portrait of a body (in pieces)

This is part ten. You can find part one here. It’s probably worth it. Last time: Foreign supermarkets, male friendships, superior doritos, bad cigarettes. 1. The flat is on the top floor of a crumbling Edwardian block fifty yards from the beach. If I were able to stand on the sagging balcony, I’d be party to poetic sunsets and vast slices of the North Sea, but I can’t. The walls stand scarred by furniture and fists. The kitchen cabinets have stab marks. The carpet is decent. But the lights don’t work.

This is part nine. If you’re new, read on at your peril. Or find part one here. Last time: Japanese whisky, American food, Dutch drugs, Belgian company. 21. We find our way back at the Airbnb to try and catch a few. Saffron already cycled home. Peter is somewhere in the stairwell, which is par for, and Brandon is making his way through a cone of patatje oorlog, stopping only to cover it with ranch dressing he brought from home.

This is part two of March, and part eight overall. Part one is here. If you’re just tuning in, line starts here, buddy. Last time: French arms dealers, lessons in the skin trade, idiots without borders. 11. I’m sampling a smooth twenty-one-year-old Japanese whisky when a man in a gimp suit walks in handcuffed to a woman in a wedding dress. A joint bachelor/bachelorette party. Their friends have abandoned them and taken the key.

This is part one of March, and part seven overall. Read on, you crazy diamond, or take it from the top. Last time: A lost heart found, a final meeting, a lasting mantra. 1. The train pulls in with my brother, Pete, already half cut on tins of gin and tonic. I’ve been pacing myself on coffee and content. A four-hour trip spent watching old episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, which is a show about terrible people being horrible to each other. Some things never get old.

This is part three of February. Part one is here. Part two is here. Or read January already, gosh. Last time: Socially-acceptable shame. The sunk costs of love. A heart with poor timing. 21. The Goonies. National Treasure. Uncharted 4. All the good quests start with a clue in an attic. You look around and see the white walls and floors of a five-month madness. Nary a clue in sight. You check your pockets. Nada. Your jacket coughs up your wallet and your wallet, a five-pound note.

This is part two of February. Part one is here. If you’re new, you should probably start with January. Last time: Rules for recovery, a buffet of bad behaviour, and an actively hostile attic. 11. The only comfortable position in the attic is leaning out of the skylight. You’re fresh from the shower and towel draped, a cigarette hanging from your lips, shivering in the February night. You’re also wearing sunglasses for some reason.

This is part one of February. You can read January here. Or don’t. Nothing matters. Last time:A brain in a bag refused to switch on, a swim in the sea offered a reset, a text from an ex reframed January. This time: Meetings, monsters, misdeeds, and memes. 1. There are rules to living here now. Routines. Things you need to achieve in order to stay: keep yourself together; keep yourself clothed; keep yourself clean. And attend meetings.

If you’re new to Portrait of a Body (in Pieces), this collects the first three parts of the novel in one place. To receive new chapters for free via email and in app, please subscribe. 1. January happens. It used to happen once a year but seems to be getting more frequent. The last one, the bad January, was the worst in memory. That one arrived sometime in late summer. This one has the calendar on its side, at least. And you’re alive. That’s never guaranteed as far as Januaries go. 2.