Genie and Goose of 18, Dursden Street
by Ruchi Sneha
Tomorrow, the papers will finally post an obituary about her: amateur artist, full-time freelancer and weekends-only volunteer at the Art History Museum. Friend of Kim Jeong, Director of said museum.
Genevieve Sutton, they would say, was featured in some local art magazines and had a few original pieces that [may be considered a notch above pedestrian.] (sic)
Most of her work, however, was too eerie and tended to put people off.
She was, they wouldn’t say, not a very memorable artist.
***
Facebook Ad
1st January, 2025.
Flat available to rent. Second floor, accessible by stairs. Pet-friendly. Spacious rooms, friendly community and close to ALDI, ASDA and Tesco.
Address: 18, Dursden Street.
Please note: the previous tenant painted the wall, and repainting services will be provided at additional cost.
***
2024
It’s a day after Christmas, and she’s put the tea on. The Great British Bake Off is on in the 1.5 x 1.5 living room, its low rumbling drowning out the sound of water droplets falling from the ceiling in an orderly queue, one after another, sending ripples in a little pot standing beneath them.
She’s picking at the scab, loosening the dry edges and running her finger over them. She tucks her nail under the flake and gives it a good scratch. Blood coats her finger.
The cat yowls before scampering up her leg and giving the wound a rough lick.
She closes her eyes.
***
Incident report: 18, Dursden Street.
27th December, 2024.
2:48 AM
The body of Genevieve Sutton, discovered by paramedics, was in rigor mortis with stiff, open eyelids, milky eyes and mouth inhabited by flies. Initial assessment showed no obvious cause of death. No signs of struggle or trauma. A smell was reported by resident Niamh O’Donnell of 17, Dursden Street, which led to the investigation.
The body was carried safely from the flat to the morgue room in Saint Joseph’s Medical and Research Centre, where it was examined by forensic experts. They, too, reported no cause of death.
Geneveive Sutton, lone resident of 18, Dursden Street, was 34, female, single and living with her cat, Gooseleg.
With no suspected foul play, the last comments by Detective Peter Langdon were, “Well, you know. I mean, really, mate, you’re gonna make me say it? These women, their bodies. You know how they are. I mean, they’re just not built for it. Look, these doctors, they’re saving face, I tell you. She’s been in and out of hospitals her whole life, the medical records are all there. Nothing wrong with her. Probably just had a tough time, the poor thing, all alone in that rinky-dink place. It’s open and shut, mate. No one killed her, and she din’ go killing herself off, that’s for sure. What does that leave us with? Body just croaked. ‘S what happens when ya don’t take care of it.”
No further hiccups were faced, not in the formalities of this case, nor in the disposal of the body.
The only thing that gave the authorities any trouble at all was the difficulty in carrying her down the two flights of stairs on a stretcher.
***
1996
Little old Genie, look at her.
She’s running along the perimeter of the park, Bamboo scampering behind her with his tail wagging and tongue lolling out. She’s laughing so much that her eyes are tearing up. Popeye stands by, shouting at them to slow down. He whistles and draws Bamboo’s attention, before throwing a yellow plastic ball as far as his rusty old arm allows. Bamboo tears after the ball, and Genie plops down on the grass, holding her stomach, still laughing.
“Are you done, girl?” Popeye asks, tightening the strap of his satchel before picking up the empty sandwich box. “Get late soon, you know ole Gam will fuss if we return after tea.”
“But Pop,” Genie cries, “Bamboo wants to keep playing!”
“Bamboo does?” Popeye scowls. “Or you do? Up, Genie. Shouldn’t keep Gam waiting.”
“Fine,” Genie sings out, hopping back to her feet. Her face is sullen. “If you say.”
Bamboo deposits the ball at Popeye’s feet, and he bags it. Then, he eyes the girl. A crinkle creases his eye.
“Genie, I’m so hungry,” he complains. “Shall we stop by the store? Your old man could sure do with some of those sour candies. Or … maybe even the peanut butter cups?”
Genie’s eyes light up.
***
Saint Joseph’s Medical and Research Centre
26th May, 2006.
4:00 PM
Symptoms: Repeated self-harm, disordered eating, amenorrhea.
Height: 5’3
Weight: 41 KGs
Underweight.
Diagnosis: None.
Treatment: Psychiatric referral.
***
1998
Genie reads by the fireplace, her ankles crossed, finger tracing each line as she goes past it. Bamboo rests beside her, his paws tucked under his shining black body. They both have their tongues sticking out the corner of their mouths.
Gam is complaining in the adjacent kitchen while the smell of garlic permeates the house. Crackling and sizzling cover some of her bellyaching, but the occasional words slip by and crawl into Genie’s ears.
“All day,” she says. “Couldn’t move. Bed. Bleeding.” The crackling quietens down as the onions soften, and Genie hears her better. “And you weren’t here.”
“I’m here now,” Pop says, in his usual gruff manner.
Genie flips a page. Her stomach pangs at the smell of grease and grub, but she knows better than to go to the kitchen right now.
She’d seen it once before: Gam on her stomach, her shirt bunched up to expose a seeping, purple gash on her back. Pop cleaning it with a wet cloth.
The memory of the sight makes her grip her book harder.
“Genie,” Pop calls from the kitchen, “Come here, old girl, Gam wants our help.”
One of those days, Genie understands. Gam, when Pop wasn’t around, would tell her, “It’s the wound. The damned thing won’t let me do anything. I tell you, girl. Your Pop is the only reason I’ve carried on so long. Such a tiresome thing, this life.”
Genie shuts the book and places it next to Bamboo, scurrying up to the kitchen soon after. She walks into Pop making Gam laugh, despite the wince on her face. He’s going on about the neighbours yelling at their cat for stealing salami as he moves a spatula around the pot.
“Get the parm, Genie,” Pop tells her. Gam stretches her legs across the dining chairs and rests her back.
Genie hands Pop the bag of shredded parmesan. The thick smell of melting cheese is followed by the bubbling of pasta.
“Olive oil, now.”
Herbs release an aroma that makes her stomach gurgle.
“Five minutes to stir,” Pop announces. “Better get the big bowls out, this one’s my best.”
“Your best? I did half the cooking,” Gam says, but she doesn’t sound mad.
Pop flashes her his crooked teeth. “Our best, then.”
“Bring your book,” Gam says to Genie, shaking her head at the old man. “I’ll read you.”
It doesn’t seem like such a tiresome thing, this life.
***
To: Francesca Sutton
Signed: 16th August, 2000.
Fran,
With this letter, find:
- Genie’s books
- Clothes
- Dolls
- Documents
- Allowance
I know she’ll be mad, but get her on the telephone when you can. The house is quiet without her.
***
2003
The boy calls her a word. At first, she doesn’t hear it well over the chatter nearby. People are milling around on their lunch break – some of her schoolmates have taken to kicking a ball around, others are huddled and cribbing about their teachers. She’s sandwiched between two brick walls and a boy with a growing scowl.
“Are you [!!]?” Her brain blocks the word out for a second. This isn’t how she’s pictured her first kiss going. Hasn’t expected to be confronted with words Gam would’ve smacked her upside the head for saying.
“Sorry,” she says, wiping the blood on the back of her hand. “I thought that’s what people did?”
“[!!]” He shoves her away. “Ugly slag anyway, bitch.”
She digs her nails into her palm, and her ears ring. She doesn’t hear him walk away.
***
Saint Joseph’s Medical and Research Centre
6th November, 2006.
Session 01, Genevieve Sutton and Dr Shelley Rainer
Transcript
Dr Shelley: Are you aware of what you’re here for?
Genevieve: Because the NHS wants to waste my time and yours?
Dr Shelley: Genevieve, look at your arm.
Genevieve: I’ve got a cat.
Dr Shelley: Lying isn’t going to help you here, sweetie. I’m your doctor. You have to be honest with your doctors. Let’s try again.
Genevieve: I don’t have a cat.
Dr Shelley: … I didn’t think you did.
Genevieve: Dog, though. I mean. I used to.
***
2007
The banging on her door isn’t loud enough. She has her headphones covering her ears, Green Day screaming about America’s shite state as she presses her palms to her eyes and sees stars in the red darkness.
“Well, maybe I am the ******, America,” Billy Armstrong says, “I’m not a part of a redneck agenda.” She hums to his voice. It’s easy, in the confines of her bedroom – the remodelled closet space – to imagine how his throat must’ve hurt from the raw screaming. Maybe blood pooled in his mouth, the same way it’s in hers. She’s been biting her lip again.
The banging is too loud to ignore now. The door rattles in its frame.
She sighs and turns the music off. The apology is sliding off her lips even before the door is fully ajar. “Sorry, Aunt Fran. I didn’t hear you.”
“Phone,” her aunt replies, with no preamble or afternote, handing her a heavy receiver. She presses it to her ear.
“Genie,” the female voice crackles on the other end. “How are you, dear? How’s school?”
“School’s fine.” She wants to ask: Do you care? Do you really care? But she doesn’t. Gam sounds sick; she always sounds sick. Genie doesn’t want to know how much time they have. “How’s old Sailor Man?”
“Genie …” Gam takes a pause, and somehow, she knows. Hears the words before they’re said. Sees the look on her Aunt’s face before she makes it. “Pop … last night … he… in his sleep.”
She hangs up.
***
Saint Joseph’s Medical and Research Centre
12th February, 2009.
6:00 PM.
Transcript.
Assistant: Step off the scale. Lie down on this table here, please. We’ll give you a moment to undress. Dr Cathy will conduct your pelvic exam.
(Sounds)
Genevieve: Ready.
Dr Cathy: Hi, Genevieve. How are we doing today? I hear you’re in uni?
Genevieve: Yeah … first year.
Dr Cathy: How’s it going? Have any tough classes so far? This might pinch a bit, okay?
Genevieve: Swell. It’s just … swell. Ah.
Symptoms: Amenorrhea for 119 days, followed by menorrhagia.
Diagnosis: None.
Treatment: TXA650 x 3 x 5. Rest.
***
2008
Genie lifts the side of her shirt. She can hear her aunt talking through the cavity walls. Her MP3 player is out of battery, and she is out of ways to block the words that creep through the bricks.
“On and off and on and off and on and off,” Aunt Fran complains from her twisted lip. Genie can picture her picking at the chunk of meat stuck between her yellow teeth. “All these appointments. This new generation – everyone’s a [!!].” She remembers the word the boy said to her. She hadn’t expected to hear it so often. “And if you refuse to get them tested, it’s considered abuse. Bloody hell, they lock you up for that now. Everything’s abuse now, and all the kids have damaged brains.”
Genie stares at the mirror. Her ribs are showing through the thin skin, red lines running parallel to her bones. She leans closer. A spot is growing between her eleventh and twelfth. It’s shaped like a flower: red in the centre, pink blooming all around.
***
Saint Joseph’s Medical and Research Centre
29th July, 2019.
1:55 PM.
Transcript.
Dr Shelley: Genevieve, we’ve been over this. I’ve had a look at your tests myself.
Genevieve: But … the pain. The spot.
Dr Shelley: You want to read your medical report again? Look, all the tests are clean. There’s nothing wrong with you. We’ll adjust your medication, but you need to start weaning off. The NHS only has so much capacity, and there’s people dying. You’re perfectly normal, sweetie. You don’t need us.
Genevieve: But the pus. And the bleeding.
Dr Shelley: If the doctors can’t find it, love, it’s not real. I’m sorry.
Genevieve: Not … real?
***
2008
“Can I move to the bedroom downstairs?”
Aunt Fran looks at her like she’s demanded a jewel off her crown, which, knowing Fran, she likely imagines she has on her head 24/7.
“That space is for guests. Family who visit.”
“Right.” Genie understands the word ‘family’ doesn’t apply to burdens. “It’s just … my wound, it’s gotten bigger. I think it’s infected. It really hurts to walk up those stairs.”
“Ach,” says Fran, “You’re what, seventeen? Eighteen? Can’t walk up stairs, Her Royal Highness, this one. Can’t eat a meal, can’t talk to folks. Can you do anything?”
“Aunt …”
“If the accommodations are not up to Her Royal Highness’ tastes, she is welcome to find her own.”
Genie sighs. Just a few more months of this.
***
Tenant’s Agreement
Signed, 2020
By Genevieve Sutton.
Special Request: Tenant has requested to be moved to the ground floor as soon as a flat becomes available.
Secondary special request: Tenant prefers textual conversations, low noise, and not to be disturbed.
No emergency contact provided. No next of kin.
***
2022
Kim Jeong looks out of place in Genie’s flat. Her shoulders are bare in a cashmere wrap and a ruby pendant glitters on her chest. Genie’s walls are bloated with seepage.
“The next big thing,” Kim says, excitedly. “That space was created for you.”
“No one wants to look at my art,” Genie says around an easy laugh as she pours from the kettle into two cups. “Last I checked, oil works of bodies ripped at the seams are a bit too ‘perverse’ and ‘lugubrious’.”
Kim laughs at the quoted words – originally uttered by a stuffy old critic who took great care in combing every hair on his upper lip and none on his head.
“I said it could be the next big thing,” Kim said. “Look, I can arrange a viewing. Who knows, maybe a curator visits. Next, you know, Tate Modern’s calling and Genie’s all over The Telegraph and then New York wants you in MOMA.”
Genie chuckles, and for a few moments, it’s easy to get swept up in Kim’s enthusiasm. Goose mews curiously from his corner, unused to this new energy.
“Oh, Kim, no, you must stop.” Genie’s smile stays intact. “You know I wouldn’t be able to fly to New York, anyway. I wouldn’t want to be an American Idiot.”
Kim stirs sugar into her tea and shakes her head. “Genie, there’s a whole world out there. Step off your Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”
The two women giggle.
“Baby steps, how about that?” Kim turns her phone to Genie, and it’s open to an image of a man in a neat, navy-blue suit. “It’s my brother’s friend from, guess where? New York. I can set you up. You can do with a little bit of the Yankee Doodle.”
Genie scoffs.
But she doesn’t say no.
***
Saint Joseph’s Medical And Research Centre
Pharmacy
10th December, 2022.
3:05 PM.
Receipt.
1 x cotton rolls
1 x gauze pad
1 x Betadine 250 ml
1 x Ibuprofen 200mg
1 x TXA650
Signed: Genevieve Sutton.
***
2022
“Awful lot of pain for something not real, right, Goose?” Genie dabs at the yellow, oozing spot stretching from the base of her right breast to her pelvic bone. “But today, today, there will be no pain. Only cham-pagne.” She giggles at her own joke while Gooseleg licks his paw in a decidedly unimpressed manner. “And dancing,” she continues. “Music, but no lights. I told them, no lights. He’s a Harvard graduate, you know? And he’s only in the country for a few weeks. Oh my, Goose, Genie’s about to have a fling.”
She tosses her wad of cotton to the bin but misses the mark, and it lands on the carpet instead.
Gooseleg creeps over, interested much more in the yellow-and-red-stained lump than the body it came from.
***
Saint Joseph’s Medical And Research Centre
Emergency Room
13th December, 2022.
01:22 AM.
Transcript.
Nurse: Any better?
Genevieve: Yes, thank you. Good old ibuprofen, the magic fix-all drug.
(Patient sighs).
Genevieve: I’m so sorry about the late hour. I requested them to make the place more accessible. And my date ghosted me. Not sure if it was something I said, or maybe he didn’t like my pictures? Terribly sorry, still.
Nurse: It’s no worries, love. I don’t see any disability listed on your records, though?
Genevieve: Oh, yeah. It’s not real. Haha.
Note from the Nurse: Patient seems distressed and has a long history of psychiatric issues. However, no immediate concerns or urgencies.
***
2023
“Goose.”
Genie drapes a hand over her head and takes a second to wince. Talking hurts, but so does everything else, so what difference does it make?
Gooseleg curls over her chest and licks her nose. His paw presses against the scab, and she feels it tear again.
“Kim wanted to visit,” Genie continues, “but I said no. I have no capacity, not for people, not today. Said she wanted to talk, said it would only be a few minutes.” She sighs. “I can’t even do minutes, Goose. The wound …” She’s too tired to keep speaking.
She looks at the old, frayed photo of the four of them on her bedside table, framed by chipped gold paint: Popeye (he’s got his golden suspenders and crescent glasses), Gam (her oil-splattered apron and curly grey hair), Bamboo (tail mid-movement) and her (still young, still healthy), a few weeks before Gam told her they were too old to take care of them, that they were giving Bamboo away. And though that was not how she phrased it, this is how Genie heard it: they were giving her away, too.
Genie thinks back to the boy who kissed her, whose blood she drew even before she was so used to drawing blood and what he called her.
Genie wonders if she made the wound appear or if she was, somehow, perhaps, born with it.
“Little old Genie,” she remembered Pop saying, and he was, just like her wound, both real and not. “She’s a special kid. A sensitive little thing, her. You take care of her, Fran. You take good care of her.”
“Yes, yes,” Aunt Fran had replied, clutching Genie’s hand so hard that her fingers spasmed. “Feed her, clothe her, school her, you bet your old arse, she’ll be like my own daughter.”
Genie runs her finger across Gooseleg’s head and hums softly. Genie would’ve liked a daughter, too. She thinks she’d have made a good mother. If not for the wound.
***
Report: 18, Dursden Street
31st December, 2024.
10:00 AM
Genevieve Sutton. Body: cremated.
Pet: Calico named ‘Gooseleg’, transferred to shelter.
Case: Closed.
Ruchi Sneha is an MA Creative Writing graduate from the University of Birmingham, currently working as a Digital Editor at Hachette India. Her work has featured in Mulberry Literary, PULP Lit Mag, Eunoia Review, The Academy of The Heart and Mind, and Lilith’s Diaries. She can be found online as @EphemeralesqueWriting.
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