GALLEY BEGGAR PRESS SHORT STORY PRIZE 2024/25

LIZ CHURCHILL

‘Linha One’

‘YOU LIKE SINGING?’ 

The man in Hostel Porto is looking at me like a bull about to charge. I tell him I sort of do, why?

‘When you mentioned Abba, you kind of sang the word Waterloo to me. Just now.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I say.

He frowns.

We’ve been discussing the Eurovision Song Contest. This man is Swedish. But also Finnish.

‘I speak nine languages,’ he says. It sounds like a threat. ‘How many do you speak?’ 

I tell him I’ve a GCSE in French. He smiles politely – an expression his face seems wary of – and gets back to his cornflakes.

I look at my phone. I’ve been itching to look at it since an Instagram notification popped up halfway through my small-talk. It’s a reel from João. It shows the animal rescue of a kitten found in a bin, washed and nursed back to health, and the friendship it develops with a St Bernard. There’s no message. It follows a reel he sent yesterday of a hedgehog dragging a plate of cat food into a bush, and a reel the day before that of a cat licking a baby.

The last time I saw João, we were snogging in his car at the end of an evening. He kept opening his mouth incredibly wide and kind of hovering it in front of mine, then shoving his tongue in really far. I’m not sure what I thought of it. Nobody’s ever kissed me quite like that. He slid his hands up my thighs and under my dress. He started rubbing one finger around my anus. Round and round he went. Nobody’s ever done that exact thing before either. And he sucked my boob. Just one. The left one. Which was a relief because that’s the best one. Halfway through all the heavy petting, I moaned his name.

‘I’m the fourth João of Francesinha Tours,’ he said, as if preparing for battle.

‘And I believe in you,’ I sighed.

It was a very satisfying first date.

* 

I go to my favourite café for breakfast. I order an espresso and a pastel de nata in broken Portuguese.

I say, ‘Can I have um espresso and um pastel de nata, por favor.’

The man behind the counter holds out a fist to drop the change into my hand. He opens his fist but nothing is there. He roars with laughter and drops a coin from the other hand. He points at me as if to say, your face (which hasn’t changed).

At a kerbside table, I deliberate on whether to send João a reel of a Dachshund playing piano or a photograph of my right tit. The one he didn’t suck. Both are ready to send. I have a saved photo of each of my breasts, softly filtered, dimly lit. And one of both together. Is it better to appeal to João’s loins or his cutesy humour? Boob or dog, boob or dog? I sit there thinking. And then I send neither.  

*

I walk to Ribeira and watch the tourists dawdling along the river. Some look red and dehydrated; some look rosy and pumped. A group of leather-jacketed Hells Angels strut around a small woman with a big camera. A busker, in bright yellow trousers, sings ‘The Girl from Ipenema’. Another busker, a little further along and wearing nothing of note, sings an Ed Sheeran song. Two topless young men run and jump into the water.

I sit with my book and feel an inner glow because I’m alone and self-improving. The waiter approaches. I met him yesterday. We got chatting and he took my number. Last night he sent me a picture of himself in his pants. I nod hello. Neither of us mention the photo. Neither of us mention the vomit-face emoji I sent in response.

I order a green wine. When it arrives, I feel enormously better than everybody else because I have a book, I’m drinking Vinho Verde at 11 o’clock in the morning, and I’m about to order sardines. I ignore my book and check my phone. He’s still not messaged. Anthony. Wherever he is. He was thinking of joining some friends this week – some friends of his who are a couple and on their holiday in Italy. He had not yet run this idea past the couple. But he seemed to think it was a good idea. I nodded when he told me this and said, ‘Oh’.

I think of him ambling along beside a lake, writing his poems about trees that are really about women, recording them into lofty voice-notes and sending them to whoever it is he sends them to now. 

The last time I saw him, we were in a Desi pub in Birmingham having a curry – sharing a number of vegetarian sides and mains. He suddenly put his fork down, turned and hugged me. He squeezed me very tightly for at least seven seconds. And he said, ‘I love you’.

I paused. I said, ‘I love you too.’ I paused again. Then I asked him if I could clarify something; did he mean that he loved me platonically? 

‘Yes,’ he said. Breezy. Smiling. Picking at a skintag growing in his elbow fold.

I cracked my poppadom into small pieces. ‘Some things are very easy to break,’ I said quietly.

*

I receive a voice-note from João. He says, ‘Don’t you worry, you’re not forgotten. I’m coming to you tonight. Wild horses couldn’t stop me.’

I start humming The Rolling Stones and watch the boats sail by; a smile spreads across my face in time to the lapping of the water. Fuck Anthony, I think. João is coming for me. I take a big gulp of Vinho Verde and drumroll my fingers on the table; the waiter, whose pants I have seen, takes this as a bid for attention and approaches me. I ask him to take a photo of me with my book and my sardines and my wine. It’s not great. I tell him to take a few more, please. I try my head at different angles, smile with my teeth, smile with no teeth, sunglasses on, sunglasses off. I look into the distance as if I’m surprised. I look into the distance as if I’m disturbed. I look into the distance and give a long, withering glare.

I check the pictures one by one, select the photograph in which my eyebrows look most enigmatic, and add a shitload of subtle effects. When I’m done, I look like an AI model of myself. I post it on Instagram on both my stories and my grid. Within about 30 seconds, Anthony has liked it on my stories. I turn my phone off and pick at my sardines. I pick up my book and read the same paragraph three times. I put it down. I finish my wine. I browse all the other customers. A deliriously attractive group of young people are having a lot of banter together in French. I wish I’d paid more attention in my GCSE. I wish I could mic-drop a line into their conversation. I wish I could watch as they all turn and gasp at me with an exceeding amount of approval.

A thirty-something couple are arguing in a rapid tick-tock of Spanish. I try and imagine what the trigger is. He cannot make her orgasm, I decide. That’s the source of her frustration. Anthony’s never made me orgasm. Not properly. He checks every time and every time I tell him that he has because he always very nearly has and it always takes such a long time – with me howling and huffing and panting, forever on the brink. So I always just arch my back, give a last sigh and a bit of a shudder and simulate an ending for him. And then I like to stare down at his lovely face. He always looks so proud of himself as he rests his cheek against my thigh. I stop myself telling him I love him night after night. And then we fuck. And then we hug. And then he says, ‘You’re welcome to stay over. Do you mind if I sleep naked?’ That’s what used to happen anyway.

*

My phone makes a Dubba-Daa-Dub-Daa sound. I say, ‘I’m not a badger’ in time with it. A man has left a comment on my profile: Is there a plane nearby or is that my heart taking off?

I take a notebook out of my bag and jot down some thoughts about the sensor-operated tap at the airport. It kept turning itself on and gushing when I wasn’t even close. I write about the sign on the escalator that said Hold Me and made me anthropomorphise the sliding hand rail and the moving metal stairs – ridged like stickle bricks. There’s definitely a poem here I think with no sense of clarity. It’s the first time I’ve written anything in my notebook since I arrived five days ago and I fly back to Birmingham tomorrow.

During the afternoon, I wander cobbled streets, past pastel houses, up uneven steps flanked by walls alive with graffiti characters such as roosters and trout.

I step inside a Gothic church – aggressively ornate and pregnant with gold. I sit on a pew close to a statue of the Virgin Mary. It’s entitled: Our Lady of Solitude. My own silence radiates outwards from me as if joining something bigger, as if my small solipsistic life is being diluted, is joining a vast stream of history. My problems are swimming in a weak, lemon squash. My phone still off, I think of nothing. I feel at peace.

*

The sunlight’s painful when I step outside. I feel like a nocturnal animal waking in daytime. I cross over the tram line – Linha One – the only tram in operation. It shuttles back and forth each day between the river and sea, each time passing the meeting point of differently-labelled water.

I sit on a bench, smoke a cigarette and turn my phone back on. There’s a voice-note from João. He says, ‘Fuck my fucking life. My throat is shit. I have fever. And you? You are OK? You have any symptoms? I’m gonna sleep now, fuck.’

I take a long drag on my cigarette. I blow a cloud of smoke in front of my face like a child blowing a bubble. I send a voice-note back. I say, ‘Oh no. You’re poorly. Oh dear. Oh. Dear. Yes, I’m fine. Rest up then. Hope you feel better soon.’ Then I retract into vagueness. I take another drag but melancholy has made me clumsy; I slightly miss my mouth and smoke gets in my eye. I blink madly.

My phone buzzes with a like on my Instagram post from a Spanish photographer who I’ve exchanged a few texts with but not yet met. I send him a message asking if he’d like to go for a drink.

Then a man with a miserably sexy face walks past. He wears a brown leather waistcoat and nothing underneath. He is muscly and sun-dried. He evokes guitars and campfires. I don’t see men like this in Birmingham. It’s like seeing a rare species. He looks towards me but not at me. I fear if our eyes did meet, he might solder my retinas.

*

When I first suggested being ‘Friends with Benefits’ to Anthony – a phrase that felt exotic to me – he leaned forward as though talking into a microphone at a press conference and said, ‘Yes. I would like that.’ And then carried on eating his lentil Bolognese.

‘Yes,’ he said, between mouthfuls. ‘Because I don’t know how I feel.’

When he cleared our plates, mine had a pile of Bolognese leftover. It looked like minced brains.

‘Would you think me a skank, if I were to eat your leftovers?’ Anthony called through from the kitchen. ‘Would you think me an absolute nineties skank?’ he laughed. He often repeated a line when he thought it was funny.  

*

I receive a reply from the photographer: I am a full-time photographer. When I am not doing photo sessions, I am editing pics, posting new contents on Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, VERO, Facebook page, and sure my website too. I am creating new logos and photo session packages in different countries, dealing with clients about bookings, clothes, online authorisations, new lenses, studying poses, watching tutorials. So, why not. If I get time, sure!

*

I light up another cigarette and put my headphones in to listen to some Bosa Nova. I try to regain the sense of peace I’d had in the church but my phone buzzes again with a

like from a man with a starter question: Ask me about my love language.   

*

Anthony would tell me he liked having his head massaged more than sex. He would cuddle up to me and ask, ‘Would you mind squidging my head?’

I remember one night as he lay there stroking my face and hair, gazing into my eyes, I asked him why he did these things.

‘Because I like you,’ he said, surprised at my question.

‘As a friend, though?’ I asked. Anthony once told me to ‘Fuck Off’ in his sleep.

‘Well, clearly, I like you as more than a friend,’ he said.

After our first time having sex, Anthony had woken me up with his fidgeting. He’d rolled over towards me and I’d watched him through squinted eyes; I pretended I was still asleep. He gave me a look of disgust and regret, then turned his back.

But now, months later, he touched my cheek and smiled. ‘I do these things because I like you. I feel incredibly connected to you. I feel close to you. I’m attracted to you. I love spending time with you.’

I’d stared at the blank ceiling and imagined myself afloat in the heart of a leisure centre – thoughts blurred by swimming pool acoustics, senses whipped by chlorine.

This evening in Porto, I decide to go to a bar by myself. I imagine meeting a group of locals, assimilating into a raucous social scene, and becoming a highly energetic version of myself. But waiting in the queue, I start to have doubts. Units of people stand closed off from me in Portuguese chatter. Once I’ve eventually been served, I hold my glass of wine and cigarette and pretend I’m waiting for someone. A man, in a royal blue t-shirt, keeps looking over at me. I avoid his stare but my eyes involuntarily land on him again. Maybe it’s because I’m lonely; maybe it’s just because blue is my favourite colour but I keep looking at him. I’m giving the wrong impression. He comes over. The grin on his face walks a shaky line between enthusiasm and desperation.

‘You are alone,’ he says, factually.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘I wanted to talk to you for a little while,’ he says. ‘That’s why I kept looking over at you. But I didn’t want you to think I was a creep,’ he laughs, taking a step closer to me.

‘Oh,’ I laugh, and take a step back. ‘Yes. Thank you for talking to me.’ My gratitude has the tone of polite-reminder-email but he’s not put off.

After a number of courtesy questions, we have established a few neat details about ourselves. He’s originally from Brazil, trained for years as a footballer in the USA but then suffered an injury so came to Portugal; he set up a bakery franchise. His are the best croissants in all of Porto he says with a hint of disquiet.

‘How old are you?’ he asks. His t-shirt is obnoxiously bright. ‘I would say twenty-seven?’

I laugh at the ridiculous suggestion. I most probably blush because I have no control over the absolute basics that flatter me.

‘No? Twenty-eight maybe?’

I laugh again, trying not to do so coquettishly but it is hard not to get caught up in this flirtatious little game.

‘Not more than thirty-eight then, surely?’

The leap of ten years alarms me. ‘Well. A little more...’

‘NO!’ he shouts, hammy now.

‘Thirty-nine,’ I say.

He gasps. I will him to change the subject. To my relief, he moves back to the croissants. 

‘No really, you must try my croissants!’ His voice deepens. ‘I would like to give you a tour of Porto. If you want, we can go around together tomorrow morning. At 10.30. I will show you all the sights. I wanted to talk to you for a long time but I didn’t want you to think I was a creep, haha!’ He touches my elbow. I swoop it away as though I’ve decided to start swaying, as though that’s legitimate body language for me.   

‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say. 

*

I check my phone. There’s a message on my profile that reads: You’re adorable. Fingers crossed you’re not too crazy!

*

A few weeks before this holiday, I got drunk with Anthony. ‘I really want to go on holiday with you,’ he said. ‘But we’ll just end up having sex.’ He kissed me. We were drinking in the street that night like Europeans, pretending we weren’t really quite cold. A raffle began and Anthony asked someone what it was in aid of. I’d arrived earlier than him and had bought a raffle ticket so I knew. ‘It’s to raise money for a skate park for kids,’ I said.

‘You are fucking kidding me.’

‘I’ve bought a ticket,’ I said, ignoring his outrage.

Just then my ticket was called. I was given the choice of skateboard or hoodie. I chose the hoodie and carried it limply by my side as we walked to Pappa Johns to get a Garden Party pizza, all the while listening to Anthony rant.

‘All those people, man. All those fucking hipsters, gathered round back there for that fucking raffle. For a skate park?! You are kidding me. Jesus. You are fucking kidding me. The world is burning. The world is fucking burning!’

Once we’d bought the pizza and walked along a few quiet residential streets, Anthony’s ire seemed to dissipate. We walked hand in hand to his flat, arms swinging. He said bouncily, ‘I feel bad that I can’t commit to you. But I’ll always be loyal to you as a friend.’

It was midnight when we arrived, and Anthony’s neighbour was out working on his car. ‘You look so loved up, Anthony. I’m really happy for you, mate.’ Anthony didn’t reply.

We went inside, ate the pizza we bought, and watched Hania Rani videos on YouTube.

I asked Anthony sloppily to please fuck me even though we were in our latest ‘just friends’ period. He said no because he wouldn’t manage it because he’d had too much to drink. But he cuddled me all night. In the morning he was still cuddling me. ‘Can you feel my penis against your thigh?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘It’s soft. There. Can you feel it now? Haha.’

‘No,’ I said again.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘Is this OK?’

‘Probably not,’ I said.

‘Well really all we’ve done is have a cuddly, friendly sleepover,’ he said, mock  brightness in his voice.

‘You’re naked,’ I said, getting out of bed and getting myself ready. ‘I’m going now, Anthony.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I won’t get up because I’ve got an erection now.’

‘Right.’ I said the word slowly, in order to stop myself yelling the words, ‘Fuck right off.’

*

Mondays am I right? says the first line of a man’s profile as I start scrolling in the bar toilets. What am I looking for? Someone to rescue me from the Brazilian? I begin to type the Portuguese graffiti on the cubicle walls into Google translate: We’re all made of stars.

I am notified of a profile comment: You look and seem really great! Will you join me for great dates, silly and deep conversations, adventures and modern day romance? Dinner,

travel and date ideas tbc by me.

When Anthony found out I was going on a date with somebody he knew and didn’t like, he repeated my news back to me in disbelief. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked.

‘Well. I just think he’s a bit of a wet lettuce,’ he said. ‘Do you like lettuce?’

The man in question turned out to be funny, handsome, intelligent, kind. And besotted with another girl. A message appeared from Anthony halfway through the date: Any good? When I got home later, I messaged back: Very nice but a just-friends vibe.

Next morning, Anthony invited me round for coffee at his flat. He stroked my thigh as soon as I sat down and asked if he could massage my feet. Slowly, he started squeezing his hands up and down my thighs. I looked towards his Welsh dresser and pretended it wasn’t happening. He began dwelling on the inner, higher parts of my legs until he stopped and asked me for a hug. He breathed heavily into my neck. A fortnight prior, he had apologised for upsetting me and promised me we would draw a line and remain platonic for the foreseeable. He pulled back from the hug now and looked deeply into my eyes, ‘I want to be inside you,’ he said.

He kissed me urgently. I don’t consider that Anthony and I ever had a first kiss. I would have liked one. I had always envisioned one. I had always hoped for romance. But right from the very first time our mouths came into contact, it was purposeful kissing – the kind of fast kissing that signals sex is about to follow.   

*

On my last morning in Porto, I take the Linha One tram to the sea. I try to imagine exactly where the Douro river meets the Atlantic. Where the fresh water changes, turns brackish then dense with salt. I walk along Foz De Douro admiring all the different blues of the sea and sky. The thousands of ripples and dimples breaking up the stillness.

There is a starfish laid out on a ledge at the end of the pier. A seagull stands next to it. Although both inhabit the coast, they look incongruous together. I watch the moving mass of water for a long time. I listen to the noise of it like rushing wind. I look between the two striped lighthouses – one red, one green. A wide stretch of water separates them. They look as though they’re locked in a conversation open to misinterpretation by distance but the quiet space between them seems peaceful. I want to hurl my heart there, lob it towards the horizon, engulf it in the deep blue sea and watch my pain sink like an anchor.            

*

I receive another reel from João. It’s the story of a severely obese dog who shed almost half her body weight. The voiceover tells of how she used to move so slowly, about how sometimes she would just sit down and stop moving in any direction at all. But now she’s a different dog – livelier and happier.

*

I find a quiet bar for my lunch. A woman comes to serve me; she is effusive about the Specials Board as though she spends a long time every day mind-mapping the options. I ask for the octopus and she does a little jump at this. I smile at her like a teacher’s pet.

While I’m waiting, a voice-note comes through from João. As he speaks, sad-movie music is playing in the background lending the whole recording a grandiose tone. ‘I’m still sick. But I’m gonna take pills. I’m gonna rest. I’m gonna do everything I can to at least see you again before you leave. Ciao.’

As I’m eating my penultimate tentacle, he sends a follow-up voice-note. ‘I just did a test. Two seconds, positive. Fucking Covid. Bisous mon chéri. Tell me when you arrive home. Tell me about Aston Villa. Those beautiful villains.’ 

*

When I’m back from Porto, I message Anthony saying I’ve got him a souvenir and he invites me to his flat. I’ve not been there for a month. I used to go there three times a week. I drove him round to collect a bookshelf and an armchair and a blanket box and a hi-fi when he moved in. He would send me messages saying things like: Can I borrow you and your car again on Thursday, please? I’ll cook you an amazing meal and go down on you in exchange. 

We would go on charity shop excursions together to find finishing touches like bottle green glassware. He used to send me photographs of things he’d seen and ask for my opinion. I’ve watched a whole series of The Apprentice with him in his flat. We’ve spent evenings cooking together. We once made a risotto, him cuddling me from behind, laughing at my erratic stock-ladling technique. He whispered in my ear, ‘I feel so content.’ He spun me around, kissed me, picked me up, and carried me to his bedroom. He threw me on his bed. I felt like we were the happy couple from an Ikea poster. 

*

When Anthony answers the door, he’s wearing pyjamas. His flat smells of furniture polish and it’s ruthlessly clean and tidy.

He greets me with a clamp of a hug, cups the back of my head and plants lots of quick kisses on my forehead saying ‘mwa, mwa, mwa, mwa.’ I feel like a petted cat.

We have cups of tea and pain aux raisins while Anthony plays his friend’s band’s record. He’s been to see the band a couple of times recently. I’ve never been invited. I’ve never been invited to anything involving Anthony’s friends. He’s always kept me quite separate to the other people in his life. Anthony’s never told anyone he’s been on-and-off sleeping with me for six months.

‘I’ve not seen your face for ages,’ he says. I give him the souvenir – a tin of sardines. ‘I actually do like them. I’m touched.’

I use his bathroom. Something compels me to lift the bin lid and I find the opened wrapper of a condom, red and shiny like the eye of a reptile. I drop the lid shut. I’ve used this bathroom at least a hundred times but it suddenly feels foreign to me.

Anthony is singing to himself in the living room. He has a beautiful voice. He used to be the front man in a band with a crap name. He used to be Head Boy. He throws the microphone up in the air and catches it when he does karaoke. He is an only child.

I sit back down. My heart is racing. I choose my question. ‘So. What did you do last night?’

He pauses briefly. ‘I’ve started seeing someone. She came round last night.’

My nervous system ignites inside me. ‘That’s upsetting for me to hear about,’ I say.

‘Is it? I mean we’re both single. It’s normal that we’re going to meet people.’

‘You hurt me,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’ His tone is casual; it’s like I’ve told him I’d have preferred a pain aux chocolat. ‘In what… in what ways have I hurt you?’

I note his use of the plural. I don’t have the energy to speak. This is not a new topic of conversation. He has thrown out so many phrases to me over the past six months: it’s honestly not you, it’s me; I just think I’m happiest alone; I don’t see how a relationship with you would ever work; I can’t categorise my feelings for you but in some ways maybe I’m very much in-love with you; I don’t see you as long-term; if we’d met years ago, we’d be boyfriend and girlfriend but then I’d have messed up the relationship and you’d have never spoken to me again; you’re short-term.

I try and explain but my words feel heavy.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I’ve realised I sometimes say nice things that aren’t necessarily true.’

‘So how did you get together with… what’s her name?’ I ask, ignoring his bombshell statement.

‘Jasmine,’ he says. ‘Well. She made it known she liked me. We started messaging. Then we met for coffee. Now she comes over once a week.’

It seems like the same way he’d arrange a cleaner.

‘Only once a week?’

‘Yes. She’s in an open relationship. And she’s got a kid. So she can’t stay over.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘Yeah, cos she’s got a kid… I really know how to pick ‘em, don’t I?’ He laughs.

I feel sick. ‘Does anyone else know?’

‘Of course; it’s not a secret.’

‘Cool,’ I say, aware I’m using a tip-of-the-iceberg word because I don’t know how to convey my feelings in language.

‘Nature calls,’ he says, heading for the bathroom.

*

I pick up my bag and slip out, closing the front door softly behind me.

I turn my phone off as I run down the street. 

*

I run all the way to a café. It has walls adorned with paintings of female astronauts floating in space. Their faces communicate expressions ranging from mild irritation to existential dread. And I’ve always thought of them as my allies.

I get my laptop out. I have a sudden urge to write. I type in the Wi-Fi password but it won’t connect. I flag this up with the barista. I go back to my laptop and see that the internet’s now working. When the barista brings my coffee, I tell him my laptop has connected now.

‘It has its moments,’ he says.

‘Don’t we all,’ I say.

*

There’s a notification on my Instagram tab; it’s another reel from João in Porto. It’s a video of a goose stood atop a slide, hesitating. The goose looks around, lowers its long neck to look closely at the surface, then falls back on its rump, its huge webbed feet ahead, and glides ungainly down to earth.