K - Many Happy Returns

Many Happy Returns

Turning the corner into his old street, he smiled. This had been his
stamping ground for such a long time. The Gardener's Arms, where he'd
played pool almost every lunchtime for years without ever improving his
game - how had that been possible? He thought for a brief moment;
lacking in competitive spirit perhaps? Hardly. He shrugged his
shoulders, it didn't really matter now anyway, the pub looked like it
had been closed for an age. Here was the newsagent's. Very handy for
milk and gossip. He learned all he needed to know about his neighbours
from Vikram. What had Vikram to say about him, he wondered? Nothing
nice if his own conversations with him were anything to go by. Still,
the shop itself had its windows boarded, so there would be no more
secrets and indiscretions exposed in there anymore.

He moved along the street. First, second, third, then he paused. His
old house was the next in line. He imagined himself stopping a taxi,
'just here will do, thanks.' He'd stumbled out of more taxis than he
cared to remember outside this door. He looked at the house. 'Don't you
forget about me,' he sang to himself smiling. Sometimes, he thought
that his musical development had stopped about 1985. It had. 'Well, I
haven't forgotten you, house. Do you remember me?'

His front door was just as he recalled. He'd imagined that door
countless times over the past few years, wondering how he would feel
when he saw it again. He was surprised to find that he didn't really
feel anything, just a faint glow of recognition. He automatically
reached for his keys. 'Not necessary, idiot' he chided. Just as he was
about to push the door open, he noticed the paint flecks clinging to
the window sills. 'Oh well old friend,' he thought, 'if a touch of
eczema is the worst thing you suffer, then you're wearing better than I
am.' He knew this wasn't true, he was wearing a damn sight better than
the house, but he saw no need to upset the house with something as
trivial as the truth.

With a shove, the door reluctantly allowed him access. He felt a sharp
pang of guilt that he'd never got round to planing the bottom of the
door. Just another 'should've done' to add to his life's
ever-lengthening list of regrets.

As he entered the lounge, the smell hit him. It was thick and choking,
but he was amazed to discover that he could still detect a faint aroma
of incense and patchouli. Mindless of the acrid nature of the air, he
breathed in deeply. With the breath came the images. Images of the
house as 'unique fixer-upper', as 'bachelor pad', as 'cosy love nest'.
Jumbled, screwed up images of jumbled, screwed up Davina. How many
times had he threatened to kick her out if she continued to stink the
place up like a fortune-teller's tent? He smiled sadly as he recalled
some of his wife's other bad habits; the crystals that didn't work, the
runestones that didn't work, the feng shui that didn't work... and of
course, Davina herself - who didn't work. This lounge had gone from
minimalist paradise to country cottage rustic charm almost over night.
He still couldn't remember it happening, it just had. That was Davina's
influence, everything would change before you'd even notice, and then
it would be too late.

He carefully made his way into the kitchen. Glancing through the bare
bones of the window frame, he caught sight of next door's kitchen, long
deserted now, but very active during his time here. There were times
when craftily looking across was better than anything the television
could provide. It was live, and it could be very exciting. Sadly, it
wasn't always exciting in an entertaining way. Even now, he could sense
his face beginning to flush from the anger he'd felt on that fateful
day when he saw the husband slapping the wife. That hadn't been a
playful tap, it had been a full-bodied belt. He had rushed unthinkingly
next door like some poor man's Lancelot. He remembered the lemon bitter
annoyance as both of them had made it perfectly clear that they didn't
appreciate the offer of assistance. Interfering indeed! His entreaties
to the wife had no effect, even though he had pleaded with her to think
about the example they were setting to their young daughter. It was
useless; they were happy in their ignorance. All that was achieved was
a resentment on both sides that saw an end to the cheery 'hello' and
the smiling chit-chat. He wondered what became of that little girl.
Probably pregnant at fifteen to some juvenile delinquent no-hoper. He
scolded himself for his generalisation, but deep down inside he knew he
was probably right.

He turned his back and left the kitchen behind, as he had tried to
leave his muted, choking, feeling of anger behind. He knew he couldn't
do it. He couldn't do it then, so why would he be able to do it now?
His counsellor had told him often enough that he didn't like the man
next door, not because he hit his wife, but because he got away with
it. 'Envy takes many forms,' he remembered being told again and again
and again.

Gingerly he approached the stairs. The damage here was the greatest. He
took the steps three at a time in order to avoid the gaps. 'Easy,' he
murmured to himself, 'holding out well for a forty year old.' He was no
mountain goat, but access to a gym every day had kept him in shape. He
fancied himself leaping from tooth to tooth on the stair's gappy smile.
The thought brought a smile to his own face. That changed quickly
enough as he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and entered his
old room.

He knew what to expect, but still he couldn't help but be a little
startled by the fragmented reflections staring back at him from the
wardrobe opposite. The entire wall had been covered by mirrored doors,
and although now there were just a few jagged pieces, he couldn't
prevent a wave of memories from washing over him: He saw himself
preening and strutting before a big night out, checking the line of his
suit, making sure there were no unsightly bulges in his pockets, and
that his sleeves were rolled to the same length on both arms; enough
gel to keep the hair in place without making it look plastic; he
remembered the way he would position the girls he brought back so he
could watch himself in those mirrors having sex, looking at their naked
bodies from unusual angles and mentally comparing them to what had gone
before, and, of course, adjusting his performance accordingly. The
better looking ones always got more of an effort. Davina never got less
than one hundred percent from him. He had been proud of this, but
apparently it hadn't been enough.

He turned to the cornice above and behind him. The hole was still
there. He turned back to the mirrors. He wasn't there now... now it was
them. Lying, dirty, stinking, bitch and her sweating whore-boy. They
hadn't counted on his little camera, had they? They didn't think he'd
have something like that in him, did they? They thought they'd get away
with it, didn't they? Well, burn in Hell fuckers.

He patted his pockets... damn. He'd given up smoking years before. Very
bad for you.

He smiled and started back down the stairs. Why did he need matches
now? 'It's not like there's anything left to burn', he thought. He
exited the house and closed the door on his memories. This house
represented his past, just as all the other houses on the street wore
the experiences of their residents. This house, his house, had seen
good times and bad times, quiet reflection and raucous sing-a-longs,
peace and serenity, anger and despair. It had also seen a particularly
nasty case of arson resulting in a double murder.

He grinned slyly at the house and the house, his house, grinned slyly
right back. He knew this house. He knew its secrets, just as it knew
his. This dependable friend; this non-judgmental, dependable friend;
this non-judgmental, dependable, traitorous, back-stabbing bastard, who
hadn't managed to burn enough to destroy all the evidence; this bastard
house that got him fifteen years in a secure residence for the mad and
bad. He picked up a half-brick and threw it at a shard of glass hanging
from the upstairs window frame.

He crossed to the other side of the street. Only with this extra
distance, did he notice the similarity between the house's facade, in
all its charred glory, and a skull. He couldn't suppress the laugh that
rose from his stomach. 'I killed you', he laughed. 'I turned you into a
skeleton', he laughed louder. 'I taught you a lesson you'll never
forget, you bastard'. He wasn't laughing now. 'You let them do it. You
were supposed to be my friend'. The last two pieces of glass hanging
from the corners of the upstairs windows, disturbed when he threw his
brick, fell together, smashing onto the broken flagstones in front of
the house. 'It's no good crying now, the damage is done', he shouted
with all the force his lungs could manage. He sighed.

He felt much better now. He finally felt like he'd managed to exorcise
those final few demons. Just like the psychiatrist said. Yes, much
better now, just like that bastard parole board had stamped on his
file. 'Fit to continue in society.'

'Bye house.' He walked away, a little skip in his step and a song on
his lips - 'sweet dreams are made of this...'