New anthology features Courttia Newland story about a statue-toppling superhero

The Cuckoo Cage, edited by Ra Page, is a groundbreaking new and experimental anthology bringing together 12 authors in pursuit of the following task: “to spawn a new generation of present-day British superheroes, willing to bring the fight back to British shores and to more progressive causes”.

One of The Guardian’s ‘books to look forward to in 2022’, The Cuckoo Cage features a story by Courttia Newland, screenwriter for Steve McQueen’s acclaimed TV series Small Axe, in which a superhero girl rids the present day of statues of former slave traders, pushing them into portals and closing the door behind them.

The other writers who have contributed stories are Luan Goldie, Avaes Mohammad, M. Y. Alam, Bidisha, Irfan Master, Gaia Holmes, Divya Ghelani, Peter Kalu, lisa luxx, Karline Smith, and Lillian Weezer.

The publisher, Comma Press, describes the collection as a book “based on original movements taken from Britain’s rich history of protest – in which people would adopt fictional identities or dress up in disguises in order to take extraordinary action”.

Cover artwork for The Cuckoo Cage (Comma Press, 2022) – photo: Steve Moyler

“The result is a collection that tackles huge issues in today’s British society, from the portal-hopping, statue-toppling girl fighting for racial justice, to the shape-shifting single mother who raids supermarkets to stock food banks, and the woman who can swim underwater to save refugees from drowning.

“In doing so, the book challenges the traditional concept of ‘the superhero’ that many of us know and love, who is often protecting the status quo, and instead introduces us to a new league of proud, British (social justice) warriors.

Bristol 24/7 is pleased to publish an excerpt from Courttia Newland’s story After That, Is This below:

Courttia Newland – photo: Sharmila Chauhan

Mum used to say, ‘Always look at the hands,’ and I’d laugh like it was foolishness, or pretend she hadn’t spoken, but you know what? She was right. Hands tell a story, that’s facts, even if certain people don’t speak their language. You know the signs, it’s obvious.

And I’m perched on the footbridge rail arching the river, cold metal forcing an ache in my sit bones, trying not to be seduced by the fact it’s lit up and glowing, those twin counterweights on either side reminding me of oversized rabbits’ ears, or miniature tornados frozen mid-whirl, depending which way my head tilts. Failing to ignore the starlight glint of lovers’ padlocks, hundreds clasped firm all over the bridge. And the evenly spaced lamps every metre or so hurt my eyes, especially the one right beneath me, and truth be told probably reflect the glare of my pale face, although no one’s there to notice this time of morning. Drunks, ravers, women on the game and men who follow like kids entranced by the piper, all somewhere else, for unknown reasons. Paving stones empty, grey brickwork clear as the blank canvas of overcast sky.

And I’m thinking: this is stupid. And I think, Pero and Frome, Pero and Frome over and over, it’s fucking annoying. Both at the same time, my eyes stinging from tiredness and lights. Still I perch, and don’t move.

I could, easily. Get up, go home. Take a sip from my bottle of white rum, undress. Sleep. Or try.

But I don’t.

So what do I do? Look at my flipping hands. Turn them over, palms up, exchanging dark for light. Pero and Frome.

Mine are kinda odd. Slim as the rest of me, tiny boned, the fingers somehow elongated, like I have more joints than humanly possible. The fist I make surprisingly large, the splay when I let go further than I imagine a split second before it happens. It reflects the lights too, only the palms mind. The other side, the darker skin is greedier, sucking glow into cracks and bumps, gleaming with defiance, pleased with herself. Figures. There, right side up, I see the dotted patch of scar tissue where spattered oil got me years ago, the shell of knuckles darkened by parkour, crisscross scars and yet-to-heel lightning strike cuts desecrated terrain. Blunt, cracked nails, bitten and gnawed.

And I don’t want to know, looking towards the trees and buildings. The slosh of water beneath me a reminder. I put both hands on the railing, filling my lungs until my chest swells, tasting the bitter grit of exhaust fumes. Air cracks and swirls before me like one hundred mile an hour winds, the space before me wrenches apart. Darkness forms within that tear of known reality, like a mother’s call to come home. I kick off from the railing, step inside.

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The Cuckoo Cage (2022) is out now from Comma Press.

Main photo: Steve Moyler

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