GALLEY BEGGAR PRESS SHORT STORY PRIZE 2023/24

LAURENCE PRITCHARD

‘Dirty Weekend’

BACK DOWN TO THE WATER’S EDGE. Cold biting their bones. The couple panting from the sprint down the pebbles and sand. Her hair over her eyes, him bent double, almost on all fours, pushing himself back up and laughing. Gulls swooping, hovering, beaks slashes of yellow. Dog barks drawing the couple to a Labrador in the distance. Anyone recognise them? See them? Smell them? Back at the seafront, by a shop front of inflatable lilos and sharks, they embrace each other.

Drink? says Bella.

Sure, says Max.

They had met at the support group, in the back room of the Quaker building. Max and Bella had talked several times and found shared interests beyond those who congregated there every week. Small words bartered and exchanged, gestures, silences, smiles.

But above all, they liked each other’s scent.

They stood by the bins in the car park outside the group meeting place. The other members, individually, eyed them enviously. Max pulled up the vast green bin lid and sniffed.

Rotting chicken is an underrated aroma, he said. Definitely, said Bella.

He angled his nose and breathed in. Bella sniffed and grinned.

They thought of Brighton for the weekend. Used to be sleazy. They had both been unattached, for some time. But they didn’t want gentrification, they wanted somewhere stuck in the past: Western-super-Mare it would be. They wanted somewhere before it all happened.

Something about seaside resorts that were traditional?

—-

They drop their bags at the hotel, a mid-ranking building dripping in pink facing the beach. Max has a high collar, gloves; Bella a scarf, gloves too, although it isn’t that cold. Max can see that sometimes she is conscious of her stoop, the way she shuffles, but she smells great, her musky whiff mingling with fish & chips and car fumes.

Dogs sniff them.

They wander on the beach and mess around.

They choose a pub just off the seafront. Reek of booze. They touch each other’s arms, pat each other’s legs as they chat. They have craft ale at the bar but Bella orders two pints of Stella.

A terrier by the bar watches them, growling.

Perhaps they are already in love; it has happened that fast. Rising buzz of conversation. That lady staring because they have kept their coats and scarves on? Pong of the toilets when the door is open. Carpet needs cleaning. Are there people like them in the pub? So much misinformation, so many deny what is happening. Drinks downed. Time to go. The sky is darker grey. Fewer people on the beach. A kid’s hot dog, ridden with red gunge, spits out its sugary stench.

Silence.

Back to the hotel?

Yes, says Max.

Nod to the manager, who has been puffing out back.

Clink of key in the lock. A stain on the bed sheet, murky windows, curling paint on the window sill.

Thought it would be all posh now, Max says. Difficult to tell these days.

They sit on the bed. Bounce bounce bounce. Silence.

Then she says:

Do you want to see it? What? says Max.

You know. Yes, he says.

Max stands by the window, blocking the view, even though they are two floors up.

A distant whirr of traffic.

Could you close the curtain? asks Bella. No one else will see, says Max.

I know but still.

Sure, says Max, swinging the curtains closed. But you can still see me?

Yes, says Max.

Now?

Uh huh.

Bella pauses and looks shyly at Max, then she turns her head to the floor. Finally she slides up her dress and her underwear. There it is just lying there, floppy, rather sad, purposeless perhaps, at this point in its existence. About four inches long. At the lower part of the spine.

Bella watches Max, holding her breath. Max says nothing.

Just sits there, she says. Yeah.

And?

It’s ok, says Max. Seriously. Just OK?

I like it … a lot.

Yeah?

Go on, wiggle it, he says, coming closer. Can’t.

Maybe later, he says, tapping it.

I want to, really want to, make it move, she says, touching her tail, brushing his hand away.

What about you?

Max takes down his trousers and underwear and shows her his tail, darker haired than hers.

Can I touch it? she asks. Yes, of course.

She strokes it and thinks she feels it twitch.

She lifts his shirt, strokes the fur on his lower back, dragging her fingers through the rough pelt, round his flat stomach, stroking, licking, brushing her face against him, burrowing into his ribs. She licks more, her tongue slathering, her saliva creating glistening rows across his lower back. He rips off his shirt and tosses it on the bed, revealing the tangle of hair on his chest and stomach, his tongue dangles out of his mouth and drops dabs of sweat onto his feet. She takes off her coat and her dress, showing the fur all over her stomach and breasts, tracing lines across herself with her curled fingers. She undresses him and they caress each other’s legs and buttocks, feeling the dense rough warm hair that covers their bodies under their fingers, he rolls onto the bed and lies there on his back, legs in the air, hands and feet turned in like commas. She mounts him, he licks her leathery palms, and tugs his tail. They howl, broiling roars from deep inside, pitching their heads up, their nuzzling faces vanish into each other. They are decades younger now, the excitement of a first date fuck, hoisting off inhibitions; she bites at his face and the nick draws blood, he sucks the drops that bead on her breasts.

They wake up curled together on the hotel floor. She gets up, drinks some water from the tap in the bathroom and has a shower. He soon joins her. Her tail has got longer overnight; she toys with it as it dangles; he thinks the same about his too. They play with them in the gushing water.

Are they becoming more hunched? Bella lies on the bed, legs dangling off.

What about the others in the group? asks Bella.

I don’t know. I never paid them much attention, says Max, winking. Really? says Bella.

Yeah, says Max.

I never spoke to anyone else there, Bella continues. Maybe we should have talked to the others?

Why?

I like to know what people are thinking, my classes at school were ordered, disciplined.

Does it make any difference? Max asks. What?

What the others in the support group thought.

I just think it should be a bit… collective? Is that the right word?

What do you mean? We have each other. Isn’t that the important thing? A lot of them looked upset. I don’t feel any self pity.

Bella drops down from the bed, wincing, padding her back with her hands as she goes back towards the bed. It’s hurting, she says.

You OK?

Bella crouches on all fours, head up, her hands splayed out, tail dangling between her legs.

Does actually feel better like this, she says. Max joins her by her side.

Look, my fingers are stubbier, he says. It’s happening faster than we thought.

Bella crawls to the bathroom and hoists herself up by the towel rail and stares in the mirror.

My teeth, they are sharper, I am sure … fuck.

It’s OK, says Max, scuttling to her and hugging her. You’re so calm.

Not really, says Max. You hide your feelings.

Not anymore, says Max, clambering all over her.

So romantic, Bella says, smiling, kissing him.

They stare at each other.

Don’t know what to make of this, says Max. But it’s better than being a middle-aged, marketing manager for a product that no one wants.

Is it?

No mortgage now, says Max.

Do I get to miss out on the menopause?

The ones we leave will manage. World’s going to pot anyway. Class 5a will have to struggle on without me.

Max isn’t listening, though, trying to scratch himself with his leg. Bella licks the fur on the back of her hand as Max gently humps the pillow. Whiff of cigarette smoke. Is the manager listening in? What can he hear?

What were we talking about, Max?

Max says nothing. He lays his head on Bella’s lap. You’re so cute, she says.

He laughs.

She licks his face.

I have an idea for lunch, he says.

They scamper down the stairs of the hotel and out onto the seafront in the hazy yellow light. It is going to be a beautiful day! Waves curl, uncurl, seagulls shout, salty tang of the sea. Wet pebbles. Deck chairs out already. Patch of orange vomit studded with chunks. Kids legging it past. A tennis ball curves above them. Max leaps and catches it in his mouth. A kid appears, eyes him. Max wedges the ball between his lips, popping it in and out with his tongue. He then slips the ball out of his mouth, and chucks it at the kid. The kid dodges the ball, escapes to his mum, bawling.

What did you do that for? says Bella. What’s the opposite of progress?

Going backwards? Like us, says Bella. Maybe, says Max, laughing.

Why did you do it?

What? says Max.

The thing with the ball, says Bella. Who knows?

Max and Bella sit on curved rocks overlooking the sand, smooching. A burly man, barely constraining a growling Labrador on its lead, stares at them, spits in the sand. The man hoists the dog back and it snarls as they leave. Bella strokes Max’s back with her cupped hand.

Hungry, Bella says.

They hold hands, cross to the mini-mart. Like an old couple, she says. I like that, says Max. Seems like we’ve known each other for years.

She waits outside, crouching, to hide her stoop. He emerges, grinning. In the light he looks smaller, crouched. In the bag: a plastic bowl, a two litre bottle of water, two cans of vegan dog food.

You are not fucking serious, she says.

“Helps support healthy bones, good digestion, a healthy skin and coat and strong natural defences, with no artificial colours, flavours or preservatives. One hundred percent plant based, ” he reads.

Can’t we just go to Wetherspoons? Bella says, an elderly couple glaring at them. If you don’t fancy a taste, I’ll have the lot.

___

Back at the hotel he tips water into the bowl, bends down and laps away. Thirsty too, she nudges him and slurps the water. Max tips some of the organic dog food on a spoon and tastes it.

Not bad.

I couldn’t, she says.

He pushes a spoonful towards her.

She examines the mound.

No, I can’t do it, she says, turning, scurrying and pawing at the door. Bella darling, what?

I can’t do this.

She wrestles the doorknob with her mouth, swerves through the gap and out. Max chases her but she kicks him in the face.

No, Max, leave me, alone, leave me. What?

She rumbles down the stairs. Max rushes to the window, screams out of the slit, but the bark is lost in the din. Howl, howl, howl. He can even see her, just about, lurching forward, bobbing up and down, passers-by step aside. A clown? A drunk? A madwoman?

Max rages until the rat-tat-tat at the door silences him and he slides under the bedcovers. Max arches his back, cries again, stares forlornly at the window, collapses, whimpering. He rests his head on the pillow, tail as flat as a cheap tie.

Is this it? Has she gone? Can she not take it. Must go after her, get her back. Must. Go. Now. But he can’t open the door, even though he saw her do it. Max just bashes and scrapes at the door, nothing happens.

Max paces back and forth, nudging into the side of the bed, chewing the end of the sheets. He squats, then slowly lowers himself to the floor.

So tired. So, so tired.

But eventually, there is a knocking at the door. Silence.

Who is it?

Bella appears, nudging the door, plunges to all fours, a bag in her upturned hand.

Sorry, she says.

Max pulls a sad face.

I couldn’t open the door, laughs Max. I just don’t know what happened. Could not do this basic fucking thing.

Bella grins. Max can see her sharp teeth behind her thin lips. Who noticed outside?

She throws the bag on the bed. Four tins roll out and a packet of bone-shaped biscuits.

I just thought I’d get a more … downmarket brand, says Bella.

Thought you’d gone for good, says Max.

I can do stuff on my own!

Sure, I get it, says Max.

I don’t want posh food, or fluffy hats, or waistcoats, or quilted winter jackets, and I’m not going in anyone’s fucking pocket. And if you try to force me to have a manicure, I’ll bite your head off.

Bella stops and stares just behind Max.

What? says Max.

Look, your tail!

Max’s tail is at last standing up, the fine fur glinting in the light.

Not bad, says Max.

Impressive.

So, what did you get exactly?

She points to the tins.

Pedigree Chum. Old school. The cheapest. They were on the bottom shelf, luckily.

She goes to the bathroom, takes the bowl from earlier, cleans it. Her nails are narrowing to claws, she dips her foot and scratches the bathroom tiles.

Max looks up from the bed.

She pads into the room and spoons out curls of mashed tuna and tastes it. Hmm. Nutty, bit spicy, actually tastes like tuna.

The gobble down the slop, the chunks riddled with lines of fat sliding happily down their throats.

They both lick the bowl clean. Have you gone yet? asks Bella. What?

You know what I mean, says Bella. I managed.

I went on the beach, behind some rocks, but I covered it up.

Max giggles. He is already opening the beef one, while Bella undresses and then Max undresses too. Their bodies are now bathed in fur, their snouts nudge each other, claws flex, eyes narrow. They lick each other’s pelts.

Max bounds onto the bed and humps the pillow but Bella drags him off. Both try to get into the right spot with each other, she swerves, mauls his face, he swings his leg up over her back, both sniff, paw, pad, writhe around each other, spill off the edge of the bed, onto the carpet, they roll into the corners of the room, tumble in the bathroom, back up on to the bed, stirring up the sheets as they get wrapped up in them, vanish into rumbling, raging, bumps under the covers.

After, they sleep for a bit, this time on the bed. She wakes up with him lying over her, licking her face. Late afternoon, room half in shadow.

What.

What?

What to do?

Whatever we want?

Their eyes meet. They smile.

They dart across the room, slide down the stairs, flash through the lobby, past honking cars and between crawling coaches, run to the sea edge and run back. Hoods up, hunched, smaller, they scuttle across the sand, zig-zagging in the dimming light. His jaw elongated, hers too.

They say little.

What is there to say?

—-

Early next morning.

The blanket flies up and slaps back down. They slip out.

No hesitation.

The rush down the stairs. Out of the swinging door that slaps in the wind. Across the road.

A cat cowers in the covers of a local’s coat.

They slide down the ramp to the beach and the sunrise. The sand is endless, a brisk wind whips them.

They pelt down the beach, past a kid hurling a tennis ball into the sky.

A yellow ball

bounce bounce bounce lands in the sea.

Bobs there for a second on the shifting blues.

A whole mesh of whiteness covers it, then pops up again, surfing, diving again, under the water, propelled back.

Ball must go in mouth. Ball mouth, ball mouth, mouth.

Tongue trips over the teeth as the body enters the fray.

Sense of everything rushing and vanishing the ball

it is just there it is there

just now the whole ball but too far it goes again where did the fucker go?

Finally the ball.

Big enough now to be the sun.

LAURENCE PRITCHARD is a writer from Bristol, UK. He has lived and worked in Paris, France and South Korea. He teaches English language and literature, and translates from French to English. His story ‘To Palermo’ was shortlisted for the 2023 Bridport Prize and he has a short fiction piece in Deuleuzine vol. 2.