Daily stories

The cranes swang around on the horizon. That was all they did. There was nothing to build with, and never had been. But swinging the cranes around was good fun for the bored young men they paid to do it, and the sight of them on the horizon helped us remember we were small. After everything, they couldn't bear to let us have a clear sky or a still day. So they swang the cranes, around and around. They would do it until they fell to pieces with the bored young men still inside them.

You're like a knife, she said. I thought of how I used to cook all her meals, slicing vegetables into little flowers for her. I thought of the nasty cut I got trying to open a plastic package with my teeth. I thought of all the tips bent up or broke off from being used to pry. I resolved to be more knifelike: simple, useful, true.

The day I left my job all the world's lost things started coming to me. It started with socks in the laundry, odd socks in colours I'd never owned. Keys in my pockets for cars parked who-knows-where and houses soon to have the locks changed. Coins in a hundred currencies dropped out of my sofa and rolled along the floor. The shoebox under my bed filled up with love notes and photographs. The back seat of my car filled up with phones and laptops and important-looking folders. Clutched in my hand one morning I found a little carved bird, and a note, and I never found out what they meant.

The train was a hundred miles long. You got on at the back, and you made your way down the length of it, and once you got to the front you had reached your destination. It was never delayed and it was never cancelled, and in the first dozen or so carriages, seats were plentiful. The journey, severely slowed by tucking in to let people come past the other way, took me a week. Now and again I stopped to barter with the weary, bearded men who ran the trolley service. It wasn't the worst train I'd ever been on, all in all.

I had a fine set of ghost’s teeth fitted, there when you want them and gone where you don’t. No brushing, no flossing, no sores. And so much kinder than teeth extracted from the living. But they felt wrong in my mouth: like they would bite me in my sleep. I went back to the dentist, but he said they could not be extracted. I would have to call a priest.

If you did as they liked, they carved your name on a little brass plaque and set it with the others in the hallway. You felt pleased, for a month or a year or a decade. You liked that there was a woman paid to come and shine your name up bright each week. But sooner or later, you came to wish that you could take it down, scrub it out, at least let it tarnish. The sparkle of that hallway was the worst of it: the way it made us all seem proud.

She came back as a beetle, tough and iridescent, and something in her remembered what it had been like before. She set out for revenge. He marvelled at all her colours, and when he reached to her she bit him. But that was not revenge. Revenge she found under his boot. He stamped and stamped, like a child with no pudding. When he was done she sauntered away, as hard and as beautiful as ever, and left him to suck his swelling finger.

I began to look thinner in the mirror. I told myself I shouldn’t worry, but that just gave me two things to hate myself for. The next week I saw my reflection’s fingernails: smooth, unbitten. Manicured? He began dressing better than me, and his wrist grew a big silver watch that needed winding. I couldn’t look him in the eye any more: he was so much taller, just from standing straight, I wound up looking up his nose. So I stopped looking altogether. A few weeks later I came face to face with him in a lift. He was thinner than ever, and slumped, and ragged, and his eyes stared blankly ahead. I reached out to touch him, and felt cold, smooth glass.

After my fall, a little crowd gathered. Someone helped me stand and someone laughed. Someone brought me a cup of tea and someone picked my pocket. There were streaks in my eyes and blood in my mouth and I couldn't tell who was holding me up and who had knocked me down. Sometimes I think of falling again: falling carefully, so I can see is who. Instead, I try to help people up.

By the time they discovered what I had stolen, I had the redundancy money out in cash and I was well beyond their reach. It was a good payout, ex gratia, as they say, which means “don't ask any awkward questions”. Nothing like what the other lot would pay for what I stole, of course. But I didn't sell it. I kept it under my bed, and imagined them all squirming to help me off to sleep.