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I’m on the graveyard shift at NicePrice and I can’t stop scratching. It started as soon as I sat at the till. I’m sure it’s the heat: it’s the longest, hottest day of the year and the air-con’s broken. Even the perky Special Offer signs look limp, their shouted instructions about Last Chance To Buy! more desperate than inviting.

If only my customer would hurry up. ‘No plastic bags for me!’ she says cheerily, pushing her glasses up her nose and tucking grey hair behind her ear. Four apples wobble onto the scanner and go rolling down the belt before I can stop them.

With my good hand, I retrieve them one by one and shove them on the scales. I have to resist the urge to hurl them into her recycled bag. At last I slap her receipt on the counter, and go back to rubbing my shoulders against the swivel chair. She raises an eyebrow at me. I must look like a dog with fleas.

When she’s gone I turn to Sheila and hiss, ‘Scratch my back for me?’

‘Sure.’ She smiles, her brown eyes searching my face. ‘You all right, Karen?’

‘Just heat rash.’ I push my chair nearer to her.

‘Scratching will make it worse, you know.’

‘Don’t care. Come on.’

Her nails rake my shirt, and for a few delicious seconds the burning itch stops. Her fingertips press my skin. ‘It doesn’t feel like heat rash. Maybe it’s chickenpox.’

That’s been going round. We’re in the front line here for being sneezed and coughed on. Management said if we were worried about germs we should buy hand gel: it’s in Toiletries, next to the handsoap. When I looked it had run out. I imagine red spots multiplying under my uniform. Chickenpox was about the only thing I never caught as a kid, which just confirmed my status as the playground freak.

I glance at Sheila. ‘Cover for me a minute?’

She nods. ‘No problem.’

‘Good evening and welcome to your twenty-four hour convenience store,’ whines the tannoy as I limp to the disabled loo and lock the door. I fumble my shirt undone and twist towards the low-level mirror. Sure enough, my pale skin is covered with the sweaty weals of heat rash, but on my right shoulder blade there’s a line of raised, angry-looking spots. I touch the nearest one gingerly. I can’t remember what chickenpox looks like, but this is more like a wart: soft but scaly, like a prong on my hairbrush. I button my shirt up; it feels tight over my tender skin. What trick is my unreliable body playing now? I catch sight of my narrow face in the mirror: my frown lines are deeper than ever; sweat has made my light brown bob stick to my head. The bags under my eyes are bigger than the ones we’re meant to charge for at the till.

Just my luck George is duty manager tonight. I find him in Frozen Food. When he sees me approaching he bends into the cabinet, as if pizza is suddenly fascinating.

‘George?’ He pretends not to hear me, so I have to tap him on the shoulder.

He stands upright, feigning surprise, smoothing his quiff – strangely dark for a man in his forties – and checking his flies at the same time. ‘Karen! This is an unexpected pleasure! What can I do for you?’

‘Can I have a word?’

‘Of course, of course.’ He tries to pin me against the freezer but I duck away and make for his office.

He gets there first. ‘Come into my hidey-hole.’ He moves the electric fan off the desk and perches on the end, his thighs bulging in his blue trousers. ‘You’ve had second thoughts about turning me down?’

George’s perennial offer to take me off the shelf; damaged goods that I am. At thirty-seven I should be glad of any interest, as my mother says. I stand by the door. ‘I need to go home, George. I’m not feeling great.’ I stare at the NicePrice pens spiking out of his desk tidy.

‘Sorry to hear that, Karen. Is it to do with…’ he waves vaguely at me, a gesture no doubt intended to take in my withered arm and wonky hip: an accident of childbirth, apparently. Nobody’s fault.

I say nothing.

‘Of course, as you’re part of our – er – quota, let’s hope no one comes checking on us tonight, eh?’ He chuckles.

My good hand aches to punch him. ‘I’m going home, George. Okay?’ I slam the door behind me.

On the way home I stop at the off-licence and buy a bottle of plonk. At the late-night chemist, I spend fifty quid on two tubes of stuff to nuke warts and verrucas, and calamine lotion – just in case.

In my bedsit I draw the curtains and switch the light on. I pour a large glass of wine, clear my cereal bowl and coffee mug off the dressing table and lay out the potions. I peel off my shirt and bra, and angle the mirrors so I can see my back. The red marks are still there. The line of warts has grown; and there are bumps visible, under the skin, at the top of my left shoulder. I feel sick. I pull the top off the first tube and apply the tip of the nozzle to the nearest spot.

My hand’s shaking so much it takes a few goes to hit the target. I wait for the pain: nothing happens. But the wart at the top of my right shoulder blade splits, and a shoot pokes out. As I watch, another wart explodes; then another. I retch, drop the plastic tube and tumble forwards, crying, my bad arm crumpled under me. Face squashed against the old pink carpet, I keep my eyes closed, tears squeezing out, while the skin on my back ripples and pops.

Eventually my back stops twitching. I sit up slowly. My blotchy face, splodged with mascara, floats in the mirror. I adjust the glass and study my shoulders. The bumps on my left shoulder blade have erupted into a line of brown warts. On my right shoulder blade, each wart has produced a tiny, pale feather.

I pick up my wine glass and tip the contents down my throat. I reach behind me and tug the longest feather, but it’s stuck fast, the stalk smooth and hard, like a fingernail. If I pluck it, will another one grow? Or two? The warts look as if only cosmetic surgery would get rid of them. Can you get that on the NHS?

I’ve watched plenty of films where women grow wings and claws and turn into vampires. I bare my teeth: do the front ones look sharper? My hands are dry and rough, as usual, but no claws yet. The nails are still mine: short and square, in need of a manicure. Suddenly my future is clear: to live out my days as a lonely freak, leaving the house only at night, trailing tattered feathers behind me. I fall onto the bed, howling.

I wake in the stuffy air, the rustle at my back like an electric shock, prodding me to the window. I pull back the curtains. It’s still dark. The balcony is a narrow oblong with a rail and a plastic chair: I’ve never been out there. I slide the glass open and step out. The concrete is cold under my feet.
I shake my shoulders, and hear the dry whisper of feathers. I twist, and glimpse glossy layers of honey and gold, each shading silkily to the next, like the hair on shampoo ads. I feel a forgotten muscle uncoil; weight pushing on my spine. My wings spread, filling the small space. Tingling spreads through my limbs, as if my veins are on fire. My feet twitch: I have to move. I drag over the chair and climb onto it, teetering above the balcony rail. This isn’t me: when we went to Alton Towers for Sheila’s hen night I ended up holding the coats. But this is different.
The air is solid around me; slowly the pressure increases. My feet pulse with the need to push. I hold my breath. Then there’s a jerk, as if someone has fixed a cable to my shoulders and is winding it in, straightening my spine, hauling me up and off the chair. I put my right foot on the rail. I don’t look down. I imagine interlocking feathers, clinging to each other and to me. My chest tightens; blood pounds in my head and ears. I close my eyes and lean forward. The muscle in my back tenses: then I hear slow, heavy flapping. Gradually it speeds up; and my wings lift me, carry me upwards into the night air, cool against my burning face.

I don’t dare open my eyes. I let out the breath I’ve been holding in one huge yell. Relief at being airborne and alive makes me flap my good arm wildly and flail my legs until I nearly turn myself upside down. I gulp at the air, gasping and spluttering, trying not to swallow flies and midges. Moths fly into me, their dusty wings brushing my goosepimply skin.

Despite myself, I’m climbing higher. It’s so empty up here. I fling my arm out but that upsets my balance; it’s better to hold my bad arm across my breasts, and focus on the rhythm of my wings. When I dare to look down my stomach shivers at the toy roads and shrunken houses. I fly over the reservoir, a glinting, misshapen coin in the moonlight.

I can change direction by tilting my shoulder or moving my head. I follow the main road, the lamps orange beads on a string. My legs hurt from holding them still. Ahead is an ideal landing place; an old oak. I circle it but I can’t see a way in. I go round again, my back aching; in desperation I plunge, feet first, into the top, startling a family of blackbirds that scatters, squawking and shrieking. I crash through the greenery, clutching at twigs, leaves slapping my face. A branch stops my fall. I catch my breath and rub my scratched arms.

When I pluck up the courage to set off again, it’s surprisingly easy. I’m getting the hang of it. I drift over the town, grey and quiet. Along my street: past my flat, the light still showing at the window, the solitary chair propped against the balcony rail. Evidence of a different life. I head for the industrial estate. In the distance, the lights of NicePrice burn dully. I cruise over the car park, cars dotted in spaces like the last chocolates in the box. Delivery lorries are lined up at the side entrance. I make sure the front is clear and in one smooth movement I flap through the doors and into the fluorescent lighting. The glare makes my eyes water. I fly up to the ceiling and sit on a metal roof strut, dangling my legs. I’m glad I kept my trousers on.

The air stinks of diesel. Sheila’s at a far till, reading a magazine. My heart squeezes. I set off, keeping as close to the roof as I can, weaving in and out of Special Offer signs. I land above her.

‘Pssst!’ I hiss but she doesn’t look up. ‘Sheila!’

When she finally sees me she shrieks and drops her magazine. ‘Karen? Is that you?’

I wave from my perch. ‘Look!’ I shimmy and shake my feathers.

Her face crumples in amazement. ‘You’ve got wings? How? What’s it like?’

‘It’s a bit complicated,’ I shout. ‘But they’re fantastic!’ I stretch my wings up and back, feeling the power of my muscles. ‘Ow!’ A stab of pain. I smell burning: I’m too near a spotlight.

Panicked I swoop, ending up in Sweets and Biscuits; my feather tips brush Pic’n’Mix and for an instant I regret that I can’t grab any. I swerve to avoid an old lady and lose my balance; my wings scrape the shelves, and packets skitter and burst across the aisle.

I struggle back up to the ceiling and bat about, gasping. The old woman is calling feebly; a cleaner has spotted me and is shouting, waving his mop. I crouch on a ledge, my wings twitching. As the news spreads through the store, staff and shoppers come running, squashing into the aisle below, pushing and shoving to get a better view. A young hippy girl points her mobile at me, taking my picture; a bald man in a grey suit is on his phone. I cross my arms over my chest.

George is heading my way, smoothing his hair furiously. With him is a tall ginger-haired guy from Security, holding a large fishing net from the summer range. They elbow their way through the spectators and Ginger waves the net around under my feet.

‘It’s all right!’ I shout, but no one’s listening. A siren screeches in the distance.

‘Karen!’ George calls through cupped hands. ‘Is this some sort of stunt? You’re not helping the NicePrice image! This will be a disciplinary matter!’

Sheila’s behind him, laughing. I catch her eye and cock my head towards the emergency exit. She gives me the thumbs up and pulls on the metal bar, opening both doors wide.

I wave at George. He’s staring at my breasts. ‘I’m off the shelf, George!’ I yell.

I plunge off the ledge and everyone screams. I dive past him, removing his quiff with my right wing tip. I always knew it was a toupee. I head for the doors, holding my breath, my feathers skimming the cool metal.

Then I’m out and away, gliding up above the car park and the pale grey street, into the summer dawn.

SARAH HEGARTY’s novel The Ash Zone was shortlisted for The Virginia Prize for Fiction 2009 in manuscript form, but ‘Off the Shelf’ is her first published fiction. She writes 10-15 hours a week – scheduled around domestic duties – and finds the encouragement of her family and Anne Enright’s advice in The Guardian to be great sources of support. She holds a Masters in creative writing from Chichester University, and draws inspiration from people-watching in garden centres. Her ultimate goal is to win The Man Booker Prize.

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