Permanent Residence

We found purgatory. All this time is was at the corner of Stratford Villas and Murray Street, just across from the London Irish Theatre.
Purgatory was a place for lost things; socks and gloves without pairs, skeleton keys, china dolls with cracked faces, a cat. Purgatory was the echo of a city, no specific city, for it had the cramped houses of Perugia in Italy, the astronomical clocktower of Prague, the mosaic fountain of the Park Guell in Barcelona. All covered in a fine layer of dust. There was a small cafe tucked in a corner, with fresh flowers and dark jewel coloured walls. I sat down for a glass of wine. It was a particularly pleasing red and I noted the vintage for future dinner parties or quiet nights at home. It was much more of an oasis than I had ever found in London.
There is a to-do list in Purgatory, I glanced at it on my way out. It was scrubbled on a scrap of paper, illegible chicken scratch. The paper was pinned to the front of a young girl in a lace frock who looked too pristine for the weather beaten cobblestones and cracked streetlamps around her.
It read:


1. All missing children are confined to P. House.


2. All lost senses are to be kept in the P. Archives, they shall not be distributed to those in need of sight, smell, common sense, etc.


3. No person, pets, dreams, languages, belongings or places may be removed fromthe grounds of Purgatory. Residence is permanent. 

At the top of the note, stamped in black typset letter were the date and the words: No Exceptions Made.
The little girl watched wearily as I pushed against the heavy oak door and cursed when it would not budge. I kicked and clawed, raking gouges in the elaborate woodland carvings. When I had worn myself out, reasoned in my head this was a nightmare and I would wake slumped over my desk next to an empty bottle of brandy, and pushed down the feelings of dread in my stomach, she showed me to my new house.

Art by Chloe North


Text by Lucie MacAulay