Giant Days Read online

  “Winning the nightmare-accommodation lottery!” A comment Chloe accompanied with a tight-lipped smile and a thumbs-up.

  Daisy wondered why it was that she’d felt a need to grumble about Esther, when really, she quite liked listening to her angry music through the walls. There was something reassuring about Esther’s undying allegiance to her own tastes in spite of all the ways in which university life could tempt you into something new. She hoped her friend’s sense-of-humor failure in the hospital the other day had just been a blip, not a sign of changes to come. Daisy liked Esther exactly the way she was.

  As always on initiation night, there were a couple of people looking distinctly uncertain about being in a room full of robed yoga fans. Grace had been the same when she’d come here last week, but when Daisy scanned the room, she saw her slouched back in the beanbags by the windows, a plate of cookies balanced on her tummy, wearing what looked suspiciously like the same clothes she’d been wearing when the two of them had dropped in for an afternoon session two days ago.

  A sunburst of pride waxed in Daisy’s chest at the thought of being the one to introduce Grace to the family, and she wondered whether she knew anyone else who might benefit from joining the Brethren . . .

  Moving among the groups of people, taking the fresh cups to where Elise was reading chakras and dispensing infusions, Daisy smiled, uttering words of welcome to fellow Brethren, enjoying the alien sensation of being the one to reassure the newcomers, to feel that quiet confidence that comes from knowing you belong.

  The sound of a gong washed over the gathered crowd, and they turned to face the front. Jasper was standing there, robe hanging open, hands resting casually in the pockets of his jogging bottoms. As when he’d opened the door to Daisy, he gave off an air of bemusement, as if he weren’t quite sure how everyone had gotten there. There was something disarmingly charming about it.

  “Welcome, Brethren, and friends of the family.” Seeing the nervous glances on the newcomers’ faces, he laughed, flapping a casual hand in their direction. “Ah, don’t worry about it. You’ll get used to it. It’s just the way we talk.”

  The inducted Brethren nodded, and the people responsible for their friends laid a comforting hand on their arms. Daisy tried to share a moment with Grace, but her head was tilted back, eyes closed. She appeared to be snoring.

  Taking a sip of her own herbal tea, Daisy breathed in the calming scent of jasmine and chamomile, enjoying the warmth rolling down her throat and into her tummy, a satisfying glow spreading out from her center and relaxing her mind.

  Jasper was still talking, explaining the structure of Zoise, the concept of sharing, and the pursuit of worldly peace.

  “So we start the session by forming a semicircle around the lectern, get comfy, there’s beanbags and tea—no, take as many cookies as you want. No guest of the Brethren leaves here hungry . . .” Jasper was gently guiding everyone to sit. Pretty, vulnerable girls and pretty, vulnerable boys swooned a little as the tea and cookies dismantled their inhibitions, and they felt comfortable enough to let their eyes linger a little longer than strictly necessary on Jasper’s offhand smile and soft auburn curls.

  Elise passed the bowl around, each person putting their phone inside.

  “The world will turn without me,” Daisy said, intoning the chant as she put her phone in. It was a shame that phones were forbidden from these sessions—a photo of Jasper would be a persuasive argument in recruiting Esther.

  He was standing now by the lectern, the belt he would be awarding hanging around his neck, giving the impression of a rakish society gentleman returning home in the early hours of the morning. With a thrill, Daisy noticed it was cyan, the first belt of achievement, and she wondered who it was for.

  “As always, before the Ceremony of Sharing, Zoise opens the door to those of us who have opened ourselves to Zoise.” He smiled then, self-deprecating, taking the weight of the words he was saying lightly, inviting everyone in on the joke. “Step forward please, Sister Daisy.”

  “Me?” Daisy’s heart fluttered up into her throat as she took a tentative step forward. “But I’ve yet to master the Nodding Dog . . .”

  Jasper waved her closer, and Daisy’s feet seemed to have decided this was where she was going. The tea had worked its magic, and the world was turning fuzzy.

  “No one works harder on their yoga moves than you, Daisy. Zoise thanks you for your efforts, and for bringing unto us Sister Grace.” Who was asleep in the corner. As family members went, she wasn’t particularly active. “You are now a Cyan Sister.”

  The others applauded as Jasper carefully threaded Daisy’s new bright blue belt through the loops of her gown. Overwhelmed by so much attention, Daisy gazed down at her toes. She’d let Esther paint her toes a few weeks ago, and they were still mostly a pretty pearly pink.

  “Your belt and your cookies.” Jasper handed her a prettily packaged little bag of Zoise cookies. “Share only with those you trust.”

  And he winked at her, a conspiratorial twist to the way he was smiling.

  “Take a place on the mat. You’ve earned it.” Jasper gestured to Elise, who gave Daisy a fresh brew with a kiss on the forehead. After just one sip, Daisy felt the warmth of confidence flow through her body. Today she would master the Nodding Dog.

  She would honor her position as a Cyan Sister.

  Over uneaten paninis (Vectra had declared hers inedible after the first bite, and Esther talked too much to manage more than three mouthfuls), Esther learned that the harder one tried to impress Vectra Featherstone, the less she liked you.

  The conversation had taken a swerve toward disastrous when she’d told Vectra that her piece they were critiquing in Creative Writing that week was “an inspired exercise in manipulating clichés into tortured falsehoods.” Vectra had rolled her eyes and uncrossed her legs as if about to leave.

  “Actually, I wrote the whole thing using predictive text, so, like, you’re really just complimenting an algorithm.”

  Panicked, Esther’s response was, “Well, that algorithm writes better prose than me!” Followed by a bit of borderline hysterical laughter and a not-entirely untrue, “Everything I write ends up like catharsis through public humiliation.”

  For the first time since they’d sat down, Vectra’s interest shifted from their surroundings to Esther as she leaned forward and said, “Cathartic how?”

  And so began the debasement. Esther’s attempt at long-distance love (“So you were the chump?!”) to the ill-considered one-nighter (“What? Him with the baseball caps? How drunk were you, Grooty?”). Somehow it all came pouring out, Vectra’s watchful silence and dry interventions the perfect receptacle for all of Esther’s romantic woes. All the things she’d held back from anyone else, for fear they were already bored of hearing about it, but Vectra was new, and the more Esther talked down her terrible choices, the more Vectra warmed to her company.

  Well, thawed, might have been more accurate, as if her affection had been taken out of the freezer to defrost in the fridge.

  Eventually, a congealed panini and two cups of coffee later, Vectra actually laughed, revealing rows of such perfect little white teeth that it seemed a shame she so rarely showed them off in a smile.

  Esther couldn’t have felt a greater sense of achievement if she’d rewritten The Canterbury Tales in dactylic hexameter.

  The conversation edged away from Esther’s failures to Vectra’s relative triumphs—the time the drummer from Gravedust sent her love letters written in what turned out to be chicken’s blood, the deliciously doomed affair she’d conducted with her married Art teacher who’d wooed her with his one-stroke watercolor brush technique, and the lost love of her life who’d moved to the other side of the world and turned away from the dark.

  “Every picture he posts is disgustingly wholesome. We fell out when his sister got a kitten. Didn’t take it too kindly when I made a joke about shaving off its fur so he’d be less tempted to post so many photos.”

 
Mentally reviewing her own Instagram feed, Esther decided she was safe. Dark nail art, graveyards . . . the closest thing to cute that she’d ever posted was a picture of an owl pellet. If Esther had slumped any farther forward in her eagerness to listen, she’d have ended up sprawled on the table. As it was, just as she was reaching the tipping point, they were interrupted by an approaching lad, who stopped a foot away and cleared his throat.

  “Hello, you lovely—”

  “No.” Vectra sneered and wafted the boy away like a bad smell in a gesture reminiscent of one that Susan used on many an occasion. God, those two would get on brilliantly . . .

  “—Japanese—”

  “Leave.”

  “—horror?” But Vectra had turned the full force of her formidable glare in his direction, and he dropped a flyer on their table before scuttling off as fast as possible to the other side of the seating area.

  Esther leaned forward and picked up the flyer. There was a line of Japanese script and underneath:

  A connoisseur’s collection of films by Kōji Shiraishi

  (Expect subtitles. Obviously.)

  Her eyes widened. A test! Japanese horror was the only genre of film she cared about. Creepy, long-haired women; vengeful videocassettes; unbridled violence . . . what wasn’t to love?

  Cautious, not wanting to reveal how much this mattered, Esther held the flyer up to show Vectra, eyebrows raised in a suitably ambivalent manner, allowing Vectra to draw what she would from the expression. Vectra’s gaze flickered over the words before meeting Esther’s.

  “Kōji Shiraishi? As if googling Japanese horror directors and not bothering to look beyond the first page makes you a ‘connoisseur.’” Even her air quotes were half-hearted as her eyes rolled back in contempt.

  Esther could barely breathe for excitement. Vectra knew who Kōji Shiraishi was. More to the point, she knew so much about the genre that she considered him mainstream. This was it.

  “Shall we go anyway?” Too hopeful. Vectra needed her plans peppered with cynicism. “It’s not like there’s anything better to do.”

  There was a long, pin-drop moment in which Esther felt like a gladiator waiting for the emperor’s verdict.

  Vectra shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Someone was singing Daisy’s name. She was a daisy in a field, and all the daisies were complimenting one another on how soft their petals were, how cheerful their smiles; they called one another “Brother” and “Sister,” and the sun was reading to them, and Daisy blossomed, throwing her face to the sky and . . .

  “Daisy!”

  A dark weed was in their midst. The flowers started to panic as the moon shoved the sun from the sky and hissed angrily at the meadow below.

  “Daisy Wooton, this is an emergency!”

  The moon had brought with it a storm! A shower of drops spattered across Daisy’s face as she lifted her petal hands to protect herself . . . and realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses.

  She was not a flower in the meadow. She was dreaming.

  When Daisy managed to drag her eyes open, the beautiful moon revealed itself to be Esther, who was holding a water bottle with a sports cap, poised to squirt Daisy in the face again. Words floated through Daisy’s brain, but her mouth was too slow to catch them. So she blinked, lashes a little gummy from sleep, and tried to converse with Esther through the power of her mind.

  Esther simply stared back, waiting for a response.

  “Daisy?” she said eventually. “Are you awake? Your eyes are open, but I’ve watched far too much Japanese horror this evening to cope with anything other than some very specific confirmation that you’re not a somnambulant serial killer.”

  Daisy went for it. “Whmupmhsmblumkllerrrr.”

  “Brilliant. You’re plotting my untimely and violent death, aren’t you?” This fact didn’t seem to bother Esther as much as one might expect. “Between you and whatever’s scavenging in our kitchen, I’m done for.”

  Groping for her glasses, Daisy managed to poke herself in the eye with the stem before pushing them onto her nose, so that the room, and an edgy-looking Esther, clad in what looked like gaffer’s tape and pleather, came into focus.

  “There’s something in the kitchen,” Esther whispered. Then she added, “You should really lock your door at night, Daisy. Anyone could just wander in here, you know.”

  The lights were off in the hall, but when Daisy reached for the switch, Esther stopped her with a quick shake of her head.

  “Listen!”

  There were, indeed, noises coming from the kitchen.

  As they crept carefully along the corridor, Esther’s grasp dug so deeply into the flesh of Daisy’s arm that Daisy wondered whether she shouldn’t be more afraid of Esther than of whatever lay ahead. On reaching the door, the two exchanged looks: Esther’s gallows-grim determination met Daisy’s cautious curiosity.

  They stepped into the kitchen doorway—and stared.

  Every single cupboard was open, the contents heaped on the table. Stray lentils and noodle fragments dusted the spaces between packets and boxes and nine tins of supermarket-brand beans.

  Stacked on the seat of each chair sat a tower of bowls, plates, mugs, and glasses, with the toaster, kettle, and new microwave on the floor underneath.

  Over by the sink, in striped pajama bottoms and an oversize T-shirt, feet bare, hands clad in the familiar yellow of Daisy’s rubber gloves, stood . . .

  “Susan?” Esther’s grip relaxed, and she stepped from behind Daisy to stare in shock at the horror before them.

  “Help me,” Susan said, face haggard, eyes practically vibrating in their sockets.

  “Sure!” Daisy said. “Hand me the spray and some kitchen towels.”

  “Not with the kitchen!” A muscle in Susan’s cheek spasmed. “I’ve been awake for fifty-two hours.”

  “That’s an awfully long time to be awake . . .”

  “YOU THINK?” Susan howled, waving at her surroundings. “Look at what it’s reduced me to.”

  “Becoming someone conscientious enough to understand that communal areas are the responsibility of those who use them and not just the person with the lowest tolerance for mess?” Daisy asked. It was a bit of a reach.

  “I. Can’t. Sleep.” Susan wildly misjudged the location of her limbs in relation to the recycling bin. As the bin toppled over, the contents spilled out across the floor, empty can upon empty can of ENN-ARR-GEE with flavors like Lawless Lychee, Lemonade Can Grenade, Berserker Boysenberry . . . Esther picked one up. Pineapoplectic. There was a label in the smallest possible print. CAUTION: DO NOT CONSUME MORE THAN 500ML IN ANY 24-HOUR PERIOD.

  “How many of these have you had?” Esther said, looking up from the label. There were ten cans scattered at their feet.

  “Didn’t you read the label?” Daisy asked.

  “I can’t. The letters are all blurry.” Something strange had happened to Susan’s face.

  “Susan . . . are you crying?”

  “These are not tears. This is what happens when you consume so much caffeine that your eyeballs melt.” Susan put her finger to her pulse. “Either my heart’s beating so fast that my pulse is nothing more than a single continuous beat, or I’m dead.”

  Time for some drastic action.

  “You stay here . . .” Daisy whispered to Esther before hurrying back to her room. Pushing the door shut, just to be safe, Daisy leaned over the box on the windowsill that contained Baby Gordon’s nest. It was a big, sprawling affair—an old box of printer paper in which Daisy had tucked an old towel, before layering shredded paper and leaves to form a soft, nestlike bed. Gently lifting the corners of the towel, she transferred the sleeping chick from box to bed, revealing what was hidden underneath.

  A lockbox with a combination padlock that opened to reveal Daisy’s passport, a photo of Daisy and her parents taken on her second birthday, a watch whose battery needed replacing, and her bag of Zoise cookies. Cyan belts were given only three cookies, but with the state Susan
was in, she’d need all of them. Taking the tin out, she popped Gordon back where he belonged and returned to the kitchen.

  If Daisy wanted more, she’d just have to work hard to make it up to magenta belt.

  Daisy had been gone forever. Of this, Susan was convinced. How else could she have had the time to descale the kettle, clean inside every cupboard, put everything back, and itemize the contents alphabetically? Esther wasn’t helping. All she kept doing was following Susan and taking everything she put in the cupboards back out and muttering that no one would be able to find anything.

  “Susan?” Daisy shimmered in and out of focus, as substantial as a mirage. “Why don’t you take the gloves off and come with me?”

  “What gloves?” Susan stared down at her hands and watched as Daisy held her wrists still and Esther appeared to peel off a layer of jaundiced skin to reveal neonatally pink fingers.

  “Come on now . . .”

  Susan buzzed along the corridor and back into her room, where Esther folded her into a seated position on the bed and Daisy handed her a plate with a cookie on it and a cup of warmed milk.

  “No one can sleep when they’re hungry.”

  Susan couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She now functioned on a plane beyond the physical. She was a wormhole.

  “Eat the cookie, Susan.”

  When Daisy returned from the library, something very strange happened.

  Susan Ptolemy hugged her.

  It was like being slowly consumed by an affectionate steamroller, and Daisy wasn’t sure whether she would survive.

  “I slept for two days straight, Daisy Wooton, and I love you.”

  “Could you maybe let go of me?”

  Susan released her, and air rushed to fill the vacuum in Daisy’s lungs. She found it hard to believe this was the same person she’d seen in the kitchen at three A.M. the other night. Susan’s hair was glossy, her eyes bright, and her skin shone with something other than the sheen of sweat that emerged when she was forced to walk at the same pace as her friends. She looked so like a freshly groomed spaniel that it was tempting to pat her on the head.