He does an extraordinary thing. He stands beside her for a moment as if genuinely not noticing her, but he’s very close to her. Slowly but surely his colours start to change, like an iguana. They become an exact mirror image of hers. A phenomenal spectacle I haven’t witnessed before. When his colours have completely transitioned, she looks up as if sensing him. He says something to her then and she laughs. They speak for a short moment and then he brings the beers back to his friends. As he walks back to them his colours slowly return to normal, to be in synch with theirs and when he goes back to join her, his colours return to her colours.

  She is immediately comfortable because she feels that he is like her. How many times have we thought being in someone’s presence has felt so familiar, as if we’ve known them all our lives. Even I have felt that.

  I draw on a notepad as I watch them. I draw lines as I see them, the energies they are all sending out to each other, who is sending it, who is blocking it. I use different colour pens to represent the colours being sent out. Single lines representing the rays moving in the same direction as a person, with arrows to show the direction it’s moving in. I draw a vertical line at the end if somebody blocks it, if it falls short of the intended party. I draw hooks at the end of those lines where the person is possessive and manipulative; some rays are misty, and I sketch those secretive rays in pencil.

  At the end of happy hour I look down at my drawing. It’s a series of scribbles and lines that looks as if it’s been drawn by a toddler, but to me it paints the perfect picture of the scene before me. I leave the bar as the two women in the corner dry each other’s tears, and as the woman and iguana’s colours begin to combine.

  I lie on the floor of my new flat listening to the new sounds. The flat didn’t come furnished, but that’s okay, that’s what I wanted. I couldn’t sleep in another person’s bed, covered by a patchwork quilt of lingering energies; twisting, turning and tangled up in somebody else’s fears and excitements. I’d scrubbed and cleaned every single inch of the small flat that first weekend, then slept with the balcony door open, watching the particles of every human being who’d lived here since the place was built in the 1950s drift away.

  My neighbours begin another screaming match. He seems to be the instigator of these things. There’s crashes and bangs, doors slam and something smashes.

  Monksrest Tower is a twelve-storey block of council housing with sixty flats. It’s an ugly building, designed in the brutalist style with large sections of exposed concrete, part of a cluster of a public housing, with low rise council blocks surrounding this one, all with the names of saints. My flat had been purchased under the right-to-buy policy and is being privately rented out. It’s had a fairly recent makeover, with cheap new carpets and painted walls. It’s a basic one-bedroom flat and it’s all mine. London is expensive, and despite my savings and my winnings from Liverpool, I will need to find a job imminently.

  I’m excited.

  I look out the window as sirens roar and a line of emergency vehicles race by, not for my neighbours but for some other catastrophe, somebody else’s drama. It may seem a bad choice for me, to be boxed into a building of sixty flats, but it was named Monksrest for a reason. Despite the human mayhem inside the building, the land itself glows. I guess the clue is in the name. There is a quiet hum, from the generations of quiet, contemplative people who dwelled here centuries ago. This tranquillity is being tested by my neighbours, but the land is good, the foundations are good. I felt a kind of peace envelop me when I arrived for the viewing, stepping away from the chaos of the city to the calm of the tower block.

  The yelling next door reaches its climax and a baby starts to cry. He yells one final time at her, not in English so I don’t know what he’s saying, and my wall shakes as their front door slams. I reach for my sunglasses on the floor beside me and put them on. I watch the gap under my front door as a pale light appears, gets stronger, brighter, then a hot red fills my door and lights up my room in scarlet red for a brief second before passing again. I remove my glasses. Sirens in the distance. My kitchen tap drips. I eventually fall asleep.

  Clearview Academy tours are always stressful for everyone involved. Taking a predictably unpredictable group like us out needs to be highly organised and managed. This year we’re going for a hike. I’m the last off the coach for a reason; I don’t like the vibes and, as soon as I put one foot on the ground in the car park, I change my mind and hurry back to my seat in the back row. Even when I’m shouted at by the two teachers and talked calmly to by Gospel, I refuse to get off the coach. It’s just a hike up a pretty mountain with beautiful views, and I’d been looking forward to that, but now that I’m here, I’m not getting out. I huddle in the corner, and wait for them to come back. I don’t even want to be here, I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m somewhere else. I have an awful feeling that something bad is going to happen. It feels like the most evil place I’ve ever been to. It takes them hours to get back.

  ‘It was just a walk,’ Gospel says, banging his boots so that the mud falls off them.

  I shiver all the way home, Gospel gives me his coat.

  I have such a confusing reaction to the trip that I research the area with Gospel as soon as we get back to the academy. It was just a walk, all right, a walk where a lunatic asylum once stood, where desperate souls condemned to live the rest of their lives were experimented on with horrific methods that look like torture devices. I could feel the fear, confusion and madness as soon as I put my foot on the earth.

  Gospel shudders reading it.

  It’s the first time a place, the land, has shown me its true colours. It teaches me a lot about how I feel because of where I live, the energies of the houses around me, the foundations, the history of the earth that I stand on. When it’s time for me to find my own home, I vow to find a place that has a joyful spirit and good vibes.

  I pour milk onto my Rice Krispies and listen to the snap, crackle and pop in the silent flat until it’s broken by Hugh video calling.

  ‘He won’t stop crying,’ Hugh says. He dangles a pudgy-faced naked baby in a nappy in front of the camera, legs tucked up like a chicken. ‘Can you check his colours?’

  I grin and move closer to the screen, taking in his rolls of fat on his arms and legs. He’s not crying now, confused as to why he’s being suspended in the air.

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘He’s full of love and joy – stop panicking, Hugh, you’ve done this before.’

  ‘I’ll stop panicking when he stops crying.’

  He pushes him closer to the camera again and all I see is a mouth and a tongue, red gums, short little fat fingers in his mouth.

  ‘He’s teething. And he looks like he needs his nappy changed.’ It’s so full it’s almost hanging off him.

  Hugh’s face fills my screen as he sniffs the nappy. He makes a face, then winks at me, ‘Honey? I need to speak to my wonderful sister, could you …?’

  I laugh.

  ‘Hi Alice,’ Poh appears. A tired mum but still beautiful, calm and strong; their children are so lucky.

  ‘Hi Poh. How are you?’

  ‘Busy with these three children,’ she says, rolling her eyes and taking the baby from Hugh. ‘Oh poor baby, the smell. Hugh! How long has he been sitting in this?’

  He shrugs innocently and turns back to me.

  I love watching them. Sometimes he just leaves the camera on as they make their dinner or go about their day or evening and I sit there watching and listening to the utter chaos, but the easiness of the chaos, the normality of it.

  ‘Annabelle, come here and say hi to Aunt Alice.’

  ‘Hi!’ she says, brightly. ‘I’m going to be a bee when I grow up.’

  ‘A bee? Well that’s a great idea.’

  ‘Bye!’ She hops down from his lap and runs away.

  ‘A bee, impressive stuff.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s one hiving community that will have her.’

  ‘Do you ever dress your children?’

  ‘It’s so hot here, no one needs to get dressed, ever.’

  ‘Oh boo hoo. I’m in London, in January, all the shades of grey.’

  ‘Do you have to clean sand out of your nose and ears every single day?’

  ‘I have no sympathy for you.’

  He leans his chin on his hand and studies me. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Survived another night on the mean streets.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I just woke up.’

  He looks at his watch to see if my waking time is acceptable.

  ‘Did you buy a bed yet?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You can’t sleep in a sleeping bag the entire time. You should call the landlord and tell him you demand a bed. It’s ridiculous. Do you want me to do it?’

  ‘Hugh,’ I laugh. ‘I’m twenty-four years old. You want to call my landlord for me instead of changing your own kid’s nappy?’

  ‘Absolutely. I know you won’t do it.’

  ‘I’m fine. I like the sleeping bag. I didn’t want the bed, I asked him to take it out.’

  ‘You could have bought a new mattress. Do you know how much beds cost?’

  ‘Hugh,’ I say calmly, ‘it’s okay.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help.’

  ‘You’re picking at me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Subject change. What have you got planned for today?’

  ‘More job-hunting. I’ve got two interviews.’

  ‘Text me when you’ve finished them. Have you heard from Mum?’

  ‘Three voicemails a few nights ago. One telling me I’m a thief and to come back with her money. The second one she was crying, saying she needs me, that Ollie doesn’t do things the way she likes and was gone from morning until night, and then a third telling me I’m a stupid bitch and she should have aborted me when she had the chance.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he runs his hands through his hair, taking the insults that were intended for me but didn’t land. ‘Why doesn’t she call me with that stuff?’

  ‘I’m her punchbag. I suppose I should feel honoured she’s so comfortable with me.’ I mainly felt sad for her while listening; she’d been doing so well with her pills, with modifying and balancing her moods. Now she’s drinking again, and smoking, I can hear it in her voicemails. I don’t know if she’s stopped taking her pills or if she needs new ones, or if they’re clashing with the alcohol intake or whatever else Ollie may be supplying her with, but the balance she struggled for so many years to find has been upset by his return.

  ‘Ollie’s not up to the task,’ he says. ‘But we all knew that.’ He sighs, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He suddenly looks old, even though he’s only thirty. Greying hair at the sides, he’s spent too long trying to keep it all together for everyone. I don’t want him to pack his life in, ruin everything he’s achieved, to go back to her.

  ‘I’ll go back,’ I say.

  ‘You will not,’ he says firmly. ‘Promise me you won’t.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t.’

  ‘Oh I won’t,’ he says, and I can see and hear the anger swelling. ‘Believe me, I never will.’

  I misread him. I’m surprised. I can’t see his colours on a video call, but I’ve spoken to him on the phone and seen him on FaceTimes more than I’ve seen him in the flesh over the past ten years and I’ve always known how Hugh feels.

  ‘I’ll talk to Ollie,’ he says.

  ‘Maybe it’s time to ask Uncle Ian for help,’ I say. ‘He’s her brother, after all. They could check in on her from time to time, start acting like they actually care.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  He rubs his face tiredly, exhausted by the responsibility. He has many responsibilities: head teacher at his school, two children … ‘Families, eh?’

  ‘Hugh,’ I say, suddenly serious. Role reversal. ‘You need to let go of them.’

  I realise now that I absolutely have. I have absolved myself of Lily and Ollie, of my responsibilities. They are adults, they’ve dug their own holes. I’ll not be dragged down with them anymore. It doesn’t make it easy, in fact it’s harder than anything, but it’s my turn now.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, unconvincingly.

  I realise Hugh will never stop caring, organising everybody, trying to keep the heavy things light. It’s in his colours.

  Annabelle returns and stings Hugh, prodding a tiny pointed forefinger into his thigh. ‘Ow,’ he yelps in faux pain and falls off the stool onto the ground, leaving me staring at the fridge covered in the kids’ art. Annabelle starts crying. ‘Daddy!’

  Poh comes running from another room with the baby on her hip.

  Laughing, I end the call.

  I never take elevators. That’s a lot of trapped energy in a small space. I take the stairs. As I lock up, I notice my neighbour’s door opening and, feeling awkward and unprepared for an introduction, I hurry along the corridor.

  I’m no country bumpkin; Dublin isn’t exactly a village, but I know my way around it, I know the quiet routes, the back streets and alleys where I can avoid a crowd. London is alien to me and there are people everywhere. I can’t do any back-channelling until I figure out where I am. I try to avoid bumping into people on the busy sidewalks, avoid their colours and magnetic fields, knowing that I must look like a crazy drunk as I weave through crowds. As the fourth person brushes against my shoulder, I stop walking and stand still in the rainbow river that flows around me. Close to hyperventilating, I escape into a side street.

  I fight the sudden childish urge to cry at the realisation of the magnitude of what I have come here to do. Living alone is both emancipating and terrifying. In an effort to drum up strength, I think of Ms Mooney for the first time in a decade. I think of Gospel and of Hugh, of the people who believed and still believe in me, who invested their time and energy into trying to make me listen to them and behave. Pep talk over, I step back onto the busy pavement and continue walking among all the glowing humans.

  My first interview is at a shop called Comic Geek in Covent Garden. The place is crammed with comics, statues, action figures and merchandise. It’s empty of customers and it smells of dust. There’s a guy in his forties with a long ponytail, an open check shirt with a Simpsons T-shirt beneath. Bart is bare-arsed and Homer is strangling him. He looks up from his work at the main desk.

  I take off my glasses and my mask but leave my gloves on, knowing I will have to shake his hand.

  ‘Hi, my name is Alice Kelly. I’m here for the job interview.’

  He looks me up and down. ‘Right.’ He wanders around aimlessly for a moment, as if about to do something but forgetting what, then returns to the same place. ‘We’ll have to do it here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So … like, do you have any experience working in a comic book store?’

  ‘No.’

  He stares at me for more.

  ‘The notice said there was no experience necessary.’ I clear my throat. ‘I’ve spent the past six years working as a full-time carer for a severely disabled and mentally ill woman.’ I take joy in describing Lily this way. ‘She was very difficult.’

  ‘So you’ll be good with difficult customers,’ he says.

  ‘Actually, the notice said it would mainly be a stockroom job.’ I’m trying to have as little to do with people as possible.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I basically need someone to help out with keeping the place organised. Opening stock, labelling, stocking, keeping the place tidy. I’m not so good at that. I could tell you anything about any comic in here though, you could ask me anything.’

  He looks at me as if he wants me to ask him, challenge him. I think of Gospel’s collection of comics and the lesson he gave me in the academy. ‘Um. Who is Spiderman’s nemesis?’

  ‘The Green Goblin, everyone knows that,’ he says, disappointed. ‘I recently started an online shop. Caved to the fans, so that’s a job in itself. Packing it up, preparing deliveries, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Are you a comic fan?’

  ‘Not exactly an expert like you, but I’m aware of them.’ I look around, not recognising any of the characters on the shelves. ‘Of the main guys anyway. Batman, Superman, Spider-Man …’ I suddenly can’t think of anyone else. ‘You know.’

  ‘Hey, careful who you call the main guys, around here,’ he says.

  He looks me up and down again. A red swirl appears over the crotch of his trousers.

  I sigh.

  He goes through the hours and pay. ‘Sound good?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to remain optimistic.

  ‘I’ll show you around. The stockroom is back here. This way.’

  He holds his hand out for me to walk first.

  The main shop window is so covered with posters, shelving and action figures it lets no light in. It’s a dusty and dark room that glows occasionally in spots due to the lingering energies of well-thumbed second-hand comics.

  He’s so close behind me he bumps into me when I stop walking. I keep going again and notice the red is swirling around his crotch, larger, building red hot like lava as he examines me as I walk ahead of him. At the stockroom door I step inside while he stands at the door, filling it and blocking it. It’s a small windowless room, boxes everywhere, no sense of order. It could be fun introducing some structure, but I feel a tightness in my chest, that warning women have had to listen to from the second we came to be.

  ‘No,’ I say suddenly, not wanting to stay any longer. ‘No thanks.’