The Release

Desmond's world was a single room. Sandy's world was Desmond. She was the one who shaved him, brushed his teeth, changed his nappies, and washed him. She prepared his every meal and fed him his pills. She had done it for six years and five months. Then, on a rainy Tuesday, she gave him his final dose, sat with him until the room went quiet, and left.

​She drove through the night, north up the M1 past signs to places she knew, places she’d heard of, and eventually, places she hadn't heard of. The red tail-lights of lorries glared accusingly back at her. She had Scotland in mind. It seemed a place you could get lost in.

Somewhere north of Leeds she pulled into the services, bought KFC and a Costa coffee and fell asleep in the car.

The ringtone of her phone woke her cold and achy. She removed the sim and put both parts in a car park bin before rejoining the motorway.

She'd wear heavy makeup. Vampy, dye her hair, maybe have it in a beehive, get a tattoo. Live another life as another person. A braver, happier, carefree person.

Carefree. Care free.

Desmond in his bed floated across her mind like a negative, a ghostly after-image that persisted on the retina. She shook her head, wound down the window, and pumped up the music. Amy Winehouse. You Know I'm No Good.

Across the border, she passed tall wind turbines flashing in the raking light of morning. They were welcoming her, celebrating her rebirth. She'd change her name—Valerie. Yes—Valerie D'Ivoire. She'd be bisexual, read philosophy, and take drugs.

The motorway went right through Glasgow. She took a random off-ramp. Industrial estates, retail parks, terraced streets, ship-building cranes visible over the rooftops. The River Clyde, blocks of flats. Definitely, you could get lost here.

​She dragged her suitcase up the steps of what she hoped was a cheap hotel. Reception was a claustrophobic hallway with a tiny formica desk wedged under the stairs. It smelt of damp and furniture polish. A bald, middle-aged man with thick black eyebrows appeared. He was wearing a brightly colored paisley waistcoat, jeans, and beige Crocs.

​"Hello! Welcome to The Royal Albion," he said, sounding a little surprised. "How can I help you?"

​"I'd like a room," said Sandy.

​"Certainly. How long will ye be staying?"

​"Just two nights, initially. Maybe more later, we'll see how it goes."

​"No problem at all," he said. "So, you're English, eh? Are you here on business, or—"

​"No, I'm here to start a new life," she heard herself saying.

​"Oh aye?"

​"My name's Val D'Ivoire," she said. "Do you like it?"

​The man scrutinised her for a second and said, "Oh aye, it's lovely. Sounds like a ski resort."

​She attempted a laugh, but it came out hollow. The man frowned. Then, in a very quiet and friendly way, he asked, "Are you alright, Hen? I mean, you're not in trouble, are you?"

His compassion caught her by surprise. "No, no. I'm just — I was in a relationship and —"

He raised a palm and smiled knowingly. "Say no more," he said , "A fresh start is the best way sometimes."

She paid for the two nights with her debit card. He noticed the name but said nothing.

"So, you're in Room Three. Let me take your case for you." He picked up the suitcase with ease.

"Gosh, you're strong," she said, giving a small smile.

"Aye, we're a hardy bunch up here," he said, before looking a little embarrassed. "Uh, follow me, please."

As she admired the breadth of his shoulders from behind, she wondered if he was married.

​"Here we are," he said, unlocking the door and swinging it open.

​The room was beige on beige: a single bed, a bedside table with a lamp, and a bay window draped in taupe. Beneath the window sat a small wooden table, its polished surface holding a bright bouquet of flowers that fought against the drabness of the room.

​"They're beautiful!" she said.

​"Aye, they came today," said the man. "There's a note there, see?"

​Puzzled, she picked out the stiff white card. The handwriting was shaky:

To Val D'Ivoire

​Thank you for my release.

Enjoy your freedom.

D.

The door slammed. The lock clicked, and she was alone again.