Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A gentle pause
Grandfathers aren't just workshops and war stories and wise fingers. Grandmothers aren't the sum of spectacles and roast potatoes and talcum powder. They are spring wrapped in autumn and winter, grass clippings and young blooms stuck away in rotting Hessian bags or pressed flowers hidden on dusty shelves between the pages of crumbling tomes. They are men like yesterday’s news, women like stale teacakes. They were young and foolish once too – still are – frivolous in ribbons and trapped in the accumulated prune skins of age. They were us once. They still are.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 9
I swear people in China can hear my sigh of relief. The pages feel dry and brittle but they’re still intact. That beautiful, steady hand is as clear as ever. I run my fingers over the words. Such intimate, delicate declarations. I have to read them later. I need to.
I stand up shakily and hold the box tightly to my chest. One of the firemen comes up to me and takes my shoulder. He helps me pick my way through the mess and out the flat. He speaks to me gently but I can’t hear him. I feel numb. Devastated but relieved. Confused, lost, but hopeful.
Before I know it I’m back on the stretcher. The girl is gone. The paramedic shines a light into my eyes and asks me questions. I give him one-word answers. Eventually he just pats my arm and packs his stuff away. Right now I want nothing more than to drift into a deep, languid sleep.
- Excuse me?
I ignore the voice and close my eyes. If you can see them they can see you, so if the reverse is true then. . .
- Sir?
A hand taps my shoulder. I open my eyes and look into the face of the cop who was talking to the old lady earlier. I raise my eyebrows for him to continue.
- I need to ask you some questions.
I nod my head.
- Do you have any idea what happened here?
- Uh, an explosion?
The cop rolls his eyes.
- You know what I mean. Do you know why your flat exploded?
I shake my head.
- I have no idea. . .
- It was a pretty big blast. It’s not the kind of thing we usually associate with an accident.
- I don’t know what to tell you. I left the flat this morning and everything was in one piece. I came back just now and everything I own is destroyed. Your guess is as good as mine.
- Do you know anyone who would want you hurt or dead?
- I don’t know anyone, let alone anyone who would want to do anything to me.
- Are you not from Cape Town?
- No, Durban. I’ve been here a few weeks. I hadn’t even finished unpacking.
- What are you holding?
- It’s nothing. It’s private.
- Mind if I take a look?
- Uh, yes, I mind very much.
I hold the box tighter.
- With respect, sir, there has just been a n explosion. Right now we don’t know why. It’s not in your best interests to hide things from the police. It might. . . colour. . . our opinion of you.
- So I’m a suspect?
- I’m just saying you should do your utmost to cooperate.
I clench my jaw and look away.
- The box, sir?
- It’s nothing, it’s just letters, okay!?
- I don’t want to ask again.
I give him the box and swear under my breath. It’s been months since I swore. He prises it open and empties it out onto the stretcher. I cringe as the ancient pages fold awkwardly.
- Could you be careful please? Those are freaking old!
- Sir, kindly let me do my job.
He flicks through the pages without a hint of compassion. A few pages drop to the ground which he doesn’t bother to pick up. I have to grip the edge of the stretcher tightly to stop myself from freaking out and kicking him in the groin. Every now and then he grunts or chuckles as he reads something. I can tell it’s theatrical. He finally clumps all the pages together and stuffs them back in the box. He hands it back to me and smiles.
- You’re right, it was nothing. Private, too.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.
- Before you go anywhere, let me know where you’ll be staying in case I have more questions.
He saunters off before I can think of a cutting reply. I’ll probably wake up screaming something witty at two in the morning. I open the box and gently take out all the pages. I pick up the ones on the floor and blow on them lightly. They don’t look too dirty. I stack them neatly and put them back in the box. I feel my eyes tear up. I hate crying, but once I start I can’t stop it. I feel so violated. Everything I own is destroyed, and I my most intimate secret has just been divulged and laughed at by someone who is supposed to help people in distress.
- Young man, do you need a place to stay?
It’s the old lady again. I wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath.
- Thank you, but I. . . I’ll get a hotel room. I have some thinking to do.
- All right, but if you change your mind you know where to find me. I’m in flat number 18.
She smiles at me and pinches my cheek and I can’t help but smile. There’s nothing like the kindness of an old lady. I stand up slowly and stare at the hole in the building that used to be my flat. I’ll come back tomorrow and see if I can salvage anything. Right now I need to get to a hotel, brush my teeth (and tongue and throat and gums and wherever else that vomit taste is still hiding) and sleep. I walk past the cop.
- I’m going to find a hotel. You’re a cop. Finding me should be easy.
He just stares at me and waves his hand dismissively.
I don’t remember the drive to the Holiday Inn. I don’t remember checking in to a room. I don’t remember showering, brushing my teeth, shaving, dressing. I don’t remember getting into bed. I don’t remember opening the box. But here I am, the pages spread out before me, my security blanket in my times of greatest need.
I start reading.
© William Edgcumbe
I stand up shakily and hold the box tightly to my chest. One of the firemen comes up to me and takes my shoulder. He helps me pick my way through the mess and out the flat. He speaks to me gently but I can’t hear him. I feel numb. Devastated but relieved. Confused, lost, but hopeful.
Before I know it I’m back on the stretcher. The girl is gone. The paramedic shines a light into my eyes and asks me questions. I give him one-word answers. Eventually he just pats my arm and packs his stuff away. Right now I want nothing more than to drift into a deep, languid sleep.
- Excuse me?
I ignore the voice and close my eyes. If you can see them they can see you, so if the reverse is true then. . .
- Sir?
A hand taps my shoulder. I open my eyes and look into the face of the cop who was talking to the old lady earlier. I raise my eyebrows for him to continue.
- I need to ask you some questions.
I nod my head.
- Do you have any idea what happened here?
- Uh, an explosion?
The cop rolls his eyes.
- You know what I mean. Do you know why your flat exploded?
I shake my head.
- I have no idea. . .
- It was a pretty big blast. It’s not the kind of thing we usually associate with an accident.
- I don’t know what to tell you. I left the flat this morning and everything was in one piece. I came back just now and everything I own is destroyed. Your guess is as good as mine.
- Do you know anyone who would want you hurt or dead?
- I don’t know anyone, let alone anyone who would want to do anything to me.
- Are you not from Cape Town?
- No, Durban. I’ve been here a few weeks. I hadn’t even finished unpacking.
- What are you holding?
- It’s nothing. It’s private.
- Mind if I take a look?
- Uh, yes, I mind very much.
I hold the box tighter.
- With respect, sir, there has just been a n explosion. Right now we don’t know why. It’s not in your best interests to hide things from the police. It might. . . colour. . . our opinion of you.
- So I’m a suspect?
- I’m just saying you should do your utmost to cooperate.
I clench my jaw and look away.
- The box, sir?
- It’s nothing, it’s just letters, okay!?
- I don’t want to ask again.
I give him the box and swear under my breath. It’s been months since I swore. He prises it open and empties it out onto the stretcher. I cringe as the ancient pages fold awkwardly.
- Could you be careful please? Those are freaking old!
- Sir, kindly let me do my job.
He flicks through the pages without a hint of compassion. A few pages drop to the ground which he doesn’t bother to pick up. I have to grip the edge of the stretcher tightly to stop myself from freaking out and kicking him in the groin. Every now and then he grunts or chuckles as he reads something. I can tell it’s theatrical. He finally clumps all the pages together and stuffs them back in the box. He hands it back to me and smiles.
- You’re right, it was nothing. Private, too.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.
- Before you go anywhere, let me know where you’ll be staying in case I have more questions.
He saunters off before I can think of a cutting reply. I’ll probably wake up screaming something witty at two in the morning. I open the box and gently take out all the pages. I pick up the ones on the floor and blow on them lightly. They don’t look too dirty. I stack them neatly and put them back in the box. I feel my eyes tear up. I hate crying, but once I start I can’t stop it. I feel so violated. Everything I own is destroyed, and I my most intimate secret has just been divulged and laughed at by someone who is supposed to help people in distress.
- Young man, do you need a place to stay?
It’s the old lady again. I wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath.
- Thank you, but I. . . I’ll get a hotel room. I have some thinking to do.
- All right, but if you change your mind you know where to find me. I’m in flat number 18.
She smiles at me and pinches my cheek and I can’t help but smile. There’s nothing like the kindness of an old lady. I stand up slowly and stare at the hole in the building that used to be my flat. I’ll come back tomorrow and see if I can salvage anything. Right now I need to get to a hotel, brush my teeth (and tongue and throat and gums and wherever else that vomit taste is still hiding) and sleep. I walk past the cop.
- I’m going to find a hotel. You’re a cop. Finding me should be easy.
He just stares at me and waves his hand dismissively.
I don’t remember the drive to the Holiday Inn. I don’t remember checking in to a room. I don’t remember showering, brushing my teeth, shaving, dressing. I don’t remember getting into bed. I don’t remember opening the box. But here I am, the pages spread out before me, my security blanket in my times of greatest need.
I start reading.
© William Edgcumbe
Friday, August 1, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 8
I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. My body feels like it’s turning in on itself, like my oesophagus will burst out of my mouth and envelop me so that I look like a giant, glistening sausage. I drop to my knees and vomit until there is nothing left to bring up, and after a few extra agonising dry heaves my stomach stops bucking my body further towards the ground. I stand up shakily and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My mouth tastes foul; I’m ten-years-old and have gastro; I’m an awkward 17-year-old, drunk out of my mind at my matric dance, eyes glazed, conscience numbed. Since then, I’ve had a few “worst nights of my life”.
- Are you okay?
The hand on my shoulder is warm and tender. I realise it’s the first time I’ve been touched caringly by another person in months. I miss it terribly.
I try to speak but no words come out. Words usually gush so easily. I look at the person next to me. I recognise the old lady who lives down the corridor. I’ve greeted her a few times I think. She smiles at me, and her face is all motherly tenderness and homely comfort.
- Wha-
- Shshshshhh… don’t you worry. Let’s get you some care.
She leads me over to an ambulance. A paramedic is looking into someone’s eyes. They look a little sooty and shaken.
- This is the young man who lives in the flat. I think he needs some attention.
The paramedic gently sits me down on the stretcher next to the girl he’s examining. I notice a thin cut above her left eye, and she has a big lump on her forehead. I look away when her eyes flick to me; I hate being caught examining people. I look instead at the old lady. She’s talking to a cop. They both turn, and he follows her finger as she points at me. He nods slowly. It could be a “Yes, he looks like our man” nod, or a “Shame, poor guy just had everything he owns blown up” nod.
- Oh crap!
I’m up and running before the words leave my lips. Someone tries to reach out and catch my arm but I brush their hand away. I hear shouting but no words register. I leap over the debris cluttering the building entrance and jump the lobby steps two at a time. I’m on the landing. I’m on another set of stairs. Landing. Stairs. Landing. Corridor. My door isn’t there anymore. The entrance hall/kitchen is a blast hole. My toaster looks like it got some of its own treatment and lies dead where the front door would be. The corridor wall is black, fingers of soot spread in every direction and chucks of plaster are missing where bits of brick and door shot into it. I step into the wreckage that is my life and don’t notice the two fire fighters picking through the debris and occasionally dousing the odd flame with extinguishers. It’s amazing how in a flat so small you can feel so lost. I’m missing all my points of reference – my coffee table, my CD rack, my bed. Everything is a smouldering, crumbled tangle of wood, cement and plastic.
I start scrabbling frantically where my bed used to be. I cry out as an ember melts into my hand. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. I dig with the rhythm of my thoughts. One fire fighter makes a move to stop me, but the other holds him back and shakes his head.
My hands are bleeding and my arms completely black when I finally find it. The tin box has a huge dent in it and looks like it’s gone a few rounds with a pit bull but to my relief it doesn’t look like it’s been breached. It’s still hot from the fire, but my hands are so burnt I don’t really register the heat. The latch is gone, and when I try to lift the lid it won’t budge. I put it on the floor and whack the lid with a piece of wood. On the third strike it pops up. I close my eyes, say a quick prayer and lift the lid.
© William Edgcumbe
- Are you okay?
The hand on my shoulder is warm and tender. I realise it’s the first time I’ve been touched caringly by another person in months. I miss it terribly.
I try to speak but no words come out. Words usually gush so easily. I look at the person next to me. I recognise the old lady who lives down the corridor. I’ve greeted her a few times I think. She smiles at me, and her face is all motherly tenderness and homely comfort.
- Wha-
- Shshshshhh… don’t you worry. Let’s get you some care.
She leads me over to an ambulance. A paramedic is looking into someone’s eyes. They look a little sooty and shaken.
- This is the young man who lives in the flat. I think he needs some attention.
The paramedic gently sits me down on the stretcher next to the girl he’s examining. I notice a thin cut above her left eye, and she has a big lump on her forehead. I look away when her eyes flick to me; I hate being caught examining people. I look instead at the old lady. She’s talking to a cop. They both turn, and he follows her finger as she points at me. He nods slowly. It could be a “Yes, he looks like our man” nod, or a “Shame, poor guy just had everything he owns blown up” nod.
- Oh crap!
I’m up and running before the words leave my lips. Someone tries to reach out and catch my arm but I brush their hand away. I hear shouting but no words register. I leap over the debris cluttering the building entrance and jump the lobby steps two at a time. I’m on the landing. I’m on another set of stairs. Landing. Stairs. Landing. Corridor. My door isn’t there anymore. The entrance hall/kitchen is a blast hole. My toaster looks like it got some of its own treatment and lies dead where the front door would be. The corridor wall is black, fingers of soot spread in every direction and chucks of plaster are missing where bits of brick and door shot into it. I step into the wreckage that is my life and don’t notice the two fire fighters picking through the debris and occasionally dousing the odd flame with extinguishers. It’s amazing how in a flat so small you can feel so lost. I’m missing all my points of reference – my coffee table, my CD rack, my bed. Everything is a smouldering, crumbled tangle of wood, cement and plastic.
I start scrabbling frantically where my bed used to be. I cry out as an ember melts into my hand. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. I dig with the rhythm of my thoughts. One fire fighter makes a move to stop me, but the other holds him back and shakes his head.
My hands are bleeding and my arms completely black when I finally find it. The tin box has a huge dent in it and looks like it’s gone a few rounds with a pit bull but to my relief it doesn’t look like it’s been breached. It’s still hot from the fire, but my hands are so burnt I don’t really register the heat. The latch is gone, and when I try to lift the lid it won’t budge. I put it on the floor and whack the lid with a piece of wood. On the third strike it pops up. I close my eyes, say a quick prayer and lift the lid.
© William Edgcumbe
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 7
If she recognises me, she doesn’t show it. I look away and pretend to write something in my notes. What the hell is going on here? I feel like I’ve been duped in some elaborate game. I try to look at her indirectly. I focus on the men she’s with so that she’s in my peripheral vision but won’t make eye contact with me. One of the men, introduced as Mr Miya, starts speaking. He has a slight hare lip and a confident voice. He has the look of someone who knows and gets what he wants. He pauses every few sentences for the translator to speak. I immediately feel sorry for him. It can’t be more than 20 degrees but he’s sweating so much droplets are running down his face and dropping from his nose. I’ve never seen someone so nervous. His English is pretty broken but he conveys the gist of Mr Miya’s speech. Every now and again he pauses for a few seconds as his tongue fumbles with the unfamiliar English words, and when Mr Miya feels he is taking too long, he reprimands him sharply in Japanese. The hostility in his voice doesn’t need a translator. I wince as I imagine the translator’s knees being broken later in an underground parking lot somewhere.
The speech comes to an end and everyone claps dutifully. The translator moves behind everyone and dabs at his face with a handkerchief. His fringe is slicked against his forehead. Mr Miya and the Minister shake hands and smile to the flashing of cameras. I hate photo ops; the overlong handshakes, the gormless smiles, the little quips followed by manufactured chuckles. The canned laughter of the political arena. We all clap after the photos are taken.
- Who is that woman who came in with the Japanese delegates?
The journalist next to me shrugs his shoulders.
- Damned if I know.
A short guy with immaculate hair and blindingly white teeth announces that there’s breakfast outside and that the budget vote speech will commence shortly afterwards in the Old Assembly Chamber. My stomach grumbles, but I remember the boerewors breath the security guard breathed all over me and my hunger wilts. I settle for a cup of coffee and watch the stampede for the breakfast buffet. If there’s one thing that’s a great leveller, it’s free food. Lowly aides and deputy ministers pack around the buffet like warthogs at a scant waterhole. Tailored suit pants groan and stretch as their wearers bend over to choose food. I spot the guys who don’t like to admit their weight, squeezing size 46 legs into size 42 pants. The poor stitches which have to hold those seams together…
I try to spot the old lady without giving it away that I’m looking for her. I flick my eyes across the room casually. As I finish my coffee I see her leave the room and walk down a small corridor. I pretend to answer my phone and make a show of not being able to hear the person who called me and walk towards the same corridor. Once in there I see her turn left down another. I take a deep breath and decide to follow her. It’s not particularly clever following important and possibly shady people around the halls of parliament, but I can always use the excuse that I’m looking for the loo or something. I need a photo of this woman. If no one can tell me who she is, I’ll need to do some sleuthing of my own. I notice that she has stopped and is on a call of her own. I stick my phone out in front of me at arm’s length like a middle-aged person trying to focus on the small screen and pretend to send an sms. I take a few pictures of her as I get close. They’re pretty blurry, but not bad considering the yellow light of the corridor and the fact that I can’t stand still. Her eyes follow me as I walk past but I don’t look at her. Her voice is clipped and sharp, and she is clearly not happy with whoever she’s speaking too.
- ...unacceptable! I delivered it myself precisely so this wouldn’t happen.
A pause. I slow down to hear more.
- I don’t care that the street was busy! Your job was to make sure there was no interference. You clearly didn’t do it. Explosions that go off in the wrong place make for messy business. You’re damn lucky your family...
I turn another corner and lose her words in the echo. This woman is clearly not someone to stuff with. I realise that I can’t really go back the way I came without looking suspicious, but the corridors and rooms I keep passing all look the same and it’s not long before I’m lost. I play the bumbling visitor and ask a harried clerk how to get to the Old Assembly Chamber.
I arrive at the Chamber’s gallery at the same time as the other journalists, who nod their heads in my direction in recognition. Parliament has been underway for a while it seems, because most people in the gallery and on the floor look to be in varying stages slumber except for the odd earnest or outraged MP. For a while I let myself enjoy the beauty of the sage assembly, the highly polished wooden walls, the exquisite roof, the rich green chairs, and reflect on the history that’s been written here, until the heckling from the MPs below brings me back. Parliament in person appears to be just as dreadful as on TV. A person from the opposition stands up to speak and is heckled and maligned the whole way through, much to the disgust of the speaker. She finishes and someone from the ruling party then speaks, which is the cue for the opposition speaker and her cronies to do the very same thing. If any of the dissent from either side was vaguely interesting or based on anything other than simple churlishness it would be okay, but it just seems like people heckle for the very sake of it.
I look at the chairperson and silently will him to say something, because it just seems that everyone is being obtuse out of some warped sense of political duty and party pride, rather than listening with a rational ear to what the other side has to say. After twenty minutes of this I’m just about ready to scream, when the somnolent chairperson awakes from whatever he was dreaming about.
- Honourable MPs, there must please be order.
There isn’t much authority to his tone, and after a light chuckle he returns to whatever his mind was dwelling on before he lifted the veil on it to speak. The MPs go right back to cackling and insulting each other. I manage to sit through another hour of this before deciding not to wait for the speech as I have a copy of it anyway. Plus I feel like I’m wasting my time when there are more pressing questions about who that old lady is and precisely what I’ve gotten myself into.
Leaving Parliament is mercifully easy and it feels good to be on the street again amongst real people who don’t feel the compulsion to smile for the sake of it when someone of a higher rank says something resembling a joke.
I need time to think and muse over the last 24 hours. As I inch my way through the city traffic and the buildings start to thin, I idly notice a black wisp of smoke up ahead. The traffic is even worse today than usual. It takes me 45 minutes to travel the six kilometres to the intersection where I turn off for my flat. I don’t give much thought to the smoke up ahead, or the sirens which are close by. It’s only as I turn onto my road that I begin to wonder what all the fuss is about. I don’t have to wonder for long.
Before me is my building. Where my third story flat used to be is a blackened shell with flames dancing merrily from the fuel my only possessions must be providing. The ground below is littered with chunks of concrete and burning debris which fire-fighters are dousing with foam. I get out of my car and vomit on the street.
© William Edgcumbe
The speech comes to an end and everyone claps dutifully. The translator moves behind everyone and dabs at his face with a handkerchief. His fringe is slicked against his forehead. Mr Miya and the Minister shake hands and smile to the flashing of cameras. I hate photo ops; the overlong handshakes, the gormless smiles, the little quips followed by manufactured chuckles. The canned laughter of the political arena. We all clap after the photos are taken.
- Who is that woman who came in with the Japanese delegates?
The journalist next to me shrugs his shoulders.
- Damned if I know.
A short guy with immaculate hair and blindingly white teeth announces that there’s breakfast outside and that the budget vote speech will commence shortly afterwards in the Old Assembly Chamber. My stomach grumbles, but I remember the boerewors breath the security guard breathed all over me and my hunger wilts. I settle for a cup of coffee and watch the stampede for the breakfast buffet. If there’s one thing that’s a great leveller, it’s free food. Lowly aides and deputy ministers pack around the buffet like warthogs at a scant waterhole. Tailored suit pants groan and stretch as their wearers bend over to choose food. I spot the guys who don’t like to admit their weight, squeezing size 46 legs into size 42 pants. The poor stitches which have to hold those seams together…
I try to spot the old lady without giving it away that I’m looking for her. I flick my eyes across the room casually. As I finish my coffee I see her leave the room and walk down a small corridor. I pretend to answer my phone and make a show of not being able to hear the person who called me and walk towards the same corridor. Once in there I see her turn left down another. I take a deep breath and decide to follow her. It’s not particularly clever following important and possibly shady people around the halls of parliament, but I can always use the excuse that I’m looking for the loo or something. I need a photo of this woman. If no one can tell me who she is, I’ll need to do some sleuthing of my own. I notice that she has stopped and is on a call of her own. I stick my phone out in front of me at arm’s length like a middle-aged person trying to focus on the small screen and pretend to send an sms. I take a few pictures of her as I get close. They’re pretty blurry, but not bad considering the yellow light of the corridor and the fact that I can’t stand still. Her eyes follow me as I walk past but I don’t look at her. Her voice is clipped and sharp, and she is clearly not happy with whoever she’s speaking too.
- ...unacceptable! I delivered it myself precisely so this wouldn’t happen.
A pause. I slow down to hear more.
- I don’t care that the street was busy! Your job was to make sure there was no interference. You clearly didn’t do it. Explosions that go off in the wrong place make for messy business. You’re damn lucky your family...
I turn another corner and lose her words in the echo. This woman is clearly not someone to stuff with. I realise that I can’t really go back the way I came without looking suspicious, but the corridors and rooms I keep passing all look the same and it’s not long before I’m lost. I play the bumbling visitor and ask a harried clerk how to get to the Old Assembly Chamber.
I arrive at the Chamber’s gallery at the same time as the other journalists, who nod their heads in my direction in recognition. Parliament has been underway for a while it seems, because most people in the gallery and on the floor look to be in varying stages slumber except for the odd earnest or outraged MP. For a while I let myself enjoy the beauty of the sage assembly, the highly polished wooden walls, the exquisite roof, the rich green chairs, and reflect on the history that’s been written here, until the heckling from the MPs below brings me back. Parliament in person appears to be just as dreadful as on TV. A person from the opposition stands up to speak and is heckled and maligned the whole way through, much to the disgust of the speaker. She finishes and someone from the ruling party then speaks, which is the cue for the opposition speaker and her cronies to do the very same thing. If any of the dissent from either side was vaguely interesting or based on anything other than simple churlishness it would be okay, but it just seems like people heckle for the very sake of it.
I look at the chairperson and silently will him to say something, because it just seems that everyone is being obtuse out of some warped sense of political duty and party pride, rather than listening with a rational ear to what the other side has to say. After twenty minutes of this I’m just about ready to scream, when the somnolent chairperson awakes from whatever he was dreaming about.
- Honourable MPs, there must please be order.
There isn’t much authority to his tone, and after a light chuckle he returns to whatever his mind was dwelling on before he lifted the veil on it to speak. The MPs go right back to cackling and insulting each other. I manage to sit through another hour of this before deciding not to wait for the speech as I have a copy of it anyway. Plus I feel like I’m wasting my time when there are more pressing questions about who that old lady is and precisely what I’ve gotten myself into.
Leaving Parliament is mercifully easy and it feels good to be on the street again amongst real people who don’t feel the compulsion to smile for the sake of it when someone of a higher rank says something resembling a joke.
I need time to think and muse over the last 24 hours. As I inch my way through the city traffic and the buildings start to thin, I idly notice a black wisp of smoke up ahead. The traffic is even worse today than usual. It takes me 45 minutes to travel the six kilometres to the intersection where I turn off for my flat. I don’t give much thought to the smoke up ahead, or the sirens which are close by. It’s only as I turn onto my road that I begin to wonder what all the fuss is about. I don’t have to wonder for long.
Before me is my building. Where my third story flat used to be is a blackened shell with flames dancing merrily from the fuel my only possessions must be providing. The ground below is littered with chunks of concrete and burning debris which fire-fighters are dousing with foam. I get out of my car and vomit on the street.
© William Edgcumbe
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 6
At least the little work I do is vaguely interesting. A magazine emailed me about covering the signing of a charter and budget vote speech in parliament today. At first the very word parliament made me shiver (Parliament Live was about the only thing that ever seemed to be on TV when I had school holidays. The scourge of not having M-Net.) but now that I think about it I’m really interested to see what goes down in person. I’m not particularly interested in politics, but to visit the halls where laws have been written and the entire history of South Africa has been shaped is a real opportunity.
I put on the one collared shirt and tie I own. I carefully slip the tie over my head so as not to undo the same Windsor knot that it’s been in for the last few years. I never could quite get the hang of it. My brother did this particular knot for me just before my graduation. My brother-
-I’ve tried not think about him or anyone else in my family but it just can’t be done. Everything I own, every association I have is wound through at least one of them in some way. No matter what subject flits through my mind, there is always an aspect that relates to them, even if only colliding at a tangent. I can’t think about this now. I’m going to be late. It’s nice to have an excuse to be somewhere, otherwise I’d end up sitting in my flat feeling sorry for myself.
I hate running late, but I seem to manage it every time. There’s no parking anywhere near the entrance to Parliament and I circle the block five times before I spot someone pulling out of a space in a little side alley. I run to the entrance and inside I’m met with classic bureaucratic lack of interest. Running the metal detector at the door are two portly police officers whose arteries have surely seen better days. The one doesn’t look up – I think she’s sleeping, but her partner looks up at me with bored eyes and holds my gaze for what must be fifteen seconds.
– Yes?
I baulk initially, because it only seems obvious that I want to come in.
– I’m here for the media briefing with the Minister of Minerals and Energy?
He sighs deeply and I can smell potato and boerewors. Any hunger pangs I might have developed for the next few hours wilt.
– Plees put all of your contents of your pockets in vis tray and step fru vis metal detector.
His accent makes me think of being trapped in Richards Bay just hours before a Steve Hofmeyr concert. I empty out my pockets and walk through the metal detector. The sleeping officer has managed to drool on her right shoulder. It’s a heart-warming sight and lifts my spirits just a little. I come to a bank of clerks sitting behind a long desk and join the queue. As soon as one of the clerks is free I walk up to him.
– Hi, I’m here for the media briefing?
– Sir, would you please wait to be called?
The guy behind the desk is the antithesis of the crack squad monitoring the metal detector. His suit is immaculate, his moustache trimmed to exactly the same width all the way along his top lip and he wears his glasses on the tip of his nose. I catch a whiff of the-lowly-clerk-on-a-power-trip and regret being next in line.
– Uh, okay.
I walk back to the front of the queue and turn around.
– Next.
I feel my blood begin to boil at his pettiness and walk over to him again.
– Name? Company? Identification?
I strain to answer all his questions politely and hand over my ID book. I try not to show my impatience – I’m already about half an hour late, but I know that as soon as he senses I’m in a rush he’ll be only too stoked to hold me up even more. He squints at my ID book, then at me, then at my book, then at me again. I’m sixteen in my ID photo, but not much has changed except for the patchy fluff I charitably call a beard when I look in the mirror. I decide to make light conversation to butter him up.
– Funny picture, hey?
– Sir, there is nothing funny about government documents.
I sigh and settle in for the long haul. More people are queuing up behind me, all looking harassed. I wonder if they’re also late for the briefing. The administrator doesn’t fail to notice that a longer queue has formed and his thin lips widen just a centimetre or two in what is barely recognisable as a smile.
He s-l-o-w-l-y opens a book, tears off a slip and copies the details from my ID onto it. I’ve seen calligraphers give less attention to their work. He finally closes my book and hands it and the slip to me without a word.
– Next.
As soon as I’m out of his line of sight I break into a trot. I go up a small flight of stairs and am greeted by yet another metal detector. With all the x-rays I’ll be passing through today I’m sure I’ll glow in the dark tonight. I wander through a few passages before finally stumbling across the meeting room I’m supposed to be in. I slip through the door and take a seat next to the wall. The Minister of Minerals and Energy fixes his eyes on me from across the table and I quickly look away. With just one glance he made me feel like a shamed schoolboy speaking to a headmaster after being caught cheating in an exam.
The room isn’t big – it has just enough space to fit a twenty-seater conference table, though there are people sitting on chairs against the wall on either side. I take out my notepad and start jotting down what the minister says. I don’t really have any context for what I’m supposed to be reporting on, but thankfully someone hands me a press release and copy of the budget speech the Minister will be delivering just now. I glance at the people in the room. Some are clearly journalists – no matter what events I cover, you can always spot the other journalists because they look like total slobs. I’m not particularly debonair, but at least I give a fraction of a damn about my appearance. Journalists are that special breed of person who know that they’re there to report, not to impress, and so can wear whatever the hell they like. They don’t have to answer to anyone they interview and use their independence as a license to act as they please. Sitting on the end of the table next to the minister are two or three textbook examples of reporters. I count one greasy ponytail, two stained t-shirts, one collared shirt only buttoned half way up with a gold chain nestled in some stunningly lavish chest hair, and three unshaven chins. I just know that as soon as they all stand up, at least one of them will be wearing parachute material tracksuit pants, probably lavender in colour.
Each journo asks questions which lie somewhere between probing and obtuse for the sake of it. They speak to the Minister in sneering tones of disdain, and I notice the lackeys around the Minister flinch each time a question is asked. I can tell that they wished they had the impunity to speak to him so frankly. The Minister seems unperturbed and answers each question confidently. It’s difficult not feel a little awe at the ease with which he responds to questions which accuse him of gross incompetence.
Everyone else in the room looks thoroughly bored. They’re all well dressed and look to belong to some tier of government or other. One guy picks his nose. Another doodles vapidly on a piece of paper. I suddenly realise that I should be taking notes and start scribbling so furiously that I don’t notice more people enter the room. It’s only as I hear Japanese that I look up in surprise. The Minister is shaking hands with three Japanese men. As they talk and a fourth man translates, I notice an older woman who must have come in with them. She is wearing a black suit and has cold, dead eyes. I know her from somewhere. I’m sure of it.
She flicks her eyes to me and I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s the old lady from the antique shop.
© William Edgcumbe
I put on the one collared shirt and tie I own. I carefully slip the tie over my head so as not to undo the same Windsor knot that it’s been in for the last few years. I never could quite get the hang of it. My brother did this particular knot for me just before my graduation. My brother-
-I’ve tried not think about him or anyone else in my family but it just can’t be done. Everything I own, every association I have is wound through at least one of them in some way. No matter what subject flits through my mind, there is always an aspect that relates to them, even if only colliding at a tangent. I can’t think about this now. I’m going to be late. It’s nice to have an excuse to be somewhere, otherwise I’d end up sitting in my flat feeling sorry for myself.
I hate running late, but I seem to manage it every time. There’s no parking anywhere near the entrance to Parliament and I circle the block five times before I spot someone pulling out of a space in a little side alley. I run to the entrance and inside I’m met with classic bureaucratic lack of interest. Running the metal detector at the door are two portly police officers whose arteries have surely seen better days. The one doesn’t look up – I think she’s sleeping, but her partner looks up at me with bored eyes and holds my gaze for what must be fifteen seconds.
– Yes?
I baulk initially, because it only seems obvious that I want to come in.
– I’m here for the media briefing with the Minister of Minerals and Energy?
He sighs deeply and I can smell potato and boerewors. Any hunger pangs I might have developed for the next few hours wilt.
– Plees put all of your contents of your pockets in vis tray and step fru vis metal detector.
His accent makes me think of being trapped in Richards Bay just hours before a Steve Hofmeyr concert. I empty out my pockets and walk through the metal detector. The sleeping officer has managed to drool on her right shoulder. It’s a heart-warming sight and lifts my spirits just a little. I come to a bank of clerks sitting behind a long desk and join the queue. As soon as one of the clerks is free I walk up to him.
– Hi, I’m here for the media briefing?
– Sir, would you please wait to be called?
The guy behind the desk is the antithesis of the crack squad monitoring the metal detector. His suit is immaculate, his moustache trimmed to exactly the same width all the way along his top lip and he wears his glasses on the tip of his nose. I catch a whiff of the-lowly-clerk-on-a-power-trip and regret being next in line.
– Uh, okay.
I walk back to the front of the queue and turn around.
– Next.
I feel my blood begin to boil at his pettiness and walk over to him again.
– Name? Company? Identification?
I strain to answer all his questions politely and hand over my ID book. I try not to show my impatience – I’m already about half an hour late, but I know that as soon as he senses I’m in a rush he’ll be only too stoked to hold me up even more. He squints at my ID book, then at me, then at my book, then at me again. I’m sixteen in my ID photo, but not much has changed except for the patchy fluff I charitably call a beard when I look in the mirror. I decide to make light conversation to butter him up.
– Funny picture, hey?
– Sir, there is nothing funny about government documents.
I sigh and settle in for the long haul. More people are queuing up behind me, all looking harassed. I wonder if they’re also late for the briefing. The administrator doesn’t fail to notice that a longer queue has formed and his thin lips widen just a centimetre or two in what is barely recognisable as a smile.
He s-l-o-w-l-y opens a book, tears off a slip and copies the details from my ID onto it. I’ve seen calligraphers give less attention to their work. He finally closes my book and hands it and the slip to me without a word.
– Next.
As soon as I’m out of his line of sight I break into a trot. I go up a small flight of stairs and am greeted by yet another metal detector. With all the x-rays I’ll be passing through today I’m sure I’ll glow in the dark tonight. I wander through a few passages before finally stumbling across the meeting room I’m supposed to be in. I slip through the door and take a seat next to the wall. The Minister of Minerals and Energy fixes his eyes on me from across the table and I quickly look away. With just one glance he made me feel like a shamed schoolboy speaking to a headmaster after being caught cheating in an exam.
The room isn’t big – it has just enough space to fit a twenty-seater conference table, though there are people sitting on chairs against the wall on either side. I take out my notepad and start jotting down what the minister says. I don’t really have any context for what I’m supposed to be reporting on, but thankfully someone hands me a press release and copy of the budget speech the Minister will be delivering just now. I glance at the people in the room. Some are clearly journalists – no matter what events I cover, you can always spot the other journalists because they look like total slobs. I’m not particularly debonair, but at least I give a fraction of a damn about my appearance. Journalists are that special breed of person who know that they’re there to report, not to impress, and so can wear whatever the hell they like. They don’t have to answer to anyone they interview and use their independence as a license to act as they please. Sitting on the end of the table next to the minister are two or three textbook examples of reporters. I count one greasy ponytail, two stained t-shirts, one collared shirt only buttoned half way up with a gold chain nestled in some stunningly lavish chest hair, and three unshaven chins. I just know that as soon as they all stand up, at least one of them will be wearing parachute material tracksuit pants, probably lavender in colour.
Each journo asks questions which lie somewhere between probing and obtuse for the sake of it. They speak to the Minister in sneering tones of disdain, and I notice the lackeys around the Minister flinch each time a question is asked. I can tell that they wished they had the impunity to speak to him so frankly. The Minister seems unperturbed and answers each question confidently. It’s difficult not feel a little awe at the ease with which he responds to questions which accuse him of gross incompetence.
Everyone else in the room looks thoroughly bored. They’re all well dressed and look to belong to some tier of government or other. One guy picks his nose. Another doodles vapidly on a piece of paper. I suddenly realise that I should be taking notes and start scribbling so furiously that I don’t notice more people enter the room. It’s only as I hear Japanese that I look up in surprise. The Minister is shaking hands with three Japanese men. As they talk and a fourth man translates, I notice an older woman who must have come in with them. She is wearing a black suit and has cold, dead eyes. I know her from somewhere. I’m sure of it.
She flicks her eyes to me and I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s the old lady from the antique shop.
© William Edgcumbe
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 5
It’s at least another hour before I fall asleep. I keep seeing that poor guy’s face when he was getting beaten up. There was such a strange look in his eyes, like a kind of resigned fear. I think he knew his fate the moment he snatched that bag. I think that despite how inexorable the result, it was a decision he had to make. I wonder how desperate he is. I wonder if he’s just an ordinary guy whose every effort at making a living has failed and he had to turn to crime or slowly starve. I wonder if we’d be kinder to criminals if we knew their stories. But then again, maybe he is a scumbag. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe he would feel nothing plunging a blade between someone’s ribs for a cell phone. It’s so difficult to be truly empathetic, because you just never know who deserves it. Though who’s to say who deserves what? Those jocks that beat him up have probably date-raped girls before, drunkenly kicked the crap out of a gay dude or slept around behind their girlfriends’ backs. Which crime is greater – that of necessity or of simple wantonness? Why can’t there ever be clear-cut answers?
I love this country, but it’s so troubling sometimes. It was a small thing, but a while back I was driving along and saw a guy who’d blown a tire on the side of the road. He pleaded with me to stop but I dropped my eyes and drove right past because I’ve heard too many stories about blown tires being setups for hijackings. It feels like no one can feel free to be kind here anymore because the risk is just too great. Or is it? Is it worth living in a place where simple acts of help don’t exist? Maybe those very small acts are completely worth the risk of theft or death. Without them, we live in such a dehumanised place.
Ever since my life got turned upside down I feel like I’ve been swimming through jelly. Nothing seems real any more. What I wouldn’t give to be ten years old again, scuffing my feet outside, scurrying up trees, riding my bike like the devil around the garden, hurling insults and sand clogs at my brother. Where did that child go? At what moment did he scamper away and leave me suddenly older, self-aware? I guess there’s been too much tragedy recently to even warrant at guessing an answer. I think about reading the letters again. I told myself I wouldn’t, but right now I need them. Fortunately before I can, sleep comes and gently carries me away somewhere else, somewhere deep into the night, somewhere sacred, mine, where sadness cannot touch me.
I wake with the sun on my face. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in the night. There are two tall trees outside, and the sun shines through them like a dandelion in negative. Why is the sun shining? It’s unfair that it should be so bright when I feel like this. It’s not right that there are families eating breakfast together now, or newlyweds delightedly surprised to wake up next to each other on honeymoon. I scold myself for thinking like a morbid, self-obsessed teenager carrying on about how unfair life is and how no one has it so bad.
But I can’t help indulging in my mood a little bit. My flat is so quiet. It feels dead. It makes none of the noises a living house should: a cupboard banging closed; a runny nose being blown loudly; the clatter of spoon on bowl as cereal is eaten; the scuttling of a dog’s claws on floor tiles. There’s just my breathing. I hold my breath to allow the sounds of the city to slowly make themselves known. They come to me in tendrils. From under the door I hear distant steps as someone down the corridor leaves for work. Someone in the flat next door bumps something against the wall. The windows rattle gently as a truck gears down in the distance. There is life here. It’s timid, different, but it’s here.
The alarm on my phone breaks the peace and I jump in fright. Time to face the day.
© William Edgcumbe
I love this country, but it’s so troubling sometimes. It was a small thing, but a while back I was driving along and saw a guy who’d blown a tire on the side of the road. He pleaded with me to stop but I dropped my eyes and drove right past because I’ve heard too many stories about blown tires being setups for hijackings. It feels like no one can feel free to be kind here anymore because the risk is just too great. Or is it? Is it worth living in a place where simple acts of help don’t exist? Maybe those very small acts are completely worth the risk of theft or death. Without them, we live in such a dehumanised place.
Ever since my life got turned upside down I feel like I’ve been swimming through jelly. Nothing seems real any more. What I wouldn’t give to be ten years old again, scuffing my feet outside, scurrying up trees, riding my bike like the devil around the garden, hurling insults and sand clogs at my brother. Where did that child go? At what moment did he scamper away and leave me suddenly older, self-aware? I guess there’s been too much tragedy recently to even warrant at guessing an answer. I think about reading the letters again. I told myself I wouldn’t, but right now I need them. Fortunately before I can, sleep comes and gently carries me away somewhere else, somewhere deep into the night, somewhere sacred, mine, where sadness cannot touch me.
I wake with the sun on my face. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in the night. There are two tall trees outside, and the sun shines through them like a dandelion in negative. Why is the sun shining? It’s unfair that it should be so bright when I feel like this. It’s not right that there are families eating breakfast together now, or newlyweds delightedly surprised to wake up next to each other on honeymoon. I scold myself for thinking like a morbid, self-obsessed teenager carrying on about how unfair life is and how no one has it so bad.
But I can’t help indulging in my mood a little bit. My flat is so quiet. It feels dead. It makes none of the noises a living house should: a cupboard banging closed; a runny nose being blown loudly; the clatter of spoon on bowl as cereal is eaten; the scuttling of a dog’s claws on floor tiles. There’s just my breathing. I hold my breath to allow the sounds of the city to slowly make themselves known. They come to me in tendrils. From under the door I hear distant steps as someone down the corridor leaves for work. Someone in the flat next door bumps something against the wall. The windows rattle gently as a truck gears down in the distance. There is life here. It’s timid, different, but it’s here.
The alarm on my phone breaks the peace and I jump in fright. Time to face the day.
© William Edgcumbe
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Antique Shop - Part 4
Okay, so I don’t hate this city. It’s more of a mild dislike. It’s beautiful, sure, but in my opinion there are too many people walking around wearing scarves and drinking box wine obfuscating (my favourite word) about crappy artists. Everyone here looks like they play in a drug-addled indie band. We can’t all be ordinary I guess.
My flat is a mess. I moved in three weeks ago, and with each day that goes by my “I’m still sorting through my stuff” excuse holds less water. Or it would if anyone ever came to visit. The loneliness of a new city is oppressive, but I can’t really complain about that seeing as I came here to be anonymous. I wonder if I’m that guy – there’s always one – everyone sees and takes a little pity on sitting alone in a coffee shop reading his book, or watching a movie by himself. Solitude, the social sin.
I clear my coffee table of the tottering piles of cds and books for the five stolen pieces and look at them properly for the first time. Piece of Contriband #1 is a photo of an old ship. I flip it over and “Ovington Court, 27 November 1940, 4 died that night, he was one of them” is written in a beautiful flowing hand. A woman’s handwriting I should think. The way the letters loop into each other look like an intricate dance. There’s something very sad about the detachment of what’s written, the selection of facts and the impersonal mention of someone the writer knew. I put the photo put face down on the table.
Contraband #2 is an old art deco clock. It’s small, about the size of both my fists and surprisingly heavy. It’s peach and turquoise, with a stylised swallow painted onto the clockface. There’s a small chip on one of the corners. I notice the mechanism is working. I compare it to the time on my microwave which is plugged in on the floor next to the couch. Surprisingly, it’s correct. Not bad. I put it next to my bed.
Contraband #3 is one of those fancy teaspoons old ladies collect. It has a family crest it with some kind of latin motto. Man, these things are dime-a-dozen at all the antique places I visited today.
Contraband #4 is a locket without a chain. It looks like it’s made of silver and gleams prettily, even in the yellow light of my flat. I try to open it, but the latch is stiff and my bitten nails can’t get a grip on it properly. I’ll come back to it later.
Contraband #5 is dainty little teacup. It doesn’t have a saucer. I turn it over and there’s something written underneath, but it’s pretty faded. I’m feeling a bit too rattled to try decipher it, so I put the teacup down and sink back into the couch.
I don’t know what to do. I was hoping one of these things would have an owner’s name on it, or at least some kind of vague clue as to how I could find them. I feel like such an idiot. I could have offered to buy them from the old lady instead and then just given them back to her in the street or something, and I would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble and a whole lot of elaborate fantasies of birdshot turning my chest into a pulpy sieve.
I close my eyes and realise how tired I am. I think I’ll just have a quick snooze---
---a scratching at the door wakes me. My stomach sinks into the springs of the couch. So my number’s up is it? I can’t imagine how the police have found me. Surely stealing a handful of antiques isn’t that big a deal that they’d send out a squad to hunt for me in the midle of the night? I adjust my weight and the couch groans loudly. The scratching stops and I hear footsteps hurry away. I hold my breath and strain to hear if there’s any more movement. I get up slowly and in my stealth manage to kick the table and then a stained coffee mug, which rattles over the parquet floor. I walk slowly to the door and can’t help but have visions of Anton Chigurh waiting there with his cattlegun and looking at me in his bored but somehow fascinated way before asking me to hold still… I shiver. I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything. I unlock it painfully slowly and then turn the latch. I inch the door open and stare into a sliver of the passage but can’t see anything. I take a deep breath, open the door completely and step outside.
Of course, there’s no one there. No Anton Chigurh, nobody. I decide to try bluff anyone who might be hiding there.
– I can see you you idiot. Come out.
The plan is to make my voice deep and intimidating, but I balldrag on idiot and just sound stupid. The only way anyone who might be hiding would give themselves away now is through laughter.
I feel like a dweeb. I obviously watch too many movies. I go inside, turn off the lights and flop into my unmade bed. The art deco clock says it’s 2am. Crap, I have to be up in four hours. I know this is going to be a bad day already. I can feel it.
© William Edgcumbe
My flat is a mess. I moved in three weeks ago, and with each day that goes by my “I’m still sorting through my stuff” excuse holds less water. Or it would if anyone ever came to visit. The loneliness of a new city is oppressive, but I can’t really complain about that seeing as I came here to be anonymous. I wonder if I’m that guy – there’s always one – everyone sees and takes a little pity on sitting alone in a coffee shop reading his book, or watching a movie by himself. Solitude, the social sin.
I clear my coffee table of the tottering piles of cds and books for the five stolen pieces and look at them properly for the first time. Piece of Contriband #1 is a photo of an old ship. I flip it over and “Ovington Court, 27 November 1940, 4 died that night, he was one of them” is written in a beautiful flowing hand. A woman’s handwriting I should think. The way the letters loop into each other look like an intricate dance. There’s something very sad about the detachment of what’s written, the selection of facts and the impersonal mention of someone the writer knew. I put the photo put face down on the table.
Contraband #2 is an old art deco clock. It’s small, about the size of both my fists and surprisingly heavy. It’s peach and turquoise, with a stylised swallow painted onto the clockface. There’s a small chip on one of the corners. I notice the mechanism is working. I compare it to the time on my microwave which is plugged in on the floor next to the couch. Surprisingly, it’s correct. Not bad. I put it next to my bed.
Contraband #3 is one of those fancy teaspoons old ladies collect. It has a family crest it with some kind of latin motto. Man, these things are dime-a-dozen at all the antique places I visited today.
Contraband #4 is a locket without a chain. It looks like it’s made of silver and gleams prettily, even in the yellow light of my flat. I try to open it, but the latch is stiff and my bitten nails can’t get a grip on it properly. I’ll come back to it later.
Contraband #5 is dainty little teacup. It doesn’t have a saucer. I turn it over and there’s something written underneath, but it’s pretty faded. I’m feeling a bit too rattled to try decipher it, so I put the teacup down and sink back into the couch.
I don’t know what to do. I was hoping one of these things would have an owner’s name on it, or at least some kind of vague clue as to how I could find them. I feel like such an idiot. I could have offered to buy them from the old lady instead and then just given them back to her in the street or something, and I would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble and a whole lot of elaborate fantasies of birdshot turning my chest into a pulpy sieve.
I close my eyes and realise how tired I am. I think I’ll just have a quick snooze---
---a scratching at the door wakes me. My stomach sinks into the springs of the couch. So my number’s up is it? I can’t imagine how the police have found me. Surely stealing a handful of antiques isn’t that big a deal that they’d send out a squad to hunt for me in the midle of the night? I adjust my weight and the couch groans loudly. The scratching stops and I hear footsteps hurry away. I hold my breath and strain to hear if there’s any more movement. I get up slowly and in my stealth manage to kick the table and then a stained coffee mug, which rattles over the parquet floor. I walk slowly to the door and can’t help but have visions of Anton Chigurh waiting there with his cattlegun and looking at me in his bored but somehow fascinated way before asking me to hold still… I shiver. I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything. I unlock it painfully slowly and then turn the latch. I inch the door open and stare into a sliver of the passage but can’t see anything. I take a deep breath, open the door completely and step outside.
Of course, there’s no one there. No Anton Chigurh, nobody. I decide to try bluff anyone who might be hiding there.
– I can see you you idiot. Come out.
The plan is to make my voice deep and intimidating, but I balldrag on idiot and just sound stupid. The only way anyone who might be hiding would give themselves away now is through laughter.
I feel like a dweeb. I obviously watch too many movies. I go inside, turn off the lights and flop into my unmade bed. The art deco clock says it’s 2am. Crap, I have to be up in four hours. I know this is going to be a bad day already. I can feel it.
© William Edgcumbe
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
