Free Forget Yourself by Redfern Jon Barrett

to make this place, a little piece of everywhere. There were finely ornate mirrors, curved carvings caressing the glass. There were sturdy tables which already bore the scars of spilled drinks. There were dishcloths scattered about, some soiled some maybe-clean, all lit by a dim lamp. There was no sign of a home there though, and Jay stood as one of the accessories, and probably slept where he stood, filled with enough booze to make the days and night haze together. He was, of course, already drunk, and the game had begun around him. No-one had lost the ability to play.
     
    Pilsner had been at the courtyard when I came out of the box, rations in hand. He hadn’t smiled or greeted me.
    “The new casino will be there. Just by that mound.” He’d pointed to the embankment which led to the land of the moderates. “Can’t have people trampling all over the wrong area.”
    “Are you looking forward to it again?”
    “As much.”
    There was a silence between us—he hadn’t been interested in talking, he just wanted to impart information.
    “It’s your turn with the book soon enough. No new memories today then?” He’d flashed a cruel smile. A nearby couple chatted noisily.
    I’d turned and gone back to my hut, my leaden bags banging against my legs.
     
    I lost an apple, one of four.
    “I begged him not to go. We had our problems, true, but I begged him not to go.”
    A flurry of cards and another drink of vodka. Murmurs turned to laughter and we went unnoticed, balanced at the edge of the group. She pressed her arm harder to mine. I sipped at the drink clutched firm in my fingers, a taste more raw and bitter as any I’d ever splashed over my tongue.
     
    The new tent had appeared as soon as the rations box was gone. This was the new casino; this was Jay’s new home. I’d listened to the talk of couples as they stalked by. ‘Look at it.’ ‘Look at it.’ ‘When’s our turn? Did you hear yet?’ ‘He gets all the luck, that one.’
    Did luck and casinos not go together?
    They commented on its form, big and bulky, ‘It even hides that mound’, ‘What mound?’ ‘The one that leads—well, you know, over there’. ‘It’s a strange colour.’
    Well, that was true. I had never seen orange canvas before.
    It squatted only a few metres from the courtyard. Once or twice I had seen Jay carrying bottles back and forth, dipping in and out of his new sun-coloured home, and I had waved. He had waved back, gently and carefully, the wave of someone who didn’t exactly recognise who it was he was waving to.
    I’d stayed at the courtyard that evening and kept my ears open. Least couples strode pair by pair into the orange mouth, held open by Jay, who was already swaying a little. I’d watched for Frederick and I’d watched for Pilsner, but neither Pilsner’s slight-hunched build nor Frederick’s careless form had made their way near.
     
    I lost an apple, one of three.
    “I’d wanted someone else,” Burberry muttered.
    And there was no game, no game which we were playing, the others were there, vying over our rations and my hands would move and press cards face-down as the pile in the middle grew into several uneven lumps.
    I stared at her, trying to read her body for information. She felt me, I was sure of it, but I didn’t stop. There was only her and the dice and mugs, the glug of the vodka being portioned. At first I’d thought it was water. It reminded me of the chlorine-pool. I felt the fraying orange-purple-gold edges of my top.
     
    That morning I’d stitched together some of the spare fabric from the edges of my curtains, lining my shirt with colour. My home had smelt only of my own sweat, a thought which spread the dull ache of loneliness through my stomach. I’d knelt by my bed and inhaled, hoping for the earthy-beetroot scent left behind by Frederick’s body, but there’d been nothing. I’d decided to do the rest of my sewing outdoors. I still hadn’t heard from him. Perhaps he was making