The shop was chaos when I arrived. It always was. Situated in the heart of Chelsea, it had been little more than a shell when I bought it. Now, it was the beating heart of the neighbourhood. At least, that’s how I see it. A place where financiers in Saville Row suits and Saudi royalty converge over mounds of the finest muscat grapes.

 

      But success breeds chaos. An unrelenting stream of demands from customers who expect the best, the rarest, the most perfect. And God knows they're willing to pay for it. I’ve poured years of my life into this business—shaping it, building it brick by brick, never quite able to stop.

 

      When I strode in that morning, the air was thick with sound. Walls lined with glittering gold boxes of medjool dates. Neat rows of vibrant vegetables—all the colours of the rainbow. The hum of chatter, bodies spilling out from between aisles like ants, scurrying from one perfect item to the next, baskets overflowing.

 

      In the grocery section a precarious stack of imported French apples and pears swayed like a Jenga tower. The merry-go-round of customers paraded past, brushing against them until—a jacket snagged, the tower toppled. Fruit rolled away like marbles from a split bag.

 

      “Lydia,” I called to one of the girls crouched by the shelves. I know all my staff by name. “Be a dear and get this cleaned up before it becomes a lawsuit.”

​

      Joy stood at the till, her hair wispy, dry, as though she had rushed through getting ready.

 

      “This bloody thing is broken again,” she smacked at the screen. The man waiting at the counter, arms full of honey, figs and cheese, released a long drawn-out sigh, a grumble caught in his throat, lips pressed together. Something about him reminded me of my father. My jaw clenched as I eased Joy aside and tapped a few buttons. Presto. Back online.

 

      “About time,” the man muttered, shaking his head. For a moment, he wasn’t him anymore.

 

      We were in Greece. The evening sun bled out over the terracotta tile. I was a child, running around the dinner table, my hands sticky with honey. I tripped. A glass of water tumbled from my grasp and shattered against the floor. My father’s white linen trousers were drenched.

 

      “Look at what you’ve done.” His voice was even, but the fury was contained in his eyes. Then, a sigh. His face softened. He dabbed at his trousers and turned to one of his companions at the table. “How can I be mad? It’s in the boy’s nature. I have to remember to temper my expectations,” he said, as he poured himself another glass of wine.

 

      I blinked back to the present. Handed the man his bag.

 

      “Enjoy,” I said with a smile that was probably too wide and unnatural. He left without a word. I rested my hand on Joy’s shoulder a moment. “All good from here?” I asked. She nodded, giving me a thin smile.

​

      As I made my way to the back stockroom, I grabbed a coffee from the deli counter and ran through the day’s tasks in my mind. As I entered with coffee in hand, I spotted Kamal leaning against a shelf, scrolling on his phone. The moment his eyes made contact with mine, he jolted upright as though struck by lightning. The shop phone rang—shrill and piercing. He lunged for it, his fingers slipping on the receiver.

 

      “It’s for you,” he says, holding the phone out with an unsteady hand. “Your father.”

 

      I shake my head, not now. Kamal hesitated, then muttered something into the receiver before hanging up. He didn’t need to tell me what was said. My father never asks for things outright. He just lists what’s wrong, until fixing it becomes the only possible response. Even now, with his knees shot, and his hair turned white, his voice still pierced like it did when I was a boy. Precise, relentless, whittling away at every little thing I do. All my successes? To him, just another way I’ve fallen short. His body might be failing, but the rest of him—his expectations, his demands, his dissatisfaction—won’t give way so easily.

 

      Joy came crashing into the stockroom. Her body went slack, a moment of respite, to hide from the relentless mob of customers. I ran my finger along the top of the stockroom computer monitor. A thick layer of dust coated the surface.

 

      “This room needs a good clean,” I said. Kamal twitched, his hands moving rapidly, pulling boxes off the shelf, running a finger down a clipboard. Joy scrunched up her face.

 

      “But the cleaner was just in this morning,” she said.

 

      “Then she should be sacked."

 

      Joy’s mouth tightened. She exhaled through her nose, glancing at Kamal who averted his gaze. I heard it then—my father’s voice, bleeding into my own. Before we can say another word, a crash from outside. Joy bolted.

 

      The phone rang again. Kamal glanced at me, I gave him nothing. He grabbed it and pressed the receiver to his ear.

 

      “Hello,” he muttered. He looked at me with wide eyes. He doesn’t need to say anything. I waved my hand beneath my chin, the throat cutting gesture. If it was so bloody important, he could see his way here in a taxi. But I knew he’d never step foot in this shop, to reckon with the sight of it heaving, to run his mental calculations on our profits. I remember when he came to see it, the empty shell all those years ago:

 

      “What will I tell our friends Richard? My son, a merchant. Christ, what a fiasco. I might as well tell them you’ve become a barrowboy.”

 

      Joy rushed past, snatching a brush and pan from the cupboard.

 

      “Some brat knocked over some bottles on the wine rack,” she said.

 

      “You’d hope their mothers would keep them on a leash.” I chuckled. Joy disappeared before my words could catch her. Kamal offered a weak half-smile. Out on the shop floor, a scream stiffened the hairs on my arms. We dashed to find its source.

 

      A crowd swelled near the wine rack, murmurs cackling in the air. I pushed through, carving a path. Lydia was on the floor, clutching her wrist. Blood seeped between her fingers, pooling with the spilled wine. Jagged green shards caught the overhead lights, reflecting raindrops in red. My God, poor Lydia. Without hesitation I grabbed a roll of paper towels from the deli counter. Joy’s breath rattled, her body twitching like a live wire, unsure where to move. Kamal lifted a hand to his gaping mouth.

 

      I knelt beside Lydia, wrapping strips of paper towel around her wrist. The blood seeped through instantly, drenching the paper until it clagged and fell apart.

​

      “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” she sobbed.

​

      I made soothing sounds, murmured something: “That’s alright, dear.”

 

      “I don’t want to get blood on your floor, Mr. Alexander.”

 

      The phone rang. Incessant. My father. Relentless. The blood wouldn’t stop.

 

      “Call an ambulance,” someone yells. Joy fumbled with her phone. The shop phone kept ringing. That thing, that infernal thing. Not now. Not ever.

 

      Through the crowd, I spotted a man at the counter. A loaf of bread tucked under his arm. Fingers tapping. Lips pursed.

 

      Self-absorbed. Demanding. Expectant. The phone kept ringing.

 

      I threw down strips of paper towel, trying to soak up the mix of blood and wine. Can’t tell which is which. The whiteness vanished in seconds, bleeding red. Soaked through until it could soak no more. The pool remained.

 

      “Kamal,” I snapped. Jerking my head in the direction of the stock room. He bolted, grabbing the phone.

 

      Paramedics pushed through the crowd. Lydia was somewhere between consciousness and not. Her face ghostly, lips slack. They lifted her onto a stretcher, ushering her away. Someone brought a mop and bucket. I watched as they dragged the mop back and forth, streaking, not cleaning, the blood.

 

      Kamal’s voice was a murmur in the background, hesitant, unsure. I turned. Stormed into the stock room. Ripped the receiver from his hand.

 

     “What is it?” I hissed. A croak on the other end. His voice like a click beetle.

 

      “My medicine, Richard.” My veins pulsated. Adrenaline. I peered out at the shop floor. The stain will never wash away. I’ll have to rip out the tile.

​

      “Richard,” my father’s voice, distant but close. As if it lives in my skull, burrowed deep like a mite. I looked down at my corduroys, stained red. Kamal looks too. Another weak smile. Little in the way of reassurance.

 

      The shop hummed again, disaster already swallowed by the next demand. I watched as the stain darkened, becoming embedded in the grout. Some things you can’t scrub away. I needed to leave. Go home and change.

 

      “I’ll see you later, Dad. Stop calling the shop.” I slammed the phone down, just in time to hear him croak my name one last time.

 

     

      The night before, he barely glanced up from his duck a l’orange. Shrugged: “If you’re passing the pharmacy anyway.”

 

      Never please, never thank you. Just another obligation. One more demand in a lifetime of them. He cast me a vacuous glance over the frames of his glasses, then scratched his knife and fork against the china. The sound grating, almost deliberate. His hand trembled as he reached for his wine.

 

      The pills were in my car. Glove compartment. I’d picked them up that morning. I was in the car, headed home, when I realised.

 

      I spun the wheel around. Made my way to his house. He’d see the stains. Say nothing at first. Raise a white eyebrow in quiet disapproval. I didn’t care. Maybe he’d make a little remark, something like—

 

      “Christ, Richard. You look like a butcher. Try not to get blood on the Persian.”

 

      Or maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all. Just tell me he’d had his coffee, and he was in no mood to put another pot on. Or maybe he’d reel off his list of to-dos. When I tell him I don’t have time, shoot me an incredulous look.

 

      “Don’t you pay people to run that ramshackle market of yours?” he’d say. My knuckles were white gripped on the steering wheel. I tried to relax. Take deep breaths and turn the radio on. Radio 4. Mindless chatter.

 

      I parked the car in the drive and stepped out. Gravel crunching underfoot. His house is imposing, cold. Much like its inhabitant. I went through the side gate to the back door, turned my key in the lock and pushed. It required a bit of force. Dust shook loose as the door shuddered on its hinges. A clock ticked somewhere down the hall, I passed his newspaper discarded at the stocks page on the console. Floorboards creaked as I tread, half-expecting him to jump out at me from a dark corner.

 

      I called out my father’s name. Silence greeted me. Not even the hum of a television from the den. I turned the corner to the hallway. Dust danced in the beam of coloured light pouring through the stained glass window of the front door.

​

      Beneath the sliver of light, my father’s outline lay at the foot of the stairs. His slipper had come off. One foot bare against the cold floor. His hand outstretched, as if reaching for something. The clock kept ticking, steady and indifferent.

 

      Was he breathing? I couldn’t tell. I stared at his back, waiting for the slightest movement, a twitch, a rise, anything. Nothing. Or maybe something? Hard to say in this light.

 

      What to do? Call an ambulance? Check his pulse? My leg inched forward then... then stopped.

 

      Maybe—Something else.

 

      The house held its breath. A thin draft snaked under the door, biting at my ankles. I could step away. Turn the lock. Feel the gravel shifting under my shoes, the hum of the engine turning over, the road swallowing me whole.

 

      A thought so light, it almost lifts me. I stepped back. The floorboard creaked. I stopped. Waited. Cast one last look at him on the floor. Blood rushed in my ears. Heart beating.

 

     Could I? Could I really?

 

      My mind raced through every memory of my father I had stored away. Every sigh, every sideways glance, every tut. A blurring slideshow of images, then, it stuck on one memory in particular: we had been trout fishing on the River Wye. I held up my first fish, sucking in my breath, my face rupturing in its ecstasy. And my father turned to look at me, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. Something resembling pride passing behind his eyes.

 

      Suddenly I am back in the silence of the house, my head swimming. My father, still motionless at the foot of the stairs.

 

      I breathed slowly—almost meditatively. The clock in the hall ticked on.

 

      I had never realised how tightly I had carried myself all these years. My stomach, always clenched—now, released. A long, slow exhale. I could feel my ribs plucking away from the flesh of my chest. My abdomen expanded and then relaxed like a pool of melting butter in a hot skillet.

 

      It was easy.

 

      I had made my decision. ​