Jupiter Lane
Chapters 1 and 2
Foreword
It took me nine years to find the story of my career, three to write it, and five more to find the courage to share it. What you’re about to read is, without a doubt, the best work I’m ever going to produce.
At 38 it seems a shame to say that, but you know when you know.
You might remember my part in this story, and you might not. A lot of it was covered in the news, by me.
But nobody remembers the journalist. For very good reasons (that you’ll find out as we go), people will remember the others. I’m the fifth Beatle. The third wheel. Not worth a second thought.
That said, it’s my story so I want to be the one to tell it. I’ve included as much of my research material as I can.
Thanks for reading.
Josh
TO: Mike Adams
FROM: Tash Lear / Public Relations Dept.
SUBJECT: Clearance of Green Sector properties
Dear Mr Adams,
We are pleased to confirm that the residences that fall within the boundary of the Green Sector are scheduled for final clearance within 28 days, following the successful resolution of an agreement with the residents association and local councillors.
We will keep you posted on the situation and provide final confirmation that the area is ready for the next stage in the expansion programme.
With warmest regards,
Tash
Sitting on the benches at Liverpool Street station, deserted at 5am, Jemma scanned the departure boards for somewhere that sounded suitable. She shivered in the January cold, and found herself reading destinations out loud to see if one resonated with her.
“Lowestoft. Braintree. Great Yarmouth. Harwich.”
Jemma was temporarily taken with the clouds of her own condensed breath, and her eyes crossed as she watched them dance in front of her face. She snapped back into focus. The places were all wrong. They sounded awful. Seriously awful. Perhaps that was the problem — they were too serious. The place needed to be suitable, but she surprised herself by caring so much.
Then she saw it.
“Clacton-on-Sea.”
That was the one. It conjured up images in Jemma’s mind of a tatty seafront, rude postcards, and people living out their days feeding seagulls until they died. It was, to her, the most pathetic place on the board. The end of the world. The train left at 5.23am, and she’d be on it. Nobody would look for her there.
Having swallowed a few coins from her life savings, stashed carefully in her oversized handbag in little plastic pouches, the machine slowly ground out a ticket. One-way. Jemma looked at it. The little orange card was, to her, so small for something so big. It was the beginning. And the end. The beginning of the end. She looked at the machine. Someone had written ‘twat’ on it in marker pen.
Jemma had no idea what has happening on the other side of London. She had no idea that Steven had come home early from his shift and found her note. She had no idea that he was in his car, tearing around the West London suburbs, scanning street corners and bus stops for any sign of her. Had she known, she wouldn’t be feeling this calm. She’d be nervously checking back over her shoulder, keeping out of the glare of the harsh lighting, making sure her head was down.
But she didn’t know, so she slowly made her way across the freezing concourse to the platform.
The train had been warming up for a few minutes, and Jemma watched the brown smoke below up from the engine’s exhaust and fill the roof of the station, where it turned blue near the skylights. She worried, as she always did, about the lack of ventilation in old stations. Then the gates opened, and Jemma and a few miserable-looking passengers she hadn’t noticed before were let through, all the while being glowered at by a guard.
She jumped on at the first door to get in from the cold, taking a seat in the corner behind the toilet, out of sight from everyone. The warmth of the train was uncomfortable at first. Boiling hot air was being pumped out of a vent under the seat, roasting her calves, making her regret wearing quite so many layers. She’d surprised herself that morning with the preparation that she had put into her outfit. Her leaving outfit. For someone who had left in a hurry, she’d certainly wrapped up warm. She took off her gloves, scarf and woolly hat, and loosened her coat. She clung on to her bag.
As the train slowly pulled out of the station, the toilet door banged open, giving Jemma a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the basin. Her choppy black hair was untouched and ruffled, sticking up too much in one place and dirtily slicked down in another. Her skin was pale and her eyes dark and brooding as usual.
Ouch, she thought, seeing her swollen bottom lip, grazed cheek and blossoming black eye. You look like shit.
//
The train crawled into Clacton station and Jemma jumped. She hadn’t slept all night, and the warmth of the train mixed with the rhythmic noises of the carriage had put her to sleep. She didn’t remember nodding off. It was like a long car journey, when you wake up what seems like five minutes after you left but you’re already home, covered in your own dribble. She checked the time on her phone — 6.58am — and pretended not to notice the 23 missed calls. It was still pitch black, making it tough for Jemma to shake off the exhaustion that had overcome her.
The doors beeped loudly as they opened, letting in a freezing rush of cold air. The train, platform and station were empty, and being battered by wind. What people out here probably called ‘a sea breeze’. Still in a half-dream, not ready to let the world in, she considered staying on the train and falling back to sleep. But the thought of finding herself back in London — back with him — jump-started her legs into movement.
They carried her as far as a small waiting room on the platform. Four Perspex walls and a corrugated roof. It stank of stale tobacco, but it was warmer than being outside. Jemma lay down on the one measly plastic bench and, using her handbag as a pillow, tried to find a comfortable position. In moments she had drifted off to sleep.
//
“Whatcha doin’?”
For a split second, Jemma thought it was a normal day. She could hear music from her clock radio. Just one more minute, she thought, then I’ll get up. Just a quick snooze. But the music got louder, along with the ache in her back. She opened her eyes to see three teenage girls standing over her. It was light now and, despite the fact it was overcast, her eyes pulsed in protest, sending little shots of pain through her temples.
“Oi, love. Whatcha doin? Are you alright?” The taller one in the middle was speaking over the tinny music coming from her phone. All three girls were wearing brightly coloured puffa jackets with fur around the hood, in stark contrast to the grey, drizzling day outside. Jemma hoisted herself into a sitting position, feeling the Perspex wall bend against her back.
“Um, oh, sorry… Fine,” Jemma managed to mumble back at them.
“Are you a prossie?” This time, the shorter, rounder one on the left had spoken. Jemma looked at her to see if the girl was being threatening, but saw nothing but concern in her eyes. “Did your pimp beat you up?” If Jemma was in the mood, she would’ve been touched.
“What time is it?” Her voice had croaked. Her throat felt dusty, like the filthy floor of the smoking room. The third girl spoke. She was pretty, but was wearing so much makeup that the prettiness was almost hidden.
“It’s eight fifteen. Have you been here all night?”
Stumbling to her feet, Jemma grabbed her bag and held it tight. She pushed through the three girls, catching the one that had spoken last with her shoulder. She felt a pang of guilt as she did it, but couldn’t bring herself to turn back and look at them, let alone engage in any more conversation. She envied their simple lives. She wanted to be normal like them. If she turned now she’d tell them that. Tell them how well off they were. Then she would’ve cried, and never stopped.
One of them shouted after her. “Oi love! You’ve left your phone!”
“Keep it,” Jemma said under her breath. She carried on walking away, her eyes resolutely dry and staring straight ahead. Despite being starving and having just woken up from a hellish night of sleeping on streets and in stations, she walked quickly. Her body was a machine, she told herself, designed only for walking. She felt no pain in her body. Her brain was numb and buzzing. She could walk like this for as long as it took.
Jemma left the station, and crossed a little park before hitting a busy street. The grey sky started to spit freezing rain. Houses turned to commerce. People were getting ready for the day, opening up their shops or scurrying into offices. She tried not to look at them, as it made her feel sick to think about their lives carrying on without her, unaware of how absurdly awful hers had become. It was ridiculous of course, but when she looked at someone she would imagine them getting to their cosy little office, making a cup of tea and logging into their email, she couldn’t bear it. These people had small, ordinary, comfortable lives. She wished she’d be given the opportunity to have one of those.
She didn’t know where she was going, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to go as far as possible. She kept her head down and her legs moving. After a while, shops gave way to small seaside B&Bs, with cracked cream paint and weathered signs promising vacancies and free continental breakfasts. In the drizzle they looked like they hadn’t seen a visitor for 40 years.
Then the road stopped, and she saw the sea.
TO: Matt Wright
FROM: Nick @ The Pineapple
SUBJECT: Contract
Hey Matt — I didn’t really understand the contract so had a mate up in London check it over.
He did some digging and found something weird… Turns out the company that drew this up doesn’t exist. No registration, no accounts, no paperwork. Nothing.
Might be a false alarm but my mate’s a bit spooked by it.
Anyway, you coming by Tuesday night? Two words: PUB QUIZ.
Cheers
Nick
The sea air threw salty water at Jemma’s face, and brought her to for a moment. A hundred different thoughts simultaneously battered her brain. She thought about a childhood of skimming stones and finding treasures on the beach, like spongy cuttlefish and seaweed with bubbles you could pop. She thought about horrific trips with her parents to the Isle of Wight, on rusty old ferries where the smell of diesel and fried chips and made you throw up. She thought about the stories of how people used to jump off Beachy Head, and how she’d wondered why they hadn’t put a fence up.
She looked left. There was a car park with a few cars and a burger van with its engine running. An old couple in hooded macs were walking towards it. A man in a tracksuit was walking a small dog. Some kids on bikes were hanging outside an amusement arcade. To the right were a few more B&Bs and then an empty track that looked like it led down to the sea. She went right.
//
Hours later, Jemma was still walking. At first the track had descended quickly to the beach, and she had walked on rough stones and driftwood that made progress slow and painful. Then the beach ended at some rocks and the only option was to take some concrete steps up to a tarmac lane, which snaked along the coastline under a canopy of trees that arched across and met each other in the middle.
At some point in the afternoon, it had started to rain, hard. For a while, Jemma was sheltered by the branches above the road. Then the trees abruptly gave way to an estate of holiday cottages, all seemingly uninhabited and glumly looking out across a grey and violent sea.
Despite the wind and rain, she kept walking. Past the cottages, past a caravan park, through some gates and into a field, all the while keeping the sea to her left. At one point the concrete path stopped and she was trudging through mud and her boots — the kind that look like motorcycle boots but cost ten times less — were almost sucked off her feet with every step. But something kept her going. It just wasn’t time to stop yet.
Through a metal gate, mud gave way to concrete again and Jemma found herself walking into the middle of another set of holiday homes arranged in neat little rows. This was more like a permanent village, but one that only opened to the public a few months at a time.
A sign covered in seagull droppings welcomed visitors to their ‘home away from home’ with a poorly-painted sun. In winter, the place wasn’t very homely. Mobile homes jacked up on bricks nestled against wooden chalets, each with their own little concrete driveway leading up to the door.
How stupid, Jemma thought. The chalets and caravans will be gone one day, but the concrete drives will still be there like tiny runways in an otherwise pristine field. Who lays a concrete drive in front of a mobile home? Isn’t it a contradiction in terms? Jemma realised her brain had jumped into overdrive again.
The rain had eased and despite only being late afternoon it was already getting dark. She was exhausted, having walked all day with nothing to eat or drink, and only a few uncomfortable hours of sleep the night before. Her breath had become shallow and her steps even shallower. She didn’t want to stop but knew she couldn’t keep walking any more. Her bag dug into her shoulder and her heels were blistered and raw. This wasn’t the end of the road yet, so she’d rest here. Her brain told her it was perfect. A run-down, peeling, sad little place where desperate holidaymakers come in their estate cars packed with tins of beans and boxes of cheap wine.
After a few minutes of looking, Jemma found a place to sleep. Behind a shuttered shop called ‘Sunrise Stores’ — sporting another, slightly more professional, logo of a sun — and just before the stones of the beach started their descent into the sea, she saw a small line of beach huts. Each one was painted in a different colour, but all were pastel. Lemon, turquoise, pink, mint green. Most of them had padlocks on the doors (as well as curtains in the window — one even had a small sign naming it ‘Brahms’) but a white one at the end of the row was open and empty. She shut herself in, lay down on the wooden bench inside with her handbag pillow, and fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.
//
Jemma woke and leapt from her makeshift bed. It was still pitch black outside, and she could hear the waves crashing onto the beach what sounded like a few feet from the hut. The noise, soothing at first, had become increasingly threatening until the waves were sounding more like a relentless string of cars smashing into each other.
“Fuck,” she croaked, to nobody. She was unsteady on her feet and still soaked through from the rain, although her wet clothes had adopted the heat of her body while she slept. Now she was moving, the layers shifted to reveal new areas of cold dampness. Vulnerable for a split second, she felt the first hot wave of sadness start its route upwards from her throat to her eyes. Always the same, it started as a blunt, metallic-tasting lump in the throat that travelled up through her nose and ended as hot stinging tears that went on for hours and made her head and eyes hurt. She caught herself, swallowed the lump back down and regulated her breathing.
Not now, she thought.
She grabbed her bag, burst out of the beach hut and strode along the path in front. It was dark without lights but her eyes were already accustomed to the gloom, and she kept the noise of the waves to the left and knew that the overgrown grasses at each side of the path would warn her if she deviated by brushing her shins. The spray from the sea slapped her in the face once more, making her alert, giving her tired legs power again.
There were orange lights in the distance, marking out the coastline, pinpointing towns or caravan parks. At one point there were small red lights to her left, where she imagined France should be but much too close, accompanied by some strange mechanical noises. At some point the path had turned into a hill, and the noise of the sea slowly retreated, as though she was walking further and further inland. After a while she saw more winking red lights, all at different heights, and then a long line of green ones disappearing into the darkness. The effect would have been futuristic and dystopian, had Jemma been thinking about effects. But her mind was blank once again. She was completely focused on nothing, just thinking about putting one foot in front of the other, when she hit the fence.
Jemma screamed. She hadn’t expected to be stopped so abruptly, even less to hear a scream, and made herself jump. The situation was so ridiculous that Jemma let out a laugh. A manic, howling one, but still a laugh.
The fence was a standard boundary, like the ones around a school playground or in a zoo, made of diamonds of wire twisted together. It was almost invisible in the dark, and Jemma had walked straight into it, hitting her left foot, right arm and face as she walked. It had bowed slightly then sprung her back, almost throwing her over. She puzzled at it for a moment, rubbing her nose. To the right, it extended into the darkness. She thought she could make out a sign some way away, attached to the fence. To the left, it disappeared over the edge of what had now become a steep cliff between the path and the sea.
Jemma retraced her steps a bit to see if there was a way round. She wasn’t ready to stop yet. The path had evened out quite a while ago, and inland she could see well-kept grass disappearing into the darkness.
After five minutes of walking back along the path she turned inland. Nothing but grass, flat as a bowling green and slippy from the recent rain. She tried walking away from the sea for another few minutes. Still nothing but grass. She looked back towards the fence again. The red lights she had seen earlier winked back from beyond the barrier, which still stretched into the darkness away from the sea. There was no way around.
“So this is it,” Jemma said to herself. She slumped down on the wet lawn. Her throat closed up, and the lump formed between her tonsils, then started to rise. This time she let it come.
//
She cried for an hour. There was nobody to hide it from any more, so Jemma let the tears take over. She was freezing, starving and exhausted, but didn’t feel any of them. She had left her world behind two days ago, without any real idea what she was going to do or how she was going to do it. Now all she had left was the sorrow that had been weighing her down of as long as she could remember. She let some of it out, and it had come in wave upon wave of sobbing and wretching. Through the worst parts — where snot had streamed from her nose and mixed with mucus from her mouth and met the tears in a puddle on her chest — she’d felt that same feeling… That it would never stop. That was why she rarely let it start.
But it did stop eventually, and Jemma felt calmer again. The sobbing and pain and writing and heaving had abated to leave the numbness again. She dragged herself to her feet and walked towards the sound of the sea.
She crossed the gravel path and found herself by a fence at the edge of the cliff, staring down at the noise. There was just the hint of morning light coming from far away, giving glimpses of white water as it hit the rocks below, before it turned black again and drew itself back for another bash.
Jemma had visualised a moment like this so many times. Standing on the edge of a cliff, or a bridge, or on the top of a tall building. She’d wondered how it would feel to fall. Would you regret it halfway down, and try to break your fall with your hands and then end up half-dead, or wheelchair bound for the rest of your life? Would you try to fall headfirst to make sure you went quickly? Or would you stay calm all the way down and accept your fate?
As the sky inched towards daylight, she stared out to sea. Things slowly became visible. The fence, now in the distance, stretched for miles inland. The green lights were attached to low, dark buildings, just visible between two hills that lay miles beyond the fence. What she thought had been France was a huge island just off the coast, home to buildings bristling with aerials and satellite dishes. The red lights she’d seen were high up, on top of the central housing of two imposing wind turbines, their giant blades turning slowly.
The sky was clearer, showing just a hint of blue on the horizon. Jemma’s head started to clear. There was no going back. There was no going on. She touched the bruise on her forehead, and winced.
Jemma started walking towards the edge.
New chapters of Jupiter Lane are published on Medium every Monday.
