a safety pin but still dangling.
    Pool, pond, purpose, I told myself. That wasn’t right. It didn’t work. It didn’t flow, not properly. The serene lake in my gut began leaking. Saleem was filling my stomach with lies. Her tongue was a spade and she shovelled them out, out of her mouth and into my ears. Her tongue was heaped with falsehood and fallacy.
    Saleem was about to close the door when I stopped her with my hand. And very bravely, very proudly I said, ‘You’re just like an owner with a ball.’
    ‘What?’ She scowled at me.
    ‘You know, when an owner throws a ball for his dog and the dog goes and fetches the