Dirty clouds were slowly eclipsing the sun like mold spreading over an orange, squeezing it below the skyline of Liverpool ONE. Lucy was watching this from the doorway of Mango.
From beyond the doorway, inside the shop, Beryl was issuing urgent-sounding whispers: “Lucy!”
Lucy sighed and turned to follow the whispers in. She hated this shop, but if she pretended all the mannequins were real people, she could feel sorry for them instead of herself. Like, it must be hard to have only dimples in place of real eyes.
Beryl hissed again— “Lucy!”—and motioned toward a rack of ladies’ trousers beside which she was standing. “Come on!” Beryl loved this shop, but she clearly had no time to browse just now.
Lucy shuffled over, running her fingers down the row of trouser pockets while Beryl flailed frantically in the edge of her vision. Even though she had already heard Beryl and was already nearly upon her, it appeared that Beryl was still desperately trying to flag her down.
“We have to find Safia,” Beryl gasped the moment Lucy reached the end of the trousers. She spun around in what was almost a leap, and looked toward the top of the escalator.
Lucy followed her agitated gaze. “Did she go to the second floor?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Beryl said. She turned toward Lucy. “She said she was looking for the orange skirt.”
“Where are the skirts?”
Beryl sighed, like a cough. “Well, I don’t know, Lucy! I don’t know where the skirts are!”
“Oh,” Lucy said. “I thought you’d been here before.”
Beryl sighed again, like an apology. “I have done. But they moved the skirts.”
Lucy nodded and snuck a glance over her shoulder out into the square. Any hint of orange was gone from the sky, now just the color of darkness. Lucy really hated this shop.
“Well,” Lucy said, “why don’t we go up and see if we can find her?” She pointed to the escalator.
Beryl must have tried not to smile, but she really didn’t try very hard. Her escaping smirk betrayed her pleasure at Lucy’s acquiescence. “Well, come on,” Beryl said, and moved toward the escalator with more than a hint of what could only be described as a flounce.
Each step emerged from the floor painstakingly, one after the other in careful formation, rising higher and higher, only to fall into oblivion below the next floor.
Lucy rested her hand on the moving railing. “Do you think there’s anything under there?” She asked as they boarded.
“What?” Beryl was still looking down at the floor they were leaving behind, as if she were starting to believe Safia might have been down there all along.
Lucy repeated herself. Thus far they had risen four steps. “Do you think there’s anything under the escalator?”
“Under it?”
“Like an empty space? Or maybe a closet?” Eight steps. “Maybe someone lives under there.”
Beryl laughed quietly down in her throat without opening her mouth.
“What if things fall through?” Lucy continued. Fourteen steps. “Do you ever see the things washed up at the ends of escalators?”
“No.”
“I once saw a puddle of orange wine gums.” Just the orange ones. Odd. Twenty-one steps.
“A puddle,” repeated Beryl as they disembarked from the escalator.
“Twenty-three,” said Lucy.
“What?”
“Just the orange ones,” said Lucy.
The two stood at the top of the escalator now, presumably looking for skirts. Lucy didn’t really know.
“They were all at the top of the escalator by the cinema,” she said. “Like someone had picked them out and dropped them on the escalator, and they rode all the way up and got stuck.”
Beryl seemed to have spotted something and had started walking away. Lucy wasn’t sure if she had heard her. She decided to wait by the escalator.
Another time there had been a jumper at the top. A perfectly fine jumper, wadded up and abandoned and struggling to keep from being sucked into the abyss beneath the escalator. Once there was a jumble of plastic coffee stirrers. Once a hat. Loads of things got lost on escalators.
“Lucy!”
Beryl was waving at her from a table of knit hats. When Lucy didn’t move, she waved again and raised her eyebrows. Lucy shuffled over.
“What did you go swanning off for?” Beryl asked in a hoarse whisper that erratically rose and fell in volume, as if she wasn’t sure if the second floor of Mango was a place in which one should speak quietly.
“I didn’t.”
“Did you find her?”
“Her?”
Beryl furrowed her eyebrows in a way that suggested a supreme disappointment in Lucy’s commitment to the manhunt. “Safia,” she said.
“I’ve never met Safia. I don’t know what she looks like.”
Beryl sighed, like disgust. “Just look for the orange skirt.”
“Would she be waiting for us there?”
“Well, she was looking for the orange skirt!” Beryl was getting visibly tired of explaining.
“Just that one?”
“She found it here earlier today, and it was the only one in her size, so she hid it. She didn’t have enough money.” Beryl shook her head at Lucy as if this should have been obvious. It wasn’t.
“But…” Lucy wasn’t sure what she wanted to know. Something seemed off. Odd.
Beryl waited with raised eyebrows for Lucy to continue. When she didn’t, Beryl said, “Look, you can wait here if you’re not going to help. Just tell me whether you’re going to help or not so I don’t have to look for you, too.”
“You don’t have to look for me,” Lucy said. “I’ll just be by the orange skirt.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. Trying to make a joke, probably. She would much rather just wait by the escalator, or outside, or at home.
Beryl furrowed her eyebrows again. Her eyebrows moved quite often. Lucy remembered that they didn’t know each other very well at all.
“Okay,” Beryl said, and left.
Lucy found the orange skirt, or at least an orange skirt. It was hanging from the hips of a pale, effeminate, dimple-eyed mannequin. Lucy had no idea if it was the same skirt, but she decided to wait with the mannequin for a while. Maybe Safia would wash up here like the wine gums, and Lucy could save her from getting sucked into the abyss.
Lucy leaned against the window behind the mannequin and glanced outside before closing her eyes. Just darkness.
____________________________________________________________________________From beyond the doorway, inside the shop, Beryl was issuing urgent-sounding whispers: “Lucy!”
Lucy sighed and turned to follow the whispers in. She hated this shop, but if she pretended all the mannequins were real people, she could feel sorry for them instead of herself. Like, it must be hard to have only dimples in place of real eyes.
Beryl hissed again— “Lucy!”—and motioned toward a rack of ladies’ trousers beside which she was standing. “Come on!” Beryl loved this shop, but she clearly had no time to browse just now.
Lucy shuffled over, running her fingers down the row of trouser pockets while Beryl flailed frantically in the edge of her vision. Even though she had already heard Beryl and was already nearly upon her, it appeared that Beryl was still desperately trying to flag her down.
“We have to find Safia,” Beryl gasped the moment Lucy reached the end of the trousers. She spun around in what was almost a leap, and looked toward the top of the escalator.
Lucy followed her agitated gaze. “Did she go to the second floor?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Beryl said. She turned toward Lucy. “She said she was looking for the orange skirt.”
“Where are the skirts?”
Beryl sighed, like a cough. “Well, I don’t know, Lucy! I don’t know where the skirts are!”
“Oh,” Lucy said. “I thought you’d been here before.”
Beryl sighed again, like an apology. “I have done. But they moved the skirts.”
Lucy nodded and snuck a glance over her shoulder out into the square. Any hint of orange was gone from the sky, now just the color of darkness. Lucy really hated this shop.
“Well,” Lucy said, “why don’t we go up and see if we can find her?” She pointed to the escalator.
Beryl must have tried not to smile, but she really didn’t try very hard. Her escaping smirk betrayed her pleasure at Lucy’s acquiescence. “Well, come on,” Beryl said, and moved toward the escalator with more than a hint of what could only be described as a flounce.
Each step emerged from the floor painstakingly, one after the other in careful formation, rising higher and higher, only to fall into oblivion below the next floor.
Lucy rested her hand on the moving railing. “Do you think there’s anything under there?” She asked as they boarded.
“What?” Beryl was still looking down at the floor they were leaving behind, as if she were starting to believe Safia might have been down there all along.
Lucy repeated herself. Thus far they had risen four steps. “Do you think there’s anything under the escalator?”
“Under it?”
“Like an empty space? Or maybe a closet?” Eight steps. “Maybe someone lives under there.”
Beryl laughed quietly down in her throat without opening her mouth.
“What if things fall through?” Lucy continued. Fourteen steps. “Do you ever see the things washed up at the ends of escalators?”
“No.”
“I once saw a puddle of orange wine gums.” Just the orange ones. Odd. Twenty-one steps.
“A puddle,” repeated Beryl as they disembarked from the escalator.
“Twenty-three,” said Lucy.
“What?”
“Just the orange ones,” said Lucy.
The two stood at the top of the escalator now, presumably looking for skirts. Lucy didn’t really know.
“They were all at the top of the escalator by the cinema,” she said. “Like someone had picked them out and dropped them on the escalator, and they rode all the way up and got stuck.”
Beryl seemed to have spotted something and had started walking away. Lucy wasn’t sure if she had heard her. She decided to wait by the escalator.
Another time there had been a jumper at the top. A perfectly fine jumper, wadded up and abandoned and struggling to keep from being sucked into the abyss beneath the escalator. Once there was a jumble of plastic coffee stirrers. Once a hat. Loads of things got lost on escalators.
“Lucy!”
Beryl was waving at her from a table of knit hats. When Lucy didn’t move, she waved again and raised her eyebrows. Lucy shuffled over.
“What did you go swanning off for?” Beryl asked in a hoarse whisper that erratically rose and fell in volume, as if she wasn’t sure if the second floor of Mango was a place in which one should speak quietly.
“I didn’t.”
“Did you find her?”
“Her?”
Beryl furrowed her eyebrows in a way that suggested a supreme disappointment in Lucy’s commitment to the manhunt. “Safia,” she said.
“I’ve never met Safia. I don’t know what she looks like.”
Beryl sighed, like disgust. “Just look for the orange skirt.”
“Would she be waiting for us there?”
“Well, she was looking for the orange skirt!” Beryl was getting visibly tired of explaining.
“Just that one?”
“She found it here earlier today, and it was the only one in her size, so she hid it. She didn’t have enough money.” Beryl shook her head at Lucy as if this should have been obvious. It wasn’t.
“But…” Lucy wasn’t sure what she wanted to know. Something seemed off. Odd.
Beryl waited with raised eyebrows for Lucy to continue. When she didn’t, Beryl said, “Look, you can wait here if you’re not going to help. Just tell me whether you’re going to help or not so I don’t have to look for you, too.”
“You don’t have to look for me,” Lucy said. “I’ll just be by the orange skirt.” She wasn’t sure why she said that. Trying to make a joke, probably. She would much rather just wait by the escalator, or outside, or at home.
Beryl furrowed her eyebrows again. Her eyebrows moved quite often. Lucy remembered that they didn’t know each other very well at all.
“Okay,” Beryl said, and left.
Lucy found the orange skirt, or at least an orange skirt. It was hanging from the hips of a pale, effeminate, dimple-eyed mannequin. Lucy had no idea if it was the same skirt, but she decided to wait with the mannequin for a while. Maybe Safia would wash up here like the wine gums, and Lucy could save her from getting sucked into the abyss.
Lucy leaned against the window behind the mannequin and glanced outside before closing her eyes. Just darkness.
Okay, this was definitely cheating. Definitely not flash fiction. I wrote this four or five years ago, and I just found it again and I wanted to put it somewhere.
