On Her Way Somewhere New

Ripples move out from a pebble dropped into the stillness of a pond. A butterfly flaps its wings in Tokyo and somewhere in San Francisco someone’s vase falls from the window sill. What would happen if he came and she wasn’t there? In the theory of waves, even in the theory of butterflies, there would be some effect.

But really, what would happen if he were to come to the door now, if he were to knock, or ring the bell, and there was no answer? Would he use his key to let himself in? Would he turn around, leave, and never return, thinking she had changed her mind? Would he ring her to find out where she was?

She stroked the heat from the scar on her wrist where a piece of rose thorn had once embedded itself in her skin. It still hadn’t worked its way out, months and years later, and every so often the scar would turn pink and glow with warmth. She stroked that heat now, absently wondering what would happen if she were to disappear.

The breeze outside picked up and blew the muslin curtain back into the room. She could hear traffic on the street outside, the sound of sirens. This could be anywhere. It was their old flat in Blackheath, currently vacant of tenants, its walls freshly coated in a new skin of cream, replacing the life-weary sheen left behind by its last occupants. It was suburban London, but it could have been Stockport or Stockholm.

The ceilings in these old converted houses were high, the cornices and ceiling roses painted white, bright against the cream. The carpet was hard, knobbly seagrass. The blandness of the colour scheme was soothing.

She lifted her arm and rubbed her lips against the scar, breathing in the mix of sunshine and soap that scented her skin.

There was a bang downstairs, the door to the house closing, then the sound of someone coming up the stairs. She tensed herself, then toyed with the idea of pretending she wasn’t there when he knocked. If he knocked. Of course, he might not. They owned this flat together, he was still living round here, acting as the landlord to their tenants, he surely would come straight in.

The person carried on up the next flight of stairs, and she heard a key slide into a lock, a door open and then close again, a radio turned on. She let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

Waiting for him like this was almost torture. She wished he would appear, wished he had been waiting outside when she arrived. She didn’t know why he couldn’t have sent the papers up to her to sign, why he couldn’t have done what everyone else did and sorted all this out through their respective solicitors.

Her mobile phone was on the table before her. She watched the grey bar with the time in it slip down the screen, notch by notch. He was late. Later than even he usually managed to be. She told herself that worrying was permitted on this occasion. The time bar slipped down and returned to the top of the screen and she willed the screen to light up, bringing a message from him, or a phone call. She remembered how it had been like this all the time at the start, when she would wait impatiently for his communication.

She had arrived. She hadn’t rung or knocked, but had used her key and let herself in. He hadn’t been here, but then she hadn’t expected him to be. Maybe this was the beat of a different butterfly’s wing. Maybe a wave of effect was rippling its way towards her from some other cause.

The screen on her phone lit up and the phone began to ring. “No Number” appeared in brackets on the screen. She stared at the phone. Something in her gut told her not to accept the call. She didn’t even pick the phone up to press reject. She just sat on her mum’s old sofa and stared at the phone as it rang and rang and rang.

The breeze blew the curtain, catching her attention, and she turned her head away from the phone. The sound of its ring began to mix with the sounds from outside. Somewhere a car door slammed. There were voices. A man and a woman. Children were yelling and laughing at each other. And all the time her phone kept ringing.

It was like that moment at the end of The Ring, the Japanese version. For some reason she knew that if she picked up the phone she would die, or some other catastrophe would happen.

She looked back at her phone, and it stopped ringing. Instantly she wished she had answered it. It might have been something important. It might have been him, ringing from a payphone, telling her of some flat tyre emergency he’d had on his way, and how he would be later than even he could normally justify.

Except he wouldn’t have used a payphone.

The screen on the phone had returned to telling her the time. He was now an hour late. She stood up and walked over to the window. She pulled back the muslin, intending to close the window in preparation for leaving. Before she pulled the window closed, though, she looked out and down into the street. His car was parked outside the house. Or a car very much like it. A man, short haired and nicely turned out, was sitting in the driver’s seat, head bowed. A man who looked, from this distance, a lot like him.

Her phone started to ring again. She closed the window and put the curtain straight. She took the keys to the flat from the pocket of her coat. She placed them on the table, next to the still ringing phone. Then she put her coat on and picked up her bag.

She looked round at the flat one final time before she let herself out and walked down the stairs, out through the front door and onto the street.

She walked past his car (because it was his car, she knew that) and didn’t look at his partially slumped figure in the driver’s seat, didn’t think about the slow thin trickle of blood from his temple. She walked past, as though she hadn’t seen him, on her way somewhere new.

© J R Hargreaves 2006

The Day Of The Dead

Ice clings more willingly to the dead xylem of a tree ring. She knew this by looking through the kitchen window at the tree stump where the kitsch plaster frogs sat.

She held the phone to her ear, loosely balanced between middle finger and thumb, and worked out how much longer before she could take the next dose. Her left arm ached, her hand tingling.

Apparently, having a migraine was like having a mini stroke. But less dangerous, obviously. The doctor who told her this was in love with knowledge, and oblivious to the effect those words might have on someone.

Twenty minutes. She could take some more in twenty minutes.

He'd rung out of the blue. Wanting to catch up, he'd said. Her head was floating, her arm tingling, her mouth thick with the numbness of the codeine.

Maybe she was having a stroke, but she didn't know it.

"I get out plenty, thanks," he was saying. "Wish I was in more. You?"

She realised she was supposed to say something in response. She had, after all, asked the question in the first place. Asking questions usually led to trouble like this. The asking of questions in reply. Resultant conversation.

Her arm ached, and she couldn't be bothered. She moved the phone away from her ear and pressed the red button. Then she dropped the phone into the bowl of washing up.

She'd regret that later, but then, what was life for if not to have regrets about dropping your phone into the washing up?

Under the camellia bush, the ugly black cat from two doors down was scratching at the soil. They stared at each other through the pane of glass that separated them. She knew what she was thinking. The cat was probably thinking the same.

She thought about ringing work, telling them she wouldn't be in, then remembered that the phone was in the washing up bowl.

She fished it out. It had switched itself off. She laid a teatowel on the worksurface by the sink and clicked off the phone cover. Gently and methodically, she took the phone apart and placed each separate item onto the teatowel. Covers, keypad, sim card, battery. She patted at them with another teatowel, then left them to dry out.

She could always take it to the phone shop and claim it as an accident on the insurance.

She stopped in her movement from kitchen to living room and smiled.

He had been good for something, then.

Nobody normal took out phone insurance.

The other one had rung to catch up. His sense of guilt would wear him down if he wasn't careful.

She sat on the sofa and pulled the blister pack from her bag. She popped out two of the yellow ones. Pink ones, yellow ones. The yellow ones were a con, but she liked the way the boxes matched.

Sitting back on the sofa, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to think.

He'd had it coming for a long time.

That's what the other one didn't understand.

©J R Hargreaves 2006

Civility Has Its Limits

He stood up. All six lanky plus feet of him.

“Would anyone like a drink?” he slurred, three sheets to the wind and sailing off into his own personal oblivion.

The chat and hubbub of the rest of us swallowed his words whole. I was close enough to hear, though, I said yes, please. Somehow the altitude affected his hearing, or his ignorance did, something. He wasn’t looking at me. He had spent the whole night pretending I occupied a vacuum.

He asked again, and still nobody responded. Other than me, I responded again. Yes, please. He waved his hands, trying to gain the attention of the others seated around the table. Radiohead blared out of the speakers behind his head. I fixed him with my stare.

“YES!”

He turned his attention on me, the vacuum dissipated.

“VODKA AND COKE!”

“Oh,” he said, the words inching from his mouth like a glacier, “it’s like that, is it?”

“What?” I said. “What?” Exasperation building, confusion mixed in as well.

He turned away.

“Rachel, would you like something to drink?” His body, his voice, his whole being unctuous like Fagin, making some ridiculous point about how I was the one being rude.

“Vodka and tonic, please, Jim,” she said, sweet girl that she is.

He looked back at me.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

Three days of niggling, three days of clinging to civility, finally came to a head.

“I asked you nicely twice already, and you ignored me. I only shouted so that you could hear me,” I said above the misery of Thom Yorke.

He waved a hand dismissively in my direction, and continued asking around the table, who would like a drink, who would like a drink, would you like a drink, so very politely.

“Forget it, then,” I said. “Just forget it.”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” said his idiot friend, laughing and clapping his hands.

Fight, fight, fight. Somehow it had become a fight. Still, I managed to turn away and pretend he hadn’t spoken.

Conversation turned back to work, and life, and what do you really want out of it all? He returned from the bar. A drink was put on the table in front of me. He sat back down next to me. The drink, unacknowledged and untouched, sat on.

© J R Hargreaves 2006

240

The timing was off, that’s all. The timing, and my lack of courage, his lack of awareness. But then, anyone can make excuses to cover up the fact that they’ve just fucked up.

He was there, where I could find him, all day he was there, but I played a game with myself. A game of signs and ifs. I never did the thing. Not even when we were sitting face to face, talking about rubbish, about Christmas, about pastel jumpers, and whether to unplug the circuit breaker or just switch it off at the wall.

Maybe I should have taken that as a sign.

I didn’t even say goodbye properly that night. I left, and rang him later. It was his answerphone. I left a pointless message, saying badly the things I’d intended to say two hours, three hours, four hours earlier. Counting on it coming across as charmingly nervous, and not psychotic.

Fifty two hours and forty minutes later, I was still waiting for him to respond. Every morse code beep from the blesséd phone turned out to be someone else. Not their fault, they couldn’t help not being him, but still I blamed them, my lack of enthusiasm clear.

Two hundred and forty hours later, in another country, in another year, I got the headmaster’s summons by text. Businesslike, perfunctory, wanting to draw the line. Two hundred and thirty nine hours 59 minutes too late for me not to expect it. Even so, I didn’t expect it.

I was early for the requested meeting. He was earlier. His smile was tight. I stood waiting for the reprimand, the soft look of disappointment. He told me to sit down while he waited to be served. So I did, painstakingly removing my coat, straightening my hair with fingers cold and nervous and trying not to shake. When he came over with our drinks, I did not even look. He took a cigarette from the packet he took from his pocket, tapping it against the table, bracing himself to speak the words in his mind. I took the longest time to jiggle and remove the teabag from the mug, pour the milk and stir. Jealously grabbed seconds of composure and avoidance.

Speech over, reason given, plea for maintenance of friendship delivered, my assurance offered, his discomfort alleviated, we settled into ninety minutes of civilised chat. Music, films and literature. Adult and measured and tight around the corners of the mouth as we laughed and smiled and said that this was okay, this was fine, this wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward.

The day after, and every day since, it has been as though nothing happened. We’re clever like that. You don’t need to unplug it. Just switch it off at the wall.

© J R Hargreaves 2006

Some Kind of Wonderful

I don’t look my age. Thank god for good genes.

It’s snowing. I hate snow. One of the houses across the street doesn’t have proper insulation in their roofspace. I suppose they don’t know. Or don’t care. The house is up for sale. Or have they just bought it? There was a removal van there a week or two ago, and there are cards lined up in the front window today. Whatever. Their house is leaking heat through its roof.

So yes, I hate snow, but this morning when I looked out of the kitchen window and saw it blanketing the back garden, it was alright. It’s melting already now, and this is precisely what I don’t like about snow. The mush and melt and wetness that follows the pretty postcard image. Pat who has her washing out at all times, in all weathers, has her washing out today. Blues and maroons and purples. Stiff enough to crack, even just by looking at them.

I wonder if I have enough insulation in my roofspace. If I go out (if I go out, of course I’m going out, I’ve got to tax the car), maybe I’ll look up at the roof. Maybe.

I went to see that film yesterday. Factotum. Matt Dillon pulls off a fair approximation of old Bukowski. Listen to me, talking like I know anything about Bukowski. All I know is that he died of old age and I feel slightly cheated by this ending. He was supposed to die of alcohol poisoning, or being run over by a runaway ice truck, or something. It’s a funny film, though, and I’m glad I went to see it.

I’m annoyed with myself for using a cliché like “blanketing” to describe the snowfall up there. I’m going to leave it, though, to remind myself that I’m no Bukowski.

It’s from Old French, according to the dictionary. Blankete. As in blanc. So maybe it’s the perfect word for snowfall, and not a cliché at all.

Words are crazy. The other day I learned that the bogies we have in our noses are actually bogeys, because the synonym comes from ice hanging down from the underside of train bogeys. I think this is bullshit, but I admire the man who spoke it as truth, because he did it with such conviction.

So, what’s so wonderful? Apart from not looking my age, and having a day off so I can stare out of my window at my neighbour’s roof, of course. Well, everything. It’s some kind of wonderful that I can sit and have coffee with someone (of course, you know I was drinking tea) and talk about what I like and who I am and be silent and nervous and reassured all in the space of an hour, and now sit here wishing I smoked so I would be a real writer, and might even be thought of as cool as a result, and still know that it doesn’t matter if I’m cool or not.

Do you know why else I hate snow? Boys wee in the snow. It covers up dog muck, and it makes my knees hurt. Plus I feel stupid walking in it with an umbrella. Even though it’s nothing more than very cold rain.

I’m thinking about him. Wishing I was in work. Or he was here, smoking the cigarette for me. Being cool.

Funny how you can think about someone, and suddenly they pop up and scare you. Funny how you can think you’re in love with the nice guy, and then the bad guy comes back and makes you smile a different way.

My boots leak.

I’m not going to talk to him.

Funny. Some kind of wonderful is melting like the snow.

© J R Hargreaves 2005

Waiting (2)

She lifted her head from the desk, scratched the semi-dried drool from the corner of her mouth, and blinked against the dead white glare of the fluorescent lights. There was no daylight left outside the office window. The yellow of the street lights was oddly depressing. She rubbed her face and tried to wake up properly.

Standing, she almost sat straight back down again. Too quick, the blood rushed to her head, the change in internal pressure causing her to feel dizzy. She steadied herself against the edge of the desk.

Outside, wrapped against the bite of the wind, she huddled and almost charged her way down the street to the bus stop. The bus journey would take at least 40 minutes at this time of night. She knew she would doze, probably invade the space of whatever person was crammed next to her. She didn’t care. This tiredness was almost permanent now, and any snatch of sleep she could get was welcome.

Blank and aching, she walked up the path to her front door. She barely remembered getting on the bus, and had woken seconds before it pulled away again from her stop. Her key slid awkwardly into the lock, jamming slightly and catching as she turned it. It needed seeing to. Like so many things in this house, in her life.

The house was in darkness, and she moved from room to room, leaving a blaze of halogen behind her as she progressed from hall, to lounge, to dining room, to kitchen, shedding layers of clothing as she went.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly brewed mug of tea, she slowly began to thaw. In spite of hat and gloves, her head and hands felt numb. The middle distance was a place she had heard of, and her eyes rested there now. There was nothing to see there, its boundaries blurred, its contents blurrier. Inside her head was a feeling like cottonwool. Blood pounded at her temples, her eyes wanted to close, their lids as heavy as roller shutter doors.

She started. He had let the door bang shut behind him and was even now removing his coat in the hall. Noisy. Unnecessary. Her tea was cold and its surface looked greasy. She decided she would learn to rinse the dishes properly to avoid this in future.

Here he came, rushing and thundering through the house on his legs like treetrunks. Briefcase flung onto a sofa, post scattered across the dining table, followed by keys. A clattering whirl of heat and presence, he arrived in the kitchen, where she still sat at the table, something new and cold resting in her head.

He spoke. Something. She didn’t listen. He stood, hip cocked, arms raised, body leaning, peering, face lit by the ice white light of the open fridge. Slam of the door. Bang of the cupboards, opening, closing, searching, seeking.

Cold metal in her hand, alien yet comforting. Her hand gripped the scored metal, her finger rested against the trigger. Hidden underneath the table. She tested the muscles in her arm. Like sitting on the bus, doing pelvic floor exercises.

She raised her arm. His back was turned. This was the coward’s way. She waited, finger ready to squeeze. She waited.

Waking, she lifted her head from the table and blinked against the humming lights of her kitchen as the front door opened and her husband shouted his arrival.

Next time, she wouldn’t wait.

© J R Hargreaves 2005

Only Human

She’s still in her pyjamas. Pink candystriped bottoms with a drawstring at the waist, and a candyfloss pink top. Still in her pyjamas and starting to stink.

His stomach rolls, or is it hers? Someone’s stomach rolls and gurgles. He hasn’t been able to eat, so it might be his. She’s decomposing, so it might be hers. He has the feeling that it’s his, though, that his stomach wants some food, the digestive acids fighting amongst themselves, breaking down what little they can find.

He wants to move her. He has to really. She’s sitting up in bed, pillows at her back, staring glassily, mouth half open. He stands in the bedroom doorway, looking at her. He’s had to sleep in the spare room the last couple of nights. Obviously. He wonders why she hasn’t fallen forward, why her head at least hasn’t slumped or lolled. Her eyes haven’t rolled back in their sockets, haven’t even closed as though she had fallen asleep. She is upright, glass-eyed, unmoving. Her book has fallen. That’s the only thing that has moved. He can’t remember now whether it was fallen when he found her, or wether it has fallen since. It lies there on the duvet now, though. No longer in her hands. Her hands look as though they should still be holding it.

He has opened the bedroom window. He had to. She isn’t smelling too good. Next door are having a barbecue and the faint smell of beefburgers, sausages, god knows what, is wafting into the room with the chatter of voices. Laughter mixes with music and children screeching as they race in a stew of overexcitement around the garden. Helen caught him yesterday, over the fence, and mentioned it was Dave’s 40th. They were having a bit of a do, and she wanted to know if they wanted to join them. He had muttered something about her not really feeling up to it. Helen has asked if she was still unwell. Unwell was one way of looking at it.

The simplest thing would have been to report it as soon as he’d found her, but he’d panicked, like the fool he was, more worried about how it would look and what people would say. She’s the local GP. Was the local GP, he corrects himself. He knows it doesn’t matter now, what people think or say. He’s in more trouble now than he would have been if he’d reported it straight off.

He needs to move her somehow, needs to get her out of the house. Not today, obviously, but soon. He wonders how long it takes for a body to decompose. Maybe that was something she would have known. Was that the sort of thing a GP would know. He hasn’t a clue, and wishes instead that he had paid more attention to Silent Witness, the scenes where they move the bodies – whether they’re flexible or rigid. He frowns. Of course, they’re actors, still alive. If a body that’s been dead for a couple of days is stiff, an actor who is still alive wouldn’t be able to fake that easily.

You don’t think of these things when you’re watching tv, though. He realises that now. If he’d known he was going to come home on Thursday and find her like this, he would probably have made time to think about it. After all, it’s fairly important now, he thinks. What if he tries to move her and she is stiff, and he can’t unbend her? Will he have to try to bend her more? And what if she isn’t stiff, but is floppy? Has she decomposed enough to be floppy? He hasn’t a clue.

Really he should phone the police, call an ambulance, suffer the consequences. He knows this is technically the right thing to do. It no longer matters, saving face. She’s dead, he’s left her there too long, people are going to talk now, no matter what. People talk anyway.

He decides to put off the decision, and goes downstairs. Perhaps sitting with a nice cold beer will help him work out how to deal with this. No point in ringing the police or anyone else until he’s absolutely sure how this is going to go.

He walks into the kitchen and takes a beer from the fridge. He looks out of the French Windows and sees Dave barbecueing away in the garden next door. Dave raises his tongs to him, so he raises his bottle of beer in response. He walks over to the French Windows and slides them open.

“Happy Birthday, Dave,” he says.
“Cheers, mate,” Dave replies. “Are you sure you won’t join us?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh come on!” Helen comes to the fence. “Have you eaten?”
“Well, no, actually, I haven’t,” he says, beginning to think that he might be able to eat. Those sausages are smelling good.
“Come over, then,” says Dave, waving a sausage at him.

He steps out into the garden, the fresh air hitting him and reviving his spirits. Through his back gate and over into Dave and Helen’s back garden. Helen hands him a plate and Dave loads it with sausages.

“Burger as well?” he asks, raising one from the grill, adept with his tongs.
“Why not!”
“That’s the spirit!”
“How’s she doing?” Helen nods in the direction of the bedroom window.
“Oh, you know. Still not too clever,” he says through a mouthful of sausage.
“One of the perils of being a GP, I suppose,” says Helen. “She must have the immune system of an ox, not to get ill more often.”

He nods. One of the perils of being a GP isn’t the number of germs you get exposed to, he thinks, it’s the access you have to the drugs cabinet. He bites down into a sausage.

“There are buns around, somewhere,” Dave says.
“Oh yes, and salad and relish over here.” Helen takes hold of his arm and leads him to another table. She introduces him to the gathered friends and family. “This is one of our neighbours. His wife’s a bit poorly. She’s the local GP.” She looks at him. “He’s probably not eaten properly since she fell ill,” she smiles.

He smiles back and helps himself to salad. Amazing how quickly his appetite has come back, now he’s not in the house with that smell.

“What do you do, then?” asks one of Dave’s relatives.
“Teach at the local comp,” he replies, trying to chew and speak at the same time. He’s aware that he looks like a pig, but he’s ravenous. He tries to think when his last meal was. He doesn’t think he ate the day he found her, but he’s no longer sure.
“A teacher and a doctor, eh?” smiles the relative, trying to ignore the half-chewed food that’s on clear view from his mouth as he speaks and chews. “Pillars of the local community.”

He smiles and swallows, takes another bite. Helen pops up again with a cold bottle of beer.

“You haven’t got a drink!” she trills. She’s always been a bit of a triller, has Helen. She’s small and bubbly, and probably more intelligent than she lets on, but she does the stay-at-home-Mum thing really well. He takes the beer from her and drinks. It washes the sausage and bun down perfectly.

“I was just saying,” continues the relative, “how he and his wife are pillars of the local community, being a teacher and a doctor.”
“Oh, you know,” he says, a touch bashfully, “we’re only human, really.”

He wonders if it’s true, that they’re only human. Her up there, dead and decomposing, she’s not human anymore. She’s just a shell. And as for himself, he’s not sure that he’s human either. He suddenly catches a whiff of something unpleasant. He looks around. Nobody else seems to have smelled it. Perhaps it’s just got stuck in his nostrils. He thinks now that maybe he should have had a shower today. He drinks more beer.

The relative is chatting away about something and nothing. He hasn’t been paying attention. He wonders what sort of a relative she is. An aunt, a cousin? She doesn’t look like she’s Dave’s mum. But then, maybe Dave looks like his dad. Families are funny things.

He’ll have to tell her parents. They’ve never really liked him. Now they’ll have more reason not to. Perhaps the police will tell them for him. He takes a bite out of the burger. It’s cooked to perfection, just the way he likes it. He closes his eyes and savours the taste.

When he opens his eyes again, Helen is carrying a birthday cake down the garden to where Dave is still overseeing the food. Everyone starts to follow her down, and they form a crescent around Dave and his self-igniting gas barbecue. Personally, he’s never understood gas barbecues. He smiles to himself. He’s never understood barbecues full stop. Still, the food tastes good. Not all charred and half-cooked like some barbecues he’s been to.

Dave’s blowing out the candles on the cake. Someone makes a joke about being able to use the cake as the barbecue. They all laugh politely.

She would have hated this. She hated living in suburbia. She hated that she was a GP. He was quite enjoying it, though. He liked people, liked meeting new ones. Dave’s family are great, he decides. Very welcoming. Friendly. He raises his bottle of beer in the toast to Dave and his 40 years on the planet, then he takes a deep swig, and smiles at Helen’s sister. He’s half tempted to wink. She smiles back.

Yes, he likes meeting new people.

It’s fun.

Helen’s sister crosses the grass towards him. She’s still smiling, so he broadens his own.

“You live next door, don’t you?” she says.
“I do,” he replies.
“Helen says your wife’s ill.”
“Yes, she is. Been a bit off colour for a couple of days now.”
“It’s a shame she couldn’t come to the barbecue with you.”
“Isn’t it?”

He can’t work out whether she’s flirting with him or not. He’s now on his third bottle of beer, and he thinks the alcohol might be going to his head.

“Helen says you’re a teacher.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What subject?”
“Geography.”

She laughs. “I hated Geography,” she says, and touches him lightly on the arm. He looks down at where she touched him.

“Lots of people do,” he says.
“You don’t look like a Geography teacher,” she says.
“Thanks,” he replies, confused. “What does a Geography teacher look like?”
“Not like you,” she laughs.

He smiles nervously. He wonders whether Helen’s sister might be a bit drunk. He can’t smell anything on her breath, but then all he can smell is barbecue and that faint whiff of unpleasantness, that must be lodged inside his nose. He decides he needs to get away from Helen’s sister. He also needs another beer. And maybe more food.

He heads towards the house. As he walks up the garden, he sees Helen next door in his garden. She’s walking away from the house, with a plate in her hand with cake on it. Her face is white. Like a sheet. Clichés are only clichés because they’re true, he thinks.

He stops. Helen is in his garden. Walking away from the house. She stops. They look at each other across the fence.

“I think you should call an ambulance,” she says, still holding the plate, although it’s at an angle now, and the cake could fall at any second.
“Yes,” he says, “I think you’re probably right.”

© J R Hargreaves, 14 August 2005