Dead Man: 2

John Bardo begins the last day of his life...

On the way back to the bedroom, John turned on the gas boiler and clicked the stat up a notch – just  enough to fire the thing up and take the chill off. He dressed quickly – pale grey shirt, light blue tie with the red stripes, light grey trousers, grey socks, slate grey jumper. A lot of grey today, but he'd always liked it. It was a close tally with the school's colours, anyway. And the tie gave a bit of a contrast. It was his favourite – one Kate had given him as an 'extra' one Christmas. It wasn't a crucial thing, of course. Tom, the other admin chap, never wore one – preferring polo-necks. Most of the teachers didn't bother, either. But he thought it was right. It made him feel more professional, somehow.

He went to the kitchen and switched the kettle on. Then he spooned coffee into the cafetiere ready (adding a pinch of cinnamon for the extra kick) and put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. He sat by the window then and watched as next-door's ginger cat did a tight-rope along the back fence, jump to a windowsill and huddle up like a tea cosy – the early sun sparkling on its whiskers. He pushed the window open a bit and made his usual 'cat-squeak' sound through pursed lips – like someone dragging a rubber shoe over a shiny floor. The cat jerked its head towards John, surprised at first. Then it began slow-winking him. John grinned and slow-winked in response. Kate had once told him that this was a sign of trust from the animal, which always amused him. Her own cat, Brendan, trusted him. Sometimes Kate would feign annoyance at Brendan if he chose John's lap for his evening sleep. Traitor! she'd say to him, as he and John slow-winked each other.

He missed Brendan.

He missed them both.

He missed...

The toaster popped just as the kettle came to the boil. John filled the cafetiere and gave it a stir, then set the top on. He buttered his toast on a plate, watching it turn to oil and melt through the pores. Those two smells... hmmm... cinnamon coffee and toasted bread. He carried his breakfast to the table and switched on the radio just as the news came on. He listened as he ate and drank, but wasn't taking too much notice. Vague threads snagging the wires of his attention. The breakdown of a ceasefire in the Middle East. A minor earthquake in Singapore. The usual political spats about immigration and net-zero. A light aircraft crash in Suffolk – the main casualty being someone in the portable public toilet it hit in passing (just a broken leg, fortunately - but imagine the shock!)  A musician he'd never heard of dying suddenly at fifty-two. Heart attack in the dressing room before a gig. The way to go, John thought. The midst of life, and doing what you loved. He made a mental note to look the man up later, listen to his music, see if he liked it.

Fifty-two.

Not much older than he was. More of a life lived though, he suspected. Fame and money, world travel, adulation, success. A life worth mentioning on the news. Some people lived more life in a few years than many lived in decades. What you've never had you never miss, people say. Oh, really? We weren't living in Plato's cave any more. We weren't observing shadows. Everyone knew what it was all about. But only the few got to experience it. No fairness in life, as in everything else.

He finished his breakfast and turned the radio off. He put his plate and mug in the sink, then went through to the lounge and sat in the armchair. The curtains were still closed and the light was dim, but that was how he wanted it. This was one of his favourite times of the day – sitting there, by the warm radiator, in that early light. A half-hour of nothing but eyes closed, focusing on breathing, drifting slowly through his thoughts until the current carried them away. There were a few things in there...

The remnants of a dream he'd been having about being chased around a childen's playground by a rhinoceros – him clambering though a pipe, but the rhino still after him. Then coming down the slide with the creature's mouth gaping at the end. Where on earth did that come from? That might raise a therapist's eyebrows, maybe.

Then he was back to what was always there, lodged in his brain like a lead-weight... the novel he was writing. Supposedly writing. Trying to write. The Beautiful Blues of Godfrey Wise. About a man like himself, at the same point in life where he was, trying to make sense of it all. It had gone very well for the first eleven chapters. But now it was stuck. Too far in to discard it, but too far down the wrong road to turn back again and unpick it all – all those characters and sub-plots and juicy little passages he was so proud of. His darlings. What was to be done with it? It had to go somewhere... not just the Recycle Bin. Too much sweat and time invested.

How about if Godfrey discovers he has a terminal illness and suddenly has to rethink his whole life? And then perhaps the illness isn't terminal after all? Maybe his wife gets kidnapped. Maybe his son turns up one day. That's it... perhaps he has a son he didn't know about. Or some other relative he didn't know about, who leaves him a tainted fortune. Maybe his whole life is part of some vast conspiracy that everyone knows about except him...

He let go a sigh. Stupid ideas. He shoved the whole thing in a boat and pushed it off down-stream again, towards the rapids, knowing it would get gnarled up on the rocks anyway and he'd still have to deal with it. He tried to clear his mind again.

Kate drifted through, though, as she usually did. Dear Kate. There she was. Glimpses of her. The motion of her face - the curve of her eye brows, her eyes finding his. The way her lips moved as she spoke. The way she said things to him - the upturn of her chin sometimes. The touch. And he thought of her doing what he was doing right then – as she was doing when he'd first seen her that night, at the group meditation, when they were all supposed to have their eyes closed, but he couldn't stop himself from peeping at her, this new woman, her first night. This woman who'd said her name was Kate...

And then she was going away, too – absorbed into the light that was all that was left now, the ghost of it behind his closed eyelids. Just the light. Nothing else. The light...

He came back as a car roared away down the street – one of those boy racer things that sound like someone farting into a megaphone. He looked up at the clock. 7:40. How did that time go so quickly?

He got his sandwiches and fruit from the kitchen and put them into his rucksack, along with his wallet and phone, and the book he was reading. In the hall, he pulled on his loafers and his light grey jacket. He checked quickly in each room – windows okay, lights off, sockets off (except the fridge). He clicked off the boiler again and watched as the blue light went out.  All in order. All ready to find again later on, when he returned.

He stepped out and closed the front door, pushed it to make sure. He looked left and right as he pocketed his keys. Blossom like pink snow drifting down.

He stepped into the street and headed for the bus stop.

(to be continued)  https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/dead-man-3