THURSDAY
07 NOVEMBER, 1996
DORIAN

               We enter Angela's Grocery with a chime of the bell above the door. If this was located in Upper Halsett, it'd be called Angela's Caribbean Grocery but here that's redundant.

Isaiah has been quiet since we left his street. Not that I expect anything more. His neighbour, Mrs Tamila, insisted we stayed for a cup of tea and I think Isaiah burnt out all his energy thanking her over and over. He would've preferred to return to the hostel, I know, but since I'm driving, I get to make sure he eats at least one full meal this week.

I pick out onions and root vegetables for chicken soup (soup is a comforting food, right?). Isaiah walks like a zombie at my side before he bolts to the end of the vegetable aisle.

Under the maelstrom of worry that hasn't settled once since the ruinous call yesterday (to think it was only yesterday morning that I woke up in his bed), a silver lining glimmers. Isaiah lives most of his life reducing himself to a polite smile and good manners, and the fact that he doesn't play the part for me brings me a ghost of comfort, a hint that perhaps our friendship can still be resuscitated.

Realising he's not moving anywhere, I make a tour around the shop alone. When I'm at the till, he appears at my side to silently bag the groceries on my behalf. He does so in some expert order I'm sure everyone knows, everyone who didn't grow up with servants.

But just as I swivel around, the door swings open and Isaiah looks up with no more caution than normal.

'The prodigal son returns.'

We look up to the man lumbering toward us. It's obvious Isaiah recognises him; the fog sharpens from his eyes. His jaw clenches while the stranger's eyes flit to me and narrow. He doesn't recognise me but it's his lack of recognition that means he knows exactly who I am.

He sneers at Isaiah. 'You ain't lowed to shop here.'

'Leave him alone, Bad. Him madda's just died.'

All three of us round on the man behind the register. His name tag reads "Nadeem". Without looking up, he scans my bread so I can pack it on top of my shopping and asks how I'd like to pay. He's etched with boredom so that, despite looking our age, he gives the impression of someone who's lived far too long.

As I hand him the cash, he speaks past me. 'You got kids an ting. When you gonna act grown? Sides, tis my auntie shop, not yours. You ain't get to kick out her paying customers.'

"Bad" sucks his teeth but the haughtiness is gone. He slugs toward the swing door to get to the back 'Whatever. Let the batty boy do what him like.'

Isaiah strides after him, so quickly that Bad can't properly turn around before Isaiah's fist slams into his face.

They both stumble. Bad nearly falls through the swing door before he finds his balance. Isaiah stumbles through blinding pain to shove the man again. Bad doesn't respond even at the third push.

'Kill me then,' he spits. 'Go on. You've been talking about it for long enough. Go ahead then.'

Isaiah raises his hands to invite a counter-attack.

'Either you kill already or you leave me the fuck alone.'

When Bad doesn't strike, he sucks his teeth. I stare after him as she shoulders through the door, just as confounded as Bad and Nadeem (if not more). The bell has stopped ringing when I jolt and slide the change from the counter, grab the shopping bag, and hurry out of the shop.

Isaiah hasn't gone far. He leans against the car boot, face screwed up.

'Why did you do that?'

I regret the question as soon as it's out of my mouth, accusatory and self-centred.

Here I am, upset there are sides of him I don't know, but seconds later it becomes obvious Isaiah isn't any better acquainted with this one. The introduction throws him to the cliff of a state I've only seen him in once before: the night I left. Anger drowns in hopelessness, and he sinks to the curb.

Fingers raking to the back of his neck, he shakes his head. 'I should've done it ten years ago,' he whispers. 'There's so many things I should've done. I put up with all sorts of shit to get out of here.' His voice is coarse as though his throat is packed with gravel though I can't identify whether it's rage or tears he's strangling. 'What was it for? I never left, not in any way that matters. I'll never escape that fucking house, I'll never get that house out of me.'

My palm grows clammy around the coins. I move them around without opening my fist; taking out my wallet now would be insensitive but the thought of loose change in my pocket makes my stomach twist. The metal grouses against itself. Hundreds of other people might have touched these coins– thousands! Have they ever been cleaned? Or am I holding the germs of thousands of stranges–?

Focus!

I shift closer, trainers chafing the tarmac, and pray for any tool to ease his pain. But I don't know how to comfort him without it being cruel (Because I left, didn't I? Please, I'll do anything to take it back), so I'm exiled to hover behind him, less useful than a stranger.

'She died and I still can't get her out of my head.'

He's crying again. I don't need to see his face to recognise the sniffs he does his best to mask.

Let go of the coins. Just drop the coins! Regardless of how much I yell, my hand refuses to cooperate and only holds tighter.

Just as I open my mouth, Isaiah leaps to his feet. He turns toward me at the same time as he takes a step further into the road as if he can't quite decide which direction to go in. 'I need to be alone.'

'Isaiah...' I don't complete the sentence. What could I possibly say? I let him go.

I always let him go.

I roll the change in my palm. Like explosives that'll go off on impact, I pellet them onto the sidewalk. They rebound and scatter. I glare, chest heaving.

Why couldn't I just put the stupid coins in my pocket? Would the world have ended? (Why am I like this, so entirely useless and incompetent?) How do I expect him to learn to trust me again if I can't get over an imagined and ridiculous obstacle for his sake?

Diffused, I pluck the three ten-pence and single two-pound back into my palm.

I slump into the driver's seat without turning on even the battery. My gaze drifts listlessly along the opposite sidewalk. The shop fronts are vibrant and so proudly not-British that they should clash with the Suffolk landscape but somehow manage to look like this is exactly where they belong. Just like the people.

My eyes return to the corner where Isaiah turned out of sight. Should I wait for him here or go back to the motel? How long will he be gone? What if he expects me to be in our room and tries to ring me later to pick him up? Yes, best to drive back and keep near the phone. Besides, with good luck, I'll have soup ready when he gets back. I might even try to bake bread.

My hold on the key slackens just as I go to turn it in the ignition. When he gets back... "I need to be alone" is what he said. On what evidence am I basing the assumption he'll come back?

My head collapses onto the steering wheel as tears well in my eyes (of course I manage to cry now that it's of no use to anyone). He's right. If I don't trust him, how can I expect the return? If I don't tell him about Ima, her invitation (which I can only call an invitation with blind trust and naïvity) to Shabbat dinner, and Rav Eliraz, why would he open up to me?

But I can't let him in on this. I can't let myself in. Or out. Yes, out is more accurate: terror is much greater than the box I've made a nest in. I'm in a rowboat in an ocean storm and I shut my eyes so I can't see the waves, sticky and black from oil spills. It doesn't make them go away. It doesn't stop the rain from drenching me. It doesn't lessen the risk of being thrown overboard at any second. But I won't look.

I pry the planks apart to build a house instead, a room just large enough for me to sit in. There are no windows, no door. I never have to face the fear that waits for me. I can't let myself out of the box.