Part Two: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

In the following series of blog posts, you can find the stories from the shortlist of twenty. This particular post will feature the stories from Gary Stevens, Adeyemi Onafuye, Anthony Marshall and Tricia Holbrook.

Between The Eggs & Cold Meat by Gary Stevens

There was a jigsaw on the dinner table under the living room window. The view out there was of the Campsie Glens and on the jigsaw it was some anonymous big mountains, covered in snow. The Campsies had a wee bit of snow, right at the very top. It was November.

    If you find a piece, put it in for us. Mark’s uncle shouted over from the couch. Then laughed.

    I wouldn’t trust myself. I’d get it wrong for you. It was a thousand pieces. And most of them were just snow. How long have you been at this one?

    Just since I got out the hospital.

    That made it about two months. You’re getting there aren’t you?

Aye. He lifted the remote from the coffee table in front of him and put the sound down on the tv. I take a bit of time over it in the mornings, after my porridge. And then maybe a wee bit through the day. It keeps you going.

Aye. That would drive Mark mental, so it would. The old one had to have the patience of a glacier. Patience Mark had spent time trying to develop. Without luck. He had gone the messages for Jim and he had put them away in the kitchen.

Usually his mum would’ve done it but she was away. Barbados. For the next fortnight. Mark had agreed. No excuses. It would be good for his Uncle Jim to get a few visits from Mark instead as well.

Everything in the place was clean and tidy. Mark went through to the kitchen again. The cooker was ancient but it looked like it still worked fine; if he ever used it these days. The shopping list was all microwaveable stuff. Someone had bought him one. The kitchen cupboards were like something out of old tv programmes and he had a spice rack full of wee jars with faded labels.

Bring an ashtray back in, will you?

Mark picked it up, a glass triangle, from beside the sink and went through. He put it on the coffee table. Jim had a pack of Drum and skins and he was rolling himself a wee thin cigarette.

Is that not what got you in the hospital, last time?

Ach, it was a mixture of things. He licked along the edge and patted it down.

Including the fags? The only place in the flat with stuff gathered in anything like a mess was beside his chair, the right hand end of the couch. Old newspapers, folded open at the tv listings, were piled up to his left. Today’s was on the table underneath his tobacco pouch and coffee mug.

There was a pile of lottery forms on the sideboard, waiting to be filled in. He pinched the fag between his lips and struck a match. I turn seventy-six next week. Fuck it.

Fuck it?

Aye. He inhaled and threw the matchbox onto the table.

The tv was the newest thing in the room, with built in video. The couch he was on had been brought from the other high rise he stayed in fifteen years ago on the Southside. And the pictures on the wall were the same, hung up in the same positions they used to have in the old place, when Mark was about ten or something. The matador faced the picture of Jim and a woman Mark didn’t know. Jim had his arm round her, confidently. His sideburns in those days were pretty impressive. The map of Spain hung above the electric fire.

What about the lottery tickets, then? If that’s the way you’re feeling.

He tapped some ash off the end of the fag and looked beside him on the shelf at the big pile. I’m not feeling any way in particular. His elbows were on his knees and he was leaning forward. He raised his head. I still play the lottery every week.

And does it matter if you win?

Well, aye. I watch the results on the BBC on a Saturday night, before my bath. If I win a tenner I send the ticket to one of your young cousins. He took a draw. I keep envelopes and stamps just here. He opened a door in the sideboard. It had white envelopes, stamp books, a playboy mug full of pens, a dented old biscuit tin. And the home help’ll post them if I ask.

Mark stood there, hands in his trouser pockets. Do you ever think about Spain these days? About going back?

I think about Spain, aye. He laughed and blew smoke up at the lightshade in the centre of the ceiling. Going back though. I think about the Square Peg in St. Enoch Square. I think about going back there. What are they calling that nowadays?

It’s called Times Square now.

No, the pub, what do they call the pub?

That’s it, Times Square. St. Enoch’s Square’s still St. Enoch’s Square. He sat down at the table and lifted a couple of the jigsaw pieces. They were all either bright blue and cloudless for the sky or white with the odd shadow or stone showing through. All the edges were sorted and he had a big bit in the middle with a couple of peaks, but it was less than half finished. Turning round, Mark saw he was rolling another one. My mum’ll be asking if you were smoking.

I told you, fuck it. And I’ve told my wee sister as well.

But it’s that that lands you in hospital. He put an elbow on the table and faced Jim, shaking his head but smiling.

Listen, it’s already killed me. He licked the edge of the paper. If I stop now I just get irritated and I can’t concentrate on my jigsaw. Have you found anything for me?

No. Mark placed the pieces back down, blue ones with blue ones up at the top of the picture and the snowy ones collected where the mountains would be, just like it was arranged. How come this is important, then?

He lit the new fag and blew the smoke out his nostrils.

Cause it’s Mount Everest. It’s a fucking challenge. Now do us a favour and go through to the kitchen and get us both a can of lager, will you? They’re in the fridge between the eggs and the cold meat.

Mark did as he was told, went through and lifted two cans of Tennent’s. You want a glass for this?

No, that’s fine. The volume went back up on the tv and Mark got back in to the living room as he was flicking through the channels. He went from BBC 1 to Channel 5 and back again. Nothing looked too interesting. Mark sat down on the armchair opposite his uncle and angled slightly towards the screen. Cheers. He cracked the can open and held it up. Jim did the same and took a big gulp. Aye, that’s the stuff. He drew the back of his hand over his lips and burped quietly then put the can down on top of the paper in front of him. So, how long have you been out then?

I Am Free by Adeyemi Onafuye

We live in one of the monotonous estates popularly called 'staff quarters' in our Country‟s capital. Everyone is familiar with everyone else. The blocks of flats are familiar in style and colour. They are familiar in brute decay and marks of years. They gather like giant elders in an old people's home. They smell the same. The cobwebs occupy the same spots beneath their stairways and at high angles on their walls. It is tough on the mind to have lived here as long as I have. It is tougher to have spent the entire time here with him; watching him haste around with his constantly bowed head. He walks so fast, it is difficult to catch up and not be left breathless. I have had to catch up every day.

He won't say "Hi" except he absolutely has to and then it would be in a wimpy voice barely above a whisper. He accompanies such greetings with a quick wave of his hand and a split second glance, then returns his eyes to the ground and hastens away. I have watched with horror as pity swells up in the faces of his greeting receivers. That pity lingers till the next time they see him. Some of them have given up on calling out to him. I have to tag along. That is the inhumane law. If he cannot say “Hello”, neither can I. Since he cannot look another human in the face, I have to keep my head submerged.

During the last annual estate party, I longed to dance. My feet even moved slightly. The disc jockey, had played my favourite song, the one I dance madly to behind closed doors in my room. But he lied to a lady that invited him to the dance floor. He said his legs where aching.

"Ehen?"

"My legs are aching" He repeated, like a sound player in mute mode.

"Ehen?" She asked again.

She only heard him when she placed her ear close to his lips. I saw her roll her eyes and walk away. She went to a corner and had a good laugh with her friends – our neighbours. That is what makes it even harder. We get to see these people again after the party. We see their laundries spread out on their balconies as ours are. We know when her mother slaps her and when his father beats him because we hear the cries and the screams. We know them and they know us as we bow about the place, as we speak in muted tones and as we hurry around.

When will I be rid of him? I have asked myself a lot of times. I thought his sojourn to the University would do the trick. That failed. He bowed through those years. He stayed in his hostel, the whole time. He situated himself at corners of lecture halls, alone. People tried to reach him but gave up when they repeatedly hit the brick walls his mute, wimpy voice solidly built. He got back with a degree and all the sullenness he had taken with him.

Then I was glad that Dad is a civil servant. At his retirement, we would have to move out of this quarters and I would be free. I was convinced that the monotony of the quarters was responsible for his gloom. Even that hope has now been dashed. The government is on a privatization spree. Dad has commenced the process of buying this house. Despair has moved in to replace the dashed hope.

He noticed despair‟s presence, and he asked:

"Why are you looking morose?"

"You know why" I replied.

"No, I don‟t, tell me."

"I want to be free. I want to express myself."

"That‟s a cliché"

"That is what you always say and it is false."

"It is not."

"You are pitiful!"

"Don't say that to me!"

"Everyone thinks so!

"I don‟t care."

"Yes you do."

"No I don‟t. But you have to be here with me."

"I want to be free."

"You are free."

I laughed. Free? You call this freedom?

He thinks I am free because he speaks with me in a booming voice and he dares look me in the face. He tells me, behind closed doors, of the lady he has a crush on. The most recent one lives in one of the flats in Block A, the block closest to the entrance and exit gates. She never fails to call out to him from her balcony when he is bowing out of the premises or bowing in. He thinks she really cares. But I know she does not. I know she thinks he needs help.

"I am not free because you told me about Anita. I am not free because you open up to me."

"Have I told you about how I felt in that supermarket?"

"I know all about it."

"No, you don't."

"Please don‟t start your pity party."

"I felt like slapping that cranky shopkeeper hard across the face. How could she talk to me that way? I was a customer and not even a rude one."

"Why did you not slap her?"

"I controlled myself."

I laughed.

"No you did not. You couldn't have slapped her if your life depended on it."

"I could if I wanted to."

"You delude yourself. And the woman was just annoyed that you would not speak audibly."

"I was asking for the price of the pack of razors."

"I know. But she couldn't hear you. I wonder if you hear yourself sometimes."

"I didn't want to be rude."

I laughed again.

"You lie to yourself. I want to be free!"

"You are free."

"Can I get a Mohawk?"

"No. I don‟t like it."

"Punk?"

"I don‟t like that either. We have had this conversation before."

"At least wear skinny-jeans!"

"You know my take on…"

"Reasonable, fashionable dressing? Yes I do. It‟s a no. What the heck!"

"Relax."

"Yes, and die in your bondage!"

"You are free."

I am stuck with him. I want to be free. They say where there is a will, there is a way. I hope my will can make a way out of his grip. I want to run far away from him into that world where people dance in parties and hug their neighbours as they meet them on the walk way. I don't even mind blabbing a few times, as far as I get to talk with humans without the restrictions of a wimpy voice and a bowed head. I would love to tell jokes to others apart from him and join them in the resulting laughter.

I stand now before a mirror, searching my eyes for the hope of freedom. He stares right back at me.

"You are free."

Toothpaste by Anthony Marshall

The priest’s grip relaxes immediately and I slide the tube of toothpaste out of his hand. I give him a quick kick in the ribs to check he’s not going to jump me when I turn my back. His unconscious body jolts with the impact but I’m delighted not to hear any sounds or see any other movements. I look down at his bloodied forehead, toothpaste smeared upper lip, and unnaturally crooked posture.

Good. He’s definitely dead.

Bells start to ring out a joyful salutation, inviting the newly liberated city to come and worship. I realise I need to move. Fast.

There’s a small, wooden back door I remember from when I came here as a kid. I used to pray (literally) for the day I would be tall enough to have to duck my head when walking through it. I slip the toothpaste into my pocket and tread hurriedly past the altar and under the crucifix. I move

towards the tiny arched door frame. I have no time to waste.

After making sure the door is firmly closed behind me, I move along the alley and away from the chapel. The bells are still clanging but no one prays anymore anyway. The place is deserted. The hot sun beats down, drying mud into dust. Terrible multi-coloured graffiti adorns the concrete walls that line the passage; the kind that isn’t art. As I pass them, two dogs start squaring up for a fight over some scraps. I hear them snarling and growling behind me. There’s a pained yelp but I don’t look back. When martial law was imposed yesterday, it seems it didn’t just apply to humans. Dogs have to eat too.

The bells finish their tune and their sustained, throbbing after-notes gradually die away. I notice the sound of a vehicle approaching and I duck into a filthy doorway. Some sticky soft drink has been split all over the doorstep under my feet. As the vehicle rounds the corner into the alleyway, I hear the stereo blaring out ‘Hit me baby, one more time’.

With my entire body squeezed into the shadows in

the frame of the doorway, I watch a black jeep buzz past and stir up a dust cloud. It holds six men; all with automatic weapons pointing outwards or up to the sky. They’re glistening with sweat and wearing camouflage vests and brightly-coloured bandanas, like Rambo. That’s the idea. They’re probably on their way to appropriate some beer. They are The National Guard.

When they’re out of sight, I continue my journey home. At the corner of the city’s main avenue, some tyres are burning in an untidy pile. Thick, black smoke plumes up into the deep blue, clear sky.

The usual seagulls have been replaced by vultures. They seem to always either be circling overhead or sitting in the street, tearing flesh off a corpse. I never see them take off or land, and I never see them just passing the time of day on a telephone wire.

I jog slowly along the main street, still listening for vehicles. I pass an occasional group of vultures

sitting around a bloody, motionless body. They bow and bow and bow like Japanese businessmen, bidding a polite ‘konnichiwa’ to the succulent flesh. The bodies line the edges of the street, where they have been shot in their backs while fleeing. The reek of rotting human meat is overwhelming. I keep moving.

At the end of the main avenue, I cross over and enter the large, square city park along one of the gravel paths. The place seems desolate and abandoned, but I have to remain alert. Behind any one of the trees could be someone waiting to ambush a passer-by; stab them in the neck and take

whatever they may have. Having grown up just across the other side of the park, it breaks my heart to see my wonderful city in its current condition. I try to stay alert but can’t prevent my mind flashing back to a time I visited the park during my childhood.

__________________________

The sky is the deepest blue I can ever remember it being. The windows of the cars and buildings gleam and reflect the sun. I have to squint almost constantly until we arrive at the row of food stalls at the entrance of the park. I’m about seven years old and I pester my father for some roasted

peanuts or an ice lolly although he never seems to give in. Amazingly this time he yields. My sister and I literally jump with joy as Dad strides over to buy us bright blue sticks of delicious sweet ice. He can splash out because he’s just found work again.

We enter the park through the brightly painted green gates.

People bustle around us; large families with young children, footballs and baseballs, tea-sets and dolls, garish parasols, cans of beer, and blankets for picnicking on. Huge cecropia trees shade the hundreds of people who lie beneath them.

The scene is reminiscent of a beach; children running around playing, mothers shouting at their children, and men sitting around bare-chested, chatting and drinking beer.

We stroll along the park’s labyrinth of pathways, twisting and turning under the enormous trees.

Scattered along the way are more food stalls, balloon sellers, mime artists, and individual musicians.

Each time we arrive at one of these entertainers, there’s a big crowd of gawking citizens watching his every move. It seems like every direction is filled with vibrant colour and jubilant sound. Church bells chime in the background.

People are overjoyed to be here; overjoyed to be anywhere on a day like this. A warm, gentle breeze blows and my ice lolly drips onto my hand. I enclose the remainder of the ice

in my mouth and remove the stick. I hold it there until it melts, then swallow it. We continue to meander at a leisurely pace through dancing shafts of sunlight which pierce through the branches and leaves above us. At last, we arrive at the animal enclosures. Casting my lolly stick into a nearby bin, my sister and I rush to a short concrete wall, which we know is the viewing area for the

anaconda pit.

We stand on tiptoes to see over the wall. There below us is the long, dark unmoving body of the colossal snake.

“Don’t lean over too far. He could eat you with a single gulp.” My father reminds us.

Neither of us know whether to trust the warning; half believing it and half not. Of course we get bored of the anaconda quite quickly because of its lack of movement. The next stop is the bear’s cage.

Standing by the cage is a man Dad knows. He smiles, shakes his hand, and chats to him while my sister and I stand next to his son and make the kind of small talk that kids make.

“He looks angry, doesn’t he.”

“Hmmm. Very.”

“I bet he could bite a person in half.”

“Yeah. Maybe in quarters!”

After what must be only two or three minutes, we are each pulling one of Dad’s hands; coaxing him to the highlight of the park zoo. He makes his apologies to his acquaintance and allows us to drag him away.

We arrive at feeding time. It appears the large crowd have made viewing the attraction almost impossible. We weave through the legs, still grabbing Dad’s hands tightly. Just as we somehow manage to get to the front and peer through the fence, the keeper walks out directly in front of us. A

loud cheer emerges around us from the awaiting audience. He waves with one hand and carries a large bucket in the other. From the way he leans into it, it is clearly very heavy.

Beyond the keeper is a steeply descending concrete slope; too steep for anything to climb up. The  bottom of the pit is all water except for a few concrete islands. Lying on these islands, basking in the sun, are masses of large, leathery crocodiles.

The keeper puts down the bucket and holds up a whole, dead chicken. The crowd whoop with excitement. He hurls the chicken down into the middle of the largest island, where it is pounced upon by three crocs at once. Two of them tussle over it, then tear it in two. I look back. All I can see is legs, feet, and concrete. I peer over at my sister, then up at Dad. “Wow!” I mouth to him silently.

__________________________

All of a sudden I hear a footstep directly behind me on the gravel path. I stop still in my tracks. I swing around and duck at the same time to avoid the looming attack. It doesn’t come.

A large, male vulture has landed on the path just three metres directly behind me. It takes a step toward me and I retreat two steps away from it. It is an awesome creature; almost a metre high. Its plumage is tatty and brown. There are chunks missing from feathers, perhaps from clashes with other vultures. Its hooked beak is the size of a small dagger; perfect for ripping and slashing at dead

tissue. Its wingspan must be immense. It takes another predatory hop and skip toward me and I have no way of knowing how to react. I know I have to do something, so I hold my arms in the air above my head and run at the beast,

shouting. Mercifully, it is startled by my aggressive display and takes to the air. I continue along the path, but at an increased pace. It’s not far now.

As I get closer to my house, the stench worsens. I see the bodies strewn randomly on the street; men, women and children. Some are in pairs or threes, but most are alone. There’s even a dog with red holes along its side and its tongue hanging out of its mouth. It looks like it’s licking the floor.

I arrive at my front door. The light blue paint is peeling off in places and the outside wall is a kind of dull white with mud splatters from the rainy season. It was bright white when my father painted it. I knock the secret knock on the front door. The word ‘Freedom’ is written across the front of it in faded one-metre high red letters.

‘Be careful what you wish for’ I think to myself.

After a few seconds, I hear some commotion from within. There are some slight gaps between the boards of wood that make up the door. Looking through, I see the shaft of light coming from the back of the house broken as someone obstructs it.

“Who is it?” My wife’s voice calls out expectantly.

“It’s me.” I reply.

She unbolts the door from the inside and cracks it open quickly so I can step into the darkness. Inside, the house is warm and the smell of the corpses outside is overpowering. They’ve been sitting

there for three days.

“Did you get something?” My wife asks me.

I grin from ear to ear and she knows I did. “Well hurry up and gimme some!” She says, poking me in the ribs. I squeeze out some toothpaste onto my finger and breathe in the smell of toothpaste. Bliss! I smear it under my

children’s noses. They grin; relieved. I do the same for my wife, then hold the tube under my own nose with the cap off.

The National Guard are patrolling. People are afraid to leave their homes. Vultures are eating rotting bodies in the streets. I sit back in my well worn arm chair, stare out across the city I love, and inhale deeply on minty fumes.

Grey Is So Last Year by Tricia Holbrook

I stood, ready to go.  One last deep breath. 

Did I have the courage for this?  I could stop now and forget all about it.

The furniture was covered, the newspapers laid out on the floor.  The paint was poured, the roller was soaked.  The courage was ebbing away.

I lifted the roller.  Up, down, up down, long even strokes.  Up, down, the rhythm strangely calming, almost hypnotic.  I kept at it for several minutes then stood back, roller in hand and surveyed my work.

I let the breath out that I wasn’t even aware I was holding.

Wow, it’s purple, very purple

The tin said ‘Purple Haze’ and I heard the faint notes of Jimi Hendrix drift through my memory, stirring long lost pain,  dimmed but not forgotten.  Where were my safe magnolias, my pure whites, my simple pastels.  Where were my tried and tested, my safe options.  I looked at the other tin,  ‘Double Cream’.  That would come later.  But this was my feature wall, my statement, and it was purple

I love it.  I absolutely love it. 

I smile and Jimi Hendrix grows louder in my memory.

I work like a dervish, up down, up down, round off the edges with a steady hand.  All done, stand back.

I love it even more, even patchy and wet as it is now.  I can’t wait to see it dry.

I leave the rollers and brushes to soak.

‘Come on’  I shout.  ‘Just a quick walk today.  Miles to go before I sleep.’

When did I start talking to dogs. About the same time he stopped listening to me.

I breathe in and out, letting the fresh air clear the paint fumes from my nose.  I check list in my head what still has to be done.  Chimney breast, smaller wall and round the window, all in ‘double cream.’  Then later when all is dry I can hang the new curtains, purple too.  All will be done and dusted before tonight.  He won’t be home till late, going to his Christmas do.  Probably won’t even notice till the morning.  By then it’ll be too late, all done, all different and all mine.

I hurry home, stand and stare.  It’s drying nicely.  It’s looking good.  I get stuck in again, new paint, new roller, double cream, looking good, contrasting well.

Mid afternoon and I hear a key in the door.  I freeze, but it’s only Jess.

Can’t believe the time.  They’re right, time does fly when you’re enjoying yourself.

‘Hi Mom’  and I hear the school bag hit the floor.

‘Hi love.  How was the exam?’

‘Shit’

Is that the exam or my painting?

My eyes follow her as she walks around staring, her mouth dropping open.  I hold my breath.  Her eyes connect with mine and she smiles.

‘It’s purple.’

I still hold my breath and say nothing.

‘It’s cool’  and she saunters towards the kitchen.

I let out my breath and smile.  Moments later the pungent smell of Coco Noodles vies with the smell of paint.  Cool purple paint.

I work on till it’s finished.  It’s looking good.  I’m feeling good.  It’s going to work.  The picture in my head is starting to unfold in front of me.

‘Come on’  I shout up the stairs.  ‘We’ve got to get the tree.’

Tree picked out, bundled into mesh, brought home, spiked on stand.

‘You get the decorations down from the attic.  I’ll hang the new curtains.’

‘Major problem Mom.  All the decorations are red.’

‘Not any more.  Thank God for Woodies.’

She looks at me and smiles slowly.  Somewhere in this purple haze I have gained her seal of approval.

We work all evening and now it’s done.

‘It works’

‘Yeah’

‘It’s cool.’

‘Yeah’

I sleep like the dead, not even hearing his snores.

The following morning I’m up early.  My tummy queasier than his and he’s been on the tear.

I flick the kettle on.   Silence till it gathers momentum.

He drinks the Alka Seltzer.  Fizz fizz.

‘Good night?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Any gossip.’

‘Usual shite.’

He wanders towards the lounge.  I hold my breath.  He opens the door.  I close my eyes.

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s purple.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Don’t know what my mother will say on Christmas Day.’

To hell with your mother, under my breath.

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s purple.’

Christmas morning, presents unwrapped, purple wrapping paper strewn around.  Jess shrieking.  She’s got everything she wanted.  Doesn’t she always.  But she’s happy.  That’s all that counts.

So am I.  I look around.  I got what I wanted too, my purple room.  I made a statement.  I strayed away from what’s expected of me.  I didn’t take the safe option.  I had my Jimi Hendrix moment.  I fluff up my new purple cushions and flick on the purple fairy lights.  I smile over at himself in his new purple shirt.  But he’s not a purple shirt guy.

The turkey is in the oven, the veg is ready, the spuds pealed.  All that work for just one dinner.  Still at least it will last for tomorrow.

The doorbell rings. The battle-ax strides in followed by the doormat.  Affectionate names for my in-laws.

‘What did you do to the walls?’

‘She painted them’ 

Could you not do better than that love.

‘Why did she paint them that colour?’

‘Because she liked it.’

Good girl Jess.

I join the crowd gathered in the doorway.

‘Do you like it.’

‘It’s purple.’

I walk to the kitchen.

I know it’s bloody purple.

After three days of it I swear if I ever see another sprout, or lay another table with the good dishes, or load up another dishwasher with dirty dishes, I’ll scream.  If I hear her make one more sarcastic comment about my purple walls, she won’t live to see New Year, yet alone another Christmas.  I resort to walking the dogs twice a day, just to keep my sanity.  Then they’re gone.  I wave them off at the front door, my smile brighter than it has been in days, brighter than my purple fairy lights.  I wander back into my lounge.  Even now, two weeks later, it still makes me smile, my own version of purple power.  Even the old battle-ax had conceded one night, after too much Baileys, that it was different, but warm.  Warmer than her, that’s for sure, the cold hearted old bitch.  He follows me in.

‘I’m not feeling very well.  My throat is sore.  I think I’ll go and lie down.’

Give me strength.  The dreaded ‘man flu’.  Bet it’s better by New Year’s Eve.

‘Do you want a Lemsip?’

I walk the dogs again.  I think they’re losing weight.  I’m not surprised.  They’ve been walked to within an inch of their lives.

My phone pings.

What does he want me to bring back?  Arsenic hopefully!

‘Hope you had a good Christmas?  Let’s meet in the New Year?

Why do people do that?  Send out generic texts to everybody in their phone book.  Why would you want to wish the school secretary or the window cleaner or the guy who put your wardrobes in two years ago a happy Christmas?

‘Sorry, Don’t think this is for me.’

Resist the urge to add ‘Dickhead’.

No reply. 

Dickhead without manners.

The Man Flu lasted two days and then he was up again and rearing to go.  New Year’s Eve, party in the neighbour’s house, no need to drive, a license to get plastered.

‘Did you have a great Christmas?’

‘Hope you’ve made your New Year resolutions.’

I hear you did some decorating.’

‘Do you want another glass of bubbly?’

‘Is it really purple?’

Auld Lang Syne is getting ready to belt it out for another year.  Himself is up there with his arm slung around the guy who lives at the corner.  He must be plastered.  He can’t stand him.  Either that or he can’t stand.

Maybe I shouldn’t have bought him that shirt.  It clashes with his face and the buttons look ready to pop.

My phone pings again, more New Year wishes from friends at other parties.  Hope they’re having a better time than I am.

‘Happy New Year.  Let’s meet up?’

Hey it’s Dickhead again.

Fired up with cheap bubbly I sent a reply.

‘I’m sure the person this is for will be very disappointed not to hear from you.  But you’ve got the wrong number.’

Another ping, almost immediately.

‘I don’t think so.  It cost me a lot on Christmas Eve to get it out of your brother down the pub.’

I stop.  I think.  I wonder.  My thoughts spin forward.  My memory spins back.  I wonder again.  No.  It couldn’t be.  Not after all this time.

My fingers move slowly.  My thoughts move quickly.  I press the send button.

‘Who is this?’

‘I came all the way back from Aussie land to get this number and that’s the best you can come up with.’

It can’t be.

The silence produces another ping.

‘Do you still listen to Jimi Hendrix?’

‘Yes, just occasionally.’

‘Can we have lunch?’

‘Yes, just occasionally.  I’m married.’

‘Even married people eat.’

I smile.  I re-join the party.  I’m still smiling in the small hours of the morning when we fall into bed.  He snores.  I smile.

The day is bright, the Christmas is over, the New Year well and truly in.  Nothing left now except the credit card bill. 

Himself has gone back to work, Jess back to school. 

Routine has returned.  Or has it?

I sit on the Luas, rumbling away from suburbia.  Rumbling towards what?  Nirvana or disaster.

Why am I doing this?  Because I want to.  Because I have always wanted to.

I walk into the hotel foyer and look around.  The steps rise before me, the carpet deep under my feet.  I only ever come in here to use the loo when I’m in town.  At least I know where it is. I head there now, look in the mirror.  I straighten my dress.  I haven’t worn a dress into town in so long, and heels.  I look closer, check my lipstick. Another resurrected habit.   I look older.  Of course I look older, I am older.  So is he.  Why are my eyes shining so brightly?

I walk out of the ladies and linger.  I look towards the bar.  What if he doesn’t show?  No harm done.  I will just scuttle off home, back to my safety and lick my wounds.  But I see him sitting there.  He looks nervous, that gives me courage.  He looks older, that gives me more courage.

I walk towards him.  He sees me and stands.  He’s different somehow, hair shorter, waist thicker.  But his eyes are the same, and shining.

He’s wearing a purple tie.  I start to laugh.  He hugs me.  He laughs too.  I hug him back.  Even married people can laugh.

And I think, purple must be the new grey.

If you enjoyed reading this, you might like to try:

Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

Part Three: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition

Part Four: Shortlisted Stories for 2013 Competition